Pairing: Frodo and Big Men
Rating: PG13
Warning: Only for questionable humour and mpreg
Feedback: Always appreciated - perhobfan@yahoo.co.uk
A little fic written for Claudia's birthday last year, as the tiniest of thank yous for her wonderful stories. This is most definitely AU, more than a little fantastical and not in any way shape or form book based.
Rain was lashing the windows and, try as he might, Frodo could not get comfortable in the big bed. It felt too big, especially as he was in it alone.
pitt pitt pitt the rain added to his misery with its constant drumming.
If only he could find a position which did not give him cramp or make him feel sick. He turned from his back onto his side and tucked his good hand beneath his head, bringing his knees up as far as they would go. Which was not as far as would have been possible just a month ago.
And still pitt pitt pitt
Frodo gave up all hope of actually falling to sleep and gave himself up instead to contemplation. He was warm and dry, his belly was full. Yes indeed. Sleep, however, was a far off land where birds chirruped and lambs gambolled and holes and smials were made of mushrooms which a hungry hobbit could simply tuck into as the desire took him… sleep was for others, not for Frodo.
pitt pitt pitt…
Sleep. pitt pitt pitt…
"Order in the Court!" The gavel came down with a mighty bang, waking Frodo from his reverie. He looked blearily around him - at the Inquisitor in his long black robes, his face hidden in the gloom of his ornate box high above the court; at the crowd of curious onlookers, and finally at the Man in the witness stand.
"I first laid eyes on the hobbit of the Shire, Frodo Baggins, at the Prancing Pony Inn, in the village of Bree," the Man said, his voice deep and authoritative.
Oh, he was a handsome devil, King Aragorn (the Second), handsome and tall and well-formed. He stood illuminated by an unnatural, almost ghostly light, and faced the assembly, with great dignity. He looked kingly. Always that, thought Frodo, admiringly, from his seat on its little raised platform in the courtroom. Around him, the boisterous crowd whispered and laughed and ate from picnic baskets. Why, anyone would think they were hobbits! Yet they were mostly Elves and Men, it seemed to Frodo.
"And your impressions of this hobbit? At that time?" The inquisitor leaned forward out of the shadows. Frodo was not a bit surprised to see he had an Elrondy look about him, particularly around the eyebrows, which were diving down towards his very straight nose like herons after fish. Frodo sat back on his chair and watched the erstwhile Ranger in the witness stand; all the while his hand lay protectively upon his gently rounded belly.
"I wanted to bed him. To protect him, to help him and keep him safe. But mostly to bed him," Aragorn said, simply. He turned to look fondly at the hobbit and his eyes appeared to mist over slightly as he acknowledged Frodo's delicate condition. The hobbit blushed and mouthed a silent endearment in Aragorn's direction.
"He was the Ringbearer! And yet you state quite boldly that your priority was to bed him! Is that honourable, I ask you? Is that something of which to be proud?" The inquisitor glared at the witness, the quill pen in his hand trembling with righteous indignation. But this was Aragorn, not some cowardly cur to buckle under an imperious sneer.
"Yes, he was the Ringbearer. But I was a man, and as a man, I longed to hold him in my arms and explore every inch of him, every nook and cranny. He was irresistible in my eyes. Later, yes, I realised that I must push aside such base yearnings. The Ring had to be destroyed. But then? In Bree? - and your question concerned Bree, did it not? - in Bree I was lost to carnal desire for Frodo. And so we stole away from his companions and found a quiet place to bridge the gap betwixt our species. I believe we succeeded." Now it was Aragorn's turn to blush, a becoming rose tint that stole up from the roots of his neatly trimmed beard all the way up to the roots of his recently washed hair. Frodo, beatific and beautiful, was lost in the memory of their encounter, the first of many. Aragorn had been so lusty, so demanding… so satisfying!
The crowd leaned forward almost as a single entity to hear the evidence of the King, some with chicken legs and slices of pie halfway to their mouths. Frodo suddenly felt rather hungry, which was a good sign as food had given him little pleasure these last few months. But the Inquisitor was speaking once more.
"Are you the father of this child?" he demanded, pointing a long finger at Frodo's midriff. Frodo felt the eyes of the court once more fixed firmly upon him and he straightened his shoulders, all the better to defy their condemnation. Yes! He was a hobbit in the pudding club, up the duff, sullied and spoiled and no better than he ought to be. But he was a Baggins, after all was said and done.
"Yes, your honour, I am. Frodo can tell you as much. The child is mine!" Aragorn proclaimed. Frodo thought he had never looked more sternly handsome, more regal than he did in that moment. It was all rather beautiful. As if in recognition of the occasion, he felt a sharp kick just below his ribs.
"Frodo Baggins, Ringbearer. Is this man, this King of Gondor, this Elessar… is he the father of your child?" The crowd held its collective breath. "Speak up, Master Baggins!" the Inquisitor snapped, when Frodo did not reply. Aragorn, too, was waiting, the look of intense pride on his noble face diminishing slightly with Frodo's reluctance to answer.
"I can't honestly say," Frodo said at last. He clutched the hem of his cloak and twisted it convulsively. He looked at last at Aragorn and smiled apologetically. "I hope that is the case, obviously. I cannot think of a better father for my child than he, but… In truth? I am not sure. Sorry."
The crowd erupted into gasps of dismay, a little excited laughter and general unruliness. The Inquisitor banged his gavel down hard several times before order was restored. Amidst it all, Aragorn and Frodo locked eyes.
"You may step down. Take your seat in the gallery," the Inquisitor commanded. The King took his place a little to the right of Frodo, his eyes never leaving the hobbit for a second. Frodo fidgeted a little in his hard chair. He should ask for a cushion. This was not going to do him any good at all, he thought; it was bad enough that it was a man-sized chair that he had been given, that he had to be lifted onto since climbing was now rather out of the question. He studiously avoided looking at Aragorn. Oh, this was terrible, that he should have hurt the one he loved. Well, one of the ones that he loved. And he had loved so many, it seemed…
"Call Faramir, Prince of Ithilien!" the Inquisitor demanded, and the usher hastened to obey. The crowd craned its collective neck to see the handsome young Gondorian as he entered the court. He bowed to the Inquisitor, to the glowering Aragorn, and finally to Frodo in his hard high chair. Faramir gazed longingly at Frodo's distended belly and smiled broadly. Then he took his place on the witness stand, his glorious fair hair catching the light streaming in from the mullioned windows. Oh, Faramir, Frodo almost whispered out loud. You were always so sweet, so gentle and kind. But aroused? An absolute beast with a wondrous appetite for love. Frodo felt the familiar tightening in his breeches at so many happy memories.
"I will ask you the same question that I have just asked the King. Faramir, Steward of Gondor - did you sire Frodo's unborn child?"
"I did, and proud I am of it. I love Frodo and when I heard that he was with child, my heart near burst! Indeed, I wrote a poem, right then and there on the spot." Faramir spoke to the Inquisitor, but his soft blue eyes were ever on Frodo. "I could read it to the court, if your honour would like?"
"No, no," the Inquisitor replied, quickly, "that will not be necessary. Frodo Baggins. Is this Man the child's father?"
Aragorn turned steely grey blue eyes upon his Steward; he had always liked young Faramir, considered him almost a brother - but that was before… well, he had made him Steward and he could unmake him Steward, this licentious, amoral scoundrel who had bedded his Frodo. But what would Frodo's answer be?
"Again, I have to say that much as Faramir would be an excellent father to my baby… I am simply not sure if he is, in fact, in essence… the father of my baby," Frodo was saying, miserably.
All eyes turned from the wretched hobbit to the man on the witness stand.
"Frodo? If not I… then who?" he asked, his hands clutching the rail for support. The Steward shot a perplexed look at his King, his eyebrows raised in question, but Aragorn merely shrugged his shoulders.
"This case is most complex, most complex indeed," pronounced the Inquisitor, scribbling on his parchment. "You may step down, Faramir, Prince of Ithilien."
Faramir left the witness stand in a daze and took his place beside Aragorn. They sat in stony silence, King and Steward. Frodo twisted in his chair; the baby's kicking had moved from his ribs to his bladder and Frodo had the sudden desperate urge to make water. He crossed his ankles, then remembered the healer had told him that was bad for his circulation. He longed for a pipe but the healer also had distinctly unorthodox and revolutionary ideas about pipe leaf and its effects on the unborn child. And ale? That was a definite no-no.
Sometimes, Frodo thought he needed to change healers.
But the Inquisitor was talking again, and Frodo tried to pay attention. He noticed that both Aragorn and Faramir were glaring at him, and he tried to ignore them both - but it wasn't easy. They were both such beautiful Big Men, and he had such a weakness for those.
"Call Eomer to the stand!"
Frodo felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach which had nothing whatever to do with his pregnancy and everything to do with the Big Man now entering the court with a spring in his step. His flaxen locks flowed around his shoulders, held back from his face on this solemn occasion by an ornate barrette in the shape of a rearing stallion. Oh, Eomer. He had discovered the horseman quite late in the day, when it was all over bar the feasting, really. But better late than never, Frodo firmly believed.
Once more the Inquisitor put the question to the Man on the stand, and once more the answer was in the affirmative.
"Of course the child is mine! With due respect to my revered King and Steward, the question is absurd," Eomer said, flashing teeth as white as the snows on Caradhras at the assembly. Frodo felt the phantom nip of those perfect teeth on his tender flesh… "It was love at first sight. I had heard tell of the Ringbearer, and in truth had expected some dried up old man but you only have to look at him to see that he is far from that! Of course, I had to winkle him away from that servant of his, which was no easy feat, I can tell you! One night, we had to have at it upon the very roof. And it was a pitched roof, not a flat roof. I had to brace my feet just right, in exactly the perfect position in the slates to ensure neither of us went sliding off into eternity! But it was worth it, I can tell you. Another time-"
"That is quite enough of that, thank you," the Inquisitor broke in, shuffling in his great chair. Eomer seemed disappointed, but bowed his head respectfully to the judge, who then turned his attention once more to the hobbit in question.
"Frodo, for the third time of asking - is this man the father of your child?"
Once more, doting eyes were turned on the hobbit and once more the hobbit was left fidgeting in utter embarrassment. "No, I cannot be certain. I would love it to be so, for my child would inherit such skill in the saddle and such wonderful teeth… But no, I cannot say that Eomer is definitely the father of my child," he said, quietly.
Eomer joined the other two, his step now leaden as if spring had given way to winter without the benefit of summer and autumn to soften the blow. The three Big Men sat in sullen, uncomprehending silence.
pitt pitt pitt…
It was raining, Frodo noted. Black clouds were darkening the sky outside, and the light penetrating the windows was fainter now, quite feeble. He was hungry. The case had been going on for hours and hours and hours. He had missed second breakfast and elevenses and lunch and now it looked like tea would be mislaid, too. The rain began to fall in big, fat drops, which smacked and rattled the window panes. But still the Inquisitor droned on…
Frodo, perched upon his desperately uncomfortable high chair, had avoided looking in the direction of the Men in the gallery. But he could put it off no longer. He beheld them all.
Aragorn. Faramir. Eomer. All in a row. All glaring. Well, Faramir was not glaring as glaring was alien to his nature. But he was miffed, that much Frodo could discern. Oh dear.
"All of these Men proclaim themselves father of your child, Master Baggins. And yet you cannot be certain which, if any, of them is indeed the doer of the deed. This is a pretty pickle, is it not?" The Inquisitor laid down his quill and fixed his steely eyes upon Frodo. "Do you have no shame at all, Master Baggins?"
pitt pitt pitt…
The rain was harder now, not just lashing the windows of the court, but battering them mercilessly. Frodo was reminded of an entertainment he had to endure at Rivendell, a lifetime ago, when a company of Elven actors had recreated the whole of the history of the First Age, all to the accompaniment of flutes and drums.
"Shame? No, not at all, your honour. In my own way and in my own time, I have loved each and every one of these Men. Good Men, every one. The very best. It is my fate that during the course of our encounters, I begot a babe whilst they did not. But I would not change a thing. My child, when it enters this world, will be wondrous."
pitt pitt pitt…
The Men all turned now to look at Frodo, their anger dissipating. Each was contemplating, it seemed, their wondrous offspring. It was nigh impossible to remain impervious to the charms of the hobbit.
The Inquisitor laid down his gavel and sighed.
"Master Baggins, I find myself unable to reach any verdict whatsoever in this case insofar as the matter of the unborn child is concerned. I would ask, however, that on future occasions you keep a careful record of your comings and goings in order to avoid further scandal. I propose the three fathers toss a coin for it. Usher, a coin if you please."
Frodo watched with only vague interest as a coin was produced and handed over. The Inquisitor and the three fathers immediately began a noisy debate around the logistics of tossing a coin and how many times it would have to be tossed, and what if the coin was dropped and rolled away, and whether pulling straws might not be the best solution… Frodo found his eyes drooping; he was sliding forward on the big, hard chair…
He awoke with a start to find the rain had stopped and the sun was bursting through the chamber window. The air was damp and fresh and somehow hopeful. Frodo felt strangely renewed, brimful of baby and that was a good feeling.
"Ah, you are awake!" said the familiar voice, and in that voice was such love and concern that Frodo knew everything and anything was possible.
"I had the strangest dream," he said, yawning. A tray bearing a plate positively overflowing with bacon and mushrooms and well-done sausages was laid before him, a stack of buttered bread soon joining it. His love sat upon the bed and stroked his hair, gently.
"The babe?"
"Is fine, my love. Content to remain where he or she is for the time being," Frodo said, munching a rasher of crozzled bacon.
"But in the normal course of events, Frodo, you should not have to go through this ordeal."
Frodo felt a pang of sadness. They'd had this conversation many times before.
"Well, this is not the normal course of events, whatever they are. And who are we to question the workings of fate?" he asked, softly. He laid a comforting hand upon his love's and squeezed, to be rewarded with a dazzling smile and a gentle kiss upon his forehead.
"I hope our child has hairy feet, my Frodo. And eyes of brightest blue."
"And I hope our child has your courage and spirit, my love."
Boromir lay upon the bed and carefully pulled the hobbit close, ever mindful of his precious cargo. So beautiful, his sweet Frodo of the Shire.
"Do you miss them?" he asked, pulling away to look into his eyes, the eyes which had utterly bewitched him so many months ago.
"Who?" Frodo asked, surreptitiously reaching for a fat, golden sausage.
"Your other Big Men, of course!" he replied, laughing as his love turned crimson. "I know you do, my love!"
Frodo considered for a moment, the sausage at his lips.
"Sometimes, yes," he said, finally. He finished off his breakfast and patted his tummy.
"Once our child is come, Frodo, you should go seek out your old friends. I have no right to keep you here, if your heart and loins tell you otherwise. You must be free, Frodo, free to follow your desires."
Words of denial, of protest, were upon his lips, when a gentle breeze rocked the treetops and upon it, briefly, Frodo fancied he heard the voice of a Ranger calling to him from far away. Far away and in another life. In another universe altogether.
"Our child will be wondrous, Boromir, my love," he said, simply. "And you are all the Big Man this hobbit needs."
The End