For Saklani! Frodo/Aragorn, R
Dec. 23rd, 2004 06:00 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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lotr_sesaTitle: Safe for a While
Author: Mordelhin
Characters: Frodo/Aragorn
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Categories: slash, h/c, a wee bit of angst (it's Frodo, I can't help it)
Disclaimer: Frodo and Middle Earth belong to Tolkien...yada yada yada. I make no money.
Summary: Frodo and Aragorn take comfort in each other in Lorien.
Notes: For Saklani. Happy Holidays from your Secret Santa!
*Elvish lyrics are taken from the Lament for Gandalf on the FotR Soundtrack.
**Also, made use of this shirebunny: Aragorn told Frodo not to lay aside the mithril coat “even in sleep, unless fortune brings you where you are safe for a while.” After dwelling in Lothlorien for some days, Frodo begins to wonder whether here, at last, is a land safe enough for him to take off the mithril mail.
In the deepening silver-green light of early evening, Frodo walked alone through Lorien. His arms were wrapped tightly about himself, though he was not cold. Here, though January was passing in the world outside, it was as warm as the tail end of summer. Rather, he wrapped himself in his grief over Gandalf's passing; a heavy grey cloak that bent his shoulders and bowed his head. He could hear the elves in the trees above him, singing their lament for the Grey Pilgrim. At any other time, those clear and beautiful voices would have comforted him; but this night they seemed only to make his burden heavier. He quickened his pace, seeking to escape the voices, and more importantly, the meaning behind the words that fell upon his ears like sweet, sad rain.
He let his feet carry him where they would. At length, he came to a small clearing. He stopped, breathing in the scent of grass and mallorn, and brushed away a stray tear from his cheek. He listened to the night noises of the wood – the soft stirring of the breeze-blown leaves, the click and chirrup of insects, the hoot of a hunting owl. The song of the elves had grown faint here, but as Frodo listened, he heard another voice closer at hand. Deep and sonorous and familiar, it echoed the song of the elves:
Mithrandir, Mithrandir, A Rondir Uithren
ú-reniathach i amar galen
I reniad lín ne nór, nuithannen.
The voice was Aragorn's. Frodo nearly turned back then, but he hesitated. Surely the Ranger had sought out this secluded place to be alone with his own grief, just as he himself had. But Frodo's need for solitude vied with another need that tugged at him. He thought of the Ranger's long and enduring friendship with Gandalf that had led him to take on four wayward charges, to steer them through the dangers of the wild. He remembered the light that shone in the Ranger’s face as he told stories to keep their minds from fear on the road to Rivendell; and his gentle, healing hand that had kept the shadow of the Mogul wound at bay for so long. Perhaps he would understand Frodo’s mood more than anyone could – more even than his dear Sam, whose fumbling words were meant to comfort. But they could never reach the place inside of him that yearned for solace that sometimes seemed beyond the capacity of this mortal world to provide.
At the far end of the clearing was a gentle slope leading down into a sheltered dell. Aragorn's song was now no more than a gentle murmur, as he tended a small wood fire. He was sitting, stripped to the waist, with a bowl of steaming water before him. As Frodo drew near, the now familiar smell of athelas enveloped him. Aragorn looked up at him and smiled.
"You are injured?" Frodo asked.
"Only a few cuts and bruises," Aragorn answered. "I did not fare too badly in our battle with the orcs. But there has been no time for me to tend to myself, while the company was still in danger."
Frodo sat down next to him. His eyes followed the lines of the Ranger’s lean muscles. He had cuts on his hands and arms. Ugly, livid bruises showed up starkly against the pale skin of his ribcage and upper arms. Had it only been three days since their battle with the orcs of Moria? It seemed to Frodo that an age or more could have passed already.
Aragorn turned to grab his tunic that was lying on the ground behind him. Frodo gave a slight gasp – the Ranger’s back was also bruised, as if giant troll hands had pummeled him, and he bore a deep gash across his shoulder blade.
“Here,” Frodo said, jumping up. “Let me help you.”
“No, Frodo, it’s all right. There is no need,” Aragorn protested.
“Nonsense,” Frodo said. “You can’t reach the wounds on your back, and they need to be tended. You’ve taken enough care of me since we met – let me do what I can to help you for a change.”
Aragorn relented with a slight bow of his head. Frodo took a bit of cloth from the bowl and wrung it out in the sweet-scented water. Gently, he bathed the wounds, until Aragorn’s shoulders began to relax and his breathing deepened. And if Frodo lingered slightly, feeling the ripple of muscle under the palms of his hands, or taking in the scent of the Ranger’s freshly washed hair, it was, of course, only to convey his silent gratitude and affection for the man to whom he owed his life.
Frodo’s brief reverie was broken by Aragorn’s smile.
“Come,” he said, taking Frodo by the arm and pulling him down to sit by him again. “You have eased my hurts and I thank you. But I would see how the wild boar has fared since last I tended him.”
Frodo did not object this time when Aragorn stripped off his shirt and jacket. The mithril shirt beneath gleamed even brighter by the moonlight of Lorien than it had when Frodo first saw it in Bilbo’s room with the sunlight of Rivendell falling upon it. Aragorn ran his thumb over the latticework of mithril and gems that adorned the front. Frodo’s breath quickened, but if Aragorn noticed, he gave no sign. Gently, he pulled the garment off and laid it aside.
The bruise on Frodo’s side and back where the spear had pinned him had already begun to fade to a sallow yellow. Aragorn lightly traced his fingers over Frodo’s ribs, and the hobbit shivered.
“It’s fine, really. It doesn’t hurt at all, anymore.” Frodo’s voice sounded strange and breathy to his own ears. Still, he didn’t want Aragorn to withdraw his touch. Frodo’s hand wandered up to brush along the back of the Ranger’s hand. He looked up to find Aragorn staring at him. Frodo’s lips parted as if to speak again, though he never knew what it was that he meant to say, for at that moment, Aragorn bent down and kissed him.
Frodo startled, but his body responded at once, recognizing the need that his mind had never acknowledged. The Ranger’s warm, wet tongue was a welcome intrusion. Frodo deepened the kiss, and his hands twisted in Aragorn’s hair. He felt warm arms encircle him, and he leaned his weight against the Ranger until they both were lying in the grass.
Rough, callused fingers worked at the buttons of breeches; small, nimble fingers undid the lacing of leggings, until they both were free. Frodo reached down with both hands to claim his prize, pulling and stroking flesh until he felt the sticky seed spill through his fingers, and heard the muffled groan against his neck. Only then did Frodo give himself up to the Ranger’s ministrations. His hips bucked in time with the swift, sure strokes, and his breath quickened until his lungs ached.
“Frodo,” he heard Aragorn murmur. Frodo met his gaze and held it for a long moment. Aragorn lowered his head, until his breath lightly grazed Frodo’s skin. “Let it go,” he whispered.
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. The friction of Aragorn’s hand had kindled a heat that threatened to consume him – flesh and bone, worry, grief, and all. Frodo let it burn; and when finally there was nothing left of him, his release was like a sudden gust of wind that blows the ashes clear. He lay still for a long while, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat and the soft breeze stirring the leaves and grass about him.
The sky above him was open and clear, and full of stars. Frodo lay in Aragorn’s arms, warmer and more content than he had felt since the Fellowship had left Rivendell. Before long, Aragorn stirred and kissed his forehead.
“We should go back to the others. They will begin to wonder about us,” he said.
“I shouldn’t think that they would worry. We’re safe enough here, aren’t we?” Frodo asked.
“As safe as anyone can be in Middle Earth. But you know that hardly matters to Master Samwise. He would worry about you even if the Dark Lord were vanquished, and you were tucked snuggly into your own bed at Bag End.”
Frodo laughed. “Dear Sam. He would, I know. But you’re right. It is time to go back.” Frodo gathered up his shirt and jacket, and put them on again. A gleam of silver in the grass caught his eye, and he reached for it. “Bilbo’s mithril shirt! I’d very nearly forgotten it.” He shrugged his jacket off his shoulders again, then hesitated. He looked up and met the Ranger’s deep, grey eyes. “As safe as anyone can be?” he asked.
Aragorn nodded. “I think that you could put it aside, Frodo, if you wanted to. For a little while.”
Frodo folded up the mithril shirt and tucked it into his jacket. And even though when wearing it he had never felt it as a burden, his step was lighter and his shoulders straighter as he walked with Aragorn back to the Fellowship’s pavilion.
Author: Mordelhin
Characters: Frodo/Aragorn
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Categories: slash, h/c, a wee bit of angst (it's Frodo, I can't help it)
Disclaimer: Frodo and Middle Earth belong to Tolkien...yada yada yada. I make no money.
Summary: Frodo and Aragorn take comfort in each other in Lorien.
Notes: For Saklani. Happy Holidays from your Secret Santa!
*Elvish lyrics are taken from the Lament for Gandalf on the FotR Soundtrack.
**Also, made use of this shirebunny: Aragorn told Frodo not to lay aside the mithril coat “even in sleep, unless fortune brings you where you are safe for a while.” After dwelling in Lothlorien for some days, Frodo begins to wonder whether here, at last, is a land safe enough for him to take off the mithril mail.
In the deepening silver-green light of early evening, Frodo walked alone through Lorien. His arms were wrapped tightly about himself, though he was not cold. Here, though January was passing in the world outside, it was as warm as the tail end of summer. Rather, he wrapped himself in his grief over Gandalf's passing; a heavy grey cloak that bent his shoulders and bowed his head. He could hear the elves in the trees above him, singing their lament for the Grey Pilgrim. At any other time, those clear and beautiful voices would have comforted him; but this night they seemed only to make his burden heavier. He quickened his pace, seeking to escape the voices, and more importantly, the meaning behind the words that fell upon his ears like sweet, sad rain.
He let his feet carry him where they would. At length, he came to a small clearing. He stopped, breathing in the scent of grass and mallorn, and brushed away a stray tear from his cheek. He listened to the night noises of the wood – the soft stirring of the breeze-blown leaves, the click and chirrup of insects, the hoot of a hunting owl. The song of the elves had grown faint here, but as Frodo listened, he heard another voice closer at hand. Deep and sonorous and familiar, it echoed the song of the elves:
Mithrandir, Mithrandir, A Rondir Uithren
ú-reniathach i amar galen
I reniad lín ne nór, nuithannen.
The voice was Aragorn's. Frodo nearly turned back then, but he hesitated. Surely the Ranger had sought out this secluded place to be alone with his own grief, just as he himself had. But Frodo's need for solitude vied with another need that tugged at him. He thought of the Ranger's long and enduring friendship with Gandalf that had led him to take on four wayward charges, to steer them through the dangers of the wild. He remembered the light that shone in the Ranger’s face as he told stories to keep their minds from fear on the road to Rivendell; and his gentle, healing hand that had kept the shadow of the Mogul wound at bay for so long. Perhaps he would understand Frodo’s mood more than anyone could – more even than his dear Sam, whose fumbling words were meant to comfort. But they could never reach the place inside of him that yearned for solace that sometimes seemed beyond the capacity of this mortal world to provide.
At the far end of the clearing was a gentle slope leading down into a sheltered dell. Aragorn's song was now no more than a gentle murmur, as he tended a small wood fire. He was sitting, stripped to the waist, with a bowl of steaming water before him. As Frodo drew near, the now familiar smell of athelas enveloped him. Aragorn looked up at him and smiled.
"You are injured?" Frodo asked.
"Only a few cuts and bruises," Aragorn answered. "I did not fare too badly in our battle with the orcs. But there has been no time for me to tend to myself, while the company was still in danger."
Frodo sat down next to him. His eyes followed the lines of the Ranger’s lean muscles. He had cuts on his hands and arms. Ugly, livid bruises showed up starkly against the pale skin of his ribcage and upper arms. Had it only been three days since their battle with the orcs of Moria? It seemed to Frodo that an age or more could have passed already.
Aragorn turned to grab his tunic that was lying on the ground behind him. Frodo gave a slight gasp – the Ranger’s back was also bruised, as if giant troll hands had pummeled him, and he bore a deep gash across his shoulder blade.
“Here,” Frodo said, jumping up. “Let me help you.”
“No, Frodo, it’s all right. There is no need,” Aragorn protested.
“Nonsense,” Frodo said. “You can’t reach the wounds on your back, and they need to be tended. You’ve taken enough care of me since we met – let me do what I can to help you for a change.”
Aragorn relented with a slight bow of his head. Frodo took a bit of cloth from the bowl and wrung it out in the sweet-scented water. Gently, he bathed the wounds, until Aragorn’s shoulders began to relax and his breathing deepened. And if Frodo lingered slightly, feeling the ripple of muscle under the palms of his hands, or taking in the scent of the Ranger’s freshly washed hair, it was, of course, only to convey his silent gratitude and affection for the man to whom he owed his life.
Frodo’s brief reverie was broken by Aragorn’s smile.
“Come,” he said, taking Frodo by the arm and pulling him down to sit by him again. “You have eased my hurts and I thank you. But I would see how the wild boar has fared since last I tended him.”
Frodo did not object this time when Aragorn stripped off his shirt and jacket. The mithril shirt beneath gleamed even brighter by the moonlight of Lorien than it had when Frodo first saw it in Bilbo’s room with the sunlight of Rivendell falling upon it. Aragorn ran his thumb over the latticework of mithril and gems that adorned the front. Frodo’s breath quickened, but if Aragorn noticed, he gave no sign. Gently, he pulled the garment off and laid it aside.
The bruise on Frodo’s side and back where the spear had pinned him had already begun to fade to a sallow yellow. Aragorn lightly traced his fingers over Frodo’s ribs, and the hobbit shivered.
“It’s fine, really. It doesn’t hurt at all, anymore.” Frodo’s voice sounded strange and breathy to his own ears. Still, he didn’t want Aragorn to withdraw his touch. Frodo’s hand wandered up to brush along the back of the Ranger’s hand. He looked up to find Aragorn staring at him. Frodo’s lips parted as if to speak again, though he never knew what it was that he meant to say, for at that moment, Aragorn bent down and kissed him.
Frodo startled, but his body responded at once, recognizing the need that his mind had never acknowledged. The Ranger’s warm, wet tongue was a welcome intrusion. Frodo deepened the kiss, and his hands twisted in Aragorn’s hair. He felt warm arms encircle him, and he leaned his weight against the Ranger until they both were lying in the grass.
Rough, callused fingers worked at the buttons of breeches; small, nimble fingers undid the lacing of leggings, until they both were free. Frodo reached down with both hands to claim his prize, pulling and stroking flesh until he felt the sticky seed spill through his fingers, and heard the muffled groan against his neck. Only then did Frodo give himself up to the Ranger’s ministrations. His hips bucked in time with the swift, sure strokes, and his breath quickened until his lungs ached.
“Frodo,” he heard Aragorn murmur. Frodo met his gaze and held it for a long moment. Aragorn lowered his head, until his breath lightly grazed Frodo’s skin. “Let it go,” he whispered.
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. The friction of Aragorn’s hand had kindled a heat that threatened to consume him – flesh and bone, worry, grief, and all. Frodo let it burn; and when finally there was nothing left of him, his release was like a sudden gust of wind that blows the ashes clear. He lay still for a long while, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat and the soft breeze stirring the leaves and grass about him.
The sky above him was open and clear, and full of stars. Frodo lay in Aragorn’s arms, warmer and more content than he had felt since the Fellowship had left Rivendell. Before long, Aragorn stirred and kissed his forehead.
“We should go back to the others. They will begin to wonder about us,” he said.
“I shouldn’t think that they would worry. We’re safe enough here, aren’t we?” Frodo asked.
“As safe as anyone can be in Middle Earth. But you know that hardly matters to Master Samwise. He would worry about you even if the Dark Lord were vanquished, and you were tucked snuggly into your own bed at Bag End.”
Frodo laughed. “Dear Sam. He would, I know. But you’re right. It is time to go back.” Frodo gathered up his shirt and jacket, and put them on again. A gleam of silver in the grass caught his eye, and he reached for it. “Bilbo’s mithril shirt! I’d very nearly forgotten it.” He shrugged his jacket off his shoulders again, then hesitated. He looked up and met the Ranger’s deep, grey eyes. “As safe as anyone can be?” he asked.
Aragorn nodded. “I think that you could put it aside, Frodo, if you wanted to. For a little while.”
Frodo folded up the mithril shirt and tucked it into his jacket. And even though when wearing it he had never felt it as a burden, his step was lighter and his shoulders straighter as he walked with Aragorn back to the Fellowship’s pavilion.
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Date: 2004-12-24 07:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-25 02:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-24 11:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-25 02:57 pm (UTC)Thanks so much!
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Date: 2004-12-26 01:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-30 07:02 pm (UTC)Thanks! I'm glad you liked it.
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Date: 2004-12-27 03:50 pm (UTC)Kisses.
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Date: 2004-12-30 07:00 pm (UTC)And actually, this was my first attempt at F/A. I'm glad it worked.
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Date: 2004-12-30 07:03 pm (UTC)Kisses.
no subject
Date: 2005-01-01 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-04 02:54 pm (UTC)Ah, the interspecies crew is always welcome here. I'm just sorry I'm not more prolific in this area.
Glad you liked it.
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Date: 2005-01-01 06:04 pm (UTC)Really lovely, sexy vignette. Thanks for this.
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Date: 2005-01-04 02:57 pm (UTC)Welcome, fellow i.s.
Thanks for reading!
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Date: 2005-01-01 06:27 pm (UTC)Frodo lay in Aragorn’s arms, warmer and more content than he had felt since the Fellowship had left Rivendell. Before long, Aragorn stirred and kissed his forehead.
You've made my day with your beautiful words and the imagery you've crafted.
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Date: 2005-01-04 02:51 pm (UTC)Thanks!
I'm glad you enjoyed it.
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Date: 2005-01-02 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-04 02:51 pm (UTC)Thanks! I'm definitely in the "no such thing as too much of a good thing" camp myself. And what could be better than Frodo and his Ranger?
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Date: 2005-02-23 12:22 pm (UTC)This is marvelous . . . touching and erotic and beautifully written. Enjoyed it very much.
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Date: 2009-02-08 10:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-08 11:02 pm (UTC):D