Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn
Rating: PG 13 (for medical graphic)
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.
Warnings/Author's Notes: MPREG
Summary: Frodo gives birth to Aragorn’s baby as Gondor’s New Year rolls in…

Aragorn hurried to the Houses of Healing, his face pale, heart pounding in his ears.

“It’s dire, my lord,” the Warden said. “He’s bleeding this time.”

Aragorn brushed past him without a word, into the chamber where Frodo lay in bed, his face sheet white. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked at Aragorn, biting his lip in shame. His hands rested on the mound of his belly.

Aragorn did his best to squelch the accusation in his gaze. Instead of demanding, “What were you doing wandering around the City when I’ve required bed rest for you?” he instead spoke in a calm voice.

“What happened?” He took Frodo’s hand in his and rubbed soothingly. Frodo’s hand was far too cold. Just why could he not listen to simple instructions? So stubborn…far too stubborn. That same stubbornness that had gotten him through Mordor was vexing now in times of peace while he carried their child.

Frodo winced and clutched his belly, digging his fingers into his the cloth of his nightshirt. Aragorn put his hand on his brow until the pain passed.

“I am sorry,” Frodo whispered. “I wished only a short walk. Then the pains came. Thengril was kind enough to carry me back.”

“Thengril is a worthy guard and shall be rewarded,” Aragorn said. “The Warden says you are bleeding. I must check.”

Frodo nodded. “Is it too early?” His eyes were enormous with pleading. “Is it too early for the babe to come?”

“It is likely the babe will come early because of his size. You are already as large as a lady ready to deliver. You do not want to get much larger. He…or she shall be a spring baby. Do you realize, dear Frodo, if he comes today, that he will be born the day before New Year’s?” Aragorn managed a chuckle, although it choked in his throat. If this was it, if this was Frodo’s time for delivery, then they had both best be prepared for a long night. His heart pained to think of the agony that would likely twist through his poor Frodo’s body before it was all done.

Hasn’t he gone through enough?

Frodo nodded. “You are right. But can the babe survive?”

Aragorn nodded. “We will do all we can, but I think he will. Now, let me see what is happening. Spread your legs apart for me.” He gently pulled back the blanket from on top of Frodo. He pushed Frodo’s nightshirt, which was actually one of Aragorn’s old linen shirts, up and over Frodo’s belly.

“I took off my undergarment earlier, because…” He glanced downward and Aragorn followed his gaze.

A small pool of blood had soaked into the sheet just under his bottom. Aragorn kept his expression impassive, although his heart sank. It wasn’t too much at least, and it seemed to have stopped. He pressed Frodo’s thighs apart. Frodo gasped from the strain.

“Hold on, Frodo,” Aragorn said. “Almost there.”

He groped around the peculiar opening which had developed as soon as Frodo had become with child. Aragorn pushed his fingers inside and upward, poking and prodding. He felt Frodo’s legs tremble from the strain.

“That’s right, Frodo. Take deep breaths. Try not to tense. Keep taking breaths. You should be used to this.”

Frodo laughed in a sarcastic way. “It never gets better.”

Aragorn laughed in return and withdrew his hand, releasing Frodo’s legs at last. “The babe is on his way. The pain you are feeling is the first contractions.”

“Today?” Frodo looked at him, eyes wide. “Oh, dear.” He laughed a little. “Oh, I thought I had at least another month. Is everything set up, Aragorn? The crib? The bath? The blankets? Are we ready?”

Aragorn kissed Frodo on the lips. “We are.”

Aragorn hurried to ready everything needed for a birth – the basin in case Frodo should grow ill when the pains started in earnest, twine, shears, boiling water for willow bark tea and for a pan sprinkled with athelas to ease the pain. Aragorn helped prop Frodo up with pillows so that he could read in between contractions. They laughed and jested, speculated about the babe and what he would look like, what he would be like, and only occasionally did a pain clutch Frodo hard enough to wipe the joy from his face.

In the late afternoon, Aragorn had to meet with guards who had arrived from Emyn Arnen, a few of Prince Faramir’s men. He examined Frodo again before he left. Frodo’s opening had only widened a small amount since his contractions had begun and Aragorn guessed his time to be still hours away.

“I shall be away only an hour or two. If you have great need of me, tell the Warden and he has been commanded to send for me. You are not to fret about interrupting me.”

Aragorn returned to find Frodo lying on his side, pale. Any sign of laughter had long since fled.

“How long should this take?” Frodo asked, his eyes dull with pain. “It is past sundown.”

Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed, alarmed by how pale and sweaty he was. He felt a burst of rage at the Warden for allowing Frodo to lie alone in so much pain. He kept his voice calm. “With ladies, everyone is different. Some finish in no time at all, with hardly a grunt of pain, and others…it just takes awhile. Nature is a peculiar thing, isn’t it?”

“But for me?”

“Of course you’re different,” Aragorn said. “Of course. But fear not. There is a reason why this has happened to you. And while some might claim it is unnatural, I say it is a gift from the Valar, for all you have endured. And with such gifts, no impossibilities exist. And I am here. I’ll not leave you again. And I will be here until our son…or daughter is born. You’ll not face this alone.” He kissed Frodo again, and Frodo clutched his hand.

“Thank you. I know I’m not being brave at all. I’ve faced worse. Much…” His face contorted with sudden pain and he squeezed Aragorn’s hand with shocking strength. Aragorn clasped Frodo’s cheek with his free hand and whispered soothing words in Elvish to him until the pain passed. “…worse,” Frodo finished, offering Aragorn a brave smile. “But I’ll try to be brave.” He gasped , squeezing closed his eyes.

“You already are,” Aragorn said, brushing his curls from his brow. “And there’s no shame in admitting pain. Yell like a spit Orc if you need to.”

“Tell me tales from your youth,” Frodo said suddenly. “Please.” He breathed in exhaustion, utterly spent from the last contraction.

So Aragorn talked about his youth in Rivendell. He told the tale of his first years there, of Elladan and Elrohir, and what it was like, being a human among Elves for so long. At times, Aragorn paused when Frodo’s face wrenched with agony, but after each time, he would laugh a little and say, “Not so bad.”

The hours passed from evening into night and still nothing progressed. A cold thought came over Aragorn that Frodo might not survive.

No, no…this would not have come to be if there was no chance he could survive.

Since he had found out that Frodo was with child, he had harbored the thought that when his time came, if necessary, he could cut into him. He had done it before, with varying success. It ran its own risk, but if it was a choice between losing Frodo and the babe and possibly being able to save both, then he would do it. But it must be a last resort because the act of cutting into him could easily kill him through infection and blood loss.

Frodo’s pains continued to grew harder as the night inched into early morning. His curls were drenched in sweat and Aragorn’s shirt stuck to him in soaked spots. Aragorn wiped his brow and tried not to let Frodo’s heart-wrenching groaning disturb him.

Frodo twisted from side to side, tangling up in the sheets, unable to lie still for even a moment. He moaned and at times arched his back and screamed. Aragorn did all he could to ease the pain. The athelas and willow bark tea could only do so much, and they seemed not even to put a dent in the pain.

He writhed. “Aragorn, please…tell me anything…distract me…tell me an Elvish story.”

Aragorn tried to tell him more tales, but he paused when Frodo writhed with new pain. It was nearly unbearable to be a witness to such pain, especially in his beloved.

And at last the sun began to rise on the New Year, March 25.

“It’s a boy,” Aragorn said, sponging the babe off and cutting the cord. When he was clean, he cried with tiny mewing sounds, and Aragorn swaddled him in blankets. He put him into Frodo’s arms. So tiny, with tufts of dark curls and deep blue eyes. Frodo was exhausted and sweaty, clearly still in pain, but nothing could convince him to delay holding the babe.

After a time, Frodo looked up in joy. “He is perfect.”

“Do we still agree on Samwise Estel?”

“Indeed.” Frodo smiled, touching the tiny nose. “And born just on the New Year. No wonder he took so long in coming. Had to do things proper, he did.”

The End