Aragorn ran fast and hard. Instinct took him over boulders and through brush as quietly as possible, but at maximum speed. His pursuers blundered through the bush loudly and slowly. Aragorn stopped at a stream to catch his breath. He could hear the men drawing closer, but he did not want to run any further and risk losing them all together.
Instead, he pulled himself up into a tree. Being raised by the elves had definite advantages to it sometimes. Hidden by the thick foliage, he crouched low on a branch and watched the men come into view.
“I can’t believe we lost him!!”
“If it weren’t for that rat, Floric, we wouldn’t have lost him in the first place. I swear, that man has horse shit for brains.”
“Then why’d you leave him in charge of the captives?”
“Shut up!” The speaking man cuffed the one who questioned him. “It’s not as though I would entrust the task to the likes of you.”
Aragorn stayed perfectly still, his legs cramping as he sat. He waited for the men to pass out of sight and hearing before he leapt to the ground in one fluid motion. The green trees betrayed no hint of his pursuers, and so he doubled back on a different path. If he had timed it right, he could get to Frodo before the men even finished searching for him.
Beyond that, he had no plan, but he knew for sure that he had to rescue Frodo. From what he’d heard, he could not trust the men with Frodo for one second. A grotesque image of Frodo, stomach slashed and both child and father dying together flashed in Aragorn’s mind. It gave him fire, passion to continue on despite pains and doubts. Frodo was the only thing that mattered.
It was easy to find his way back to the campsite. His instincts and years in the wild had taught him to find almost anything, a campsite being one of the easier objectives. The glow of the fire illuminated the trees dimly in a circular area for about twenty feet in each direction. Aragorn exercised caution and stealth to creep close enough to get a good view of the camp, and stay hidden at the same time.
What Aragorn saw sliced deeply to his core being, both infuriating and breaking him at the same time. He had thought the worst thing he would return to was an injured Frodo, nursing wounds inflicted by the cruel men.
But what he saw before him was far worse than any of that. Frodo lay on his back, eyes wide and staring. A trickle of blood could be seen coming from the corner of his mouth. On top of him was the man who had been left behind to guard him. But the pivotal section of this horrible tableu was where the man could be seen driving his filthy cock in and out of the helpless hobbit.
“Little rat.” The man backhanded Frodo across the face. “I know now why the king keeps you around, despite your nasty hairy feet. You’re so damn tight.” The man leered, and Frodo whimpered. Screaming would get him nowhere, as he already knew from the blood leaking from his mouth.
He closed his eyes and tried to drift away from his body. He envisioned the garden at the citadel. Beautiful roses twined around each other like lovers. Water trickled from a fountain at the center. The moon’s smiling light brightened the garden, illuminating Aragorn, sitting alone on a bench.
The king was dressed in his finest, and he looked up when he saw Frodo coming. Frodo treaded slowly along the cool, moss covered stones. A smile came to Aragorn’s face and he waited for Frodo with love in his eyes. The stars twinkled above, smiling on their union. Frodo came slowly up to his lover and they joined hands. They shared a sweet, virginal kiss that explained whole universes in just its touch.
Silence prevailed as they undressed each other lovingly. The air was silky on Frodo’s skin as it was exposed to the night. Aragorn stole his breath both with kisses and with beauty. They touched gently, Aragorn’s arms pulling him close and making them one. Frodo breathed in the scent of love and sex.
His body felt light and free as Aragorn entered him. There was only love, even in the pain, and their eyes locked as they moved slowly together. No urgency was there, only a soft, warm feeling inside each of them that drove them together. Frodo tasted roses on the air, and he breathed out a soft sigh as he came, his release spreading between them and adding a bittersweet aroma to the night.
Aragorn came soon after, and they lay together, entwined in the night, like the roses in their way. Frodo felt tears come to his eyes, and the night lay still and unbroken over them like a blanket.
The tears were still there as the man above him pounded into completion, growling in satisfaction and spilling filth inside Frodo’s already torn body.
***
A howl of pain was building up inside Aragorn’s chest. Red dotted the edges of his vision, and he clenched fists so tight that his nails brought up wells of blood on his palms. He was trembling with so much fury and hurt that he felt he would be torn in two by it.
From where he was standing, he could see the tears in Frodo’s blank expression as the man above him growled in pleasure and emptied himself of his seed.
He laughed, and slapped Frodo across the face.
Before Aragorn even knew what he was doing, he had a large stone in his hand and was bounding forward into the firelight. The man, caught with his pants down, literally, didn’t have a chance.
Aragorn knew not exactly what happened, but at the end of it, he stood with a bloody stone in his hand and the man lay dead on the ground beside Frodo. Breathing shallowly, Aragorn knelt next to his beloved. The stone fell forgotten on the dirt.
“Frodo! Frodo, love, look at me. Please. Frodo...” Frodo’s sad, blue eyes blinked. But Frodo refused to look at him.
Aragorn lifted his head quickly as he heard the men shouting to each other, not far off. There was no time now. He grabbed his sword from the dust, and slipped it into its sheath. Without pausing to think or worry, he pulled Frodo’s pants up and cradled him in his arms. Frodo was still not a very heavy burden, despite his pregnancy.
Wasting no time, Aragorn ran.
***
It was not long before they came to a cave. A stream came out of it, and the entrance was well hidden by convenient bushes and boulders. Aragorn decided that it would be the safest place for them to stay for the moment. He had no doubt that the men who’d captured them were hot on their trail.
But his instincts told him that it would be alright for them to rest here for a while. And also that it would be foolish to carry on without tending to Frodo, first.
He laid Frodo down on a soft, mossy part of the cave floor, and then unfastened his cloak. He threw it over the small hobbit to prevent him from getting chilled. The stream had the disadvantage of making much of the cave wet and cold. There were still a few spots, however that remained dry and looked comfortable enough to sleep on.
Not that Aragorn was much concerned with sleep at the moment. Frodo still refused to look at him; in fact, he was almost catatonic in his rejection.
Aragorn came to sit cross-legged in front of him. “Frodo. Frodo, please look at me. Love? It’s important that I find out what damage that beast did to you. I want to help you, Frodo. But I can’t if you won’t even acknowledge me.”
Frodo did not move; just sat staring blankly away into space. Frantically, Aragorn cupped his face in his hands and proceeded to kiss his brow and temples over and over in an attempt to revive him. “Frodo, Frodo, Frodo...I love you so much. Please come back to me.”
“Frodo...please...” he entreated, running his hands along Frodo’s back.
Frodo watched from behind glass eyes. His body felt wooden and unwieldy. There was a hurt deep inside him. It seemed that the ache in his bones had merged with the burning below his belly, and he felt the slow seep of blood from the inside out. Why should he want to move? He felt irritated at Aragorn for trying to pull him from his safe, pleasant world. Already, it was slipping away. Through the pieces of his beautiful fantasy, he began to see Aragorn’s worried face and the rock walls of the cave.
His lower lip trembled involuntarily. He wanted to cry, but it did not seem possible. There were no tears inside him; only burning hot pain. He clutched desperately to the shreds of his happy tableau. He could not see Aragorn’s face in happiness anymore. Only pain existed there now, and Frodo could not help but back away from his morphing thoughts. He was suddenly very aware of his breathing.
“Frodo...please...” Aragorn looked closer to tears than Frodo had ever seen him in his life. Not even at their parting at Amon Hen had he seen such fear.
His heart cried to him not to let his beloved be in such pain, and Frodo answered with a deep, sharp breath. “Aragorn?”
“Oh, thank the Valar. Frodo...” Aragorn could not express what he felt in words, so he kissed Frodo gently, and hoped he got the message.
“It hurts, Aragorn. It hurts so much...” Frodo broke into dry, heaving sobs.
Aragorn felt his heart breaking as Frodo sobbed. He enfolded the hobbit in his arms, acutely aware of the bulge between them. He could feel the baby kick through Frodo’s belly, and the phantom sensation reached his own stomach.
The sensation continued, more powerfully, and Aragorn began to worry. What was going on? He pulled back to look at Frodo, only to see his face in a rictus of agony. Frodo’s hands went to his belly, and Aragorn covered them with his own.
“Aragorn, the baby. It’s coming.”