Beyond Danger and Toil

A sixty-second fic by Iorhael

Aragorn squinted at the flickering lights in the distance--barricades lining the path to the daunting, black-steeled, city gate.  He knew those lights came from high torches planted in the ground, but he could not help thinking about the Uruks charging Helm’s Deep and the fires they carried.  The former ranger drew a deep breath, clasping his face in both of his hands, heart shuddering at the memory.  Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, himself, and the people of Rohan--so close to death or defeat--but they had all resisted and stood firm.  And Minas Tirith had been the same; assembled forces, raised weapons, blood spilt when needed, all for the life of Middle Earth.

Aragorn’s hands ringed the round concrete surrounding the balcony of the white citadel as he glanced up into the starry sky, intermittent with murkiness.  This reminded him of the night he saw Frodo, after the Ring was destroyed.  The hobbit was lying on a thick mattress in one of the tents in Ithilien.  Night had come and rest was all he needed but Aragorn had noticed the dark shadows under his eyes.

“You have plenty of sleep to catch up on, Master Hobbit,” Aragorn’s voice was gentle as he seated himself on a chair beside the makeshift cot.  Frodo turned to him, the smile not quite reaching his eyes.  Aragorn straightened himself.  Something was not right.  “What is it, Frodo?”

The halfling’s eyes wavered slightly before he parted his lips and cracked a yes, almost inaudibly, baffling the man even further.  “Yes.  Yes what?” he said with a slight impatience.

Frodo closed his eyes briefly.  “Yes, I need plenty of sleep.”  His voice was weak and hoarse, a reminder of what he had been through.  He fixed his eyes on Aragorn, who had inexplicably been staring at him yet not truly seeing.  Weary beyond belief and feeling certain Aragorn would not mind him dozing, Frodo let his lids flutter down.

The rasping tone unsettled Aragorn, as it dawned on him how Frodo had suffered the most amongst them.  He sighed, knowing that he had yet to comprehend entirely what had come upon the periannath.  Sam had spoken of it in hushed tones but all from a second person’s standpoint.  Aragorn wanted to hear it from Frodo himself.  He needed to.

“I would have gone with you to the end, into the very fires of Mordor.”

Tears flooded the king’s eyes as he remembered the last worthy thing he had said to Frodo.  Before he had let him go into those very fires with only his servant to help. 

Without his protection. 

Aragorn’s mind wandered still further backwards in time.  What had he said?  You have my sword.  If by my life or death, I can protect you…  Yes, how brave and noble he had sounded, when they were all so naïve and safe in Elrond’s home.  A single tear wound its way down his craggy cheek. 

But Frodo had not had his protection…

Aragorn wiped the tear away and collected himself, kneeling down before the hobbit who at that moment looked worse than he had before.  Not that Frodo had ever seemed jovial as the weight of the Ring burdened him more with each step and grew heavier with each day.  But still Frodo had looked better, unlike the pallid figure resting opposite him right now, wasted and losing the color of his life.

Frodo had been bathed, Aragorn could see that; he was no longer the filthy creature Lord Gwaihir had set down from his grips.  There was no dirt soiling his soft and sweet-smelling hair.  There was no stain smudging the skin of his face and body; yet, that accentuated its pastiness.

“You’re comfortable enough?”  It was more a muse than a question but Aragorn saw Frodo stir a little.  He had not been fully sleeping it seemed.

“Aragorn?”

“Yes?”

“Will I sound ungrateful if I say no?”  Frodo’s eyes kept shut. 

Aragorn frowned.  “No to what?”

Frodo sounded a tad annoyed when he replied, “To your question just now, whether I was comfortable enough.”

Oh.

“You’re entitled to say whatever you want, Frodo.”

The hobbit shifted again, lifting his lids a little.  “Please forgive me, Aragorn.”  He looked remorseful and in his voice was a glimmer of bitterness.  “I don’t know what I’m saying.  But this – this featherbed and velvet coverlet and a pillow so soft you could drown in it – these are not for me.”  Frodo heaved himself up on his elbows and leant back against a tent post.

Aragorn’s face was a mixture of shame and disbelief.  This was not the Frodo he had known and cared for.  “We shall soon reach the city, Frodo, where you can have a more proper place to rest.”

Frodo flushed.  That was not what he had intended to say!

“No!  Aragorn, you misunderstand.  I was not asking for more.  I was telling you that these trappings are too much for the likes of me.”  His voice fell to a mutter.  “I haven’t been able to rest since I was carried here.  I shall not say I miss it – but upon the harsh terrain, those jagged rocks and fine soil, beneath Gorgoroth’s sky with its bleak miasma, have I been accustomed to sleep.”

Aragorn started to speak by Frodo silenced him with a wave of his hand. 

“After I lost my cloak, I got used to the day’s rough heat and the cold breeze of night.  Toward the end…not even Sam.”  He sighed heavily.  “Not even my poor Sam could comfort me.  I kept him away for I always feared he would snatch the Ring from me.  I was so wrong, Aragorn but in truth….”  Frodo looked into Aragorn’s eyes for the first time and his voice was suddenly strong and steady.  “Only the cursed thing could give me solace.” 

He reached out for his chest and closed his fingers around in a ball, as if clasping an invisible object hanging there.  The bitterness in his voice could not be disguised.  “Only the cursed thing can give me solace.”  His voice became a whisper.  “Even now.”

The halfling sighed in dejection.  He eyed the Dunedan warily and asked,  “Am I turning mad?”

Aragorn stared at Frodo, saying not a word while countless thoughts swirled in his mind.  In those eyes he witnessed again the brave little hobbit who had advanced to the table to put down Sauron’s Ring.  And then he had lifted It up, in his humility thinking no one was watching, and exclaimed that he would be the one to carry It to Mordor--utterly unaware of what was waiting for him along the way.  He was completely new to any threat and still naïve, even after Amon Sul.  Frodo may have thought he had met the most perilous danger already, confronting the Ringwraiths.  And they all thought them perished in the Bruinen.  Yes, Frodo had a right to feel bitter and alone.

“You cannot wish to return to Gorgoroth, Frodo!”  Aragorn felt as if his heart were ripped open, aching and bleeding.  “You have been saved.  Middle Earth has been saved; nothing can harm us anymore.  You are here amongst friends, those who love you and will do anything to make sure no one will ever hurt you again.  You have only one chore, my friend, that is to stay alive and be happy.”  Aragorn had taken Frodo’s uninjured hand and clasped it in his two big, callused ones. 

Frodo neither pulled back nor resisted the squeeze.  His eyes fluttered closed.  “I’m tired, Aragorn.  As you said, here I must stay alive and be…happy.”  He laughed bitterly.  “I don’t think I have it left in me to do all that.  The folks deem me some kind of a hero.  I’m not, and I have no strength left to adjust to another new circumstance.”  Frodo’s voice was mere shallow breaths.

Wordlessly, Aragorn rose and tucked Frodo back into a lying position, warm beneath his blanket.  Frodo snapped his eyes open in surprise, but he wordlessly succumbed as before to whatever people did to him.  Aragorn patted Frodo’s wrapped shoulders and sat back in his chair.

“Give yourself time, Frodo,” he whispered.  “You just arrived here.  Do not seek in haste to recover from the immortal evil you have experienced so intimately and for so long.  It will take time…a lot of time.”  Aragorn noted Frodo’s sharp eyes boring into him.  The man nodded gravely.  “You believe me, dear one?” 

It was clear that Frodo no longer had the strength to answer and Aragorn placed his fingers over the halfling’s lips, quieting the tension he saw there.  In Frodo’s eyes, he could see qualms but when he looked deeper there was also hope and faith.  The king sat quietly, his hands grasped together, staring into space for a long time.

When Aragorn finally decided to leave, Frodo was still wide-awake.  The Dunadan felt utterly saddened by it.  Obviously, the halfling had yet to let out the burden in his heart.  The time would come, Aragorn could only pray for it.  He must not haste.

~  *  ~  *  ~

Several nights later, Aragorn was back at the balcony outside his chamber, high in the royal stronghold of the White City.  He had not talked to Frodo after that night in the wild.  There had been so many affairs he had to attend to and as much as he wanted to offer relief to Frodo, he still had to think of so many others.  One of them was, of course, Arwen, who arrived in the realm of Gondor two months after his coronation, with Elrond and her brothers, the twins, Elladan and Elrohir.  Eomer and Eowyn had gone to Lorien to escort them.

Arwen, the only woman Aragorn had ever loved, entered the city gate with a regal grace that she could only uphold until she met her future husband.  The long train of her velvety green robe seemed like it was floating, sweeping the smooth tiles along the hall and inside the King’s throne room.  Aragorn stepped down from his high chair, arms wide, smiling broadly, feeling so elated he could almost weep.

“Arwen, my beloved.  I have missed you so!”  Aragorn had pulled the half-elven lady into his tight embrace, feeling her delicate arms enclosing around his shoulders, timidly at first and then wholeheartedly.  The last time they had met was when the fellowship first gathered in Imladris. 

Arwen Undomiel joined her beloved, standing close to him with a familiarity that no one else would have dared.  She mused over Aragorn looking troubled over the wounded Ring-bearer, almost oblivious to her.  But that would not happen anymore.  The war was over and despite Aragorn’s ample responsibilities, he would not be the only one to care about his people.

Arwen withdrew, soft tears flowing freely down both of her cheeks.

“Hush,” Aragorn shushed her gently, brushing the droplets with his thumbs.  “You’re here now, with me.  Nothing will ever put us apart.  Sauron’s been defeated.  The Ring has been destroyed.”

The half-elven dropped her lids, lifting one of Aragorn’s hands and kissing it.  Aragorn was stunned and in his heart was great love, almost more than he could bear.  He had almost been denied these blessings when he had first fallen for Arwen the Fair, Lady of Imladris and of Lorien, the Evenstar of her people.  She of a lineage far greater than his own. 

For thirty years Aragorn had served as a ranger, befriending Gandalf the Grey and fighting the evil of Sauron.  Then in one of his journeys, Aragorn had neared the borders of Lorien had he beheld the glimmering beauty of Arwen Evenstar. 

On the eve of his departure the half-elven had vowed to him.  “I will cleave to you, Dunadan, and turn from the Twilight.”

The heart of an immortal, the noblest of all, yet the hardest to keep and the hardest to earn.  This was a lesson he was to learn through many years of bitter pain and hardship.

Aragorn clasped Arwen’s face in both of his hands and brought her rosy lips to his.  Their softness almost undid him; he only let go when he felt the kiss break into a wide smile.  Aragorn retreated and gazed down questioningly.

“Is this how you flirt with all the lasses you meet, my love?”  laughed Arwen, her joy at their reunion spilling from her eyes. 

The man arched one eyebrow. 

“For I saw myself how the Lady Eowyn’s eyes sparkled every time she talked about you.”

That was very naughty of Arwen but Aragorn chuckled loudly and swept his future bride off the floor into his arms, swirling her around and around until Arwen begged to be forgiven, tears of mirth in her eyes.

~  *  ~  *  ~

Muted steps were heard behind him and Aragorn turned his attention from the frail stars amidst the overwhelming splendor of the night.  He smiled a little at the poised stature of the Lady of Imladris and Lorien.  Arwen Undomiel.  He sighed with a happiness he had never known. 

His wife.

Arwen slipped her arms around Aragorn’s waist from behind and nuzzled at his neck.

“Time for bed – dear?”

Aragorn smirked at Arwen’s tone, leaning his head back at the almost ticklish feeling the she-elf’s nose had brought to his skin.  Somewhere at the back of his mind was a reprimand for not being too impetuous this night, their first night together.  Not as lovers.  As husband and wife.

He wriggled off his wife’s arms and spun around.  The Gondorian caught Arwen’s delicate hands in his and raised them above his head to enfold them around his neck.  Aragorn draped his limbs loosely on her shoulders and pecked her playfully on her brow.  Arwen let out a soft chuckle but she noticed how Aragorn’s eyes were trained to a spot behind her.  She glanced sideways to that spot as well, frowning a little, more from curiosity than annoyance.

Arwen huffed, “We shall not sleep here, shall we, my dear?  Outside on the balcony?”  She still thought it was some kind of a jest.

But Aragorn was not jesting.

~  *  ~  *  ~

There was no one in the royal residence of the new king of Gondor who had not been bathed in merriment and laughter.  Everyone hailed their stunning king, who was clad in a pale green velvet tunic and a pair of tight breeches, topped by a bright peach feathery robe lined with golden threads.  Two little braids on the sides of his head adorned his dark brown hair, showing the recognition of the elven fair folk.  Aragorn had decided, however, not to wear his majestic crown on his wedding day.

Then breaths were caught and for the first time since arriving at the city, even Frodo’s eyes were lit at the radiance of Arwen Evenstar.  The sky seemed to brighten in its sapphire blue, the birds high on the shade trees were chirping, and soft chants of the elves hummed as if throwing a silky translucent veil upon her to shield her from any insinuation of threat.  Elrond, the half-elf, was by her side, holding her hand tightly, never wanting to surrender his beloved child.  But Aragorn’s assuring stare convinced him otherwise, and so with love Elrond handed Arwen to her husband-to-be.  Thus the Gondorian wedded the one he had worshiped ever since the first time he had seen her.

All the guests cheered.  Merry glanced at Pippin, wide smiles upon their faces, and Frodo sighed delightfully.  He blushed and blinked.  Had Aragorn just winked at him?

During the feast Aragorn approached Frodo at the high table, his manner free and relaxed.  “So tell me, do you have any special hobbit lass in your heart, Frodo?”  The taunt was clear in the man’s voice.  Frodo’s hand stopped in the air, but he lost none of his poise.

“Every hobbit lass in the Shire is special to me, Your Highness,” he replied courteously.  Aragorn laughed, highly tempted to muddle the dazzlingly soft dark curls that framed the fair features of the halfling.

“You know what I meant, Frodo dear.  A hobbit lass you want to wed.  I saw you from the throne.”

“So you did wink at me!”  Frodo’s lips curved in a beguiling smile.  But he did not answer Aragorn’s query.  He could not.  A flicker of sadness flashed in his blue eyes, and Aragorn nodded, his manner sobering.  Things had been too arduous for Frodo and it was still too early, even for gentle teasing.  The man patted the Ring-bearer’s shoulder warmly and carried on greeting the others without saying anything more.

~  *  ~  *  ~

The night was too beautiful to be deserted but there was something else in Aragorn’s mind that kept him outside on the balcony on his and Arwen’s first wedded night.  The Dunadan’s mind flew back to how Frodo had looked at him, full of grief and pain.  The hobbit would never fully heal, Aragorn knew that now, and though the Ring had been destroyed, the gentle hobbit still carried a burden—perhaps even heavier now for the loss that sought to overcome him.

Aragorn knew he should not feel guilty yet he did feel it.  The thought that he was now bound to his beloved with exultant joy forever, while the Ring-bearer was in undying anguish seemed utterly incongruous.  What could he do?  What must he do?

“My own,” A quiet voice brought him back from his reverie.  “I shall follow what you say we must do.  Do not be troubled.  I shall even doze upon the wet grass if you want me to.”

Aragorn felt as though all of his bones were dissolving.  He trained his wandering gaze to the sincerity shining from his wife’s eyes.

Arwen smiled at her husband and kissed him lightly on the lips.  Then she held out a glimmering object.  “My wedding gift to you, beloved, but it is not for your keeping.”

The king stared at her, his anguished eyes betraying him somewhat.

Arwen’s hands moved to reveal a white, translucent stone of great light and beauty suspended by a silver chain.  “For the hafling who suffers,” she said softly.  “I have seen it reflected in your compassionate eyes, my dearest.  But I fear none can help him--for he has been touched deeply by evil, though it was not of his doing…or of yours. 

“Yet even this will be a poor substitute for his burden.”  She hesitated for a minute as Aragorn stared into her eyes.  “More I would give him…should he require it.”

In an instant Aragorn understood her words and the enormity of Arwen’s sacrifice was brought back to him.  The king’s eyes filled with tears.

“No, no tears tonight, Estel.  For mine is the choice of Luthien, and as she so have I chosen, both the bitter and the sweet."  She wiped his eyes dry.  “And it is sweet at this moment for I know that the halfling now may go where I no longer can…and that it may in the end be both his hope and his healing.”

The Queen smiled so sweetly that Aragorn forgot to breathe.  “And now let us not worry or think of anything beyond this night and our joy.”

But as Aragorn gently wrapped his arm around his love and guided her to their chamber, the man remembered the last words he had said to his mother, Gilraen, and truly hoped that somehow she had witnessed this very moment when her son had achieved his greatest accomplishment in life.  Choosing Arwen Undomiel, the Lady of Imladris, Lorien, and Gondor.

“Yet there may be a light beyond the darkness; and so I would have you see it and be glad.”

~  *  ~  fin  ~  *  ~