Frodo bent over Aragorn’s bloody and still form. He shook him, gently at first, and then harder as his efforts bore no fruit. Aragorn’s hair was matted with blood and dirt and his clothes so thoroughly bloodstained that Frodo could not determine the severity of his wounds, or even their locations.
“Aragorn!” He yelled, and he was dismayed to find the familiar sharp edge of panic in his voice. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. He had no idea what to do. He was no healer, not in the least. Not even with the amount of time he’d spent with one.
“Aragorn!” He called again shrilly. This time he didn’t care about the panicky tones in his voice. He needed Aragorn to wake up. He needed him to tell him what to do. Otherwise, he was just lost.
He sat there, tired tears rolling down his cheeks for some time before he began to think rationally again. He went to his water bottle and poured some of the cool stuff down the king’s throat, careful not to let him choke.
He was relieved when this seemed to revive him, and Aragorn opened his eyes again.
The king started to sit up. “Frodo? What happened? Are you alright?” Frodo panicked when his eyes started to roll up into his head again.
Though his strength was but small, Frodo managed to push Aragorn back to the ground. “Don’t sit up just yet, Aragorn. You’ve been injured; you fainted. I don’t know what to do, so please, don’t get up and hurt yourself more.”
“I...yes. You‘re right. But...Frodo, are you alright? Is...is the baby okay?” He pulled himself up to lean on his elbows, despite Frodo’s reproving look. Idly, he passed a hand across Frodo’s bloated belly.
Frodo brought his hand up to cover Aragorn’s on his stomach. “Yes, Aragorn, the baby’s fine.” His blue eyes clouded over with worry. “But you, you’re not. What happened, Aragorn? How did you escape?”
“I...” Here he winced as if pained and sheepishly lay back down. Frodo touched a hand to his forehead, tenderly brushing his hair away from his face. “I bribed one of the guards. He left the door open a little longer than necessary one night when feeding me, and I managed to grab his sword and fight off the others. I stole a horse and came after you straightaway.”
Frodo felt Aragorn’s forehead. He was pale and clammy, and Frodo worried for him. “You shouldn’t have done that. You should have waited, healed. I’m fine out here on my own, really.” Frodo wished this were true, but he knew he’d gotten thinner, and if Aragorn hadn’t come along, he didn’t know what he’d have done.
Aragorn choked down some more water and nodded. “I’m glad,” he said, wrapping an arm around Frodo and resting his forehead against his belly.
Frodo just rested with him there for several moments, before a nagging sensation got the better of him. “Aragorn,” he said softly. “Do you think you can stand up? We need to get off the road; it’s not safe out here in the open.”
Aragorn nodded weakly and struggled to rise. Frodo tried to help as best he could, but it was not easy for a pregnant hobbit of his size to help a full grown man to his feet.
Somehow they managed it, and staggered off into the bush together.
***
That evening, Frodo began to undress Aragorn. The wounds on his back and chest looked as though they were infected, and Aragorn winced as the bloody shirt was peeled away. Frodo’s eyes widened slightly in shock as he gauged the severity of the wounds. There were deep lash marks across Aragorn’s back, several of which were still bleeding lightly. The others were an angry, infected red.
On his chest, there were several painful-looking burn marks. Frodo closed his eyes and imagined how all these wounds had come to be on his beloved. It was not an image he wanted to conjure.
As Aragorn had instructed him, Frodo had boiled some athelas leaves in a pot of boiling water. Now they were ready.
The mixture had started to congeal as it cooled, so Frodo was left with a slightly warm and strongly scented goop. He took some into his hands and began to rub it gently into Aragorn’s multiple wounds. Throughout the process, the king kept his eyes closed, and the look on his face was one of composure and serenity.
Frodo knew different, though. Aragorn was hurting, and hurting badly. He’d traveled quickly and far while grievously wounded, and Frodo wished that Aragorn didn’t feel like he had to hide his pain from him. He gently stroked the king’s shoulders in an effort to soothe him.
Gradually, he felt Aragorn’s tense muscles begin to relax. Frodo knew every inch of his lover’s body, and he was glad to be able to put it to good use at a time like this. Aragorn leaned back into his hands, and Frodo sighed softly. Aragorn’s body never failed to arouse him, but now was not the time.
Soon he was finished dressing Aragorn’s wounds, and the king gingerly shrugged a shirt on over his sore torso. The night was cool despite the fire, and after they had eaten, they snuggled close together for warmth and comfort. Aragorn’s hands drifted toward Frodo’s midsection, as they did so often during the days of his pregnancy, and despite all the horror surrounding them, Frodo could believe in happiness again.
***
The next morning, Aragorn insisted that they get together their things and head for Rohan. Despite his wounds, the king was set on his course, and Frodo could not convince him otherwise.
Frodo didn’t have much food left, but now that Aragorn was here, it wouldn’t be a problem. A king and a Ranger in one package. Frodo had always known he was incredibly lucky, but he was only just beginning to really believe it.
Aragorn stroked the horse’s nose and whispered something softly into its ear before climbing up into the saddle and pulling Frodo up behind him.
Frodo gazed at the swollen sun slowly rising into the sky, and his heart pounded more rapidly. His mouth was suddenly dry, and the burden of his pregnancy weighed more heavily on him than ever. His due date was exactly three weeks away.
***
They rode all day and into the night. Frodo’s bum was sore and his feet ached. He wanted desperately to get off the wretched beast, but Aragorn insisted that they keep riding. Since that last, terse exchange of words, Frodo had been riding in uncomfortable, sullen silence. He knew, rationally, that Aragorn was doing the right thing, but all he could feel was the ache that came from horseback riding for hours on end. His belly stuck out in front of him obscenely and he really wished that their child would be born soon.
In front of him, Aragorn’s skin was pale from the stress of the day. Frodo laid his head down on Aragorn’s back, and felt the king wince. He immediately pulled back. He’d forgotten about Aragorn’s pain, which only served to make him feel uncomfortable and incredibly guilty.
He sat back and resigned himself to extreme discomfort.
***
Over the next few days, Frodo grew steadily more uncomfortable. And Aragorn grew steadily weaker. Frodo noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the sallow quality of his skin. He was not sleeping well. And his wounds seemed to be getting further infected, despite Frodo’s best efforts.
The fourth day, Aragorn could barely stand upright. His skin burned with a dangerous fever. Frodo refused to let them travel. He sat down on the ground and set about starting a fire when Aragorn tried to pack them up.
“Frodo, come, it’s time to go.” Aragorn extended a shaky hand. Frodo refused to take it.
“Aragorn, look at you. You need to rest, you’re sick. I refuse to let you hurt yourself even more.” Frodo’s blue eyes were wide and expressive, letting Aragorn know how worried he was for him.
Aragorn swayed slightly, and then collapsed in an undignified heap. Frodo scrambled as fast as he could over to him. Aragorn was sitting with his head hanging down, almost as though he couldn’t even hold it up. Frodo sat behind him and pulled him so that his head lay in Frodo’s lap. Aragorn blinked slowly.
“I think we should stay here for today,” he said weakly, a ghost of a smile painting his lips. Frodo snorted internally. But of course, wasn’t that always the way?
He stroked Aragorn’s forehead and hair until the king drifted into an uneasy sleep. Frodo lay back against a convenient, but uncomfortable, log. His back ached, his feet were sore, and the baby was kicking. To top it all off, with Aragorn so ill, he was in charge. And he felt entirely clueless and adrift. The weight of his world seemed to rest on his shoulders, and he felt the ache of his missing finger and its one-time burden fiercely.
But then he took Aragorn’s hand in his, and the warmth and roughness of it reminded him what he was doing it for. Aragorn needed him. Their baby needed him. He had braved worse evils than this and survived, and he could not give up now.
***
Frodo would not let them travel for nearly a week after that. Aragorn was growing steadily better, and Frodo hoped that they might be able to leave soon. He wouldn’t have thought it, but staying in one place for so long was making him antsy. Paranoia was with him more and more often. But he said nothing to Aragorn, not wanting to burden the king with more worries than necessary.
And then there was the growing problem of his pregnancy. He really didn’t think he could take another day on horseback. It seemed now that there was no alternative to giving birth in the wild. And Frodo was deathly afraid that he would not make it through. The risk had been high when he’d thought he would be giving birth at home, with healers and beds and clean sheets and medicine. But he nearly crumpled at the daunting thought of giving birth out here, under the sky.
And then the men came to ruin it all, and Frodo gave up hope of living to give birth at all.