Frodo's heart was, increasingly, torn between the depth of his sorrow over the wizard and another, more selfish uneasiness that shamed him with its insistence. But the ranger's closed and cold behaviour gave rise to so many panicky, heartsick questions that he could not forget it for even a second. Why didn't the man speak to him or smile at him the way he used to? For days, Frodo had tried, as subtly as he knew how, to elicit an answer of some kind. He had used every approach he could think of - if he'd been a different kind of hobbit, he might have said he had tried every trick in the book. He had been careful, not wanting to be noticed (but then, the others were all preoccupied with the events of the last few days, and were not likely to pay attention, he told himself). The gentle words that had brought such confidences forth, the light and casual-but-deliberate touches that had had such arresting force, the smiles that had persuaded the man to let his feelings show on his usually so guarded face... In the span of their short alliance, Frodo had never had the chance to learn much about these new powers, but now that he lost them he felt no less frustrated for not quite knowing what they had been. As they stopped to make camp at the end of the day, he couldn't keep these thoughts away, and it made him uneasy. Before, he had done such things without thinking, unable to stop himself, impulses from a heart utterly consumed, and now, in growing desperation and confusion, he had done them on purpose. He didn't quite understand why exactly that made him feel so bad, but it did. He bit his lip, flushed and sidetracked by the thoughts of how it had been before. The sweetest, most rapturous days, heady as a rush of blood, unsettling as the deep vortexes in a rapid and powerful river. As soon as he had felt the first pull in that unexpected direction, Frodo had known himself to be changed, to be not himself, but the sweetness of it had been irresistible. Giving up on his old self had been so easy, so effortless, like diving into clear water and being drowned, immersed, held up by it. Never in his life - 'Frodo?' - had he been so enthralled by another person, so - 'Frodo!' - so blinded and intoxicated by anyone's very nearness... 'Frodo!? Hi! Frodo! Dear me, you were miles away, weren't you?' Merry was looking at him. Frodo found that he had stopped inexplicably in the middle of unstrapping his bedroll, and hurriedly continued undoing the buckles. 'What?' 'You still have my flask.' 'Do I?' Merry rolled his eyes impatiently. Merry, you don't know, Frodo thought, as searched among the flaps and rings and buckles on his pack for the strap the flask hung from. You think you know who you are looking at, who borrowed your flask, but you are mistaken, you are all mistaken. But... his hands fell down. He might be mistaken himself; he might have hung all his hopes and all his longing on a mere whim. This triumphant new self might be no more than a delusion, thin as a shadow and misguided as a ghost. His heart tightened in his chest. 'It's around your neck, you ninny,' Merry said, with an exasperated and amused snort. Frodo looked down at the strap across his chest. 'Oh, sorry, I forgot...' he mumbled. 'What's eating you, anyway?' Merry asked, leaning forward to help Frodo untangle himself. '...nothing. I'm just tired. I was asleep on my feet when you gave it to me.' Merry laughed. He took his bottle, gave Frodo an affectionate slap on the side of the head, and was gone. Frodo closed his eyes. This was becoming too distracting, to the point of being unbearable. He *must* find out what was wrong. They had a meal, cooked on a portable brazier that the Elves had brought, being loath to make fires on the ground, or to cut turf. Hot flat breads, made with fine flour and some unknown herb, were accompanied by toasted nuts and dried fruits. There were flavoured oils, poured onto large, shallow leaves, to dip the bread in, and hot tea. Since entering the woods they had eaten better than they had for a long time, and they were grateful. Frodo, who would normally have wanted to know what seed or fruit had yielded the oil, and what leaves and berries flavoured the tea, could not concentrate on any flavours or textures - he might as well have been eating hay. His undignified obsession revolted him, but it was like trying to hold a river back with your bare hands. His eyes begged at the ranger's feet, searched his face, sought to close the distance by sheer silent willpower. But try as he might, he could not catch the ranger's eye even once. The man was away on the other side of the group, talking quietly with the elves in their own language. Everyone else was intent on the food. Later, as he crept into his bedroll next to Sam, he stole a look at the other hobbit's face, already closed in sleep. Sam, always so sensible, always so dependable, with his simple wholesome outlook, taking everything in his stride. What an easy life. He lay down, burrowing his head into the stuffing. But it was as if he was lying in an ants' nest. It seemed like hours before all the lamps had been put out and everyone had settled down. Once there were no noises other than those of a fellowship at rest, Frodo pushed his blanket away and sat up. He knew there was an elf awake in the tree above him, but he did not think the sentry would make much of his getting up here in the safety of the forest. He got to his feet and tip toed around the roots of the tree and the sleeping bundles between them, right around to where the ranger had taken his place. With his night eyes (a gift Frodo didn't think it was right to be grateful for), Frodo saw that he was sitting with his back against the tree, wrapped in a blanket, his right hand resting on Anduril in its scabbard. He reached out to touch the man's leg, not wanting to startle him, but before he could make contact, the ranger lifted his head and looked straight at him. 'Frodo, is that you?' he whispered. 'Yes.' 'Are you all right?' The very sound of the man's whispering voice made Frodo forget how it felt to be all right, and all the anxiety and confusion and undiminished longing rose like a sob in his throat. He pressed it down, and reached out to rest a hand on the man's leg, just above the knee. The ranger didn't move. Frodo could feel every muscle in his thigh tense, as if the touch was unwelcome. 'You have to talk to me, Aragorn. What is wrong? What have I done?' he whispered. The idea that this whole awful situation might be caused by something he had done - or not done right - had just struck him, and it was infinitely disturbing. The man met his eyes for a long moment. Then he sighed and looked up at the sky, resting his head against the tree for a moment. Frodo drew back his hand. He felt cold all over. 'Not here. Come.' The ranger got up, soundlessly, and stole away from the camp, Frodo's unresisting hand in one of his and his sword in the other. As they walked, he let go and strapped the sword, hands moving automatically, to his hips. Frodo didn't know where they might be going. He didn't care, as long as it was to a place where this drawn-out uncertainty might be brought to an end. He felt as if he had been holding his breath for a very long time. Aragorn didn't go far. He stopped in a little clearing after maybe a quarter of an hour, well out of hearing distance of the camp. Frodo saw an empty quiver hanging on a tree nearby, still in the light of the half moon. It must be the place where the elves - and Aragorn, sometimes - practiced their shooting skills. He looked back at the ranger, a tall dark outline against the night sky. 'Aragorn?' He wanted the man to kneel down and hold out his arms and take him and hold him close, where he belonged, pressed against that wide chest, far from danger and safe from sorrow. But the man neither spoke nor moved. Frodo could see from his profile that he was looking at the ground, and the tilt of his head and the line of his shoulders betrayed his tenseness. 'Frodo,' he said at last, in a low voice. 'It distresses me more than I can say to see you so upset.' Frodo was taken aback by the formality of these words, but there was a tightness in the man's voice that told him that they were truly meant. Even so, the desperate pleas died on his tongue and he tried to respond with suitable restraint. 'It is nothing, really,' he said, carefully, not looking at the ranger. 'I... I suppose I was growing used to your attention... and now I feel... as if a cloud has come between me and the sun.' The ranger knelt, and put a hand on Frodo's shoulder. It wasn't what Frodo wanted, the distance between them felt even greater with that polite touch, the arm's length like a mile of stony ground. 'No one can control the clouds,' the ranger said finally, in a low voice. 'If I could, heaven knows I would have tried for you, Frodo.' 'I hoped...' His voice trailed off, feeling suddenly foolish. What exactly had he hoped for? How could he say it? 'I had hoped to be in the sun a little longer.' Another long, tortuous silence. Frodo could hardly breathe. 'You are dear to me, Frodo.' The voice was steady, but so low it was almost a whisper. The hand squeezed his shoulder. 'For many reasons.' Frodo reached out for him, found and gripped a handful of clothes, knuckles whitening. 'Only one reason matters to me,' he whispered. He wanted this to be over, to find the right words to undo all the strangeness and make everything easy again. 'It is impossible, Frodo.' Frodo stared at him, at the deep, unknowable darkness under his brows, impenetrable even to him. Suddenly it became too much, and he turned wildly away, needing to put some cool night air between himself and the man in order to think clearly. 'Careful!' Aragorn caught him by the shoulder before he was three steps away. 'There may be sharp things on the ground. Splinters, arrowheads -' 'Don't!' Frodo said desperately, pleadingly. 'You know I see well at night, Aragorn. I don't need to be told what's in front of me, like a silly child. I wish you would just...' The moonlight was on the man's face now, and he looked as if he was about to say something, but after a long moment's hesitation he looked away from Frodo. Frodo waited, breathless, for him to compose himself. 'I know you are not a child, Frodo,' he said finally. 'But sometimes we all need to have the obvious pointed out to us, even in broad daylight. You are not the only one who sees well in the dark. And that's the very reason...' he stopped himself, and when he continued his voice was lower, more insistent. 'I have come to know that I overstepped the mark - many marks.' 'What marks or boundaries are there that we need to heed, you and I?' Frodo's heart was shrinking with foreboding even as he spoke. 'I took a place which wasn't mine to hold.' Frodo saw, briefly, the moon reflected in the man's eyes, before he abruptly got to his feet, letting go of Frodo's shoulder. 'Try to see... This was never...' 'Never what?' Frodo almost cried out. Their eyes met again. 'It was never true... never real.' 'I don't understand!' And then, in two rapid steps, with a rough scraping of his scabbard on the ground as he knelt, the ranger's face was suddenly close to his own, his arms being grasped violently enough to make him tremble with the withheld strength and emotion. He stared at the man's face, with confusion so overwhelming it was almost a horror. 'Neither did I,' Aragorn said between his teeth, 'and I never knew my blindness until I was shown! You do not see, you do not understand, but you must try, for there is something much more important than these little deaths of yours and mine, and it is lying right before you! That is the path for you, and I cannot lead you down any other and keep my honour. And if you cannot see it, I have to show you, by whatever means, lest *you* lead *me* astray!' Frodo had lost his voice. The words echoed in his head, harsh and incomprehensible. Deep and audible breaths, one after the other. 'I have no right. But you *are* dear to me, Frodo.' And with that, the ranger pressed a quick, hard, trembling kiss on Frodo's mouth. A second later Frodo was alone in the clearing, unseeing and breathless. When he could think again, Frodo realised that he had better get back before anyone began to wonder. Numbly, he set off, tramping dejectedly through bracken and fallen branches. The woods were unreal in the chilly moonlight, inky black shadows crossing his path like cracks and abysses. The ranger was not there when he arrived back at the camp. Frodo didn't know what to do other than lay himself down on his bed. Loneliness blended with the confusion until his face and throat began to ache, because he understood that although he hadn't really got an answer to his question of what it was that had gone wrong, it didn't really matter anymore. A tear stole down his cheek and was silently absorbed by the cloth under his cheek. The more he tried to understand, the more it hurt. How could any of this ever be undone and put right? He felt more tears pool in the corner of his eye and steal down across his nose. Never ever had he felt so forsaken, so small, so bitterly alone and insignificant. He turned many times on the hard ground before sleep gently rescued him, just on the other side of midnight.
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