A Fine Mess (Frodo/Sam) R (1/8)
May. 29th, 2010 04:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moit_ficsTitle: A Fine Mess - Chapter 1/8
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moit
Summary: After taking a walk, a pregnant Frodo finds himself at the mercy of a camp of rangers.
Pairing: implied Frodo/Sam
Rating: R
Genre: Drama
Warnings: Yaoi/Slash, mpreg
Author's Note: This is dedicated toclaudia603 and lilybaggins who love interrogation and Frodo being medically examined by Aragorn. This was intended to be a one-shot, but my muse grew horns this afternoon and decided it would be much more fun if it went farther.
Frodo struggled futilely against the bonds holding his wrists behind his back. A fine mess he’d gotten himself into this time. He looked around the tent the man had left him in. Nothing at all, save for the table separating his chair from the one facing it. He’d been in here for the better part of an hour, he was sure. The heat didn’t help the light-headed nauseous feeling. He struggled not to let himself pass out. He could only imagine what the man would do if he came back and found Frodo unconscious.
Frodo tilted his head back on the chair, the closest he was going to get to comfortable in this position. His feet were luckily left unbound, but it did little to alleviate the pain in his back. If he would have just stayed home, he would be laying down for his afternoon nap, instead of tied up like a fugitive at the hands of a ranger.
The very ranger who entered with two more rangers in tow.
Frodo gulped his eyes wide with fear.
“Yeh weren’ kiddin’, Bareth. ‘e is a pretty little thing, inn’he? Shame ‘e’s in the way of a lass.”
The other newcomer smacked him in the back of the head. “‘e’s just fat, yeh dolt.”
The man that took Frodo—Bareth—glanced back at them. “Yeh’re both daft. ‘e’s up the duff. Male of their kind can bear young. Now, shut up ‘till I need yeh.”
The other two stood silent as Bareth dropped himself into the empty chair.
Frodo wished desperately he had the use of his hands so he could at least attempt to cover his pregnant belly. He was only halfway through, but the bulge was still obvious.
Bareth reached across the table and jerked the gag out of Frodo’s mouth. The hobbit winced at the rough treatment. Wisely, however, he stayed silent.
Bareth leaned forward, splaying his large hands across the surface of the table. “What were yeh doin’ beyond the boundary of yer own lands, hobbit? Did yeh think we wouldn’ capture a spy if’n ‘e was with child? Who sent yeh?”
“No one,” Frodo answered, shaking his head. “I was only out for a walk, I swear!”
“‘e’s lying,” one of the men standing said. The other one hushed him.
“And yeh just so ‘appened to wander pas’ our camp? Who sent yeh?”
“Nobody sent me. I was just out for a walk!”
Bareth leaned back in his chair. “What’s yer name, little one?”
“Frodo. Frodo Baggins.”
“Frodo Baggins, yer rather far from home fer just a walk. Are yeh lost? Thought yeh migh’ jus’ take what yeh needed from us?”
I’m not a thief.”
“A liar, at the least. Yeh can’ even give us a good reason for strayin’ out of yer land. Yeh do realise yeh b’came subject to our laws once yeh left the safety of the Shire. Yer not goin’ anywhere ‘till yeh tell us what we wan’a know.”
The emotion started to bubble in Frodo’s chest. He knew it was the hormones, but he couldn’t help himself. He clenched his teeth as his eyes filled with tears.
“Awwwe, yeh’ve broken ‘im already!”
“Stolis,” Bareth growled. Then to Frodo, “Tears’ll get yeh nowhere, Frodo Baggins. Now, I don’ wan’a get angry. What were yeh doin’ skulin’ ‘round our camp?”
Frodo blinked and the tears cascaded down his pale cheeks. He twisted his hands together, feeling the rope burn his skin away.
“I just walked too far. I was feeling stiff, so I went for a walk, Please, I meant no harm.”
Bareth smacked him sharply across the mouth.
Frodo tasted blood. He turned his head to face the man defiantly.
“You can smack me all you like, but my answers are not going to change.”
As Bareth raised his hand again, a voice from the opening of the tent stopped him.
“Bareth. That will be enough.”
“Strider,” Bareth said, standing. “I din’t realise yeh’d returned.”
“Leave me,” the man called Strider replied.
As Strider entered the tent, the other rangers left.
Frodo ran his tongue over the split in his bottom lip. He eyed the new man warily. With his long dark hair and sword at his hip, he looked even more menacing than the other men. Frodo pressed himself back into the chair as the man advanced, as though it would hide him. The man continued behind Frodo.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but held a hard edge.
“No.”
Frodo felt the cold metal of a knife and his hands were free. He flexed his wrists experimentally, feeling the blood rush back into his hands. He planted his feet on the ground to stand up, but Strider placed a hand on his chest, holding him in place.
“I didn’t say you could go. I would speak with you before I release you. You speak the common tongue, do you not?”
“I do,” Frodo answered, feeling his stomach begin flipping with anxiety. As his nervousness started to increase, he felt the nausea rise again. He swallowed repeatedly, feeling himself begin to salivate.
“What business does a hobbit have beyond the borders of the Shire?”
Frodo leaned forward, cradling his face in his hands. His stomach rolled in protest. “I don’t...” he started before his stomach’s protest won out. He barely had time to lean forward far enough to avoid vomiting on himself. He retched pitifully, emptying the contents of his stomach across the packed dirt floor. He heaved compulsively until there was nothing left.
He sat back in the chair, bracing his arm across his swollen belly, trying to stop his stomach from clenching.
Unnoticed by Frodo, the Ranger had stood up and was now kneeling beside the hobbit with a clean cloth in his hand. “Here, wipe your face. Are you still feeling sick?”
Warily, Frodo took the cloth. He wiped his mouth, but could still taste the acrid bile on his tongue. “I need only a moment.”
“I should take a look at you,” the ranger decided emphatically.
“Please,” Frodo begged. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed. “Just let me go. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I’ll need you to lay down so I can ensure you are free from injury.”
Frodo’s protests grew louder as the ranger unceremoniously lifted him and laid him down on the table.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he begged, wrapping his arms around his bulging middle, as the tears coursed down his cheeks. “Please, I’ll tell you anything you want. Just let me go.”
“Hush, now,” Strider said, placing a large hand on each of Frodo’s bent knees. “I will not hurt you. Before I let you go, however, I must first ensure no damage has been done to the babe you carry. What is your name?”
“Frodo Baggins,” the hobbit sighed weakly.
“Right, Frodo, first I’ll need to remove your breeches.”
This sent Frodo into another round of tears. “Don’t, please! I’ll do anything but that! Please, not that!”
He had only been touched by one other male. A hobbit, his lover, his Sam. He couldn’t bear to allow himself to be touched by another, let alone by this ranger—this man who was holding him captive.
But the man placed a hand on his cheek, a gesture which was surely intended to be comforting. “I have no intention of touching you in any sort of sexual manner. As a healer, I wish only to ascertain the truth of your health.”
Frodo’s cheeks coloured. This was certainly not what he expected.
“Please remove your breeches, or I will remove them for you.”
With no other choice, Frodo reached down and unfastened his braces. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling of the tent as he lowered his breeches past his bottom and kicked them off. Naked from the waist down, he had never felt more vulnerable—or more embarrassed in his life.
I’ve no choice, he kept telling himself, He could cut my throat and then where would Sam be? Heartbroken and childless, that’s where.
Thoughts of his child were the only thing keeping him going.
“Tell me, Master Baggins, where in the Shire are you from?” Strider asked, spreading Frodo’s bare knees.
“Hobbiton,” Frodo ground out, trying not to think about the man staring at his bare skin, places only Sam had seen before.
“Long way from home,” the man murmured, sliding those large hands down the insides of Frodo’s thighs.
Unwittingly, his cock twitched. Frodo’s cheeks burned eve harder and he willed his unruly appendage down.
“When one is bound and thrown atop a horse, he tends to find himself far from home. Do you think I could have walked here in my condition?”
Strider’s browns knitted in concern. “I would find it hard to believe my men would take a hobbit from his home for no reason.” At the same time, two of his (apparently) lubricated fingers pressed into Frodo’s body.
“Ahh!” Frodo gasped, his hips bucking off the table.
“Steady,” the man said, placing his free hand on Frodo’s belly. “I’m just checking to ensure everything feels normal. Just concentrate on answering my questions.”
Frodo resisted a snarky comment about answering questions with a strange man’s fingers up his arse.
Instead he said, “My answers will not change. Your man, Bareth, grabbed me and brought me here. If I am guilty of some transgression, I implore you to tell me what I’ve done so I can correct my error.”
The fingers inside him twisted as Strider pressed down gently on different areas of Frodo’s belly. The hobbit’s cock gave another twitch of appreciation. He glanced down in frustration as it began to swell, uncaring of the completely non-sexual images Frodo was desperately conjuring in his mind.
Bilbo in the bath. Sam’s parents making love. Sam.
Frodo was instantly rock hard. Bugger.
“Are you in fact guilty of something, Master Baggins?” Strider moved his top hand, pressing beneath Frodo’s navel. “Does this hurt?”
“No,” Frodo replied, clenching his hands into fists.
“No you are not guilty, or no you are not in pain?”
“I am not guilty, nor am I in pain. Are you quite finished?”
“Almost, little one.”
The man slid his fingers out of Frodo’s body.
“Everything seems to be in order. I’m sure the sickness was induced by the heat.”
“Brilliant. May I dress now?” Frodo asked, painfully aware of the erection between his nude thighs.
“Just a moment,” the man replied. He smoothed the sweaty curls away from Frodo’s forehead and placed his lips upon the damn skin. “I do not detect a fever. You may cover yourself.”
Strider turned his back to offer Frodo some semblance of privacy.
Frodo pulled his trousers back up and fastened them as quickly as possible. He heaved himself into a sitting position and carefully slid off the table.
“Was that necessary?” he scowled.
Strider turned around once more. “I am sorry, Frodo Baggins of the Shire, but I swore an oath to care for those who are injured.”
Frodo buttoned his weskit, his scowl deepening. “Where does kidnapping and torture fit into your oath?”
“Forgive me,” Strider said, pulling both of the chairs away from the bile on the floor. He took a seat and bid Frodo do the same. “My men and I are responsible for guarding the northern border of your Shire. I was informed earlier by one of my men that a hobbit had been found sneaking around our camp. Would you like to explain how you arrived here?”
“I have already told you, and your men,” he said the last with disdain, “that I was not spying, nor was I sneaking. I was out for a walk when one of your men grabbed me and brought me here. I was bound and gagged, as you found me earlier.” Frodo’s voice had begun to betray his desperation.
At this rate, he would probably never see Bag End again. Or Sam. No—best not think like that.
Strider stood.
“Can I leave you for a moment without binding your hands? I would hate to have to take more extreme measures.”
Frodo could see the gleam of a knife in Strider’s palm.
“I won’t move,” he promised.
Strider gave him a long hard look before he stepped out of the tent.
Frodo counted to 100 before he moved. He hurried across the floor of the tent, pointed ears listening for any sound of Strider returning. Holding his breath, he lifted a corner of the tent and peaked out, his heart hammering in his chest. Seeing no one, he took off as fast as he could toward the line of trees surrounding the camp.
Just as he was about to escape into the safety of the forest, a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder and a sword was at his throat.
“Goin’ somewhere, ‘obbit?”
Frodo’s throat worked convulsively, eyeing the sword.
The man threw him to the ground, and Frodo caught himself on his hands and knees. He lay still, praying the man wouldn’t kill him.
“Yer a pretty little thing, aren’ yeh’?”
Frodo recognised the voice. It was Stolis, one of the men Bareth brought back to the tent with him.
Stolis yanked Frodo’s trousers to his knees and the hobbit knew the worst was to come. The man’s breath was hot against his neck, wicked mouth explaining everything he was about to do. But before he felt the cruel touch, he was pulled to his feet.
“Run, Frodo Baggins,” Strider said, shoving the hobbit towards the forest.
Frodo ran. He dared glance over his shoulder to see Strider fighting Stolis. Still, he ran. He ran until he thought he would collapse from exhaustion.
Weary, he fell to his knees, hot and hungry.
“Frodo Baggins?”
Startled, he looked up into the concerned eyes of his cousin, Merry.
“What are you doing all the way up here? And so out of breath!” Merry sat his back down and helped Frodo sit up.
“Rangers,” Frodo gasped. “They’re after me.”
“Rangers?” Merry repeated. “You’re certain? I’ve never seen rangers in the Shire. Here, have some water. I think the heat has you mistaken.”
Gratefully, Frodo took a long sip from Merry’s water skin. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and noticed he was bleeding again. “Do you think my imagination has split my lip?” he asked, fingering the cut.
“I suppose not,” Merry answered, cocking his head to the side. “Come on, then. It’s getting late. I’ll take you back to Brandy Hall. You’ll never make it back to Bag End before nightfall.”
“But Sam—” Frodo protested weakly.
“Will be fine,” Merry finished for him. “I’d rather Sam worry for an evening than you try to make it back tonight. And in your condition, no less.”
Frodo sighed. Merry was right, even though it embarrassed him to not end to have his younger cousin look after him. He’d spend the night in Brandy Hall and set out for Bag End in the morning, no harm done. Right?
Author:
moitSummary: After taking a walk, a pregnant Frodo finds himself at the mercy of a camp of rangers.
Pairing: implied Frodo/Sam
Rating: R
Genre: Drama
Warnings: Yaoi/Slash, mpreg
Author's Note: This is dedicated to
claudia603 and lilybaggins who love interrogation and Frodo being medically examined by Aragorn. This was intended to be a one-shot, but my muse grew horns this afternoon and decided it would be much more fun if it went farther. Frodo struggled futilely against the bonds holding his wrists behind his back. A fine mess he’d gotten himself into this time. He looked around the tent the man had left him in. Nothing at all, save for the table separating his chair from the one facing it. He’d been in here for the better part of an hour, he was sure. The heat didn’t help the light-headed nauseous feeling. He struggled not to let himself pass out. He could only imagine what the man would do if he came back and found Frodo unconscious.
Frodo tilted his head back on the chair, the closest he was going to get to comfortable in this position. His feet were luckily left unbound, but it did little to alleviate the pain in his back. If he would have just stayed home, he would be laying down for his afternoon nap, instead of tied up like a fugitive at the hands of a ranger.
The very ranger who entered with two more rangers in tow.
Frodo gulped his eyes wide with fear.
“Yeh weren’ kiddin’, Bareth. ‘e is a pretty little thing, inn’he? Shame ‘e’s in the way of a lass.”
The other newcomer smacked him in the back of the head. “‘e’s just fat, yeh dolt.”
The man that took Frodo—Bareth—glanced back at them. “Yeh’re both daft. ‘e’s up the duff. Male of their kind can bear young. Now, shut up ‘till I need yeh.”
The other two stood silent as Bareth dropped himself into the empty chair.
Frodo wished desperately he had the use of his hands so he could at least attempt to cover his pregnant belly. He was only halfway through, but the bulge was still obvious.
Bareth reached across the table and jerked the gag out of Frodo’s mouth. The hobbit winced at the rough treatment. Wisely, however, he stayed silent.
Bareth leaned forward, splaying his large hands across the surface of the table. “What were yeh doin’ beyond the boundary of yer own lands, hobbit? Did yeh think we wouldn’ capture a spy if’n ‘e was with child? Who sent yeh?”
“No one,” Frodo answered, shaking his head. “I was only out for a walk, I swear!”
“‘e’s lying,” one of the men standing said. The other one hushed him.
“And yeh just so ‘appened to wander pas’ our camp? Who sent yeh?”
“Nobody sent me. I was just out for a walk!”
Bareth leaned back in his chair. “What’s yer name, little one?”
“Frodo. Frodo Baggins.”
“Frodo Baggins, yer rather far from home fer just a walk. Are yeh lost? Thought yeh migh’ jus’ take what yeh needed from us?”
I’m not a thief.”
“A liar, at the least. Yeh can’ even give us a good reason for strayin’ out of yer land. Yeh do realise yeh b’came subject to our laws once yeh left the safety of the Shire. Yer not goin’ anywhere ‘till yeh tell us what we wan’a know.”
The emotion started to bubble in Frodo’s chest. He knew it was the hormones, but he couldn’t help himself. He clenched his teeth as his eyes filled with tears.
“Awwwe, yeh’ve broken ‘im already!”
“Stolis,” Bareth growled. Then to Frodo, “Tears’ll get yeh nowhere, Frodo Baggins. Now, I don’ wan’a get angry. What were yeh doin’ skulin’ ‘round our camp?”
Frodo blinked and the tears cascaded down his pale cheeks. He twisted his hands together, feeling the rope burn his skin away.
“I just walked too far. I was feeling stiff, so I went for a walk, Please, I meant no harm.”
Bareth smacked him sharply across the mouth.
Frodo tasted blood. He turned his head to face the man defiantly.
“You can smack me all you like, but my answers are not going to change.”
As Bareth raised his hand again, a voice from the opening of the tent stopped him.
“Bareth. That will be enough.”
“Strider,” Bareth said, standing. “I din’t realise yeh’d returned.”
“Leave me,” the man called Strider replied.
As Strider entered the tent, the other rangers left.
Frodo ran his tongue over the split in his bottom lip. He eyed the new man warily. With his long dark hair and sword at his hip, he looked even more menacing than the other men. Frodo pressed himself back into the chair as the man advanced, as though it would hide him. The man continued behind Frodo.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but held a hard edge.
“No.”
Frodo felt the cold metal of a knife and his hands were free. He flexed his wrists experimentally, feeling the blood rush back into his hands. He planted his feet on the ground to stand up, but Strider placed a hand on his chest, holding him in place.
“I didn’t say you could go. I would speak with you before I release you. You speak the common tongue, do you not?”
“I do,” Frodo answered, feeling his stomach begin flipping with anxiety. As his nervousness started to increase, he felt the nausea rise again. He swallowed repeatedly, feeling himself begin to salivate.
“What business does a hobbit have beyond the borders of the Shire?”
Frodo leaned forward, cradling his face in his hands. His stomach rolled in protest. “I don’t...” he started before his stomach’s protest won out. He barely had time to lean forward far enough to avoid vomiting on himself. He retched pitifully, emptying the contents of his stomach across the packed dirt floor. He heaved compulsively until there was nothing left.
He sat back in the chair, bracing his arm across his swollen belly, trying to stop his stomach from clenching.
Unnoticed by Frodo, the Ranger had stood up and was now kneeling beside the hobbit with a clean cloth in his hand. “Here, wipe your face. Are you still feeling sick?”
Warily, Frodo took the cloth. He wiped his mouth, but could still taste the acrid bile on his tongue. “I need only a moment.”
“I should take a look at you,” the ranger decided emphatically.
“Please,” Frodo begged. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed. “Just let me go. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I’ll need you to lay down so I can ensure you are free from injury.”
Frodo’s protests grew louder as the ranger unceremoniously lifted him and laid him down on the table.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he begged, wrapping his arms around his bulging middle, as the tears coursed down his cheeks. “Please, I’ll tell you anything you want. Just let me go.”
“Hush, now,” Strider said, placing a large hand on each of Frodo’s bent knees. “I will not hurt you. Before I let you go, however, I must first ensure no damage has been done to the babe you carry. What is your name?”
“Frodo Baggins,” the hobbit sighed weakly.
“Right, Frodo, first I’ll need to remove your breeches.”
This sent Frodo into another round of tears. “Don’t, please! I’ll do anything but that! Please, not that!”
He had only been touched by one other male. A hobbit, his lover, his Sam. He couldn’t bear to allow himself to be touched by another, let alone by this ranger—this man who was holding him captive.
But the man placed a hand on his cheek, a gesture which was surely intended to be comforting. “I have no intention of touching you in any sort of sexual manner. As a healer, I wish only to ascertain the truth of your health.”
Frodo’s cheeks coloured. This was certainly not what he expected.
“Please remove your breeches, or I will remove them for you.”
With no other choice, Frodo reached down and unfastened his braces. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling of the tent as he lowered his breeches past his bottom and kicked them off. Naked from the waist down, he had never felt more vulnerable—or more embarrassed in his life.
I’ve no choice, he kept telling himself, He could cut my throat and then where would Sam be? Heartbroken and childless, that’s where.
Thoughts of his child were the only thing keeping him going.
“Tell me, Master Baggins, where in the Shire are you from?” Strider asked, spreading Frodo’s bare knees.
“Hobbiton,” Frodo ground out, trying not to think about the man staring at his bare skin, places only Sam had seen before.
“Long way from home,” the man murmured, sliding those large hands down the insides of Frodo’s thighs.
Unwittingly, his cock twitched. Frodo’s cheeks burned eve harder and he willed his unruly appendage down.
“When one is bound and thrown atop a horse, he tends to find himself far from home. Do you think I could have walked here in my condition?”
Strider’s browns knitted in concern. “I would find it hard to believe my men would take a hobbit from his home for no reason.” At the same time, two of his (apparently) lubricated fingers pressed into Frodo’s body.
“Ahh!” Frodo gasped, his hips bucking off the table.
“Steady,” the man said, placing his free hand on Frodo’s belly. “I’m just checking to ensure everything feels normal. Just concentrate on answering my questions.”
Frodo resisted a snarky comment about answering questions with a strange man’s fingers up his arse.
Instead he said, “My answers will not change. Your man, Bareth, grabbed me and brought me here. If I am guilty of some transgression, I implore you to tell me what I’ve done so I can correct my error.”
The fingers inside him twisted as Strider pressed down gently on different areas of Frodo’s belly. The hobbit’s cock gave another twitch of appreciation. He glanced down in frustration as it began to swell, uncaring of the completely non-sexual images Frodo was desperately conjuring in his mind.
Bilbo in the bath. Sam’s parents making love. Sam.
Frodo was instantly rock hard. Bugger.
“Are you in fact guilty of something, Master Baggins?” Strider moved his top hand, pressing beneath Frodo’s navel. “Does this hurt?”
“No,” Frodo replied, clenching his hands into fists.
“No you are not guilty, or no you are not in pain?”
“I am not guilty, nor am I in pain. Are you quite finished?”
“Almost, little one.”
The man slid his fingers out of Frodo’s body.
“Everything seems to be in order. I’m sure the sickness was induced by the heat.”
“Brilliant. May I dress now?” Frodo asked, painfully aware of the erection between his nude thighs.
“Just a moment,” the man replied. He smoothed the sweaty curls away from Frodo’s forehead and placed his lips upon the damn skin. “I do not detect a fever. You may cover yourself.”
Strider turned his back to offer Frodo some semblance of privacy.
Frodo pulled his trousers back up and fastened them as quickly as possible. He heaved himself into a sitting position and carefully slid off the table.
“Was that necessary?” he scowled.
Strider turned around once more. “I am sorry, Frodo Baggins of the Shire, but I swore an oath to care for those who are injured.”
Frodo buttoned his weskit, his scowl deepening. “Where does kidnapping and torture fit into your oath?”
“Forgive me,” Strider said, pulling both of the chairs away from the bile on the floor. He took a seat and bid Frodo do the same. “My men and I are responsible for guarding the northern border of your Shire. I was informed earlier by one of my men that a hobbit had been found sneaking around our camp. Would you like to explain how you arrived here?”
“I have already told you, and your men,” he said the last with disdain, “that I was not spying, nor was I sneaking. I was out for a walk when one of your men grabbed me and brought me here. I was bound and gagged, as you found me earlier.” Frodo’s voice had begun to betray his desperation.
At this rate, he would probably never see Bag End again. Or Sam. No—best not think like that.
Strider stood.
“Can I leave you for a moment without binding your hands? I would hate to have to take more extreme measures.”
Frodo could see the gleam of a knife in Strider’s palm.
“I won’t move,” he promised.
Strider gave him a long hard look before he stepped out of the tent.
Frodo counted to 100 before he moved. He hurried across the floor of the tent, pointed ears listening for any sound of Strider returning. Holding his breath, he lifted a corner of the tent and peaked out, his heart hammering in his chest. Seeing no one, he took off as fast as he could toward the line of trees surrounding the camp.
Just as he was about to escape into the safety of the forest, a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder and a sword was at his throat.
“Goin’ somewhere, ‘obbit?”
Frodo’s throat worked convulsively, eyeing the sword.
The man threw him to the ground, and Frodo caught himself on his hands and knees. He lay still, praying the man wouldn’t kill him.
“Yer a pretty little thing, aren’ yeh’?”
Frodo recognised the voice. It was Stolis, one of the men Bareth brought back to the tent with him.
Stolis yanked Frodo’s trousers to his knees and the hobbit knew the worst was to come. The man’s breath was hot against his neck, wicked mouth explaining everything he was about to do. But before he felt the cruel touch, he was pulled to his feet.
“Run, Frodo Baggins,” Strider said, shoving the hobbit towards the forest.
Frodo ran. He dared glance over his shoulder to see Strider fighting Stolis. Still, he ran. He ran until he thought he would collapse from exhaustion.
Weary, he fell to his knees, hot and hungry.
“Frodo Baggins?”
Startled, he looked up into the concerned eyes of his cousin, Merry.
“What are you doing all the way up here? And so out of breath!” Merry sat his back down and helped Frodo sit up.
“Rangers,” Frodo gasped. “They’re after me.”
“Rangers?” Merry repeated. “You’re certain? I’ve never seen rangers in the Shire. Here, have some water. I think the heat has you mistaken.”
Gratefully, Frodo took a long sip from Merry’s water skin. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and noticed he was bleeding again. “Do you think my imagination has split my lip?” he asked, fingering the cut.
“I suppose not,” Merry answered, cocking his head to the side. “Come on, then. It’s getting late. I’ll take you back to Brandy Hall. You’ll never make it back to Bag End before nightfall.”
“But Sam—” Frodo protested weakly.
“Will be fine,” Merry finished for him. “I’d rather Sam worry for an evening than you try to make it back tonight. And in your condition, no less.”
Frodo sighed. Merry was right, even though it embarrassed him to not end to have his younger cousin look after him. He’d spend the night in Brandy Hall and set out for Bag End in the morning, no harm done. Right?
