It was Aragorn, with his trained Ranger ears, who heard the danger first. He lifted his head and motioned to Frodo to be quiet. Frodo, sensing the worry in his lover‘s voice, eased back with his innate hobbit subtlety into the bushes. His hands were shaking.
Aragorn drew his sword and stood in a proud fighting position, despite his grievous wounds. Things were coming, and he would fight to the death for Frodo. Any day, he would.
He stood his ground as several scruffy soldiers charged out from the bushes. They were about four in number, and most were of a fighter’s build. Aragorn knew that this could be trouble, but he held his head high and waited for them to rush him.
They circled like a pack of wolves, and though Aragorn dared not take his eyes from them, he prayed that Frodo had got to safety.
They did not attack all at once, as he had predicted they would. Instead, one came at him from the front. Their swords clashed in a jarring ring that shook Aragorn’s bones and made his wounds ache. But grim determination was on his face as he pressed forward, resolved to keep his opponent on the defensive.
He kept the positions of the other attackers firmly in the fore of his mind, while fighting became automatic. Muscle memory took over, and a gleam came to Aragorn’s eye as he pressed the soldier back until he hit a tree on the edge of the clearing. Silver swords flashed in the sunlight as the duo parried and thrusted. Feinting to the left, Aragorn spun and drove his sword deeply into his opponent’s side.
The man sank to the ground with a wounded cry. Aragorn spun quickly and was just able to block a downward swing from a new attacker. This one he took care of in short order, holding him with a mighty strength, before switching hands and bringing his sword down to bear on his opponent’s shoulder, slicing through bone and flesh alike.
Winded, Aragorn faced the other two. Only to blink in surprise when he realized that they had multiplied again into five. Breathing heavily, he was again aware of the burning fire of pain in his body. He looked down briefly to see a slick coat of blood in certain areas of his shirt. He closed his eyes for a bare moment, to listen for the sound of his beloved’s breathing, or perhaps even his voice, giving him the strength to fight on.
He opened his eyes calm and composed. Gray steel eyes pierced the approaching soldiers. Aragorn’s shoulders were square, and he lifted his heavy sword up as though it were an extension of his arm.
He stood brave and strong and fought as hard as he could. Even when they started to come more and more, three and four at a time, with even more springing from between the trees almost as if by magic, he kept fighting. When the sword pierced his left shoulder, he hefted himself up off the ground and slew the man who’d done it.
But he was losing blood fast, now. A wound to match his beloved’s, though not poisoned, still bled profusely and rendered his left arm almost completely useless.
He turned to face the next onslaught, fire still in his eyes, but when he saw what was before him, the embers in his eyes died and turned to ice.
There stood Frodo, arms bound behind his back and a dirty rag stuffed into his mouth to gag him and keep him quiet. Wild blue eyes sought Aragorn’s and held them fearfully. The king rallied his strength once more and charged forward in a desperate attempt to reach Frodo.
Crimson blood stained his shirt and he could feel himself faltering. Frodo watched fearfully as his love paled and began to fall. Frodo’s hands clenched in their bonds and he struggled against his captor.
The soldier drew his knife and pressed it hard against Frodo’s throat. A thin red line appeared where the dagger bit into his skin. A single tear pooled in Frodo’s eye and as it fell it drew a liquid line of pain down his cheek before dropping into the dust below.
Aragorn froze. “Please,” he pleaded. “Don’t hurt him.”
“Drop your sword, king.” Aragorn complied. A dull clank resounded as the sword hit the ground. It had a faintly hopeless tone.
“Now, on your knees!!” Aragorn sank down to his knees, his eyes never leaving Frodo. His hand strayed closer to his sword, but before he could grab it, he was viciously hit in the head with the butt of a sword. The king’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he fell to the ground, next to his sword.
His own screams were the last thing Frodo heard before he, too, was knocked unconscious.
***
When Aragorn awoke, it was night time. A bright fire warmed him and the stars twinkled benignly above. He tried to sit up, but found that his hands and feet were still bound. His beloved sword, as well, was gone. As he shifted, he felt the caked blood on his chest and shoulder crack, and warm blood still trickled slowly. His head throbbed vaguely.
Sharp fear widened his eyes and tensed his muscles. Frodo. Where was Frodo? His eyes scanned quickly across the bulky and unwashed forms that tended the fire and ate the food.
With sweet relief, they fell upon Frodo’s swollen form not far from where he lay. Ignoring the pain, he managed to climb to his hands and knees. Fortunately, no one was paying attention to the ‘unconscious’ prisoner as the bread and beer was passed around. Using a kind of shuffling crawl, Aragorn was able to make his agonizing way over to Frodo.
He lay down with a soft huff of breath, Frodo’s back facing him. “Frodo,” Aragorn whispered softly. “Frodo,” he said again.
Slowly, Frodo rolled to face him. Aragorn cursed his bonds, as he wished so desperately to be able to stroke his beloved’s face. A small, pained smile graced Frodo’s lips. “Aragorn,” he breathed. His unbound hands came up to cup the king’s face. Aragorn closed his eyes.
“Ah, my love. I have missed you so.” Aragorn leaned into Frodo’s caress. It had been too long since they had touched like this, simple and loving. Aragorn’s hot breath tickled Frodo’s palm. He edged closer to his lover. Now their faces were mere centimeters apart, and Frodo could taste Aragorn’s hot-sweet breath mingling with his own.
“The baby. It’s kicking.” Aragorn smiled, a genuine, truthful expression. His child lay between them, albeit still inside Frodo. He worried that the baby would come too soon, when they were alone in the wilderness, or worse yet, still under the ward of the ruffians who’d taken them.
Frodo’s life was more important to Aragorn than anything, and though it hurt his heart deeply, he would sacrifice even their child if it meant Frodo’s safety. He prayed that it would not come to that, and his attention shifted to their captors.
They were about ten in number, all with a rather vicious look to them. They sat around the fire, holding their mugs high in celebration of a successful capture. Rage built slowly in Aragorn’s heart, and he twisted against his bonds. They would not hold his mate and his child captive, and they would not harm another inch on Frodo’s body while he still had breath left in his own.
Sharp pain echoed through his nerves as he rotated his shoulders. He looked down at his wound, and saw dark red slowly seeping through his shirt. From a healer’s perspective, he knew it was not as bad as it looked. As a fighter, he knew that it handicapped him, but also that he could bear the pain if he had to.
The men around the fire were speaking loudly. Frodo ignored them for the most part, preferring to close his eyes and imagine himself home, but then he heard something that made his ears prick up.
“The halfling, he’s the king’s consort. Yeah, that’s right!” The man speaking growled at another who’d questioned him. Frodo imagined them as a pack of wolves for a moment, slight amusement creeping into his thoughts. “We got the king, for sure, but I was the one who took the little rat. Pregnant, too. Disgusting. I’ve half a mind to slay the abomination inside him myself. If I accidentally kill the hobbit, too, well....”
The men laughed again, deafeningly loud to Frodo’s ears. They wanted to kill his child. Instincts long lost reared up inside him. He curled around his belly defensively, and felt a renewed passion come to him. His child. His and Aragorn’s. He would do anything to protect the babe, and that meant keeping himself safe.
He looked to Aragorn, and a matching fire was found there. Aragorn would fight for him. They would escape from here. They would escape, and they would return home, triumphant. There would be happiness and people in the street waiting to welcome them. Frodo could see the smiling faces of the people he knew. Then he and Aragorn would make love in their bed all night together, and they would curl up and sleep through the day, without a care in the world. Life would return to normal, and someday soon, they’d have a little one, as well.
Crystal tears came into Frodo’s eyes as he fantasized. He did not want to open his eyes to reality. Reality was where he lay, swollen and uncomfortable, on the dirt with no food and no blankets with cruel men who intended to kill his baby and his lover. No, fantasy’s arms were far kinder.
Aragorn saw Frodo begin to cry. He gritted his teeth and swore that he would see these men dead. As he gazed upon Frodo and their child, a fierce love came over him, and he gasped. His heart was filled for a moment with the energy of the purest love.
It was their captors that broke this spell. One of the men broke apart from the group and came to where they lay. He crouched down. “Awake are ye, you mighty king?” He kicked Aragorn viciously in the ribs. The king anticipated the blow and flexed his abdominal muscles to minimize the damage. But he did cry out in false pain. As long as the villain’s attention was on him, that meant that it was not on Frodo. The beast could kick him all night long if he wanted, but he would not touch Frodo.
“Does that hurt, then? Heh, perhaps I should just beat you into submission. I bet you’re not as tough as they say.”
Aragorn glared up with silent hatred. But he did not move. At least, not so far as that the eye could see. Behind his back, he was working his wrists up and down in the bonds. The rope was frail, and Aragorn had found a rock that he was now using to slice at the ties. Accidental misses caused his wrists to bloody and become slicker. A tic worked in his jaw, and he mentally willed Frodo to move away from him. There was about to be trouble.
But then Frodo spoke up. “He’s ten times as tough as you, you piece of rat filth!” Enraged, the man turned to Frodo.
“And what are you, the king’s toy?!? A little halfling whore, is more like. How much did the king pay to have you to his bed? Or perhaps you did the job for free, just to acquire the king’s assets and good graces? You disgust me, and it is you that is filth.”
With that, he spit on Frodo, and aimed a kick at his stomach. Frodo winced. But the blow never fell. Aragorn had caught the man by the ankle, and pulled him backwards. The man tripped over Aragorn and fell hard on his back. The king stood quickly, the tattered fetters of his captivity hanging at his wrists. The men heard the noise of the ruffian falling, and turned to look.
Aragorn, glancing quickly around like a wild animal, darted quickly into the brush. Moments later, the men around the fire had grabbed their weapons and were thundering into the forest after him.
Frodo prayed to any god that would listen. Aragorn had the strength and the cunning to escape the men, even wounded, but what Frodo worried and prayed against was that the king would return to retrieve him. Frodo knew that at this point, he was merely a hindrance. He could not move at anything resembling speed, he was large and ungainly, and he was still held prisoner by the rogue soldiers.
He knew that Aragorn would not leave him there. But all the same, he prayed for him to get himself to safety.