Temptation
By RavenWolf
Rated: Starting with an R. It may become NC-17 in later parts, in which case I'll have to move it to the Nindaiwe archive. But I'll let you know. Disclaimer: Yes. I am J.R.R. Tolkein. That's why I'm writing fanfiction instead of books. I sincerely hope you realize that I'm kidding. Summary: The weight of the Ring is heavy, and Frodo yearns to give in to temptation. A/N: I honestly have no idea where this came from. I was listening to music, and then bam! Instant fic. There's a lot of Frodo angst in here, though in later chapters, it'll probably lighten up.
I pace back and forth. Though it is my watch, my senses have turned inwards, and I feel as though I have withdrawn from myself.
I hear Aragorn's footsteps up behind me. I don't halt my movement, nor even slow it. He stands at the edge of my perception, and it would be too hard to halt in my rhythm and speak to him. I might not get it back.
I dare not stop moving. For if I do, I may be overcome with the hopelessness, the despair. I would like to claim that it is the Ring that drives me to such depths, but I know in my heart that it is not. It would be easier to hold at bay then. If it were artificial. But I feel this in my bones, in my heart, in my very soul. I am weary. So easy would it be to leave the Ring, to bury it in a hole and begin the long trek home. And yet so very hard.
Still I pace, and Aragorn takes a seat on a large boulder. He's waiting for me. Well, he will be in for a long wait. I must keep moving. Always moving, because if I stop, the temptation to give in to my own darker side would overwhelm me, and I would not be able to get up again.
"Frodo," he says, and I do not notice him. Aragorn is temptation. I cannot give in. I must be strong. I am the Ringbearer. I cannot afford to be weak.
"Frodo," he says louder.
I halt my movement. My back is to him, and I can only imagine what his facial expression must be. "Yes, Aragorn?"
"You can sleep now. Your watch is over." I do not move. I can sense that he's turned away from me, and is taking up his duty, leaving me to my own devices.
A moment later, I sit beside him on the boulder. I can feel myself crumbling, little by little. And this is just another example. He looks at me briefly, before returning his gaze to the stars.
A cloud drifts by. It smothers a few stars, and its edge is outlined by a hazy silver light. Only at its center does it remain darkened. I sigh. There is a euphemism there somewhere, but I am too tired to see it. All my energy has gone to keeping myself upbeat, and to driving my thoughts away from the ever present gloom that threatens to drag me down.
A glance at Aragorn shows me that he is watching. He does not look away, and our eyes meet. Without a word spoken, I lean into him. Gently, he wraps his cloak around me, presumably to keep me warm. But now, I am so close to him, that a childish desire overcomes me. I pretend that I am part of him, that I am no longer a lone hobbit, struggling with a dark and impossible fate, but a part of Aragorn. With his help, I know I can do anything.
His arm wraps around me, and one might assume that we were lovers, staring at the stars together. How far from the truth. He is looking for signs of danger, and I am fighting off exhaustion and the ironically simple little trinket around my neck.
I no longer question why the Ring came to me. All I know is that it has, and that though I may have companions on my journey, I am utterly alone.
I press myself closer to Aragorn. The illusion is waning, and I cling to it as only I could. I, who was always lost in a book, wishing myself in another land. I, who have now discovered that nothing is ever as pretty or as good as it seems. The world is wrapped in pretty lace, but it doesn't take much to shred the delicate covering.
Aragorn is warm and smells like leather and earth. It's a good smell, natural and comforting. It's as if Aragorn himself is a part of the world around him, in communion with nature. The feel is reminiscent of that the elves give off. Beautiful and otherworldly. Not to mention completely untouchable. Legolas can stand mere inches from me, and yet be so far above and beyond me that I am baffled by the distance.
Sometimes I dislike the elves. I, as a hobbit, am considered one of the most feeble race. And being around the elves only heightens the sense of inadequacy. I cannot even defend myself.
For whatever reason, Aragorn does not give me that feeling. Though he reminds me of the elves, he is not one of them. His beauty is marred by the darkness I see reflected in his eyes. I briefly wonder what he would look like without the veil of suffering across his eyes, and then dismiss it as foolishness. I can no more take away his suffering than he could take away mine. For a time maybe, but now I am always aware of the Ring, and I fear that I ever will be.
As if sensing my thoughts, he looks down at me. Of course, his eyes fall upon the top of my head. I am a hobbit, not a Man, and we will never be equal.
I wonder if he realizes that he is stroking my hair. It is comforting in a way I hadn't thought possible, so I do not tell him, for fear of him stopping.
I look up at his face, and it is so full of affection that I am taken aback. He must have been aware of his actions, for he has ceased stroking my hair, and his hand now cups my face. Tension is building slowly, in a delicious sweet tightening in my heart and groin. I know without looking that he feels it too. How could he not?
He simply stares at me for a moment, and I no longer even know what I am feeling. Something must happen soon, or the tension of the moment must break me.
And something does happen. Gently and slowly, oh so slowly, he leans down and captures my small mouth in a sweet and lingering kiss. It sends thrills down my spine, racing to all parts of my body and making me tingle with a wonderful prickling of the senses. I have a taste now, to go along with his comforting scent.
His mouth is so big compared to mine, that I worry that he will find me lacking. I am a mere hobbit, and there is no comparing me to a Man. I feel my failings more sharply when confronted with his blatant strength and confidence. And his sheer *size*.
And then he has pulled back, and for a moment I fear that he will look away and continue watching the stars. As if nothing had ever happened. I feel myself crumble a bit more, and I know that I am leaving myself all the more vulnerable for accepting his small comfort. And I know that before much longer, I will not have the strength to pull myself back together and continue on this long, miserable journey.
But he does not, and I hope my relief does not show too clearly on my face. I know that I am dependent on him, but to bare myself so totally for his inspection goes against everthing I've learned since leaving the Shire.
He strokes my face with his thumb. It is calloused and rough, and I feel each texture acutely against the soft skin of my face. His taste still lingers in my mouth. I try to memorize it, but I know that soon it will be gone. And I suspect that the kiss will soon follow. Aragorn has bound himself to Arwen. A male hobbit has no place in his life, nor his future.
I look away from him, unable to bear the loathesome sight any more. The caring eyes and the rugged yet soft face. He is my friend. My protector. And though I do not know exactly where he is going with this, I know it would be folly to allow myself to be strung along with it.
"Frodo," he says softly, barely disturbing the silence that is hung around us like a silver blanket.
"No," I say, and my voice seems to echo hollowly, as though the emptiness with which I've spoken has been filled in with my real desire.
"Alright," he replies, somehow knowing what I've meant. He turns away from me, and his profile is outlined in the moonlight majestically. He is a king, and I am a lonely hobbit, destined to die on my quest for the destruction of the small Ring around my neck.
I sigh and return to my bedroll by the darkened fire. To the comforting familiarity of Sam and Merry and Pippin. Hobbits, like me. Not beautiful, no. But familiar. And reachable. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A/N 2: So, what did you think? I've started work on a second chapter. Let me know if you think I should post it. And ideas are welcome, though I can't promise I'll use them.
By RavenWolf
Rated: Starting with an R. It may become NC-17 in later parts, in which case I'll have to move it to the Nindaiwe archive. But I'll let you know. Disclaimer: Yes. I am J.R.R. Tolkein. That's why I'm writing fanfiction instead of books. I sincerely hope you realize that I'm kidding. Summary: The weight of the Ring is heavy, and Frodo yearns to give in to temptation. A/N: I honestly have no idea where this came from. I was listening to music, and then bam! Instant fic. There's a lot of Frodo angst in here, though in later chapters, it'll probably lighten up.
I pace back and forth. Though it is my watch, my senses have turned inwards, and I feel as though I have withdrawn from myself.
I hear Aragorn's footsteps up behind me. I don't halt my movement, nor even slow it. He stands at the edge of my perception, and it would be too hard to halt in my rhythm and speak to him. I might not get it back.
I dare not stop moving. For if I do, I may be overcome with the hopelessness, the despair. I would like to claim that it is the Ring that drives me to such depths, but I know in my heart that it is not. It would be easier to hold at bay then. If it were artificial. But I feel this in my bones, in my heart, in my very soul. I am weary. So easy would it be to leave the Ring, to bury it in a hole and begin the long trek home. And yet so very hard.
Still I pace, and Aragorn takes a seat on a large boulder. He's waiting for me. Well, he will be in for a long wait. I must keep moving. Always moving, because if I stop, the temptation to give in to my own darker side would overwhelm me, and I would not be able to get up again.
"Frodo," he says, and I do not notice him. Aragorn is temptation. I cannot give in. I must be strong. I am the Ringbearer. I cannot afford to be weak.
"Frodo," he says louder.
I halt my movement. My back is to him, and I can only imagine what his facial expression must be. "Yes, Aragorn?"
"You can sleep now. Your watch is over." I do not move. I can sense that he's turned away from me, and is taking up his duty, leaving me to my own devices.
A moment later, I sit beside him on the boulder. I can feel myself crumbling, little by little. And this is just another example. He looks at me briefly, before returning his gaze to the stars.
A cloud drifts by. It smothers a few stars, and its edge is outlined by a hazy silver light. Only at its center does it remain darkened. I sigh. There is a euphemism there somewhere, but I am too tired to see it. All my energy has gone to keeping myself upbeat, and to driving my thoughts away from the ever present gloom that threatens to drag me down.
A glance at Aragorn shows me that he is watching. He does not look away, and our eyes meet. Without a word spoken, I lean into him. Gently, he wraps his cloak around me, presumably to keep me warm. But now, I am so close to him, that a childish desire overcomes me. I pretend that I am part of him, that I am no longer a lone hobbit, struggling with a dark and impossible fate, but a part of Aragorn. With his help, I know I can do anything.
His arm wraps around me, and one might assume that we were lovers, staring at the stars together. How far from the truth. He is looking for signs of danger, and I am fighting off exhaustion and the ironically simple little trinket around my neck.
I no longer question why the Ring came to me. All I know is that it has, and that though I may have companions on my journey, I am utterly alone.
I press myself closer to Aragorn. The illusion is waning, and I cling to it as only I could. I, who was always lost in a book, wishing myself in another land. I, who have now discovered that nothing is ever as pretty or as good as it seems. The world is wrapped in pretty lace, but it doesn't take much to shred the delicate covering.
Aragorn is warm and smells like leather and earth. It's a good smell, natural and comforting. It's as if Aragorn himself is a part of the world around him, in communion with nature. The feel is reminiscent of that the elves give off. Beautiful and otherworldly. Not to mention completely untouchable. Legolas can stand mere inches from me, and yet be so far above and beyond me that I am baffled by the distance.
Sometimes I dislike the elves. I, as a hobbit, am considered one of the most feeble race. And being around the elves only heightens the sense of inadequacy. I cannot even defend myself.
For whatever reason, Aragorn does not give me that feeling. Though he reminds me of the elves, he is not one of them. His beauty is marred by the darkness I see reflected in his eyes. I briefly wonder what he would look like without the veil of suffering across his eyes, and then dismiss it as foolishness. I can no more take away his suffering than he could take away mine. For a time maybe, but now I am always aware of the Ring, and I fear that I ever will be.
As if sensing my thoughts, he looks down at me. Of course, his eyes fall upon the top of my head. I am a hobbit, not a Man, and we will never be equal.
I wonder if he realizes that he is stroking my hair. It is comforting in a way I hadn't thought possible, so I do not tell him, for fear of him stopping.
I look up at his face, and it is so full of affection that I am taken aback. He must have been aware of his actions, for he has ceased stroking my hair, and his hand now cups my face. Tension is building slowly, in a delicious sweet tightening in my heart and groin. I know without looking that he feels it too. How could he not?
He simply stares at me for a moment, and I no longer even know what I am feeling. Something must happen soon, or the tension of the moment must break me.
And something does happen. Gently and slowly, oh so slowly, he leans down and captures my small mouth in a sweet and lingering kiss. It sends thrills down my spine, racing to all parts of my body and making me tingle with a wonderful prickling of the senses. I have a taste now, to go along with his comforting scent.
His mouth is so big compared to mine, that I worry that he will find me lacking. I am a mere hobbit, and there is no comparing me to a Man. I feel my failings more sharply when confronted with his blatant strength and confidence. And his sheer *size*.
And then he has pulled back, and for a moment I fear that he will look away and continue watching the stars. As if nothing had ever happened. I feel myself crumble a bit more, and I know that I am leaving myself all the more vulnerable for accepting his small comfort. And I know that before much longer, I will not have the strength to pull myself back together and continue on this long, miserable journey.
But he does not, and I hope my relief does not show too clearly on my face. I know that I am dependent on him, but to bare myself so totally for his inspection goes against everthing I've learned since leaving the Shire.
He strokes my face with his thumb. It is calloused and rough, and I feel each texture acutely against the soft skin of my face. His taste still lingers in my mouth. I try to memorize it, but I know that soon it will be gone. And I suspect that the kiss will soon follow. Aragorn has bound himself to Arwen. A male hobbit has no place in his life, nor his future.
I look away from him, unable to bear the loathesome sight any more. The caring eyes and the rugged yet soft face. He is my friend. My protector. And though I do not know exactly where he is going with this, I know it would be folly to allow myself to be strung along with it.
"Frodo," he says softly, barely disturbing the silence that is hung around us like a silver blanket.
"No," I say, and my voice seems to echo hollowly, as though the emptiness with which I've spoken has been filled in with my real desire.
"Alright," he replies, somehow knowing what I've meant. He turns away from me, and his profile is outlined in the moonlight majestically. He is a king, and I am a lonely hobbit, destined to die on my quest for the destruction of the small Ring around my neck.
I sigh and return to my bedroll by the darkened fire. To the comforting familiarity of Sam and Merry and Pippin. Hobbits, like me. Not beautiful, no. But familiar. And reachable. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A/N 2: So, what did you think? I've started work on a second chapter. Let me know if you think I should post it. And ideas are welcome, though I can't promise I'll use them.