Summary: The last attempts to annul Aragorn’s coronation. The key is one: the Ring-bearer. Rated: PG for mild violence and humiliation.

“So that’s my final word. You, Frodo, will bear the crown a moment before handing it over to Gandalf, who will then set it upon my head. I will suffer no one saying no to that, my friend. It is because of you that I come now to my throne.” The tall man smiled down with great love in his eyes. “You hobbits are all so dear to me.”

Aragorn stepped out through the tent flap, almost running over the captain of a Gondorian legion. The ordained King of Men glared at him sharply but the captain had bowed down, exempting himself from any questioning. Aragorn’s brow knitted; something just did not feel right but he could not put his finger on it. He dismissed the uneasy feeling as he hurried to his horse. They must reach the White City as soon as possible.

Frodo came out a moment later. Although full of unrelenting curiosity, his eyes were dull with exhaustion. He whirled his head around, looking for Sam. The hobbit was nowhere to be seen. Instead, several uniformed soldiers stood in the distance and Frodo had a strange notion that they were stealing glances at him while talking amongst themselves. Frodo felt something uncanny creeping up his back. Like Aragorn before him, the hobbit shrugged away his suspicion and began looking for Sam.

He had barely covered several steps when Frodo felt someone tailing him. Looking over his shoulder, he gasped to find not one but three soldiers – clearly the ones that had been talking – walking uncomfortably close.

“No one should wander alone. You least of all.” Frodo’s memory suddenly leapt back to another time and place…another soldier talking to him.

But his thoughts were rudely interrupted as a huge hand closed about his shoulder, causing him to jerk backwards. A small chuckle was heard.

“Do not fear, little one. We are here to guard you.”

The hobbit stiffened, squinting up. He barely managed to suppress the distrust in his eyes.

“We know who you are, Ring-bearer. King Aragorn has passed the information on to us.” The voice sounded strangely unfriendly in Frodo’s ears. He swore he also heard a mocking tone.

“Very well, then.” Frodo’s voice was guarded. “Now if you please, I’d like to find my friend, Sam.”

“He’s over there, Your Highness.” One of the soldiers pointed toward the wild, his voice not nearly as respectful as his words.

“Please,” breathed Frodo. “I’m not Your Highness. My name is Frodo. Frodo Baggins.” Without further discussion, the hobbit turned and walked quickly to the spot designated by the soldier, his sole purpose to avoid those oddly behaving men.

“You are indeed,” snarled one soldier, hurrying after him.

Startled at the adverse tone, Frodo spun around to face a piece of cloth that was immediately swathed over his nose and mouth. He did not find any smell of concoction there but it strangled so tight and fast on him that he soon found it difficult to breathe. Frodo was unaware of his flailing arms and kicking legs but he indeed was struggling hard. Yet that did not help and lack of air weakened him until finally blackness overcame him.

~ * ~ * ~

Waking hurt more than when he was in a stupor state. Frodo felt a sore nose while his mouth and throat burned from not having been able to breathe. And when air rushed back into his lungs, it made his chest feel like almost bursting. He was hyperventilating, eyes rolling back and body jolting uncontrollably when he suddenly felt someone tug him into a sitting position. He was wheezing hard, tears spilling freely down his cheeks.

“H – help,” Frodo huffed. He brought one hand to his face only to find the other following. Realization came later that his hands had been bound together. “Sam?”

The hands that had propped him up let go, slamming Frodo back to the hard mattress.

“No Sam for you, lad.” A hoarse laugh replied.

Frodo forced himself to open his eyes. He was stunned to see two or three big folk looming over him. He pushed himself up and staggered backward but a pair of iron grips caught him on the shoulders and pinned him in place.

“Oh, no. You’re not going anywhere.”

Frodo glared upwards, a mixture of question, terror, and rage in his eyes. “Who are you?” He cried out, the pain in his breast forgotten.

The figure, clad in a Gondor legion uniform, bowed down in mockery. “Captain Eldacar at your service, Your Majesty.” Frodo tugged at his secured wrists, his face crumpled in discomfort, as memory flooded back. Your Majesty. Your Highness. It was the man who…

The Gondorian captain leered at him. “You are right, sire. It was me. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”

Frodo’s brow knotted in search of reasons that might bring about his capture, but he failed to understand what was happening. In the end he could only ask, “Why?” His voice was weak, even to his own ears.

Captain Eldacar turned to his men, saying nothing.

“Why?” repeated Frodo more loudly. He struggled up. “You are a captain of Gondor. You pledged allegiance to your King. He --”

The man whirled around so fast that the halfling’s next words were stifled. He pointed a finger at Frodo. “He is NOT my king. I bow only to Denethor, the rightful Steward of Gondor. Your King put my master to death. Thus I swear on his sacred grave--Aragorn will not be king!”

Frodo paled, his mouth gapping involuntarily. This man was hurt deeply and Frodo knew only too well the peril of facing someone who had lost his most precious one.

“Aragorn will not be king?” whispered the hobbit. “How? He will be crowned two or three days from now.”

“Not if I have you.”

Frodo shook his head, still uncomprehending. “You are saying they will defer the coronation because I’m not there?”

Evil smirks returned to Eldacar’s face. “Precisely.”

Frodo stared in disbelief, before all of a sudden understanding hit him. No! That could not be. No one else knew what would happen at the coronation. Even if they did, Frodo had never foreseen any threat before. He had never thought there were soldiers who were still loyal to the old steward. And he knew neither Aragorn nor Gandalf did either.

Frodo fought to hide this knowledge but his voice was unconvincing when he tried to deny the man. “You overestimate my value, even to the king. He will not delay the coronation…not for anyone…and certainly not for me. I am only a hobbit.”

In spite of himself, Frodo’s voice trembled. “I’m worthless to you. You have to let me go.”

~ * ~ * ~

He was not certain but Frodo thought he had been captive longer than two days. Captain Eldacar had realized that he was not completely innocent, that he knew what was expected of him in Minas Tirith. And they were determined that it would not happen.

“Worthless?” Eldacar had laughed bitterly following Frodo’s plea for freedom. “Far from it, my lord.”

Frodo had detested the way the man addressed him highly yet with such contempt. “You have realized, I presume, that you not being with Aragorn will impede the entire ceremony.”

Frodo swallowed agitatedly. “How do you know that? How did you find out about the king’s plan?”

Now the room was flooded with derisive laughter.

“Your supposed king, Lord Frodo, the Ring-bearer, is the weakest of all…and the most naive. He thinks everyone in Gondor consents to his kingship. You will see that he is wrong.” The man grinned with self satisfaction. “And how easy it was to hear every single word of his ridiculous plan. The sacred crown of Gondor in the hands of a stunted, little hobbit? Or a meddling wizard? Not even for a second--as long as we draw breath!”

The Gondorian advanced toward Frodo, who shrank back in apprehension. But Eldacar grabbed both of Frodo’s hands in his big, callused ones, making Frodo wince. “We will not make it easy for this pretender-king. We have you in our hold and you are much too precious to him. We know this too.” The man laughed. “You will serve as a good distracter.”

But for how long? Frodo thought fearfully. Was it true that his absence would thwart the very coronation itself? No. There would be some point at which Aragorn would not delay anymore. And what would become of Frodo then? Dread filled the hobbit’s eyes as he realized one thing. The men would surely slay him once they found him worthless – for real this time.

Frodo struggled in the man’s clutches. No more words spilled from his half-open mouth but rather labored breaths and small whimpers. He had to get away. He refused to be in this foul horde’s mercy. Besides, what should come into the captain’s head once he realized the futility of his wrongdoings – that Aragorn would still go to the throne?

Suddenly Frodo’s blood ran cold. Might these ill-thought beings opt to kill Aragorn as well? Frodo could not stand envisioning another member of the Fellowship meet his doom. And Aragorn must be king. He knew it in his heart more than anything he had ever believed. His flight, then, was the only solution…

“Be still!” grunted Eldacar, shaking Frodo so hard the hobbit’s teeth clanked. “We will not harm you as long as you do what you’re told. And we will not remove you – yet.”

Death. No, Frodo could not afford that. He had to stay alive to unveil this ploy, to save Aragorn from this last attack on his birthright. Frodo balled his fists, urging himself to ease, half hanging by the man’s grip while his head bowed down to his chest. It heaved up and down as his breaths grew steadier.

“Let me go,” Frodo breathed hard without looking up. “And I will calm down. You’re hurting me.”

Eldacar calculated the situation before nodding a little, and he released Frodo’s hands.

“You will do as you’re told,” the man repeated, while Frodo shied away to the bed’s headboard, gathering up his knees to his body. Despite his efforts, he was shaking violently for in truth, he did not know what he could do to save himself or his friend.

And through the days and icy nights that followed, Frodo’s suffering deepened as he was no longer allowed to occupy the bed. That was used mainly for his captors. A thin sheet spread in the corner was all Frodo had to sleep upon.

~ * ~ * ~

The very least Frodo could expect was that the men would leave him alone. And so far they still kept their word and did him no harm. Not even when Frodo refused to eat. It was not because he did not feel hunger but the thought that he was kept against his will and likely to be killed, made eating feel repulsive and incongruous. What was the use of prolonging his life by getting food if in the end he would die anyway? Frodo could not care less, even if the men beat him senseless.

But then a voice in his head brought reason to his thoughts. As long as he was living, it told him, there was hope. So he ate the humble, dried, stale bread and plain water provided by his kidnappers. And he persisted.

Since that first day, not once had the Gondorians laid their hands on Frodo. Probably, Frodo suspected, since he always complied with whatever things they made him do. Frodo served almost like a homemaker for the men. He cleaned the house, did the dishes, washed their clothes, and sometimes cooked for them. Frodo hated all of these tasks but they helped with his appetite and also kept him strong and aware of their activities.

After doing all of these heavy chores, Frodo oftentimes got so hungry he would gobble down everything that was placed before his nose. And at the end of the day Frodo would feel so exhausted he would simply pass out in his corner, oblivious to the fact that someone would come over to fasten his wrists and ankles together – Captain Eldacar did not want to risk an escape, even though Frodo had seemed so deep in his slumber.

On the second morning it had surprised Frodo to find himself back in his bonds, for he had been released to work and walk about freely while doing the house chores. Freely? Frodo gulped down disgust as the ropes tying his hands were severed. The next thing he knew was another cord of rope looped around his neck and knotted – not too tight to throttle him but tight enough to give the hobbit a taste of discomfort and humiliation. The remainder of the rope was long enough to make a kind of leash that was tied to one of the men’s wrists.

Being collared like a slave was enough to send Frodo crimson-faced. He slowly reached out for the strap around his neck, making a gesture of loosening it as he faced his captors, only to see them inundated with amused tears. Frodo could not help brimming with tears himself, only he was far from amused.

“Let it be,” warned Captain Eldacar, and Frodo slowly dropped his hand. “We gave our word not to hurt you. We require you to do the same. You will stay with us and we don’t know how long; so I want us to be good friends.” The man turned to the one with the extension of the rope and nodded. “He will not do anything to you,” Eldacar still addressed Frodo. “He merely wants to make sure you’re still around.” The man smiled gleefully at the hobbit. “You understand, my little friend.”

Friends, in Frodo’s book, would not have to assure their presence through a tether.

~ * ~ * ~

During the days of his confinement, Frodo had been let outside to do his work or relieve himself. He thus had the chance to see their whereabouts and he recognized at once the wild where he and Sam had been before being captured by Faramir. The cabin was deftly hidden by the big trees and thick shrubs.

Frodo had been prudent enough not to let the rope attaching him to his captor go taut so as to rouse the man’s suspicion. He needed to build the man’s trust so that later when the time came, he could flee without anyone suspecting anything.

On his first day outside, Frodo immediately collected a jagged rock to slice the rope off his neck. He hid it carefully behind his tattered tunic and slipped it under his sleeping sheet. That was the first day, so Frodo did not know that the men would be sure their prisoner withheld nothing. Frodo almost fainted when the men started to search his body. His face flushed as he felt their large hands groping all over him and his humiliation knew no bounds.

But then suddenly Frodo realized that he had been foolish. What was the use of the stone inside the house? Even if he managed to cut the cord, it would be very difficult to run away if his guard was inside, too. So the next day, Frodo sneaked a rock under his garment again and put it beneath the always-locked window, subtly hidden from any prying and suspicious eyes.

Frodo never thought he would have to execute his plan so soon. It was something he dared not dwell on, considering the peril he had to face should he fail.

~ * ~ * ~

Captain Eldacar arrived that afternoon with news that almost made Frodo’s knees give in. He was still outside at that time and the words were not supposed to reach his ears. The words that Aragorn, though not surrendering in his efforts to find Frodo, had finally resolved to move on with his coronation. Words of dissent had come from every corner, especially from the halflings. Sam, thought Frodo. But Aragorn convinced them that they could not wait any longer. Order had to be established.

Aragorn did not realize that by doing so he might get the order he wished but he also signed a death warrant for Frodo and perhaps for himself as well. Frodo sighed. Aragorn was right, of course, he knew that. The king was well guarded and the life of one small halfling was nothing compared to the security of Gondor’s new government and the installation of its legitimate ruler.

It was nothing.

Frodo’s body shook as he eyed his keeper, who held the end of the rope. He was sitting leaning his back on the door, eyes fluttering closed. A flowing breeze seemed to make him drowsy. Frodo tried not to jerk at the leash as he slithered on the ground toward the window. He stooped, hand feeling the uneven ground, looking for his rock. He turned briefly at the man and immediately grabbed it when he was sure the dozing soldier was not awake. Frodo grasped the stone tightly as it dawned on him. This was his only chance to escape.

With his other hand he took hold of the rope and held it taunt. He immediately began to hack into its strands, not quite daring to sever the huge knot in front of his throat.

~ * ~ * ~

Frodo’s eyes were wild when he finally stole another glance at the man. His heart thumped so hard he feared the other could hear it through his chest. Blood was dripping from where the stone had hacked into his palm but Frodo barely sensed it. He rubbed the stone unceasingly against the rope despite his shaky, clammy hands, and almost squealed with relief when the strap loosened. Frodo immediately sped around to the back of the lodge and scampered away as quietly as possible. He prayed to the Valar that the man would sleep long enough to give Frodo time to get away. Frodo prayed to the Valar that the too loose cord would not raise his captor’s suspicion.

After that, he didn’t pray at all. He ran.

The hobbit still did not hear any voices behind him and he started to relax and catch his breath. The woods were easy enough for him to cross and he knew the way to Minas Tirith. His hand reached for the rope still looped around his neck and he tugged at it in anger. It proved to be a misstep for the next thing Frodo knew, he went rolling down a steep vale, walloping into tree roots and bulky rocks. He landed head first.

Frodo was still quite conscious and that added to the hurt and anger at his stupidity. He whimpered faintly, a hand thrown to the back of his head to feel dampness there. Blood, he thought gingerly. And all of a sudden, an uncontrolled shudder overtook his body as sounds of horses’ trot drew near. Frodo’s world spun around him as he tried to rise. He felt woozy and nauseated, and in the end let himself crumple lifelessly back to the ground. It was in the midst of his blurry sight that Frodo spotted some big folk looming over him. The hobbit sobbed in despair when a hand clasped at his shoulder.

“Don’t kill me. Please.”

~ * ~ * ~

Things had been colorful, the brilliant blue of the lake water, the mottled green of the leaves, the daring scarlet of the sunset sky, and the silvery gold of the shimmering stars. All rippled into one and danced away from each other. Intoxicating yet lulling, it made him feel like he was floating. So light. Pains were mere memories, far away from him in the times of yore.

But the smells. Despite the expected, succulent fragrance of columbine and sunflowers, he sniffed the aroma of fresh-baked rolls. There were also the thickened scents of steamy chicken broth and tangy apple cider.

His hands clutched something soft, tugging it closer, closer to his nostrils, and he breathed in the familiar scents. Lids quivered gently, unopened, oblivious to warm tears that were seeping. He kept sniffing, brow furrowing as the smell slowly altered, no longer oozing with his mother’s cooking. Now the smell was more of something from the wild. Herbs? Healing herbs?

Inquisitiveness surmounting the comfort of his slumber, he slowly fluttered his eyes open. Certainly he was not in the kitchen of his childhood home. His house was not even there, he realized, as he eyed his golden surroundings. A tall figure standing at the foot of the too spacious bed took him more by surprise.

“Aragorn?”

Frodo lowered his lids, wincing as the pain in his head suddenly came alive. He dared not hope too much or jump at the figure easily slipped into his line of vision. His injured sight and vain hope must have teased him, making him believe that the Gondorian captain was indeed the King of Men. He let the rivulets of his tears make their way down his cheeks again just as he did in his dream. The hobbit knew what would happen now and he silently prayed that these men would be merciful enough as to slay him quickly and painlessly, letting him pass to the world of colorful hues.

“Frodo?”

The imagined voice was so tender and tentative that Frodo wept even more. Please, don’t torment me more with this false affection. I will never hear this beloved voice again. I will never…

“Frodo, are you awake?”

This time the voice was accompanied by a pair of hands that scooped him gently up from the bed. Frodo jerked violently, eyes cast open and sightless, utterly terrified since he had not heard the man move closer. A shriek escaped the curved, parched lips.

“No, no, Frodo! Hush. It is me, Aragorn.”

The man would not let go of Frodo despite his twisting and turning until something registered in those feral eyes and Frodo began to slacken.

“Aragorn?” wheezed Frodo, breathless with disbelief.

The one-time ranger from the north nodded, offering up a smile that Frodo knew too well.

“Yes, Frodo. It’s really me. You’re safe, my dearest friend. You’re back in Minas Tirith. Or rather, you finally are here in the White City.”

Frodo curled up in Aragorn’s embrace, his arms tightly around the man’s powerful shoulders. Still, he shivered with shock. “But how?” he whispered. “I thought I was recaptured by… by…”

“By my own men,” finished Aragorn, smiling. He pulled back a little to look at Frodo closely. “Are you all right, Frodo?”

At the halfling’s weak nod, the man could not help but growl in rage. “They will be executed. Deceiving their own king is one thing but putting the Ring-bearer’s life in peril is unforgivable, even by their own lives!”

Frodo stiffened at the harsh tone and immediately Aragorn realized what he had done. “By Elbereth, pardon me, Frodo. Of course you are still distraught by any ruthless voices and actions.” Aragorn tightened his hold yet again and Frodo softened on his chest. The hobbit’s breaths were ragged from the remains of his crying.

“Thank the Valar one of our sentries wandered far back into Ithilien. They have walked days and nights, Frodo, and they couldn’t have found you had you not run away. You’re indeed such a brave hobbit.”

But Frodo was frowning, his face once again troubled. Aragorn shook his head and put the hobbit down, remembering that his friend was of course a mature adult and not a child to be coddled. Frodo sat down heavily upon the bed, his head down, his teeth clamped tightly over his lower lip. Something was newly wrong.

“What is it, Frodo?” Aragorn’s voice was full of concern. “What can I do to help. I owe you the world and I will do anything you ask.”

Frodo looked up, his tears drying on his face, his eyes growing deeply serious and his expression worried. It precluded tears.

Aragorn sat down next to the bed, his own worry growing. “Frodo…tell me.”

The hobbit stared at Aragorn in dismay. In spite of his moist eyes and dangling feet, Aragorn could see that this was no juvenile and the words he used were not those of a child.

“Aragorn, you are to be king here for the rest of your life. You have seen the worst of men and the best. You know the ways of war…and what follows it…and why wars start again.”

“Frodo…”

“Revenge is a useless emotion and will solve nothing, Aragorn. I beg you, do not start your reign with killing. These men are merely loyal to their former ruler and…they…they were foolish. But you are wise and you know that one does not win the hearts of men by force, but rather by mercy.”

“But, Frodo, they kidnapped you, they would have…”

“We don’t know what they would have done, Aragorn.” Frodo sighed, struggling with his own emotions. He reached over and took Aragorn’s hand. “But it is you I am thinking about, dear friend. You don’t need any more killing on your conscience. It is over. Let it end now.”

Frodo looked up into Aragorn’s eyes for the first time. “I ask this of you.”

Aragorn swallowed hard but his voice remained strong and commanding, in spite of its softness. He squeezed Frodo’s hand. “A request from the Ringbearer is law in Minas Tirith, even to its king.”

At that moment, a soldier entered the doorway and bowed low. “The assassins have been captured, my lord.”

Aragorn stared at him for a moment then cleared his voice noisily. “By decree of the Ringbearer, they are pardoned. If they swear loyalty to me and my house, they may stay in the White City, if they cannot do this, they may leave, never to return.”

“But my lord…”

“I have spoken!” Aragorn’s powerful voice reverberated off the stone walls of the fortress room. Then in a quieter tone he said, “There will be no more killing. What I have said will also apply to all the enemies of Gondor. All prisoners will be freed. They may stay or go as they please, but there will be no retribution.”

The soldier’s eyes grew large but he held his tongue. He bowed lower than before and quickly left with his stunning news.

Aragorn turned back to Frodo, his eyes twinkling. “You were so right, my friend. I feel better than I ever have in my life. At this moment, I truly feel like a king.”

But the brave hobbit had fallen back on the bed, lulled into a deep slumber. He was rescued, safe, and back in the warm shelter of his wise and forgiving friend. And there would be no more bloodshed.

Frodo had intended to ask for Sam but his weariness forced him to wait. He fell asleep in the huge featherbed feeling a peace he had never known.

~ * ~ fin ~ * ~