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Chapter Text

The citadel of Minas Tirith was cold at night, even in spring. The mountain air wound its way through the cracks of the stone, brushing over the torches that lined the halls and whispering along the ancient corridors like ghosts of kings long passed.

Aragorn stood in his chambers with his back to the door, his mantle sliding from his shoulders, his crown already resting upon a velvet cloth. He did not need it tonight.

He never needed it with Frodo.

The silence of the room was broken by a quiet knock—soft, hesitant, but familiar. Aragorn turned only halfway.

“Come in.”

The door creaked as it opened, and Frodo stepped inside, closing it behind him as though wary of the noise it might make. He stood for a moment, gaze searching, lingering on Aragorn’s back.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Frodo said softly, hands twisting in front of him. “I just… you missed supper.”

Aragorn didn’t answer right away. He was looking out the window now, past the city, beyond the white walls, to the plains that stretched far away into darkness. His shoulders were heavy beneath his tunic, his bearing that of a man far older than his years. When he did speak, his voice was quiet and tired.

“There are many things I miss.”

Frodo’s brow furrowed. He stepped closer, then paused, uncertain. “Aragorn?”

The king turned fully then, and Frodo’s breath caught.

He looked like a statue carved of shadow and storm. His eyes were hollowed with lack of sleep, his hair loose and unbraided, and though he wore no crown, he bore the full weight of it still.

“Come here,” Aragorn said at last. Not a command. A plea.

Frodo crossed the room in four quick steps, and before he could say another word, Aragorn’s arms were around him, pulling him close, burying his face in Frodo’s curls as though he’d been holding back tears for days.

Frodo froze only a moment before melting into the embrace. His small hands reached up, tangling in Aragorn’s hair, feeling the tremble in the man’s shoulders.

“It’s alright,” Frodo whispered, not knowing what he was soothing. “I’ve got you.”

Aragorn didn’t answer, but his grip tightened.

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It had been weeks since the coronation.

Minas Tirith was reborn, golden banners fluttering from towers and laughter echoing in the streets. Gardens were replanted, houses rebuilt. The people smiled again. They cheered when they saw their king, laid flowers in his path. And Aragorn smiled back, always, always.

But Frodo could see.

In the halls of marble and white stone, in meetings that stretched into evening, behind the speeches and decrees and royal decrees that passed through his hands, Aragorn was fading. Slowly. Quietly.

He was a man worn thin by duty.

Only when he came to Frodo did that mask fall away.

Only with Frodo did Aragorn feel he could be small again.

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They didn’t speak for a long while, wrapped in each other’s arms near the hearth. Frodo curled up against Aragorn’s chest, and the man held him like a lifeline. Neither of them needed to fill the silence.

“You missed supper,” Frodo murmured eventually, the words muffled by the fabric of Aragorn’s shirt.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Aragorn replied.

“That’s not an excuse.” Frodo pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “You can’t rule a kingdom on an empty stomach.”

Aragorn let out a breath that was not quite a laugh. “I am discovering that one cannot rule a kingdom at all.”

Frodo tilted his head. “What happened today?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Nothing new. Nothing terrible. Just… the same decisions. The same demands. Everyone looking to me for answers, as though I hold all wisdom in my palm.”

“You do make a very convincing wise man,” Frodo teased, trying to coax a smile from him.

It earned him a faint curve of Aragorn’s mouth. “Convincing, perhaps. But not without cost.”

Frodo leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Aragorn’s jaw. “Then be unwise with me.”

Aragorn’s arms pulled him closer again. “You are the only place I remember how to be.”

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They had not spoken of love, not in words.

It had bloomed between them in stolen glances on the road, in shared cups of water, in Aragorn’s steady hand on Frodo’s back when he faltered. And after the Ring was gone, after the fires died and the world took breath again, it became something unspoken but undeniable.

Frodo had been unsure, at first.

Surely a king could not love a halfling. Surely a ruler of men and elves and all free peoples would not want the broken, scarred thing Frodo had become.

But Aragorn had held him one night, after Frodo woke screaming from dreams he would not describe, and whispered, “You are the light I follow when the crown weighs too heavy. You are my peace.”

And Frodo had wept in his arms.

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Now, sitting on the edge of the wide bed, Frodo took Aragorn’s hands in his own.

“Let me take care of you,” he said gently.

“You already do.”

“I mean it.” Frodo touched his forehead to Aragorn’s. “Lie down. Let it go for a while.”

Aragorn hesitated. “I cannot.”

“Then I will help you.”

Frodo guided him backward onto the bed, tugging off boots and easing the tunic from his chest. Aragorn let him, every movement reluctant but yielding.

“Close your eyes,” Frodo whispered, climbing beside him.

Aragorn obeyed.

Frodo curled around him, small body pressed to his side, hand resting lightly on Aragorn’s chest where the heart beat slow and steady.

“You don’t have to be king right now,” he whispered. “Just let me hold you.”

Aragorn’s breathing deepened.

He did not speak again that night.

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The next morning, Frodo woke to sunlight across the sheets and Aragorn watching him.

“You stayed,” Aragorn said softly, brushing a curl from Frodo’s face.

“I always do.”

Aragorn kissed his forehead. “You’re too good to me.”

Frodo smiled drowsily. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is.” Aragorn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “There are days I dread the dawn. Days I wish I could vanish into the woods like before. But then I think of you. And I remember why I stayed.”

Frodo reached up and cupped his cheek. “Then stay a little longer. Don’t be king yet. Just be mine.”

Aragorn closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “Yours,” he murmured.

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As the days passed, the city grew louder again, and the pressures returned.

But now Aragorn came to Frodo each night, sometimes silent, sometimes trembling with things he could not say aloud. Frodo never asked for explanations. He simply held him.

Sometimes they sat in the garden, Frodo tucked into Aragorn’s lap as the stars blinked above. Sometimes Aragorn would braid Frodo’s hair with clumsy fingers, and Frodo would laugh and lean into his touch.

And sometimes, Aragorn would weep.

He wept for Boromir. For the soldiers buried beneath the fields. For the weight of every name he would carry for the rest of his life. He wept without shame, for Frodo gave him permission to.

And Frodo would kiss the tears from his face and whisper, “I’ve got you. Let go.”

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One evening, as summer came, Frodo came to Aragorn’s chambers and found him standing before a map, shoulders drawn tight.

“They’re demanding grain again,” Aragorn said without turning. “South Gondor lost half their harvest to fire. And Rohan is petitioning for aid, though they will not call it such.”

Frodo crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Aragorn’s waist from behind. “Come to bed.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

Aragorn turned in his arms. “If I go to bed, I will have to wake again and face it all.”

Frodo looked up at him. “Then stay in bed longer.”

A pause.

Then Aragorn laughed—a real, warm, aching sound—and bent to kiss him. “You always know what to say.”

“No,” Frodo murmured. “Just what you need to hear.”

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Months passed. Seasons shifted. Frodo remained in the White City longer than planned, and no one dared ask why.

When Aragorn walked the halls by day, he was the king: strong, wise, noble. But when he returned to his chambers, he let the title fall from his shoulders like a cloak. And Frodo was there to catch it.

There were nights Frodo pressed kisses to every scar he could find. Nights Aragorn fell asleep with his head in Frodo’s lap, comforted like a child. Mornings where they lay entangled and the crown waited untouched on the table.

“I’m not enough,” Aragorn said once, eyes unfocused in the dark.

“You are more than enough,” Frodo answered, kissing his brow. “But you’re still allowed to break. Just not alone.”

Aragorn held him tighter.

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And then the summons came.

The Shire.

Frodo could not stay forever.

They both knew it.

But the knowledge made each night heavier.

“I can’t go with you,” Aragorn said one night, his voice thick with unshed tears.

“I know,” Frodo replied, smoothing his fingers through Aragorn’s hair. “But you’ll come to me when you can.”

Aragorn closed his eyes. “It won’t be the same.”

“No,” Frodo agreed. “But what we are doesn’t end because I’m not beside you every night.”

“I won’t sleep,” Aragorn said.

“You will.”

“I won’t let anyone else hold me.”

Frodo smiled softly. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

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On Frodo’s last night in the city, Aragorn stayed up late braiding his hair, hands steady though his heart wasn’t.

“You’ve always known what to say,” he murmured.

“And you’ve always listened,” Frodo answered.

They didn’t sleep much. Just held each other, wordless, until dawn.

When the sun rose, Aragorn helped him dress.

When the city gathered to say farewell, Frodo smiled and waved.

But when they were alone again, just before he mounted his pony, he turned and whispered:

“Don’t forget who you are when you’re not the king.”

Aragorn pressed his forehead to Frodo’s. “I remember every night. I remember with you.”

Then, as Frodo rode away, Aragorn stood with the crown in hand and watched until he was gone.

And that night, in the empty room, Aragorn lay down alone, hand curled over the spot where Frodo once lay, and whispered into the dark,

“Come back to me.”

Chapter Text

The banners of Minas Tirith fluttered high above the gates as Frodo passed beneath them once again, the wind catching the silver embroidery and lifting it like a sigh.

It had been over a year.

He hadn’t meant to stay away so long.

The Shire had needed him—his kin, his people, his roots. Sam had married, Merry and Pippin had taken to riding all over the countryside like young lords, and Frodo… Frodo had tried to find peace.

He hadn’t.

Not really.

Something had been missing. Something that had never left his mind or bones or heart.

He remembered his Uncle Bilbo's words and old regrets. He thought long and hard about where he wanted to be when he got to Bilbos age. He found his answer.

When the wind whispered east, he followed it home.

Back to him.

Back to Aragorn.

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Frodo didn’t wait for an escort or announcement. He dismounted before the stables and brushed off offers of help from the surprised guards.

“I know the way.”

And he did.

He walked with sure feet through the winding stone paths, past the white trees and the carved walls, up toward the top of the city. Toward the king’s quarters. Toward his room.

The halls were quieter than he remembered. Too quiet.

He reached the door and paused.

It was slightly ajar.

The flicker of firelight painted warm gold on the floor.

Frodo pushed it open with one hand.

And there he was.

Aragorn.

Sitting at the window with his crown off and shoulders bowed, a half-written letter in his lap and a goblet untouched at his side.

The sight stole the breath from Frodo’s lungs.

Not for the first time—but in an entirely different way.

His king looked… older. Not in the way of age, but of weight. Worn. Hollow around the eyes. His face was bearded and tired, and the calloused fingers on the windowsill twitched as though restless even in stillness.

And yet the moment his head turned, the moment his eyes met Frodo’s, the world stopped turning.

Frodo’s heart lurched. And he saw everything.

Every ache Aragorn hadn’t spoken.

Every crack the crown couldn’t conceal.

Every piece of the man unraveling underneath the silence.

“Oh, Estel…”

Aragorn stood slowly, not rushing to him. As though he didn’t believe the vision at first. As though afraid the wind had played a cruel trick on him.

But when Frodo moved forward, when he reached out with trembling hands and touched Aragorn’s face, the man closed his eyes and leaned into it like a man dying of thirst.

“You came back,” Aragorn whispered, voice rough and low.

“I promised I would.”

“I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I remembered every night.”

That was all it took.

In the next breath, Frodo was in his arms, pulled tight against a chest that shook with emotion Aragorn wouldn’t speak aloud. The kiss that followed was not soft, not hesitant—but desperate. Longing. Starved.

“I missed you,” Aragorn whispered against his lips.

“I know.”

“I’m not whole without you.”

“I'm here now.”

They stood in silence, forehead to forehead, until Aragorn breathed again.

And for the first time in months, it did not feel like a burden.

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Later, when the room was dim and the candles burned low, Frodo sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

Aragorn sat in a chair across from him, one leg bouncing, hands clenched together in his lap. He hadn’t stopped watching Frodo since he arrived, as though afraid he’d vanish again.

Frodo let the quiet stretch for a while, then spoke.

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

Aragorn gave a faint shake of his head.

“You haven’t been eating.”

Another shake.

“You’re wearing yourself thin, love.”

“I’m a king.”

“You’re a man. My man.”

Aragorn looked away, throat tight. “There are too many who need me. Too many who look to me to be strong.”

“And what happens when you crumble? Who picks you up?”

The silence that followed was answer enough.

Frodo stood and crossed the space between them, kneeling at Aragorn’s feet.

“I’m here now. Let me pick you up.”

Aragorn swallowed hard, then reached out and touched Frodo’s face like he couldn’t believe he was real.

“You never looked away,” Aragorn whispered. “Everyone else… they see the crown. They see what they need. Only you see me.”

Frodo pressed a kiss to the rough skin of his palm. “I see you. I always have.”

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That night, Frodo helped him undress.

He peeled back the layers of royal finery like armor, piece by piece. Tunic, mantle, boots. When Aragorn was bare but for his linen shirt, Frodo ran his hands down his arms slowly.

“I missed this,” Frodo murmured.

Aragorn’s eyes closed. “Touch me. Remind me.”

Frodo brought him to bed and climbed in beside him, curling around his larger frame. He rubbed circles into Aragorn’s chest with his thumb, whispering quiet reassurances. Soft nothings. Gentle praise.

“You did well today.”

“I didn’t do enough.”

“You’re still standing. That’s enough.”

“I’m tired.”

“Then rest, my love.”

“I can’t.”

Frodo pressed his lips to Aragorn’s forehead. “Then just lie with me.”

And slowly, Aragorn’s muscles relaxed.

He didn’t sleep long. But he slept.

And in the morning, for the first time in many months, he woke not with a hollow heart but with Frodo beside him.

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The people rejoiced at Frodo’s return.

Minstrels sang of the Ring-bearer, and children ran through the halls with daisies braided in their hair. Frodo accepted their warmth with quiet grace, but he stayed close to the tower, never straying far from Aragorn’s side.

He didn’t need to.

Aragorn clung to him like a lifeline, always touching, always near.

Some nights they lay on the balcony beneath the stars, Frodo’s head on Aragorn’s shoulder as the king whispered verses of old Elvish songs he barely remembered. Some nights they said nothing at all, just breathed together in the dark.

“I love you,” Aragorn said one night, the words trembling.

Frodo kissed his chest, just over his heart. “I’ve loved you since you told me to hold on in the Mines of Moria.”

“I was terrified.”

“You didn’t sound like it.”

“I was terrified for you.”

Frodo smiled. “And now?”

Aragorn looked at him, eyes shining. “Now, I’m terrified without you.”

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A week after Frodo’s return, Aragorn broke.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

It was after a council meeting, one where a nobleman accused him of weakness, of giving too much to Rohan, to the wildfolk, to the common people.

Frodo found Aragorn sitting on the floor beside the bed, shoulders shaking, fists clenched into his robe.

“Estel?”

Aragorn didn’t speak.

Frodo knelt beside him and wrapped his arms around his chest.

“They don’t understand,” Aragorn said hoarsely. “They don’t know what we fought for. They only see land, coin, borders. I see faces. The men who bled for me. The women who lost their homes. The children who cried when the horns sounded. And they call me weak.”

Frodo held him tighter. “You’re not weak.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“I want to be with you. Just you. Far away from all of this.”

“You will be. One day.”

“I wish it was today.”

Frodo rested his head against Aragorn’s. “Then let’s pretend, just for tonight.”

Aragorn turned, kissed him, and whispered against his lips,

“Then let me be yours. Just yours.”

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They lay together that night skin to skin, fingers tangled, hearts aligned.

Frodo kissed every scar he found, every inch of wear and wound, until Aragorn trembled beneath him.

And when Aragorn curled around him, murmuring soft words in Sindarin, Frodo stroked his back and whispered,

“You are still the boy who sang in the trees. Still the ranger who found me on the road. Still the man who followed me into Mordor with nothing but trust in his heart.”

Aragorn clung to him like he might fall apart otherwise.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said.

“You don’t need to.”

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The next day, Aragorn walked into court with his crown straight, his mantle clean, and Frodo’s hand tucked around a ring on a chain at his throat.

He ruled with steady eyes and a clear voice.

And that night, when he returned to his chambers and found Frodo asleep on the balcony in a nest of cushions and blankets, he smiled for the first time in days.

He curled beside him, pulled Frodo into his arms, and whispered,

“I remember who I am now.”

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One Month Later

The city celebrated the coming of summer with light and song. There were banners in the streets, and music in the air, and when Aragorn stood beside Frodo on the balcony and looked out over his people, he did not feel the weight.

He felt pride.

Peace.

Love.

“Are you happy?” Frodo asked him, quiet against his shoulder.

Aragorn turned and kissed the top of his head. “I am.”

“Truly?”

“Because of you. Always because of you.”

Frodo smiled and squeezed his hand. “Then come to bed, my king.”

Aragorn laughed, heart light. “As you command.”