FIC: WITH JUST A HOLLY BUSH TO SEE US 1/2 
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins 
 
RATING: NC-17 
 
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own  
these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien  
Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them  
interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time.  
 
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is going to be a fairly short (for me, anyway)  
totally gratuitous PWP, so I am warning you now. I had to do it,  
because I am going to be putting these two through hell in my next  
F/A fic. This is from Frodo's POV.  
 
*** 
 
The crebain had fled Hollin. Coming out of our hiding places, we  
prepared to pack and depart as swiftly as possible. Our goal:  
Caradhras. Just looking at the steep, snow-covered mountain that  
glowed a fiery red in the distance made me shiver.  
 
 
As soon as everyone was rounded up, we started anew on our journey,  
trudging for many a weary mile before finally making camp still a day  
away from Caradhras in a small hidden thicket full of holly bushes  
and rocks. With an exhausted sigh, I set my pack down and sank to the  
ground. My legs and feet were aching; still not quite used to such  
long marches over rough terrain.  
 
 
"Is it safe to stop here, Gandalf?" Gimli asked, looking up at the  
sky. It was still daylight---late morning---and we would likely rest  
a while and then continue in the cover of darkness. The dwarf was  
expecting more spies to pass over us any minute, I could tell, and I  
must admit I didn't cherish the thought myself. At times such as  
these the Ring felt heavier than ever.  
 
 
"We have no choice, Gimli," the old wizard replied. "We must take  
some rest---the hobbits will need all the energy they can spare to  
pass over the mountain. It will be a long, hard journey." He glanced  
at the four of us, mentally sizing us up. If what we had already  
endured was easy compared to the great summit before us, I had no  
desire to continue. But continue I must.  
 
 
Merry, Pippin, and Sam were again debating over who made supper.  
Apparently Pippin hadn't washed Sam's fry pans out correctly after  
cooking, which upset the older hobbit, who, after all, was very proud  
of his pans. I do know that many times, back home, Sam would discover  
a pan I'd not scrubbed properly in Bag End's kitchen and I would hear  
him muttering about it under his breath---as he was doing now.  
 
 
"You know, if you want a fry pan to last, you have to soak it in  
water and scrub it with sand," Sam was saying. "You can't go treating  
a fry pan wrong if you only got a few. And I only got a few, and I  
have a feeling they don't sell fry pans in Mordor. Unless, we're in  
them." 
 
 
I shuddered. We would doubtlessly find ourselves in worse places than  
fry pans, I was certain. On the other side of the camp I saw Aragorn  
glance briefly at me, his face a bit concerned. He was forever doing  
that---looking at me worriedly---but I felt quite certain it was  
because I was the Ring-bearer. His entire future depended on this  
quest.  
 
 
The ranger was smoking his pipe, his eyes often straying to the sky  
for any sign of approaching spies. Legolas was nowhere to be seen--- 
the elf, as usual, had gone off to scout out the path ahead. And  
Boromir sat on the ground polishing his sword. He was kind, was  
Boromir, but I admit I didn't feel I knew him too well. With a laugh,  
the man of Gondor called to Merry and Pippin. 
 
 
"Well, little ones," he said, "you bested me once by attacking during  
our sword training, and we shall have to do it again. But I daresay  
you learned something---I was hard-put to keep up with the two of  
you. Of course, `twas not quite fair, the way you attacked me  
afterward!" 
 
 
He chuckled and then turned toward Sam and me. I knew eventually we  
would be the target of his somewhat futile attempts to teach us how  
to defend ourselves. I'll admit, I needed the training and the help,  
but truthfully I could not see myself ever getting used to a sword  
enough to wield it properly. "And you little ones," Boromir  
continued, "you should better learn to use a weapon as well. It may  
mean the difference between life or death." 
 
 
I looked thoughtfully back at the man. "I hope that I don't have to  
use my sword," I said in low voice, then trailed off at the folly of  
my words and sighed. "But I suppose that is wishful thinking." 
 
 
"Aye, it probably is," Boromir replied. "From what I have heard, you  
had ample opportunity to use one on your way to Rivendell, when sore  
trials beset you. And this journey looks to be much more perilous  
still." 
 
 
I shivered again, even though it was quite comfortable outside,  
thinking back on the events from Bree to Rivendell. The longest  
seventeen days I had ever endured, and only Aragorn got me through it  
alive and with my sanity---and my soul---intact.  
 
 
From afar, I could see Aragorn again regarding me as he puffed on his  
pipe, and I realized something I perhaps should have realized before:  
I cared for the man more than I would have liked to admit. Even from  
our first meeting. Perhaps that fact had helped me to hold on a bit  
longer on the way to the House of Elrond.  
 
 
Boromir saw my look and pressed on, perhaps noticing me noticing  
Aragorn. "Frodo, perhaps you should let Aragorn show you the finer  
points of sword fighting. You would do well to learn from the likes  
of a warrior such as he." 
 
 
I saw Aragorn shoot Boromir a strange look. I'm sure he was afraid he  
would hurt one of us accidentally. But then the expression  
disappeared to be replaced by one of thoughtful consideration. The  
ranger probably figured that we could use any amount of training, so  
defenseless did we sometimes seem. However, I hoped he'd decline  
Boromir's suggestion.  
 
 
But instead the ranger turned his keen-eyed gaze upon me. "Well,  
Frodo, what do you say?" 
 
 
I started, a bit surprised that he had consented. Truth be told, I  
was a bit tired, and sword fighting was certainly not my forte. And  
there was something else. Being close to Aragorn made my blood pound  
in a way I had never imagined nor experienced. It had started just  
before Weathertop, but had never stopped. His presence oftentimes  
made me extremely nervous, and I was afraid I'd look a fool.  
 
 
But on the other hand, I could not sound ungrateful by turning the  
offer down. And as much as I hated to admit it, I would likely have  
great use for such training before my journey was over. 
 
 
"Very well, Aragorn," I said, my voice sounding more timid than I had  
intended. "I accept your offer." Removing my waistcoat, I set that  
aside and rose.  
 
 
"Come then," said he, drawing Anduril and leading me to a clear area  
of the camp in front of everyone. "Let us see what your Sting can 
do." 
 
 
*** 
 
 
I must admit I felt quite a fool, standing with my short sword in  
front of the tall ranger. His weapon alone was as long as I was tall,  
and although I knew Aragorn would be gentle, I wondered how I could  
possibly come out of this with my dignity intact.  
 
 
In more ways than one. Looking up at him, I was again taken by his  
rugged handsomeness . . . his long lean legs and angular face. And  
unfortunately I felt that familiar stirring in my groin I usually  
felt when I gazed his way. This would not do . . . why had I not kept  
my waistcoat on? That would hide it at least. And there were so many  
eyes watching us . . .  
 
 
"Ready?" There was a rather mischievous glint in Aragorn's eyes that  
I wondered at as he said it.  
 
 
"Yes." Drawing our swords, we began.  
 
 
I must say I was holding out better than I had anticipated. Of  
course, Aragorn was moving very slowly, and not with much force---if  
he had used even a third his strength and accuracy he would have  
beheaded me in short order.  
 
 
"Sidestep, Frodo," he commanded as he thrust another blow at me,  
which I was hard put to defend without losing my grasp on Sting. But  
I managed, somehow.  
 
 
"Good," Boromir commented to me, nodding, and a small smile came to  
my lips. Maybe I would'nt do so poorly after all.  
 
 
Aragorn lunged; I drew back, then we would parry each other's blows  
for a while until it was obvious I was in mortal danger and we had to  
start again. Through it all Aragorn was patient, explaining  
techniques, and it was really all I could do to keep my eyes on the  
man's face and avoid letting them roam his trim body.  
 
 
"Look," he said as he walked around and came up behind me, leaning  
down to grasp my arm and wrist, "hold your weapon at this angle--- 
that is right. And when you are fighting a larger opponent---say an  
Orc, for example . . ." 
 
 
The lesson continued, but I only heard half of it, I'm afraid. My  
pulse was quite soaring at the feel of his hands on my arm and his  
breath so close to my ear. To mention nothing of his broad chest  
resting against my back as he leaned far around me while  
demonstrating the proper movements.  
 
 
Finally he stood back and walked around to face me again. "One more  
time, Frodo, to see if you have remembered what I just showed you." 
 
 
I nodded and we were off again for a few minutes. I must say I did  
fare better this time, though not significantly. I was growing tired,  
however, and even Aragorn was looking rather flushed as finally, he  
knocked my sword out of my grip, leaving me weaponless. Smiling, he  
placed Anduril back in its scabbard.  
 
 
"Very good, Frodo---you have quite worn me out. I think someone must  
have been teaching you the mechanics of sword play in Rivendell." 
 
 
I bowed slightly as I bent to retrieve Sting, checking the blade to  
make sure it had sustained no damage. "Not at all. But thank you for  
the compliment."  
 
 
I was just lifting my sword to place it back into the scabbard at my  
hip when I heard "For the Shire!" called out very loudly and the next  
thing I was aware of, at least three people---including Aragorn--- 
landed on me at once, quite knocking the breath out of me and  
crushing me with their weight.  
 
 
"Oooof," I grunted. "Help . . ."  
 
 
I heard, "Merry, Pippin---off!" and some of the weight lifted.  
Apparently my rambunctious cousins had seen fit to attack the ranger  
on my behalf, I suspected. Although, as I felt my leg stinging from  
pain, I wondered ruefully if perhaps they had done me no favors.  
 
To be continued