Written with Gentlehobbit for the 2007 birthday of Claudia.

DISCLAIMER: Professor Tolkien’s wonderful characters don’t belong to me, I just get to think about them day and night.

Master Back-Walker

Aragorn, one hand poised to knock on the partially-opened door, heard what sounded like an agonized groan coming from inside the hobbits’ sitting room. Hastily pushing the door fully open, he froze at the sight before him. Lying on his stomach on the thick rug in front of the hearth was Frodo, and...

“Pippin,” Aragorn said cautiously, “what are you doing?”

“Hullo, Strider,” Pippin said cheerfully. “Let me just...” He hopped lightly down to the floor and bowed slightly. “Is there something you need?”

“Were you just walking on Frodo?”

Frodo opened his eyes, a blissful smile on his face. “Haven’t you ever had anyone do that for you?” he asked. “It feels quite wonderful.”

“If you say so,” Aragorn said dubiously.

“Oh, it does!” Frodo exclaimed. “Here, I’ll show you.” He got to his feet and motioned to the rug.

“I don’t think--”

“It’s all right,” Pippin assured him. “Frodo is an expert. He taught Merry and me everything we know.”

The hobbits were looking at him with such joyful expectation, Aragorn didn’t feel he could refuse them. Taking a quick look up and down the corridor, which was mercifully empty, he stripped off his outer tunic and folded it across a chair just inside the door. As the hobbits nodded encouragingly, he walked over to the rug and lay down on his stomach.

“Here, Pip, help me,” Frodo said, stepping carefully up onto Aragorn’s back. “Hold my arm so I don’t slip.” With skill that came from years of practice, he quickly got his balance, and Pippin stepped back. Frodo then walked slowly and carefully along the King’s spine, pushing in with his toes and heels, and leaning just so...

crack!

“Ohhh,” Aragorn groaned.

“Too much?” Frodo asked, worried.

“My goodness,” Aragorn sighed.

“Keep going, Frodo,” Pippin advised his cousin. “Strider’s had King duties all day. Can you imagine how exhausting that must be?”

“It must be dreadful,” Frodo agreed. “Wil Whitfoot gets tired just presiding over the Fair. And that’s only held every seven years!”

“Strider, you’ll want to hold fairs in Minas Tirith,” Pippin said, sitting by the King’s head. “You need to know who has the nicest cows and sheep, and who bakes the best pies, and maybe there can be archery and...”

Aragorn sighed again, ready to agree to anything. Frodo’s sturdy feet had reached his upper back. He breathed deeply, in and out, as Frodo pressed now harder, now softer, and suddenly realized that he was feeling more relaxed than he had in days.

“Your muscles aren’t nearly as tense now,” Frodo said finally, giving the King’s back one last traverse. “You really should arrange for a good back-walking at least every other day.”

“He’s right, Strider,” Pippin agreed. “Whatever will you do when we go home?”

“Frodo’s not going home,” Aragorn murmured. “Ever.”

“Well, of course he is,” Pippin chided gently. “You can’t keep him from seeing Bilbo and the Shire.”

“Yes, I can,” said Aragorn before he could stop himself.

Frodo merely chuckled. “Pip, we really ought to teach someone to walk over Aragorn’s back. We won’t be here to do it ourselves, but...”

“Yes, you will,” Aragorn mumbled.

“...but there must be someone small enough or light enough who could do it. If not hobbits, then who…?”

He and Pippin looked at each other and, as one, said, “Lady Arwen!” They chuckled at the smile that bloomed on Aragorn’s face.

And so it came to be known, among the denizens of Minas Tirith, that the Queen of Gondor practiced the much-prized art of back-walking, after the style of the pheriannath, upon her husband the King. This technique was much sought after, and healers and apprentices came from afar to learn the skill from her. For, after all, Queen Arwen had received her training from none other than the Master Back-Walker himself, the Ring-bearer -- Frodo Baggins of the Shire.