Life Goes On

By: Elemmírë

Summary: During a sad event, young Frodo discovers a piece of happiness and that life does indeed go on after tragedy. Frodo is 13 ½ years old (age 7 in Man years).

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

Grief and sorrow penetrated the quiet hallways of the Took farm in Whitwell. Far behind him in the kitchen and sitting room, 13 ½-year old Frodo Baggins could hear the sounds of hushed chatter and the occasional forced laughter from dozens of relatives he barely knew. Uncle Bilbo had been there earlier, but he had left for Hobbiton already, soon after the burial ceremony had ended.

It was just like it had been after his own parents’ funeral, almost two years ago, he thought, remembering the same floating sound of hushed conversation that quieted even further whenever he had entered a room; the only difference being that now all the voices were of Took descent. He remembered feeling so small and lost amidst the swarms of adult hobbits, all staring down at him in pity and sympathy after he buried his parents; they had said, 'Poor lad' and had patted his curls in what they all supposed was a comforting manner. At least nobody had done that to him today, but he still felt small and lost and he was finding it difficult at times to understand what the other hobbits were saying, especially those with the strongest Tookish lilt, like Uncle Paladin.

Frodo, still too deep in his own grief, did not want to deal with the other hobbits today; they reminded him too much of the day his parents’ were buried. And so he found himself wandering aimlessly away from them and further into the smial, lost in his own melancholy thoughts, nobody paying him the least bit of attention.

He first passed the guest room he was sharing with Esmeralda and Saradoc Brandybuck, his nominal aunt and uncle. They were in actuality his older cousins and now also his guardians at Brandy Hall in Buckland. Uncle Rory, Aunt Menegilda, Uncle Merimac, Aunt Begonia, and baby Berilac were all staying at the Great Smials, where there were more rooms to house them all.

Next, he passed the lasses’ bedroom, which his young Took cousins, Pearl and Pimpernel, shared. The round door, with the pink and white flowers painted in an elaborate design in the middle, was closed. The 6 ½-year old and nearly 3-year old had both been laid down for a nap by their mother not long ago.

Frodo continued meandering down the curved hallway, his bare hobbit feet treading silently. He didn’t quite know where he was headed, but he continued on anyway. He wandered by Uncle Paladin and Aunt Eglantine’s bedroom before coming to a halt at the end of the long passage. To his left was a bare, whitewashed wall; to his right was a room he was unfamiliar with, it’s door slightly ajar. With a soft sigh, Frodo turned to walk back up the hallway, thinking he might be able to sneak outside to have a look at the various farm animals, when he heard a muffled crying sound coming from behind the semi-closed door.

Tentatively, Frodo slowly pushed the heavy round door open, jerking his hands back when the metal hinges gave a loud creak.

“It’s all right, Frodo. You may come in,” the voice of his Aunt Esmeralda called out softly, her own Tookish lilt more pronounced than it usually was in Buckland.

Bewildered and more than a little curious, Frodo slid his body through the narrow opening he had made. “H-how did you know it was me, Auntie?” he asked, standing shyly, his hands fidgeting before him.

“I just knew, pumpkin.” She gave a sad smile when Frodo’s pale cheeks blushed red at the little nickname she’d bestowed upon him since she and her husband had volunteered to foster the orphaned hobbit child. She had come to this room to be alone with her thoughts, to get away from everyone. But now she found herself glad that of all the hobbits gathered at her childhood home, it was this little one in particular who had unintentionally discovered her hiding spot.

Frodo looked up from where he had been staring down at his bare, curly-haired feet and toes. He saw the wet tear tracks marring his aunt’s pretty face and moved closer to her. She was sitting in an old rocking chair next to a now empty bed. Looking around the room, Frodo realized that he was standing in what must have been Aldalgrim Took’s bedroom. Adalgrim was Aunt Esme’s father and he had died peacefully in his sleep last week at the age of 102*, a most respectable age for a hobbit. Today he had been laid to rest in the old family grounds of the Tooks.

Frodo hadn’t really known Adalgrim Took very well, but he had been his second cousin twice-removed on his father’s side; Adalgrim’s father, Hildigrim Took, having been married to Rosa Baggins. Adalgrim had also been his first cousin once-removed on his mother’s side, his mother and Adalgrim both having been grandchildren of the Old Took. Adalgrim’s wife, Esther Longcleeve, had died in 1367 before Frodo was even born. She had only lived to be 87 years of age.

Frodo looked up, startled by a sudden revelation. Auntie Esme was now an orphan … just like him. However, although she no longer had a mother or father like him, she was not alone. She had her husband, Uncle Saradoc, and her three sisters and brother, all of her in-laws … and now him too.

It must be nice to have close family like that, Frodo thought. Once again, he found himself wondering what it would be like to have had a brother or sister. He remembered his father once telling him that it would be very unlikely he would ever have a younger sibling and that he would remain an only child. His father had explained to him that even though he and Mama had wanted more children, Mama couldn’t ever have any more, but they were so happy and blessed to have had him after wanting a child for so very long.

Frodo sighed. If he could have had a brother or sister then he wouldn’t be so alone right now. Auntie Esme was very lucky in that regard.

Esmeralda noticed the way Frodo was looking at her, part in longing and awe, and part in frightful understanding of what she was going through. “What is it, Frodo?” She beckoned to him and he came closer until he was standing before the rocking chair.

“You’re an orphan now too,” he whispered, placing a little hand over her own larger one.

Oh, this sweet, dear lad! Esme turned their hands over entwining Frodo’s tiny fingers within her own, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Yes, Frodo. I suppose I am,” she said softly.

“Does that mean you’re going to be sad all of the time too--like me?” he asked her with an innocent sorrow that out of all her relations in the smial, only he was capable of producing.

Sad as she was over her own recent loss, Esmeralda’s heart went out to the small hobbit child standing before her. Her father had lived a good, full life to the ripe old age of 102. He hadn’t suffered, save for the loss of his beloved wife twenty years earlier. Adalgrim hadn’t let that stop him from living, however. He’d reveled in his children and spoiled his many grandchildren. He had continued to put his heart into his farm, sharing the work with his only son, Paladin. In the end, Adalgrim Took had died peacefully while asleep in his own bed, unawares.

Poor Frodo, on the other hand, would forever be traumatized by his parents’ untimely and horrific deaths. On their last night during their frequent stays in Buckland, Drogo and Primula Baggins had traditionally gone on an evening boat ride together under the moonlight. This practice stemmed all the way back to their days of courting. Through the years and with the help of his many brothers-in-law, Drogo had gotten to be quite proficient in handling a boat, much to Primula’s delight, although he had always remained a very poor swimmer by Brandybuck standards.

During that fateful night, the then 11 ½-year old Frodo had been left in the care of his “aunt and uncle,” Esmeralda and Saradoc Brandybuck, who were both enthusiastic about the lad and thrilled to be the ones asked to watch him for the night, the job usually having gone to Old Rory and Menegilda or Uncle Rufus and Aunt Asphodel in the past. Frodo had been just as excited to spend the night at their suite in Brandy Hall, none of them knowing that the living arrangements were soon to become permanent.

The trio had shared a lovely dinner together, gone for a walk in the gardens, then had played with several of Saradoc’s old toys and games, which had been unearthed from his parents' mathom room for the occasion. They had surprised the child with a tub full of bubbles for his nighttime bath and Frodo had been allowed to stay up past his normal bedtime. Esme remembered her and Sara having to read several stories to the lad from the book Primula had handed to them, before she and Drogo had said goodnight to their only son. That had been the very last time any one of them had seen Frodo’s parents alive. Esmeralda and Saradoc had tucked the child (and his stuffed toy bear, Beorn) into their guest bed and he had slept peacefully throughout the night, the gurgle and flow of the Brandywine River outside the window lulling him to sleep unawares, as its very same waters were suffocating and drowning his mother and father.

Esme remembered rising early to start cooking first breakfast when there had been a pounding knock on the front door. Saradoc had answered it only to find his father standing before them in shock, his breeches and legs dripping wet and his bare feet covered in mud. The Master of Buckland had looked to have aged overnight suddenly.

Old Rory had entered his son’s residence, looking around dazedly. “Where is Frodo?” he had finally asked. Only when he had been reassured that his youngest nephew was still sound asleep did he reveal that early that morning at about sunrise, an overturned Brandybuck boat had been discovered by a fisher hobbit. It had been drifting downriver and Drogo Baggins’ stout body had been found nearby, entangled facedown in the reeds, having drowned. The stable hands, some hobbits from across the Marish, and Rory’s own brothers were all still searching desperately for Primula, but the outlook was grim. In his clenched fist, Rory had disclosed a red, waterlogged hair ribbon.

Choked with fear and dread, Esmeralda had barely been able to confirm that Auntie Primula had been wearing it tied in her thick curls last night when she and Drogo had dropped Frodo off with them for the night.

The three adult hobbits had sat around the empty kitchen table, numb with shock and grief at the sudden, tragic loss. They had decided against waking Frodo, determined to let the child sleep for as long as possible and they had dreaded when he would wake. How did one tell a young hobbit child that he had been orphaned overnight, they had fretted.

Esmeralda remembered looking in on Frodo earlier that morning before she was to start breakfast. Even now, after two years, she was still able to visualize the long, dark eyelashes and matching thick curls resting against the fair, sweet face with its rosebud lips, rosy cheeks, and lightly freckled nose. If only he could have remained in that innocent, beatific state, forever unaware of the tragedy that had waited to consume him once he opened his blue eyes.

Tired from staying up late the night before, Frodo had awoken well after the time for second breakfast. He had entered the kitchen, clutching his stuffed toy bear, Beorn, in one small hand; the other rubbing the sleep from his blue eyes. Yawning, he had climbed onto a vacant chair to await his breakfast, wondering why he didn’t smell anything cooking yet.

It was then that Frodo had noticed the presence of his Uncle Rorimac and he had let loose a great big smile at the unexpected, but pleasant surprise. It was to be the last such smile they would all see from the lad for years afterward.

“Are you going to have first breakfast with us, Uncle Rory?!” Frodo had asked excitedly, bouncing in his seat. “Where’s Auntie Gilda?”

Frodo’s smile and exuberance had faded quickly when he had sensed the tension in the room and the serious nature of the adults.

Nearly two years later, Esmeralda could still vividly recall her father-in-law kneeling before the 11 ½-year old hobbit and telling him of the accident that had resulted in his father’s death.

Alas, Frodo had been at that age when a youngster was just starting to learn that life is not permanent, but not yet able to understand the enormity or subsequent consequences of such a notion. “What do you mean Dad is gone? He went on the boat with Mama. ... I don't understand. Where did he go, Uncle Rory? When is Dad going to come back? ... Why isn't he coming back, Uncle? ... Where’s Mama? I want my Mama! Maamaa?!?!”

Soon after the unfortunate news had been delivered and Frodo’s world forever shattered, another slow, heavy knock had sounded at the front door. Saradoc had opened it to see his Uncle Dinodas, his father’s youngest brother, using the rounded doorframe as a support lest his weakened knees betray him. Sara had ushered him inside, knowing in his heart what the older hobbit was about to say.

“No,” Rory had whispered, seeing the anguish written all over his youngest brother’s face and staggering body. “No, she can’t be! No! Not her too!”

Unable to stand any longer, Uncle Dinodas had collapsed into a sobbing heap on the floor next to where his oldest sibling sat. “They’ve found Primmie …..” he had choked out. “I saw her … she-she’s gone!” he had wailed.

Frodo, still clad in his little nightshirt had run from the apartment, dodging the hands of the adults that had tried in vain to grab at him before he could get far. A symbol of his childhood, Beorn, had been left behind in his haste, dangling half-off the lad's vacant chair. Esmeralda remembered her husband once telling her that his father had caught the forgotten toy as it had fallen to the floor and had clutched it to his broad chest as he had wept bitterly. It was one of many sights that day that Saradoc had said he would never forget in his lifetime. It had been one of the few times he had ever seen his father cry.

Frodo had run, not knowing where he was headed but his little legs taking him there anyway. Esmeralda had been far behind the fast little hobbit when Frodo had reached the main hall and had suddenly stopped short, stunned by the sight before him. Across the spacious hall he had seen the limp, sodden, bruised body of his beautiful and beloved mother being carried inside and laid next to the equally sodden, limp body of his father. Before she could stop him, Frodo had run to his mother and father. All present in the Hall at the time had watched in silence and sympathy as the child, still clad in his nightclothes, had touched a small hand to his mother's damp cheek, and had called out, "Wake up, Mama."

When his mother hadn't moved or opened her eyes, Frodo had continued to call out for her, prodding and poking her limp body with his tiny fingers trying to spurn some reaction ... any reaction from her. Frodo had become increasingly frantic as he had turned to his equally motionless father. "Dad, wake up!"

Tears had rolled down every shocked hobbit's cheek as they saw the small lad desperately try to shake his father into awareness. "Why don't they wake up?" he had asked, turning to Esmeralda who had come forth from the growing throng of relations.

Esmeralda, her own tears streaming down her cheeks, had knelt down to the little one's eye level and had done the hardest thing she knew she would ever have to do in her entire life. "Frodo, your Mama and Dad will never wake up again. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. They're ... they're gone forever, dear lad."

Till the end of her days, Esmeralda knew she would always be able to hear the heart-rending keening sound Frodo had made. Frodo hadn't understood the enormity of what had befallen him that morning and he had continued to try to "wake up" his mother and father. It had taken her, Saradoc, and Merimac to wrestle the little one away from the dead bodies of his parents whom he had clung to for all he was worth, wailing and sobbing, refusing to let go of them. He had screamed himself hoarse that morning until he had finally collapsed into her arms in exhaustion.

Esme now stared at Adalgrim's empty bed and sighed, knowing that the grief over her own father’s passing would fade with time, but Frodo …. Frodo was just so very young and his tragic grief might end up plaguing him for the rest of his life. Before that fateful day, Frodo used to be so bright and lively. Now, he was too quiet and forlorn, always in mourning; she feared he would never recover himself.

She looked down into the upturned, serious little face staring at her in solemn understanding. Frodo knew all too well, and more than any child his age should, about the rigors and disappointments life could bring. He appeared so much older and wiser than other children his age or even those who were years older, yet he was also less mature and unsure of himself in many other ways. Shy to begin with, he would always find it difficult to fit in with others, she feared.

“Was today hard for you?” Esmeralda asked in sympathy.

She felt a bit guilty when he whispered, “Yes.” His voice was so soft that even her sharp hobbit ears had a hard time hearing his answer. Distracted by her father's death, neither she nor Saradoc had given any thought about bringing Frodo to Tuckborough for the funeral, not realizing that it might provoke unpleasant memories for him until it was too late. In hindsight, she supposed they could have left Frodo with one of his other aunts or uncles back at Brandy Hall for the two weeks they were to be away. She made a mental note to discuss this with her husband so they would both be on the lookout for Frodo’s nightmares to return, as they often did, or his melancholy to increase within the next few days. If worst came to worst, she supposed Rory and Menegilda could take Frodo back to Buckland with them or perhaps Sara could still bring the lad the shorter distance to Hobbiton and leave him to visit with his uncle, Bilbo Baggins, or Aunt Dora Baggins, for the remainder of their stay in Tuckborough. It was too bad she hadn’t thought of it earlier, then Frodo could have traveled back to Bag End with Bilbo already, as the two seemed to rather enjoy each other's company tremendously.

With another sigh, Esme leaned over and picked up the small hobbit child, straddling him on her lap so he was facing her. Frodo, who still longed for the touch of his mother’s warm, inviting embrace (even if it was just one more time), hesitated before wrapping his arms around his aunt’s neck in a comforting hug.

Esme held her breath, wondering if this was going to be one of the rare and infrequent times the lad would open up and speak of his feelings. As much as she and Sara assured the boy that they were both there for him and would listen anytime he wanted to talk about his parents, or anything else on his mind for that matter, he hardly ever said a single word to them about what he was thinking or feeling. Esme could count on one hand the number of times Frodo had spoken of his mother and father over the last two years. And as rare as that was, it was even more rare when it was not in the presence of his “Uncle” Bilbo Baggins, whom the lad had utterly adored since birth. Esme released her breath when the little voice began in its soft, yet high-pitched tone.

“When Mama and Dad were gone, everyone kept telling me that I was going to be okay and that I would feel better in time.” Frodo looked up and Esme saw the tears welling in his big blue eyes that revealed the depth of his emotions. “The problem was that I didn’t feel better … because I didn’t feel anything at all, just numbness. Then, when I did start to feel, it was most certainly not for the better …. It’s been almost two years, Auntie,” he whispered, staring downwards again. He fumbled with the buttons on his vest. “And I don’t feel any better. I-I don’t want you to be sad all of the time now, too.”

“Oh, Frodo, dear lad.” Esme hugged him close to her and let her own tears fall as she rocked them back and forth in the chair. “You will never forget your dear parents and you might always have sadness when thinking of them, but it will get better,” she promised him. “Sometimes, it takes a very, very long time, but one day you will feel happiness again, Frodo Baggins. Don’t ever give up hope that you won’t. One day--maybe sooner than you think--we’ll both be happy once more. Until then, we will have to help each other feel better.” She cuddled him closer and felt his slight arms squeeze her back in return, comforted by her sincere words and maternal presence.

After a few minutes, Frodo pulled away. “Will … will you tell me about your father?” he asked shyly. “I would like to know him better.”

“Of course, pumpkin.” The memories were not as bittersweet as she thought they might be, most likely due to her father’s old age at his passing. She even found herself enjoying the opportunity to share her memories and stories while Frodo sat quietly on her lap, paying her his full attention.

After a while he looked up worriedly. “Auntie, does your tummy hurt?” he asked a bit fearfully. He didn’t want something bad to happen to her too.

Esmeralda was surprised at the unexpected question. “No, Frodo. Why?”

“You keep rubbing and patting at your tummy like it hurts,” he said in all seriousness.

Given the circumstances, she laughed suddenly and hugged him tighter.

Frodo frowned, his lightly freckled nose wrinkling in his displeasure. “What’s so funny?” he asked petulantly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Esme smiled for the first time since she had learned of her father’s passing and debated in her mind. Should she tell him or not? He was going to have to find out eventually, but she hadn’t even told Saradoc yet. The thought that Frodo needed some cheering up and good news in his life for once finally propelled her into making what would be an unlikely decision for most hobbits in her position. Then again, she was a Took.

She sat him back on her lap, pulling his little arms free of each other, and held both of his small hands within her own. “If you can promise to keep a secret, Frodo, then I will tell you.”

Frodo thought for a moment before nodding his head firmly, his dark curls bouncing with the movement.

“Even from Uncle Saradoc?”

Frodo hesitated. What could Auntie Esme have to tell him that she couldn’t tell her own husband? Intrigued, he nodded again.

Esme suddenly felt jittery with excited anticipation. Somebody was finally going to know her newfound secret. She took in a deep breath. “Your uncle and I are going to have a baby. You’re going to be a big cousin, Frodo Baggins.”

Frodo’s large eyes widened even further and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “I-I am?”

Esme nodded and smiled brightly. “You are. What do you have to say about that, hmm?”

Frodo appeared to think deeply about this new piece of information. “Am I still going to live with you and Uncle Sara?” he asked tentatively. If Auntie Esme and Uncle Sara had their own child to take care of, then who would take care of him? He really hoped it wouldn’t be Aunt Amaranth, for she was a very stern, uppity hobbitess, who didn’t like children (or anyone who wasn’t a birthright Brandybuck) and made sure to let them know it. She didn’t know how to have any sort of fun whatsoever and sounded almost as bad as that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins that Uncle Bilbo liked to bemoan. No wonder she had never married! It was amazing his mother (or the rest of her siblings) had been related to her, in fact. He’d rather go live with Aunt Dora in Hobbiton … or better yet, Uncle Bilbo--then they could have adventures together.

“Of course you are, sweetie. Uncle Sara and I are going to need your help,” Esmeralda reassured the uncertain child.

His musings interrupted, Frodo looked taken aback. “You are?”

Esme gave a firm nod of her golden-brown, curled head. “Of course we are. Why who else can show our little lad or lass how to find the quickest shortcuts in Brandy Hall? Or where to find the best mushrooms in all of Buckland? Or how to throw stones with such accuracy? And you will be able to share all of your Uncle Bilbo’s wonderful tales and read stories too. So you see, we really do need your help … and we would like it very much if you continued to live with us, Frodo. This new cousin can be the little brother or sister you never had, dearest.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Frodo contemplated all this and came to the conclusion that being a big cousin would be very acceptable indeed. He began thinking of all the wonderful things he would be able to teach the new lad or lass, like how to snitch the best biscuits from right under the cooks’ noses without their knowing. Or the proper face to make in order to get out of being punished by the Master of the Hall. Or ….

“When is he or she going to be born?” he asked suddenly, looking suspiciously at his aunt’s soft tummy. He knew that a mother’s tummy grew very large and round, as the baby lived inside until it was time for it to be born. At least, that’s what Mama had once told him when he had asked her why Mrs. Gamgee’s tummy was suddenly so huge during their last visit as a family to Uncle Bilbo’s smial, Bag End, in Hobbiton. He remembered Aunt Begonia’s tummy being large too before baby Berilac had been born that same year. Auntie Esme’s tummy looked the same as it always had to him. He nervously touched a hand to her tummy. Nope, it wasn't any bigger at all.

“The babe will not for some time yet, Frodo,” Esmeralda explained patiently. “Not until sometime in Afterlithe.”

Before Frodo could ask her how she knew the baby was going to come in six months, Uncle Saradoc entered Adalgrim’s bedroom. “What’s not until Afterlithe?” he asked pleasantly enough, given the dour circumstances of the day.

Esme looked at Frodo, who was still sitting astride her lap. She realized that in another month or so, she would no longer be able to hold him there as she grew larger.

“What do you think, Frodo?” she said. “Should we tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Saradoc was now very perplexed.

Frodo surprised himself and his foster family by giving them the faintest of grins. His eyes seemed to suddenly shine brighter than they had in a very long time and he began to squirm about on his aunt’s lap. A spark of the old Frodo began to emerge through his ever-present melancholy. “Oh, yes. I think we should,” he declared with the barest hint of mischief in his voice.

Esme lifted her restless nephew and set him down on his furry feet. “Then you should do the honors," she said with a tap of her forefinger to his little nose.

“Me?” Frodo looked askance. Wasn’t this really something she should be telling Uncle Saradoc? Besides, didn't she just ask him to keep this a secret, even from Uncle Sara? Maybe it was the Took in her coming out.

Esmeralda gave him a light push in the direction of her husband. “You,” she said firmly. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw her nephew’s little smile widen in delight at being entrusted to such an important task.

Frodo all but ran over to his nominal uncle and looked up with an eagerness that baffled Saradoc. “I’m going to be a big cousin,” the lad announced proudly. He positively beamed from pointed ear to pointed ear.

Saradoc Brandybuck was utterly flabbergasted at the unexpected news. He and Esmeralda had been trying for so long to have a child of their own. They were starting to lose hope when they had been blessed suddenly with the opportunity to raise their young cousin, who was more like a nephew to them. It had occurred under the most unfortunate of circumstances, of course, but they loved him as if he were their own.

The new father-to-be didn’t know which pleased him more--the news his wife was finally pregnant, or the fact that young Frodo looked happy and was smiling grandly for the first time in almost two years.

Without warning, he lifted Frodo underneath the arms and swung him around in a circle several times. Saradoc remembered he and his brother, Merimac, swinging Frodo around as such when the lad was about four-years old. There had been one time when all of Frodo’s much older first cousins (he, Mac, Seredic, and Milo) had been playing with their youngest cousin and had taken turns swinging the lad about during one of the Bagginses visits to Brandy Hall. Wee Frodo had shrieked with delight, always demanding, “Again, again! Faster!”

Saradoc smiled ruefully at the happy memory. The older tweens had swung the faunt around so much that he had ended up getting sick all over them and Auntie Primula had not been happy when she had found out. She had made each and every one of her guilty nephews help to give Frodo a bath while she had supervised the proceedings in as stern a manner as she had been able to muster, making sure nothing else untoward happened to her only son.

Lest the past repeat itself, Sara swung Frodo around one last time before settling the lad on his hip, resting him in the crook of one arm. Frodo laughed and both Saradoc and Esmeralda reveled in the joyous sound. It was a beautiful sound and their ears hadn’t heard it since the night when Drogo and Primula had died. Happy themselves, they joined in his laughter.

Esmeralda got up from her rocking chair and stood in front of her husband, giving him a kiss on the lips, while he continued to hold Frodo. Frodo was in the middle of them and he thought of his own parents. They used to do this too; they had called it a ‘Frodo-sandwich.’ He wondered if this is what they had looked like when they realized they were going to have him. Uncle Sara and Auntie Esme were fairly aglow in their unexpected delight. Abruptly, Frodo wished more than anything that he was being held in his father’s strong arms and he squirmed to get down, kicking his legs in the air.

Saradoc felt the increasing tension resonate from the slight lad in his arms. He set a struggling Frodo down on his furry feet and then knelt before him. “You know that we will always love you, Frodo, don’t you?” he said. “There will always be a place for you in our hearts and in our lives, no matter what the future may bring.”

Frodo gave a small nod of his head, but the slight uncertainty remained in his fathomless blue eyes. He wondered if Uncle Sara would still swing him around after his own little lad or lass was born. He decided ultimately that being a big cousin was more important, however.

He heard the swish and shift of his aunt’s skirts and turned around to see her standing next him. She didn’t look so sad anymore, he thought, and that too made him feel a bit happier. “Did your father know you were going to have a baby before he left?” he asked softly, not wanting to upset her any.

Esmeralda smiled at the little upturned face. She smoothed his unruly chestnut curls back, tucking them behind his pointed ears before saying, “Yes, Frodo, I think he did.”

Paladin had confided in her that during what would be the last smoke of their pipes together after dinner, their father had asked, ‘Has your little sister said anything to the rest of you yet?’ meaning her brother and three older sisters.

Confused, Paladin had answered, ‘No. Why?’

Adalgrim had taken one final puff of Old Toby before heading off to bed. ‘Well, I guess I best not say anything either then. It’s hers to tell in her own time.’

They were the very last words he ever said.

Esmeralda had been astonished and yet relieved that somehow her father had known that his youngest daughter and only child without an heir, was now with. Although Adalgrim Took would never meet his latest grandchild, Esme was thankful that he had died knowing in his own way. It made his loss seem more peaceful and not as heart-wrenching. She also had Frodo to thank for helping her to smile and remember what she had to live for--her family. She was doubly grateful the news of her pregnancy seemed to break a crack through his misery. Perhaps having a babe around to help and play with would make him more merry.

She felt a hesitant tug at her skirts and turned to face the shy, little hobbit standing before her. “Yes, sweetie?”

“How did the baby get in your tummy, Auntie?” Frodo asked curiously.

“Ahh, d-didn’t your mother and father ever tell you?” Saradoc stammered, turning beet red from the tips of his pointed ears all the way down to his bare toes. He was not at all prepared to answer this question of all questions just yet.

“No.” Frodo looked up at them expectantly, awaiting an answer as only a stubborn Baggins could do.

Saradoc and Esmeralda had no idea what they were in for come Afterlithe, between fostering a young teenager and raising one of their own. They could only speculate as to what else they were now going to have to teach Frodo.

Hmm, Saradoc thought to himself, maybe his father could sit with the lad and have The Talk. Or, Bilbo … yes, Bilbo could be a good choice too--Frodo listened without fail to everything the old hobbit said. Merimac’s Beri was just learning how to talk and was way too young to have asked that question yet, thankfully, so his brother would be of no help. What about ….

The End

*The dates for Adalgrim Took are listed in the Took family tree in the Appendix of ROTK. He was born in 1280 (10 years before Bilbo) & died in 1382, the same year his grandson Merry was born.

This story stemmed from the idea that Adalgrim died before Merry was born, but somehow knew about his latest grandchild.