Harem Spring

Bag End West
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Harem Spring

by Ariel
Rated: NC-17

Spring was a busy time at Bag End West, Tol Eressëa, full of planning, planting and whole scale cleaning. Though Frodo always tried to make himself useful to his ladies during such industrious times, he was more often simply in their way, and so, bowing to his betters, he relinquished the necessary tasks to them. They did a better job of ordering the smial than he or Bilbo ever had, in any case. Unfortunately, after a hard day of work, few of the lasses had anything more than sleep on their minds. Even Sam was no company, for he was in his glory, sharing the wisdom of his many years of gardening with the lasses as they planted the fields. But Frodo was not one to complain. Being inconvenienced and a bit lonely once or twice a year was a small price to pay for a clean smial and good hobbit victuals on the table.

It had become his habit, therefore, to keep himself from underfoot by wandering the fields, woods and rivers during spring cleaning and planting, just as he used those of his beloved Shire. While spring was bustling in the smial, it was a serene and verdant time in the forest. Everything seemed just on the brink of waking, as if at a turn you could catch the world bursting into life just behind you. The tall trees stretched grey fingers to the skies, their tips just touched with the golden, red or white of flower. The streams ran full, roaring exuberantly in their banks as they made their way down to the mighty river that flowed past Avallonë to the sea. The sun warmed hollows which soon would be shaded by leafy crowns, dark and mysterious, but, in imminent spring, were filled with light, niphredil and anemone.

One deliciously cool April morning, Frodo saw that the ladies were readying themselves for a thorough cleaning of his kitchen. With a sigh and a knowing shake of his head, he reached for his pack. A hunk of cheese and a half loaf of bread he snatched from the provisions that were already being removed from the pantry, and set off for the hills.

The breeze was light and the air almost shimmered with the new green-gold of just bursting buds. Meadowlarks sang and mice scurried in the fields, gathering what they could of Sam’s newly sown wheat before it sprouted in the rich earth. At the edge of the forest, Frodo looked back to see the little smial surrounded by dark, newly turned fields and a deep and poignant love filled his heart. He had not felt at home on the Lonely Isle for years, not until the elves built this house, not till he had found his ladies and let them into his heart, and not until his dearest friend had joined him there. Now, it was indeed home.

With the comfort of that dear vision, Frodo moved on under the trees. Bare, they offered little shade, but the breeze was cool and caressed his cheek gently. It was quite pleasant walking and he went on through the forest at an easy pace, stopping here or there to take in the beauty of a stream or spring, the heady scent of a newly opened flower or the tantalizing taste of the year’s first mushrooms. At elevenses, he paused and sat under the branches of an oak, letting the sun warm him and eating his meagre meal. A sound, just at the edge of hearing, drew his attention.

Something was approaching through the forest, strolling from the same direction he had. Though he had seen many animals through the morning, does bringing new fawns out to greet the day, foxes herding litters of downy kits from their dens, this creature moved quietly, as only hobbit or elf could. Frodo sat still, his eyes trained on the lacework of foliage, waiting to see who or what came into sight.

He saw her skirts first; as pale a green as the new leaves, then her corset, a deep brown leather stitched with bright yellow cording. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun and tendrils of curls pulled loose by the brush, cascaded around her bare shoulders. She was not walking purposefully, but wandering as he had, exploring the newly awakening spring as if she hadn't a care in the world. She did not see him, for her eyes were on the trees, the flowering shrubs and the riot of wildflowers, and her manner was both unguarded and enraptured. Frodo could not take his eyes off her.

He knew her, as he knew all his ladies, but at that moment and in the bloom of her wonder, he thought that he had never seen anyone so lovely in his life. She sang a soft tune that the birds seemed to echo and laughed to hear them answer. A flower was tucked gaily behind her ear and she stepped delicately along the deer path as if a harder footfall might crush some revered thing beneath it. In that moment she looked as innocent as the spring itself and as delectable. Frodo's heart surged in his chest but he resisted the temptation to rush forth. Such impetuous action would only serve to break the sweet spell she had cast. As silently as he could, he stood.

She had turned, smiling, to gaze at the mighty trees behind her and did not notice her lord until she resumed her stroll. Then her eyes flew wide and she gasped, the little tune she sang dying in her throat. She lowered her eyes and a furious blush lit her face.

"Oh, dear my lord!" she stammered. "You must think me a terrible sluggard to be out wandering the woods on cleaning day! But there were so many hands at work already in the kitchen they said I was not needed! Master Sam said, because I tilled the wheat field yesterday, that I should take my ease today." She looked up at him, embarrassed. "I would not leave my sisters to such labours if not bid to, sir."

Frodo held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Never fear, lass! I wasn't thinking ill of you. If any could be called a lout for evading work, I could! I just find it amusing that, in all the forests of Eressëa, you came upon me!"

"I didn't follow, my lord," she said, her eyes widening in surprise. "I had no idea you would be here. Master Samwise suggested I…" And suddenly her blush deepened to a bright red. "Oh, dear..." she murmured.

Frodo could not help a loud and hearty burst of laughter. "I see! It seems my friend is engaged in mischief again. I think dearest Sam delights in spying out the loveliest of my ladies and sending them spinning under my nose just when they are at the height of their beauty." He paused and studied the lass before him; the picture of vernal delight, fresh and unspoiled, and as irresistible as the season’s first red ripe strawberry. "And he's got an eye for it, too," he confessed under his breath.

"I will trouble you no more, my lord," she said, dropping into a curtsey. "The woods are wide and can easily provide delight for two woodland wanderers." She turned to go, but Frodo came forward and touched her arm. She looked up.

"The woods are vast indeed, but I would find more delight in them in your company than alone. Sam may be a wicked fellow, but he is wise in matters of the heart and I believe him right in sending you to me. Would you thwart his purposes and wander alone?"

She opened her mouth to answer, and then held herself, thinking. At last shook her head embarrassed.

"I have been played, have I not?"

"By a skilled master, yes. We both have. There is no shame in it."

She peered up at him and a smile spread slowly across her fact. It grew until her cheeks fairly glowed with delight. "I must confess," she said at last, her voice dropping into a softer, husky tone. "I would rather have your company than not today. When I saw you standing there, I thought one of the Eldar had taken your form. You…" She lowered her eyes. "I had never seen you look so beautiful. You are glowing with health and joy. It is a balm to my soul and a delight to my eyes." She smiled shyly. "I hoped you would let me stay." Then she looked up at him with a look so loving and open, Frodo could almost see into her soul. Hers was not a blind devotion, nor an infatuation of the blood, but a pure love that radiated from her like the sunlight. Frodo thought she had been desirable before, but with such a light in her face it was all he could do to suppress the urge to take her into his arms.

"I… I don't think I could let you go just now, in any case. Life has taught me that joy, real and precious as it is, is fleeting. You are a spring flower at the peak of its bloom. Such blossoms fade if you do not pick and savour them." He stepped forward and took her hand.

The lass swallowed and Frodo was keenly aware of her breath quickening and the tantalizing rise and fall of her white bosom. He delighted in the sight, but checked himself, imagining the smirk Sam was probably wearing at that very moment. His friend had kept his own company in the smial adjacent to his own, but for all the conquests the gardener could have made among the ladies of Frodo's house (for there were many there who loved him deeply), he seemed to take much more delight in seeing to it that his master's needs were met. Frodo smiled wryly. It had almost become a game between them. His friend would spy one of the lasses at her most delectable and, with an innocent seeming request or suggestion, send her to Frodo at moments when he was least able to resist them; alone, enjoying a quiet bath or reading a book by the river. Sam's choices showed his familiarity with and deep appreciation for the beauty of the feminine form, and also his uncanny instinct for knowing exactly when Frodo would most be ready for companionship. Thus far, Frodo had been unable to deny any of his gardener's choices, and each failure had stiffened his resolve to try harder while deepening Sam's smirk of triumph.

"Rascal," he muttered with a resigned grin and leaned to kiss the back of his lady’s hand. "There is nothing more beautiful than Tol Eressëa in spring, dear one. It would be a sweet pleasure to share its blessing with you." He tucked her arm under his own and led her deeper into the forest.

Birch and willow sported the tiniest of leaves and the pendulous catkins of alder swayed in the soft breeze. A robin flew across their path and into the busy lattice of a shrub to scold them. They followed a path, of sorts, though overgrown and forgotten, and, after a bit, it began to climb. The trees became tall oaks and grey barked sycamores and the dark splash of laurel could be seen in the underbrush. Holly and fir, not yet ready to put out their new leaves, dotted the understory and the forest became darker and more serious, but the bright splash of deep forest flowers kept it inviting. The two hobbits walked on, not talking but listening to the voice of the wind and feeling the great power of life stirring again.

At the top of the hill, they found a small, open-air pavilion. From the look of the trail that led to it, the place was little visited, but when Frodo and his lady entered under the roof, they found the curtains that were tied back to the four corner posts were soft and supple and as fresh as if newly washed. There was a large bed in the center; elf-sized and nearly filling the protected space. Its linens were also fresh and, barring a scattering of windblown leaves, appeared unaffected by neglect or the elements. The view that presented itself beyond the bed was like a living mural framed by Elvish columns. Mountains, far distant and capped with snow, rose up in a thrust of sunlit mauve and purple under a white mantle. To the left glittered the blue-grey sea, its furthest reaches melting into the paling sky; to the right the forest guarded them, its stately pillars whispering in the spring wind.

“What is this place?” the lass asked, breathless with wonder.

“I know not. I have never seen this structure here, though I judge I have climbed this hill before. Look! You can see the sea!”

“But this looks west, away from our home,” she said, her voice holding just a hint of sorrow. “There is nothing there but the great expanse fading into the distance.”

Frodo looked at her in surprise. “Do you not see what lies hence? The barest glimpse of Valinor? It is there if you have eyes to see it.”

His lady then looked at him and the sorrow now touched her face. “I have no desire for Valinor, my lord,” she answered softly, “for it is here my heart now lies. I have joy, beauty, companionship and life, and all in measures I would not have dreamed possible. This is all the reward I have ever wanted. I sense there will be a time when you will leave us, to venture along those hallowed paths to something only you and the Elves understand, but I fear I will not be with you then.” She looked down, the sadness dimming the light of life that had surrounded her. “I am but a common lass; a creature of earth and sunlight. This place is as far as I may venture into such mysteries.”

Frodo was surprised at her words, but understood her meaning. There was a place beyond this world for him, when he chose to take that road. It was the place of waiting, where the Elves went to be reborn. Part of him yearned to learn its wonders, to have one more great adventure before he left the confines of the world, but he was not ready yet. There were some joys, some savours that only the living could taste. They were not the deep rewards of the spirit, but the evanescent lights of living; like the smell of baking apple pie, the stir of feeling a willing body melting against his, the hearty satisfaction of a job well done and completed; those little, meaningless bounties that were made more precious than gold by their transience. His lass was right; he would go to a place beyond, his spirit bid him to, but would his ladies?

With sudden clarity he saw that they would, but that their path would be somewhat different from his, as would Sam’s; more direct, but briefer. He, touched by evil and then the self-recriminations it had stirred, would be given the chance to see the glory of Aman, time to purge himself fully of any taint and to complete his healing, but they did not need to be, they who had crossed the sea for love alone. In their innocence was purity and at their time they would cross a dearer bridge than he would.

“I have the eyes to see,” he said softly, “and a chance to regain what I have lost, but you have ever kept your blessings and shared them with me freely.” He lifted her chin and his blue eyes pierced hers. “Share them with me now?” he pleaded. “Let me treasure the fleeting spring of you. Let me take you to joy and wrap your ephemeral spirit in my heart. If I am bid to one day walk where you may not, then let me take at least part of you with me.” He cupped her face in his hands and gently stroked her cheeks. “Please…” he whispered. “For the love you all bear me, let me keep each of your hearts in mine forever.”

It was love he had seen in her face before, but it burned there so brightly now it seared him.

“I would give anything I had to you, my lord. That is why I came to this place. I loved you ere I met you, and the bond grows naught but stronger. Take my heart and make the love I feel for you eternal.”

She leaned forward and kissed his lips. It was more an invocation than invitation, but Frodo felt the fire in it. She was the spring, in beauty and promise and, in offering herself, blessed them both with life. He kissed her back, as tenderly, and then wrapped his arms around her as he had longed to do from the moment he had seen her.

She trembled with eagerness as he moved down her throat and her tantalizingly uncontrolled shivers sent heat coursing through his body. He dove into the hollow of her neck and breathed in her soft musk till he could think of nothing but delight. In that moment he was no eternal spirit but an undeniably present player in this ageless rite. There was no future, no lofty hall in Valinor, and no past; there was only life's fire and the call to answer it.

Her head thrown back, she bucked against him and the wild movement took them off their balance. Together they fell in a jumble of limbs onto the great mattress. It smelled delicately of lavender and was covered with warm silken coverlets, but neither hobbit had the mindfulness to notice. Frodo rolled with his lady from the edge and settled her, enthroned in the centre, to unveil the treasures she concealed.

Yellow laces bound her corset and as he dove into a kiss, his hands slowly but inexorably loosed them. The gentle, methodical pressure of his touch against her breast and his searching, overpowering kiss made her writhe but Frodo released neither her garments nor her lips. Long practiced in the intricacies of female clothing, he quickly worked the corset free and deep in the thrumming of passion, he delved into her mouth. Unresisting, she received him and his head swam with the urgent taste of her; fresh, ephemeral, as clear as a mountain stream and delicately sweet. She had the kind of savour only rarest chance (or a faithful gardener) would send his way again. He melted into it, caressing her gently and drawing her out with devoted skill.

A bosom as soft as down met his fingertips and he stroked her through her thin chemise till she moaned with eagerness. He pushed the unlaced garment from her shoulders and tugged the rest of her clothing down her body, kissing what lay revealed as he went. Soft she had seemed to his fingers but softer still to his lips. He played her body artfully, dancing over velvet skin till she jumped and arched and cried out with longing.

She was springtime indeed; vernal blessing in the guarded shade, her skin as fresh as the new leaves and glowing with the flush of excitement. Perched above her, he turned this way and that, desire stirring him into a frenzy that was past distraction. Each touch they shared filled him with energy and elicited a gasp of pleasure from his lady. He was dragging kisses down her thigh when she, with a moan, reached up and pulled desperately at him, drawing his hips within her hungry reach. At her first purposeful touch, he arched back and groaned. Fingers plied the buttons of his trousers and trembling hands drew him out eagerly. He held himself, breathless, as she stripped him bare, stroked him with her fingertips, and drew him down.

Her mouth touched him and he shuddered wildly. So soft and moist, she enveloped him in an indescribable delight. He let her guide him and laid down beside her, slave to the slightest pressure of her arms, letting her roll him onto his side and draw him close until he was fully embraced in that warm, wet haven. It was sweet torture not to drive himself into her, to let her lips and hands stroke and tease him without joining the fray. He bit his lip around a howl of passion and trembled with the effort.

Fervently she stroked him, drawing out and plunging back, building an energy between them that seemed fit to erupt like a fountain of spray. He opened lust-fogged eyes and saw what lay before him; downy roundness, lush hips, thighs of creamy white. Overcome with passion, he could barely think or move in any manner but in wild response to her. The heat radiating from her body drew him in and, through the maelstrom of lust, he reached for her. The soft hollow of her hip quivered under his kiss. A tender seduction of fire and musk, her body called to him, and in his frenzy he could not resist it. He dove unerringly in.

Her shocked squeal roused him a moment, but the heady mixture of her suddenly wild vigour and the slick sweetness of her body subdued conscious thought almost immediately again. He rocked into her and she, into him, each delirious with pleasure and aroused beyond comprehension. She succumbed first, releasing him and arching her back as spasms of ecstasy coursed through her. Freed at last, he rolled her onto her back and drove in again, deeper. He could feel the fluttering sensation of her climax and it spurred him to a fevered pitch. She shrieked, bucked and writhed as if in agony, but was powerless against him and he knew no mercy.

Her cries were like music to his ears; a song of spring and life as old and young as the land itself. Fierce pride and strength charged him. She was fulfilled, enraptured and sated by his effort, but his part was not done. Pleasure was but one purpose of this rite; he still must give and she, receive and cherish. Before her shrieks had faded to whimpers, he turned and drove himself into her without reprieve. She gasped in surprise and shuddered, but arched up willingly to accept him. Her eyes were closed, her lips flushed red and the soft white domes of her breasts shook with his might, but she held him as if he were her greatest treasure. Her fecund beauty was almost too much for him to bear; it roused him till he thrust wildly and deep, a slave to his own deferred lust.

In the throes of high passion, there can sometimes be seen truth, or so the Elves had said. The Eldar had never quite understood the relationship between Frodo and his ladies, but being as he was not of their kind, they simply accepted it. Frodo was not certain how to explain that the taking of many mates was not his race’s custom either, but it was the only arrangement he could imagine. Not only did it work in blessed harmony, but he also thrived on it. They thought him their inspiration, but they were the source of his strength, they and Sam, and Gandalf and Elrond, and all the other dear souls he had been forced to leave behind. It had taken him a long time to accept his deeds and take the pride he now understood he deserved to take in them, but he gave credit where else it was due as well. As rapture enfolded him, he saw, in a flash of new insight, another truth he had not realized before.

He was as mortal as they were, alive and ephemeral by nature and destined to pass beyond the Circles of the World one day just as they would. And yet he could not deny that he could also see a future reaching long past the span of a mortal life. He had thought it a gift of the Valar, that they would give him a chance to continue and redeem himself in the world. Part of him had wished he could choose not to accept it, though he’d thought he’d had no choice in the matter, but in that tumultuous instant the true source and nature of his own immortality was revealed to him.

Love and memory, it was said, could feed the spirit and keep it whole, but the love his ladies bore him was different. It was pure, lusty, divine and selfless, all at once, eternal and un-diminishing and stronger even than his burden had been. He shuddered in awe and rapture. There was something in him, in the core of his being, that had inspired it; perhaps the love he’d borne his beloved Bilbo or his dearest Sam, or the courage that had enabled him to carry the Ring as far as he had, but he was but the focus, not the source of this power. They were. It was the strength of their love that would bear his soul into eternity, not he who would carry theirs!

He trembled with release and let forth a keening, triumphant and yet sorrowful cry. Did they know what great honour they did him? Had they any idea of their might? He fell upon his lady and took her awestruck frame into his arms to hug her fiercely. She wept and kissed him and held on as if she would never let him go.

No, they did not. They thought him their lord and master, or at least the possessor of a greater spirit than theirs. They gave to him willingly, devotedly, with few understanding the magnitude of their gift. The perception humbled and endeared him.

“My beloved,” he gasped. “I know!” When he had come to Tol Eressëa, his charge had been to learn himself, to come to a better understanding of his true place in this world. As she looked up at him, gleaming like the sun, damp ringlets clinging to her glistening face and her eyes burning with love, he saw the truth plainly. “I know now!” he cried, trying to speak through the enchantment of her beauty. One day, perhaps, they would perceive it. One day they would see themselves for the treasures each of them were and would know that he was eternal only because they loved him. And if he would live on, so, he vowed, would they, and Sam and Bilbo, Gandalf, Merry, Pippin and Aragorn, and all those he loved. If love and memory could keep the spirit everlasting, then he would give them all an eternity.

Her answer was a brilliant, joy filled smile and he knew she had spoken truth before. It was as she had told him; she did not care for eternity. She was living the best reward she could ever imagine, there in the haven of his arms.

The End