Rating: Mature
Pairings: Frodo/Aragorn, Sam/Frodo (implied)
Summary: Frodo and Aragorn are living in domestic bliss in Minas Tirith. Well, they were...
A/N: Not quite what Claudia requested, but I hope it pushes some of her buttons
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.

Now with beautiful artwork by Alchemilla

"Elanor! You'll rip your skirts and then your Ma'll have my guts for garters, so stop it now," Sam called out. The child, who had been trying to worm her way through the shrubbery to join her younger brother Frodo, gave a theatrical sigh and withdrew. She muttered something that might have been "I hate bein' a girl" and sat down on the grass, pulling the offending skirts about her knees in a huff.

Sam smiled indulgently and leaned in to Frodo Senior, said "She's got spirit, that one. Tis a shame lasses can't play the same as lads, with britches and braces and rough spun shirts."

Frodo raised an enquiring brow. Sam leaned back and began to fill his pipe. "I know, I know, tisn't done, tisn't done. Still, if my Elanor wants to dirty her hands and climb trees, why shouldn't she, is what I say. She's got years to be sensible and get married and have wee uns of her own." The smoke from his pipe drifted skywards on a gentle breeze, and for a little while the two hobbits enjoyed a companionable silence on this, the first fine day of the year.

The garden in which they sat had been specially created for Frodo in the grounds of the citadel, according to Sam's own instructions and designs, sent by messenger, and taking some five years in the making. This was the first occasion on which Sam had been able to see it for his own eyes, and he had brought with him his two older children so that they might enjoy the spectacle and, of course, be reacquainted with Frodo. Little Frodo had been but a babe in arms when his namesake had departed the Shire to start a new life in Minas Tirith with the King. Time had passed and yet Frodo looked little different to Sam's eyes, still as fresh and extraordinary… He knew he was staring, so he stopped.

"Aragorn will join us for lunch, I hope," Frodo was saying. Sam smiled, nodded, and drew on his pipe. Frodo never bothered with leaf now, it seemed, and at first Sam had found it disconcerting. Frodo's appetite had diminished somewhat, too, which worried Sam even more. But he looked radiant! Had his curls always caught the breeze in that way, soft as a baby's yet thick and glossy? Had his eyes always shone like that, like moonlight on the- stop it, Sam, old fella. You made a promise to yourself you wouldn't be having these thoughts no more, and a promise is a promise, he chided himself.

A servant came up to them and bowed to Frodo, who returned a deep bow of his own. The man, flustered, reciprocated and Frodo did the same, so that was two bows apiece. Sam watched it all with some amusement. "Oh, is that tea?" he said, finally, interrupting the nodding and the two nodders straightened up with relief. "It is, sir," the servant said, solemnly. "It is made precisely to the Ringbearer's requirements."

Frodo blushed and swallowed. "Thank you, thank you," he said, as the tray was set down and the tea things laid out. When the man had gone, Frodo relaxed visibly. Sam picked up the teapot and asked, "Shall I be mother?" Frodo grinned and nodded. "Don't start with the nodding again, Frodo," Sam murmured, pouring tea into Frodo's cup.

"I can't help it! They nod and bow to me and I've asked them not to because it never seems right or proper but they can't seem not to do it and I feel they think I'm lacking, that I'm a little – rough around the edges." Having said all this, Frodo slumped back into his chair and gazed at the young ones at play; Elanor had persuaded Frodo-lad to come out of the shrubbery and play marbles with her on the stone path.

Sam took advantage of Frodo's distraction to study him closely; he was more beautiful than ever, if a little too thin. He had angles to his face that had never been there back in the day when they were master and gardener and they had never seen a troll and black hearted villains existed only in fairytales. But he was still Frodo, still elegant and graceful, soft-skinned and- and stop that, Samwise!

"Rough around the edges? Frodo, you can't be serious," Sam said, handing the cup and saucer over to Frodo.

They sipped their tea; Sam was pleasantly surprised to find that it was very good, made exactly how he'd have made it back home. Home. Where the heart was, where Rosie was. He'd asked her to come with him, see the city and all the Big Folk, but she'd not been bothered. Truth was, two bairns in quick succession had taken it out of her and she professed herself glad of the rest. He knew she was fibbing, though. She just wanted him to be able to have this time with Mister Frodo, just the two of them. She was a good lass, Rosie.

"Sometimes, I wish I were back in the Shire. Or that-" Frodo stopped speaking and stared into his teacup, where the clouds above were reflected and which might have been a little sea, waves rippling…

"Do you? You could have gone with Gandalf and Mister Bilbo, but you chose to stay here instead."

Frodo looked at his friend and Sam felt his heart catch at the pain behind those eyes. It wasn't meant to be like this; seven years ago, he had asked Frodo if he was sure about staying with Aragorn, or Elessar as everyone now called him, and Frodo had been so certain.

"I made my choice, Sam, and I abide by it. He has been good to me these seven years. Yet, I feel a stranger still, here among his folk. He cannot be with me every hour of every day, after all." Frodo put down his cup and smiled, laid his hand upon Sam's and squeezed gently. "I must try harder to fit in – I must, and I will."

There was a flash of the old Frodo there, Sam thought; he's not gone, he's just slumbering. He'll awake and know what he wants. If it's Aragorn, then lucky Aragorn. If it's not, if it's the Shire, then I'll take him home, simple as that. If it was to go to that other place, then that might be trickier.

"Frodo-lad! Your sister don't want worms in her hair," Sam called. Frodo laughed and it was a good sound, pure and natural and right. "I'd best be getting these two inside and into a bath," Sam said, standing.

"So, your garden meets with your approval?" Frodo asked, standing also. Sam looked about him at the simple lines and hobbity proportions, the flowerbeds rich with dark loamy soil, shrubs and bushes and flowers all established now and attracting butterflies and bees aplenty.

"It's even better than I'd hoped," he replied. "Never drawn a garden on paper afore and sent it miles and miles and then turned up and found it all made and growing!"

Frodo stood close and leaned in, putting his arm about Sam's waist. "It's my little bit of home, Sam, here in the White City. If I could, I would make it out of bounds to all Big Folk and keep it for myself…"

Sam looked at him, curiously. "Do you mean that, Frodo? All the Big Folk?"

Frodo smiled a sad little smile. "Not the King, no not him. Yet, sometimes. Sometimes, yes, even him." He moved away then, striding towards the little ones. Sam watched him swoop down on Frodo-lad, lift him into the air, though it took all his strength, for Frodo-lad was a heavy lump and Frodo seemed to have all the vitality of a bird. Frodo-lad gasped and laughed out loud, as did young Elanor when Frodo bent to tickle her tummy. This was how it should be. Frodo should be home with them, home in the Shire, at play with the young 'uns all the time, with his own people, not here in this cold, hard place. Not here-

"Sam! So good to see you." The voice was one Sam had last heard nigh on eight years ago. He braced himself, then turned to greet the King, bowing his head respectfully to Elessar.

"Please, do not bow to me, my friend," Aragorn said quickly, embracing the hobbit. "I thought we'd got past all that." He looked from Sam to Frodo, who was jumping from the path to the shrubbery and back again, followed by both Frodo-lad and a delighted Elanor. Sam, about to chide his daughter, gave up and instead studied the King. He was a little greyer in the beard, perhaps, a little sterner about the eyes, but it was still Aragorn, still Strider, still his friend. The friend who had taken Frodo from him and brought him to this place. But any doubts about Aragorn's feelings for Frodo were dispelled by the way he looked at him, concerned and caring and, more to the point, besotted. He's still as much in love with him as ever he was.

"Shall we eat?" the King was saying, and Sam realised that he was indeed very hungry. Frodo had seen Aragorn and he came over, Frodo-lad and Elanor hanging onto his shirttails. Aragorn leaned down and gave Frodo a gentle kiss upon the lips, then he knelt upon the ground, his fine britches notwithstanding, and said hello to both the delighted children. Sam had to own that the King still had the common touch.

They ate on the terrace, a fine meal that Sam suspected was put together in his honour – cheese and cuts of meat, fresh bread, hard boiled eggs and a big platter of new potatoes dripping in creamy butter. There was ale, too, though the wee ones had milk.

"Spring is nearly here, Frodo," Aragorn said, taking the hobbit's hand in his. "We shall ride out in few weeks and stay at the lodge, perhaps. Who knows – perhaps this time you may even catch a fish."

Frodo made an indignant face and snatched away his hand. "If I did not catch a fish last time, my love, it was intentional. The fish looked more at home in the river than in your basket." But he was smiling and so was the King, such an intimate and special smile that Sam felt like an intruder and wished he had not come, had stayed in the Shire with Rose, had not made this journey, weeks on the road and for what? To be an outsider looking in?

"I must take my leave, my friends," Aragorn said, rising. "I will join you for supper, of course. Sam, may I congratulate you on the garden? It must be gratifying to see your wonderful design brought to life. You have made Frodo very happy, and I thank you for it."

Sam mumbled something appropriate, watched the King stride away on those great long legs. It was bloody difficult to remain resentful of someone so damnably decent, he grumbled to himself. Why couldn’t he have come to the city and found Frodo neglected and pining away?

Yes, Frodo was a little homesick, was to be expected. And he didn't feel he fitted in with all these Big Folk. But he was with the man he loved, a man who loved him fiercely in return. The King had given up the chance of fathering children on his account, hadn't he? Caused a rift with Lord Elrond and his people, though the Lady Arwen herself had forgiven him before she sailed. It had all made his job of ruling that much more difficult and Sam knew full well that Frodo had tried to end it before it had properly begun, not once but many times; he had returned to the Shire when the War was won, had stayed there and tried to ignore the letters that had begun to arrive most every month; after the letters, there had been messengers bearing gifts and tokens and still Frodo had stood firm, locked away in Bag End, shrivelling, dying inside, determined to do what was right…

"Sam? What are you thinking about?" It was Frodo, looking at him all concerned and curious. The nursemaid Aragorn had procured to look after the children during their visit stood close by. "Elspeneth is here to take the children in and give them their bath, Sam. I thought they might play in the old nursery awhile and I could show you the city."

Elanor and Frodo-lad went willingly with the girl, once she had told them there were rocking horses and other delights waiting for them, and Sam and Frodo fetched their cloaks. It was a fine day but still cool. They left the garden, burgeoning with new life, and ventured out of the citadel and into the city proper.

Sam did not fail to notice that they were followed out, though their tail kept a discreet distance and was clad in ordinary Gondorian garb. He wasn't sure whether to feel comforted that Frodo was thus protected, or angry that there was a need…

It was only when they were outside that Sam realised how cosseted they had been inside. The folk in the streets seemed bigger, somehow, bigger and harder. They stared at the hobbits and though none were uncivil, all were openly curious.

"The Ringbearer…" "King's lad…" "Prettier than anybody has a right, yet for all that he cannot… " Sam heard whispered from all sides, though he never saw who spoke, look as he might. He glanced uneasily at Frodo and noted the determined set of his shoulders, his head held high.

It seemed Frodo wanted to show Sam the merchant quarter, for soon they were passing shops selling all manner of things from poultry to beads to linens. Frodo, however, seemed little interested until they came to one particular place, its bright awning catching on the breeze, and there Frodo stopped. "Herbs, Sam. And seeds and other such things," he said. They entered and it was at once dark and peaceful inside. The guard from the citadel took up position outside the door.

There was a bustling noise from inside the inner parlour, and an old man came out to greet them. He saw Frodo and beamed, bowing his head. "Ah! It has been a while, Master," he cried. "And I remember this gentleman, I certainly do! He was your companion, I saw him with you at the coronation. Master Gamgee, is it not?" He bowed to Sam and Sam bowed back, wondering if they'd be getting into the bowing loop again, but mercifully the man straightened up and hurried behind the counter. "This is the one who drew up the plans for your garden, is it not?" the shopkeeper asked.

Frodo nodded. "This is as you rightly say, Samwise Gamgee, Gardner of the Shire. Sam, this is Dirhavel. He is a herbologist of some repute and also something of a poet. Dirhavel has been a friend to me these last few months; I wish, indeed, I had made his acquaintance sooner."

Dirhavel, who had been reaching for something on one of the higher shelves, gave Frodo a fond look that had Sam pondering whether there was anyone anywhere who, on knowing Frodo, didn't love him. He thought it unlikely. Derhavel found what he'd been looking for, placing a little wooden box upon the counter. "A variety of sweet galenas – pipe weed to you, Master Gamgee – mixed with a few special ingredients of my own" here he winked "and guaranteed to take the edge off melancholy and raise the spirits."

Sam brought the box up to his nose and sniffed. It smelled like pipe weed, only more exotic. "Very interesting," he conceded, pushing the box back to Derhavel. Frodo caught it up, however, and held it in his hand. "How much?" he asked, reaching for his purse. The old man named a price that to Sam seemed a little steep, but Frodo counted out the coins happily enough.

Taking their leave of Dirhavel, they left the shop, picking up their tail as they went, and walked the streets for a little while, stopping here and there to purchase sweet things for the children. At last they found themselves at the east end of the battlement, the place unbeknownst to them where Pippin had once stood with Beregond years before, when the world was at war; there they sat awhile, their shadow now in conversation with the guards on duty on the wall.

Below them stretched the Pelennor. "It's a sight to behold, is it not?" Frodo asked. Sam had eyes only for Frodo, the way the wind made his hair leap about his face and his cheeks bloom red. Here at the top of the world, Sam made his mind up to speak.

"That box, Frodo," he began, but stopped as surprisingly cold blue eyes met his.

"It is pipe weed, Sam," Frodo said. "That is all."

The flapping of the standards above their heads was the only sound for a moment or two, then Sam persisted, turning his body to hem Frodo in on the stone bench. "You don't smoke pipe weed no more, Frodo. Leastways, not the pipe weed I offered you! That leaf you got from Dirhavel - well, well, is it safe? Is it the answer?"

Frodo made to pull away, to flee, but Sam was too strong and he was determined. "Frodo. Talk to me. Does Aragorn know about it?"

"Let me be. You have no idea. None at all! You live in the Shire, in Hobbiton, with Rose and your family, and all the other hobbits, exactly how you have always lived. Life goes on. Mushrooms are filched from fields. Ale is brewed and drunk. Lasses and lads fall into the hayricks and babies are made and life goes on as it always has. For them, for you…"

Sam stared. Was this his Frodo? This angry creature, eyes blazing and lips parted, brows drawn down and tears brimming? He fancied he could see Frodo's heart pounding beneath his shirt, breaths coming fast and shallow.

"I – I'm sorry, Sam." Frodo closed his eyes, blinked back the unshed tears and when he looked up again, he was smiling, conciliatory and apologetic. "I am a little tired, that is all. I've been looking forward to your visit for so long and now I feel I have spoiled it."

"Nothing to be sorry about," Sam replied, though he was shaken to the core. What was worse than the angry words was the way in which Frodo had taken hold of the little box and was clutching it as if his life depended on it. It reminded Sam of something, and it wasn't something he ever wanted to be reminded of again…

The bed linens were the finest in Gondor; lamps illuminated intricately carved cedar chests, embroidered curtains and wall hangings, the spines of books inlaid with gold leaf, an inkwell glittering on a hobbit-sized writing desk… Such was the chamber of the King and his halfling.

To Aragorn, it was everything. Sanctuary, certainly; a place to rest and think; a joyous place of coupling and physical love. If he had to choose any of these, he would choose the latter every time. After seven years his obsession with Frodo had not abated. There were not enough hours in the day to spend with Frodo, loving Frodo, discovering Frodo. Yet he was perceptive enough to know that Frodo was not entirely content in his new life in Minas Tirith.

Loving Frodo as he did, needing him as much as he did, the King looked always for those things that would delight the hobbit in their bed. Whether these things came from certain traders putting in at the newly restored harbour at Osgiliath, or from the caravan of merchants that now felt able to make the journey across plains finally free from orcs, they were always procured with discretion and by the good offices of Aragorn's closest friends. Some were an unmitigated and resounding success, others were consigned to the cedar chest furthest from the bed and never spoken of again.

This night, having enjoyed a civilised and pleasant supper with Sam and his children, Frodo and Aragorn had retired to their chamber. They decided upon a bath together; in their bathtub, which had been specially made with two steps up, and a small seat at one end, the hobbit now sat, lathering his lover's broad and long back. As he moved the soapy cloth over Aragorn's skin, he softly hummed something nameless and forgettable, pausing every now and again to bestow a gentle kiss upon the manly shoulders. Steam rose, scented with their favourite oils, clinging to their hair and instilling in the chamber a relaxing glow, accented by the myriad tiny candles that Frodo loved.

"Elanor and Frodo-lad are beautiful," Aragorn murmured, leaning forward so Frodo could soap lower. "Are all hobbit children so blessed?"

Frodo moved the cloth down below the water line. "Not all, no; no more so than with the children of men," he said. Something in his voice caught Aragorn's attention. Turning, he looked into Frodo's face, but the hobbit avoided his eye.

"I think I am clean enough, my love," Aragorn said, taking the cloth from Frodo's fingers. "Let us out now and into our bed."

Frodo looked up at him and smiled. "Yes, love, let's to bed. And let's open that package that has lain so mysteriously on the coverlet since suppertime." Aragorn came as close to blushing as he was able. He rose from the tub, rivulets of bathwater splashing Frodo's face, and proceeded to wrap himself in a big drying sheet. He reached back and took the wet hobbit up in his arms. He knew this irritated Frodo, to be carried thus, but sometimes he simply could not help himself. Damp and fragrant, they lay on the bed. Aragorn reached across for the wrapped box.

"Who was the go-between this time? Let me guess," Frodo said, resting on his side. He pretended to give the matter some thought. Aragorn noticed that when he was relaxed and ready for love, as now, Frodo became quite absent-minded about his hand, almost playfully caressing the gap wherein once a finger had been. Other times, Frodo was most careful to keep the deformity hidden, secret. It brought joy to the King's heart to see him now, teasing him, suggesting one friend after another, though he must have known which had indeed done the deed. "Sagramund? How about the devilishly handsome Castalan?"

"Devilishly handsome, eh?" Aragorn swooped down upon Frodo and tickled him without mercy. "It may interest you to know that the devilishly handsome one has asked my permission to marry and I have given it. If I'd known you harboured such disloyal and wicked thoughts about one of my courtiers, I'd have exiled him as well! Enough?" He released the squirming hobbit, though he did not go so far as to remove his hand from Frodo's thigh.

Panting, Frodo looked up at Aragorn, moved a lock of greying hair that had fallen across the King's face. When Aragorn reached once more for the intriguing box, Frodo stayed his hand and pulled Aragorn's head down until their lips met and then their tongues. "We need nothing from the outside, my love," he whispered when they broke to take a breath. "Not tonight."

The King gave a great sigh, his fingers caressing Frodo's nipples and down to the soft little belly he found so erotic. "Not even Castalan? I could send for him and tell him you wish to taste him once before he plights his troth. He'd come running, I'm certain…"

"Not even Castalan. He is a little pigeon-toed, anyway," Frodo said, luxuriating under the weight of Aragorn's hand as it roved about his body.

"Ah, so if he were not so hideously deformed you might be interested in him as a bed mate?" Aragorn lightly said, his hand slipping beneath Frodo to the hobbit's delicious rump. He felt Frodo stiffen a little, and not between the legs, realised he had spoken without thinking. But Frodo sighed away the slip, choosing not to let it get in the way of their lovemaking. Aragorn thought he would expire, that a body simply could not bear such stimulation, Frodo's clever hands grasping Aragorn's member, stroking firmly. Aragorn squeezed Frodo's buttocks, moaning into his neck, the hobbit's to command.

"More, just a little more," Aragorn pleaded, relinquishing his hold on Frodo's bottom. He lay upon his back and gave up to the sensation of Frodo's mouth which had replaced his hands upon the King's cock.

Frodo chuckled, the sound vibrating along Aragorn's member; he used his two hands, one above the other, to stroke, whilst his tongue licked as much of the prodigious length as he could manage.

"Your rump is too far away, Frodo," Aragorn complained. "Turn around, my love. I need you!"

Rolling his eyes, Frodo released his lover and moved around to straddle him in such a way that his rump was conveniently placed for Aragorn to fondle. With a sigh of contentment, the King set to play. "Your bottom is the loveliest I ever saw, be it man, woman, elf, hobbit-" he began.

"Dwarf? Have you seen many naked dwarf backsides?" Frodo enquired, turning from the task of pleasuring the King.

Aragorn pretended to ponder, his hands nevertheless continuing to circle and squeeze. He did not neglect the hobbit's own member, of course, which he had been delighted to discover all those years ago was larger than expected and of a splendidly rich hue to boot. They carried on thus for a few moments, each stroking the other until Aragorn took Frodo by the arms and pulled him gently but firmly away. "You know I want to ride you," he said, and there was no trace of teasing or playfulness now.

Frodo shivered a little at the intensity of the King's glance. He shivered even more when Aragorn pressed him down on the bed and captured his wrists above his head. "Do you want me?" the King murmured. He looked deeply into Frodo's eyes and when he saw the same lust therein, he gave a grunt of satisfaction.

"I want you," Frodo replied. He took his cock in his hand and raised his legs high on his lover's hips.

"By the stars, I am thankful for it!" Aragorn cried, reaching for the jar of oil. He began to anoint himself with the unguent; when he had spread a good amount on his erection, he moved to do the same to Frodo's opening. The first touch of an oiled finger in that place and Frodo jumped. "Sorry, Frodo," Aragorn said quickly. "I am a little eager tonight."

"You are a little eager every night." Frodo laughed and spread his thighs wider. He reached back for the pillow and played with its corner, his face turned to the moonlight slicing into the chamber from behind the gauzy hangings. He felt the exquisite pleasure of penetration, enhanced by Aragorn leaning down as he delved, kissing Frodo's face and neck, his member hard against the hobbit's hip. Frodo began to feel wanton, relaxed and loved and all the big thoughts that seemed perpetually to crowd in on him scattered and dissolved in moonlight. His mind strayed momentarily to Sam, to his friend's concerns earlier in the day, and he felt a pang of guilt. He would talk to him in the morning, make him understand that he needed the-

Oh! Aragorn mounted him, thick and hard and hot, and all thoughts of pipe weed and the Shire fled Frodo's head as he was overtaken with a great wave of need. He stroked himself with one hand, the other tugging at the pillow and all the while the silvering moonlight washed over them.

Afterwards, Frodo clung to Aragorn, ashamed to find himself crying hot tears over his lover's chest. The King soothed him, held him close and kissed the top of his head, his shoulders, gentling him as if he were a child. Aragorn, who had relished their coupling as he always did, found himself at a loss. He knew such an emotional outpouring could not be merely the result of his manly exertions, much as he might like to think it so. No, this was something more. He let the hobbit calm down, waited for his breaths to become less like panicked gasps. Finally, he sensed it was time, and lifted Frodo's face so he could look into his eyes. He wiped away the tears from those glorious eyes and smiled, encouragingly.

"My Frodo. What is happening here? If I have offended you, or done anything to cause you pain-" he began, but Frodo quickly stilled him, his finger to Aragorn's lips.

"No, no! You have been nothing less than magnificent these past seven years. You have been – wonderful."

Aragorn forced himself to be calm. Frodo's words could not really be meant as they sounded, could they? So like the prelude to goodbye?

"Aragorn, I know we have talked of this before but… You are King. You need an heir-"

Now the King felt himself on solid ground. He pulled the hobbit to him in a tight, possessive embrace and smiled into those thick, glossy curls. "When the time comes, I will appoint a successor. We talked of this, Frodo. Other Kings have been childless and their kingdoms have not fallen into ruin upon their passing. Is that all this is about?" He rocked Frodo, his hands instinctively falling to caress and pet. Would he never tire of this hobbit, he wondered?

Frodo pulled free and now there was a sadness about him that Aragorn could not so easily deny. "The people want their King wedded to a bride, a proper bride who can give him – and them – a prince. No, Aragorn! You can protest as much as you like, it is the truth! I hear it all the time from all sides. They find us unnatural – they find me - unnatural."

Before Aragorn could stop him, Frodo had slipped from the big bed to the floor and was pulling on his shirt. Aragorn gave a cry of exasperation and jumped from the bed, towering over the hobbit, who nevertheless carried on pulling on his clothes. "Where are you going?" the King asked, incredulously. Ten minutes ago, he had held this perplexing creature and together they had ridden the crest of a great wave; surely he had not imagined the way Frodo's heels dug into his hips, how he had keened and spilled his seed… Now this?

"It's Sam. Master Gamgee has been filling your head with this nonsense!" Aragorn gave a great exaggerated gesture of exasperation.

Frodo, now fully-dressed, rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous! This has naught to do with Sam. Sam loves and respects you and you know it!"

"He may respect me, little hobbit, but he loves you and I don't mean in the master-servant or happy-hobbit way, either! He's been after you for years and he has come here to take you back to that land of eternal springtime, the Shire!"

Aragorn knew he was being unfair, knew he was being absurd, but he could not stop. Ever since Frodo had written to accept him – finally! – and had ridden under heavily-armed escort into the City, ever since Frodo had first joined him in this chamber, given himself… Aragorn had been half-expecting this moment to arrive. And now it had.

"You know that's not how it is. Sam has Rose and his children. He would never betray them-"

"As I betrayed Arwen, you mean?" Aragorn said, bitterly, and immediately wished the words unsaid. Frodo closed his eyes and when he opened them again he crossed to the chest in which he kept his belongings – his books, pictures of home, a ring that had belonged to his mother, pressed flowers from the garden at Bag End… He bent to retrieve something, turned to present it to the King. It was a small wooden box.

Aragorn took it; he became aware that he was naked and Frodo was fully-clothed, so reached for his shirt and pulled it on. Then he sat upon the bed and opened the box. He frowned.

"Gondorian pipe weed?" he said, questioningly. His skill as a healer made him well aware of such things as this, this pipe weed that was not merely pipe weed. He sniffed, then took a little of the leaf between finger and thumb and rolled it, finally tasting with the tip of his tongue. "Oh, Frodo."

Frodo had assumed a defiant pose. "You are not here all the time. That is not a criticism, I understand and appreciate the responsibilities you have as King, truly I do. But sometimes your duty takes you away from me for days at a time and even those in the palace whom I might think of as friends, even they cannot keep me company but must be about their own business. Back home – back in the Shire – one was never truly alone. Here I am alone and apart from my little garden, surrounded by stone."

"How long have you been smoking this?" Aragorn asked, indicating the box. He looked with fresh eyes at Frodo's face, his complexion, the eyes that burned a little too brightly. How could he have been so blind? And what of the guard assigned to keep an eye on the King's halfling? Ah, but his instructions had been so specific - too specific…

"Follow the hobbit, Frodo, whenever he leaves the inner city. Watch him closely. He is vulnerable, so keep a sharp eye out for villains who might rob him or even try to make off with him. Keep him safe at all times but do not hinder him or make him unduly uncomfortable. He will be aware of you - he is the Ringbearer, not some dullard you can fool – but he will understand why you are there."

He had not thought it necessary to add, "If the Ringbearer starts to purchase substances with an intent to lose himself within himself, report this to me!"

"I discovered it a month ago. It helps me relax." Frodo held out his hand for the box and after a moment's hesitation, Aragorn obliged, his fingers brushing Frodo's.

"Why tell me now?" he wanted to know.

"Because I love you and I want you to tell me not to leave. I want you to find some sorcerer who can wave his hands over me and make me capable of bearing your child. I want to wake up tomorrow and wander the streets of Minas Tirith and feel that I belong, that I am not just an oddity, a bizarre remnant from the War of the Ring, but a person, a citizen…"

"But you are loved! How can you doubt it? Not just by me but by the whole court!"

"But the court is not the city!"

"The city is not us!" Aragorn wanted to throw him on their bed and kiss him harder than he'd ever kissed him before. He also wanted to shake him, hard, for he had never felt so infuriated and misunderstood. Forcing himself to calm down, he stepped away and found his britches, for it was entirely inappropriate and somewhat demeaning to be having this conversation while his member was trying to attract Frodo's attention.

Frodo, too, had calmed down. He stood by the window, gazing down into his little garden lost in the black. "I did you a great disservice when I agreed to come here. I see that now. I'd been strong and I should have carried on being strong. You would have made your peace with Lord Elrond, perhaps kept Arwen from leaving; if not that, then you might have made a match with the daughter of some noble house. You should have married, Aragorn, married and had a family." He turned to face the King and now his face was soft and his shoulders slumped. He looked resigned, and that to Aragorn was far worse than any expression of anger or resentment.

"I thought my garden would soothe me. It did for a little while, but then when I walked in it and felt the grass beneath my feet, saw the flowers that bloomed in the Shire… I realised it was only making me more homesick and melancholy. It was beautiful but it was a shadow of what should be, Aragorn. And today, when I saw Elanor and Frodo-lad running about and digging in the flowerbeds, heard their laughter, I knew for sure that you should have that. You were meant to be a father, even if I was not."

He crossed from the window to stand before the man with whom he had shared everything for seven years. He looked up at Aragorn and stood on tiptoes, reached for him. Aragorn hesitated then bent so that Frodo could kiss him. "I will find a guest room to pass the night and tomorrow I will get my things. I am going back to the Shire. I will never forget you, my Strider," he whispered; then he hurried to the door and was gone.

Aragorn felt the ghost of the kiss upon his lips like a burn. He sat upon the bed and shook his head.

"If you think it's going to be as easy as that, Frodo, you really don't know me at all," he said to himself, lying back. He felt something beneath him and found that he had lain upon the box of pipe weed. He held it in his hand for a moment, curious as to the carving in the wood, then he threw it into the bath tub still full of warm scented water.

"You're what?" Sam exclaimed. It was not long after daybreak and the children were still fast asleep in their bed, Elanor hugging a doll that Elspeneth had given her. Sam hastily closed the inner door and returned his attention to Frodo, who was standing before him in the little parlour.

Of all the things he had ever wanted to hear, this was right up there, really it was – "Sam, I am returning to the Shire with you. I made a terrible mistake seven years ago. I should never have left Hobbiton, or yes, I should have left Hobbiton but I should have gone with Bilbo and Gandalf on the ship across the Sea. What I shouldn't have done was come here."

So, on hearing these words, why wasn't Sam's heart soaring? Why wasn't he planning for their future back home? Not that he'd ever desert Rose, not a chance he'd do that. But he'd have Frodo back and could be with him every day and-

So why wasn't he happy? This was what he'd wanted, wasn't it?

He tore his gaze from Frodo - who was standing before him, looking determined and yet brittle as if he might snap in two from the effort of just keeping everything together, his hands clenched by his side, his eyes over-bright - and tried to make sense of it all.

Aragorn. Sam kept seeing Aragorn in the garden, kneeling down to greet the children, complimenting him on his handiwork; the King's eyes never long away from Frodo, and the look on his face nothing short of worshipful…

"But you love Aragorn, and he loves you, Frodo," Sam said, simply. "You didn't make a mistake coming here. The mistake would be to leave."

Frodo blinked and gave an exasperated shrug, then said, "But you want me to come home! You know you do, Sam. And I want to. I want to come home with you. I don't belong here in this White City among all these Big Folk. I want to be with hobbits again." He moved closer, put his hand upon Sam's and made his voice very low. "Please," he pleaded.

Sam took Frodo's hand in his and kissed it. He could have this. He could have it all. Rose and the children, and Frodo, too. He could look after Frodo as he always had, and of an evening they would tell the children stories together, how they'd crossed the Morgul Vale… and later, how they'd awakened in the Houses of Healing… He shook his head and squeezed Frodo's hand.

"You belong with Aragorn. I've never seen anyone so in love as that man is with you. You'll break his heart if you leave him. The Frodo I love would never do such a thing."

Frodo pulled his hand from Sam's and slumped into a chair. "I am doing this because he would be better off without me, Sam. He should find a wife and have what you have, a fine family. Surely you can see that?"

Sam squatted by the chair and said softly, "My dear friend. You are his family. If you don't see that, then what happened to the plucky hobbit that outsmarted the Dark Lord himself? Maybe that weed you've grown so fond of has addled your senses."

Frodo gave an indignant start but Sam was smiling and Frodo softened. "Damn you, Samwise Gamgee, for your hobbit sense. What shall I do?" he whispered, just as the inner door opened and Elanor peeked out, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Papa, why is Uncle Frodo here?" she wanted to know, yawning.

Sam was about to answer, but Frodo stopped him. "Uncle Frodo had a foolish dream, Elanor my darling. But it's all right now."

"Grownups are silly," Elanor declared, going back to bed.

"Was it?" Sam asked, cautiously. Frodo gave a mirthless chuckle and then sighed. "Oh yes, it was. And as usual, you were here to catch me before I even had the chance to fall…" He held out his arms and Sam came into them, holding his friend tightly.

"Be kind to him, Frodo."

Frodo pulled away. "He may not want me back. I'm afraid I rather made a fool of myself when I left," he said, grinning sheepishly.

"Let me get this straight," Sam mused. "The King sent you endless letters begging you to join him in Minas Tirith; he proclaimed to the whole City that you were his beloved; he had a garden created in the White City, a garden to be a little bit of home for you; he pays court to you as if you had been mated seven months and not seven years… and you feel that this strop of yours is enough to lose his love forever?"

Frodo kicked at the rug, then kissed Sam briefly on the lips. "We will expect you for breakfast," he called as he left.

Sam sat down in the chair and laughed silently. "You could've been taking him home, you great stupid lummox!" he berated himself. "Ah, but you're a simple man, Sam Gamgee. You was never made for the likes of him; he'd've worn you out in a month!"

On his way back to the rooms he had shared with Aragorn these last seven years, Frodo composed a speech. He poured his heart and soul into it, for it had to be very good indeed.

He found with a start that he had reached the chamber door. He took a deep breath, ran his hand through his curls, and then turned the handle. He pushed open the door and entered.

Aragorn was in the chair by the window, still in his shirt and britches, his beautiful bare feet hanging over the chair arm. He looked painfully young, the grey in his beard notwithstanding. He looked at Frodo but did not move.

Frodo swallowed and began.

"Aragorn. I am sorry. I was demented. Sam helped me to realise I belong to you. With you. Two equals, living their lives together, helpmeets and soulmates on life's hard road. I should trust you to know your own heart, and believe you when you say you have no need of a wife and children. I will try harder to fit in… Oh! I could open up my garden once a week to everyone, the whole city if it wants to come – we could have produce brought in from the Shire, and there could be games and competitions! We could invite Merry and Pippin to visit, and there could be fireworks and…" The words dried up, falling as they were on deaf ears. Frodo stood, miserable and uncertain, awaiting his fate.

Aragorn said and did nothing for a moment; then he got to his feet and crossed to the hobbit.

"Please-" Frodo said but Aragorn shook his head and got down on his knees. He looked deeply into Frodo's eyes and said, "You had me at Aragorn." Then he kissed the hobbit hard on the mouth, held him tightly and kept him like that for several minutes.

Sam and the children were at breakfast on the terrace. Elanor and Frodo-lad had decided the honey in Minas Tirith was even tastier than that back home, and were munching through their third slice of toast each. Sam wasn't hungry; he was anxious.

A maid came bustling out carrying a tray laden down with more toast, fresh tea, boiled eggs and ham. She put the tray down, curtsied to Sam and the little ones, and made to leave. "Begging your pardon, but is there any message from Mister Frodo? He was supposed to be joining us this morning," Sam said.

The maid raised her hands and blushed. "Sorry, sir! I was that busy I forgot. There was a message right enough from the Ringbearer."

Sam waited, then prompted gently, "Yes? What was it?"

The girl curtsied again and said "The Ringbearer said to tell you that he and the King – King Elessar that is – are a little tied up and won't be down for breakfast but they are fairly confident they will be joining you for lunch, and if not lunch then definitely supper…"

Sam picked up a slice of fresh hot toast and spread it thick with butter and honey. "I'm starving!" he declared, to the delight of his bairns.

The End