Questions of Loss

By: Elemmírë

Summary: Frodo compares Bilbo’s leaving with Drogo & Primula’s

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

I never realized that it would hurt this much … Bilbo’s leaving that is. I mean I knew he was old by hobbit standards, though in good health and spirits. I knew that he would eventually pass on from this life one day; that he now had more birthdays behind him than ahead. I knew with his passing I would once again be alone, with no more immediate family, save my parents' siblings and my first cousins.

But what surprises me is that Bilbo’s leaving does not hurt the same as when my parents passed on. For their deaths were untimely and most tragic. Their parting was more of a shock, I guess, for Bilbo had mentioned leaving the Shire for good several times in the past. I just never thought he’d actually go and do it … at least not without telling me first. I guess he simply didn’t know how to tell me; although during his final “goodbye” at our birthday party, his eyes had only been focused me before he put his magic ring on and disappeared forever.

There was a finality to my parents’ deaths; I knew, without a doubt, that they could never return … although I desperately did not want to believe that for a very, very long time as a child.

There is no finality here, for I know that Bilbo has not passed on from this world, from this life. No, instead he is walking about with the Elves, somewhere in Middle-earth. But I will never again know where he is. I realize that I will never even know when he does pass on unless I see it in some odd dream of mine. Will anyone be with him when he dies? Will he have a proper hobbit burial as he ought, or will he pass on unbeknownst in the middle of a dark forest somewhere? Will Gandalf know?

My only hope is that my friend the wizard will know and that he will be able to one day tell me whatever becomes of my beloved uncle, who is so much more to me. Bilbo is my father, mother, uncle, cousin, teacher, and best friend all in one hobbit. I hope that one day Gandalf will tell me exactly where Bilbo is so that I may go and see him again during an adventure of my own.

They Grow Up So Fast

By: Elemmírë
Summary: Time spent with the ones we love is a precious thing ...Written for Marigold’s Tale Challenge 28. The Challenge was to write a story that includes one or more naked hobbits, and these two elements: A toy boat and a campfire.

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

Author's Note: Frodo is 3, 8, & 32 (ages 18-20 months, 5, & 20 ½ in Man years)

"Frodo Baggins!" Primula called out sternly. "You come back here right this instant young hobbit!" She sighed as the dripping wet, naked faunt ran throughout the smial, escaping her and the fluffy towel she held at every chance. It seemed that once Frodo had learned to walk he just ran nonstop instead of toddling about as most faunts did. Some days it was all she could do to keep up with her lively and spirited little Baggins.

"Frodo!" She called out again in vain. Primula sighed, her frustration mounting with her son’s antics ... however, she wouldn't change this for anything in the world--she had waited for so very long to become a mother. Determined, she set her sights on the chubby, creamy-white little cheeks bouncing freely for all Middle-earth to see.

Frodo's giggles turned into outright peals of laughter as he evaded his mother yet again after his evening bath. The little one scampered down the round tunnel, leaving a trail of puddles and wet footprints behind. He was happy to be free of his restricting clothes and didn’t relish being confined in them again anytime soon. He looked back to see if Mama was following him and when he turned around he suddenly found himself being swung up high into the air by a pair of strong, yet loving hands.

"Hmm," a deep voice boomed. "What have I caught here?"

Frodo shrieked at being captured. Mama would surely be able to catch him now! He looked over his shoulder, wiggling when he saw his mother advancing down the hallway with the towel, a grin on her dimpled face that shone in triumph at last.

"Whatever I have caught is wet ... and soft ... and smells of lavender bubble bath," the voice boomed again. "I like lavender bubble bath!"

Frodo squealed as the great big hands cradled him and raspberry kisses were blown on his rounded, bare tummy. With his tiny hands, he batted away the offending lips that were tickling him. One of the big hands holding him gently smoothed back the thick wet strands of curls dangling in his eyes. Frodo looked up at face above him with wide eyes.

"Why, it seems I have caught ........ a Frodo!" Drogo Baggins exclaimed, smiling grandly.

"Oh good! I have always wanted my very own Frodo!" He cuddled the naked wet hobbitling to him and hugged tight, as if he were never to let go.

The faunt laughed again and beamed with delight at his father's silliness. "Da got Fro!" he crowed before squirming when he saw his mother come closer. "Uh-oh," he said unhappily, surrendering to the fact that he must be dried off and put into his nightshirt.

Primula handed the fluffy white towel to her husband and happily watched father and son, reveling in the sense of family that only a few years ago both parents thought they would never experience. Without a doubt, Drogo was the perfect husband and father. She remembered the day she had told him she was finally with child. Drogo had cried tears of overwhelming joy and he made every effort possible to be the best father for Frodo. Drogo had stood at her side as they both had learned the basics of caring for a newborn from Prim's oldest sister-in-law, Menegilda, who had come to stay with them for the first three weeks of Frodo's life. Drogo had learned how to bathe his infant son properly and burp him after Primula had fed him with her milk. He had no qualms about getting his hands dirty as some gentlehobbits did, and he performed his share of changing soiled nappies without complaint, gaining a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment from the act. He'd also given up many a night's sleep, taking his turn walking about their smial, holding Frodo close and soothing him as the babe wailed and fussed from a bout of colic, or coughed incessantly with croup.

Before they knew it, Frodo was learning how to sit, then crawl, stand, and finally walk. How the time has passed, Primula thought as she watched Drogo dry their son off with care and wrap him up snugly in the large towel.

After giving his only son a kiss atop his baby-soft dark curls, Drogo handed Frodo over to his wife. "I believe you this little rascal of a hobbit belongs to you, milady," he said.

With a warm smile, Primula accepted the towel-wrapped bundle and cradled the young hobbit child to her breast, inhaling the fresh clean scent only little ones possess.

"Mama!" Frodo shouted with glee, his naked jaunt through the smial already forgotten. He managed to get free of his swaddling and hugged his mother as much as his little arms would fit around her.

Primula bounced Frodo on her hip. She didn't ever want to envision the day when she would no longer be able to hold her son like so, but she knew times like this were precious and to be cherished. They grow up so fast after all.

* * * * *

"Y-you made this for me?"

Drogo smiled warmly at his only son sitting on his lap. "That's right, Frodo. I made it special, just-for-you." He said with an emphasizing poke to the eight-year old's little tummy, hoping to elicit a giggle or two.

Instead, Frodo's round blue eyes widened in awe as he gaped at the new toy presented to him on the morning of his father's 68th birthday.

Drogo fondly remembered a recent visit to see Primula's large family at Brandy Hall across the Brandywine River in Buckland. The Brandybucks kept a large number of sailboats and rowboats moored by the short, wooden pier that was only a short walk from the bustling Hall. Frodo had simply been fascinated by the brightly painted boats and had wanted to know why there were no boats in Hob'ton, as he called the village where most of the Bagginses that were left lived. When the small family had returned home to Hobbiton, Frodo had spoken of nothing else for weeks but the boats and the boat rides his mother, uncles, and cousins had taken him on.

For his birthday, Drogo had decided to gift his son with a toy sailboat that he himself had painstakingly carved for the lad. The little boat was about a foot long and was made from cedar wood so it could float in the lad’s bath. It was painted a bright yellow and had a blue stripe running around the hull. There was a length of thick sailor’s rope tied and knotted through a hole in the point of the bow. At the other end of the rope was a red wooden anchor that fit just perfectly into the palm of Frodo’s little hand, so he could float the boat in The Water or Bywater Pool and not lose it. Primula had sewn little white linen sails that could be unfurled by rigging that Drogo had fashioned out of a strong twine. Drogo had also made a rectangular wooden platform with shiny green wheels and pegs that the little boat could sit in between, so Frodo could pull it about as he pleased.

"Goodness! Thank you, Da!" Frodo hugged the toy boat to his chest and beamed his sweet smile before sliding down off his father's lap to play.

With fatherly pride, Drogo sat back in his arm chair and smoked his pipe as he watched his son crouch down and set the sailboat with its platform on the floor, giving the pull-rope an experimental tug. He was pleased that Frodo was enthralled with what was his first experiment in toy making. He hoped that Frodo would find pleasure in it and spend many happy hours playing with it--he even dared to hope the sailboat might become the kind of toy that a child never forgets when he was older.

Later that day during his birthday party, Drogo realized that his younger brother Dudo was right--your children grow up so fast before your very eyes. It seemed like only yesterday he had held his tiny newborn son for the very first time and felt that swell of immeasurable and endless love as the babe's otherwise cross-eyed gaze focused briefly on his father's smiling face, as if to say hello. Now Frodo was running around without a care in the world, proudly showing all his aunts, uncles, and cousins the new sailboat that his father had made special for him, already proclaiming it to be his favorite toy.

Time most certainly showed no signs of slowing down (unless you were Cousin Bilbo) and Drogo knew that before long, his spirited little lad would be fully-grown and coming of age, then marrying and settling down with a family of his own.

"Don't grow up too fast for me, lad."

* * * * *

Bilbo Baggins poked at the dwindling campfire with a long stick, coaxing it back into life. The old hobbit stared into the flames, watching them flicker and the embers dance. For some odd reason, he could not find sleep tonight. Perhaps it was because he knew that this would be the very last time he ever took his lad on a hobbit walking party and camp out beneath the twinkling stars before he forever left the Shire next month.

Bilbo looked down at Frodo, who was lying next to him deeply asleep. For some unknown reason he suddenly thought of one of their shared birthday parties long ago, when Frodo's beloved parents had still been alive.

Ah, with a sudden clarity Bilbo knew why this particular memory sparked in his mind. As a special surprise birthday mathom to Frodo, Drogo and Bilbo had taken the excited lad on his very first overnight camping trip, while Primula had stayed behind at Bag End to help Bell Gamgee with some of the baking for the party. They had only traveled as far down as the Party Field, but Frodo had returned to the smial the morning of the shared birthday elated.

Bilbo smiled fondly as he recalled Frodo chattering non-stop to his mother and Mrs. Gamgee about how he slept outside underneath the pretty, twinkling stars and more importantly, how his father had taught him how to make a proper campfire. Uncle Bilbo had supplied the proper campfire tales, of course.

That had been Frodo's eleventh birthday and the last birthday of their son's that Drogo and Primula Baggins would ever celebrate.

Bilbo shook his head sadly, remembering his dear cousins that had died so needlessly and tragically, their only child left behind to mourn them as long as he lived. Not for the first time, he wondered how Frodo's life might have been had he not been orphaned at such a young age ... or had he himself not adopted the spirited young Baggins as his heir. Bilbo wondered how empty his own life would have continued to be.

As if sensing his uncle's unease, Frodo stirred in his sleep before turning to curl up onto his side, dislodging his blankets in the process. With a hand born of love, Bilbo smoothed the covers back over his lad, planted a kiss on the thick, chestnut curls and marveled at what a fine hobbit the lad had become. He's grown up so fast.

The End

Goodnight, Frodo

By: Elemmírë

Summary: A fond childhood memory sparks Primula to continue the ritual. Frodo is 7 (age 4 ½ - 5 in Man years). Warning: Fluff ahead!

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

" ... and then finishing their blackberry jam, all the little bunnies gave Mother Bunny a kiss goodnight before hopping into their little beds. The End." Primula Baggins read.

"Sweet dreams little bunnies," her seven-year old son, Frodo said, tracing the brightly colored drawing of the three little bunnies snug in their beds on the last page of the book, before closing the back cover. "Read it again, Mama!" he begged, looking up pleadingly with his large blue eyes.

"Frodo," warned Drogo Baggins, moving from his seat on the settle to take the book from the little hands helping to hold it steady. "You've had two stories already tonight. Just like it's time for the little bunnies to go to sleep, it's time for little hobbit lads to go to sleep, too."

Primula shifted on the rocking chair that her husband had built when she was pregnant, cuddling her son closer to her. She tickled his ribs, making him squeal in laughter before finally releasing her hold on him. Frodo slid off his mother's soft lap only to be tackled next by his waiting father. Drogo grinned, scooping his son up into strong arms, tossing him up over his head a few times. Frodo's big blue eyes widened and he shrieked in delight, his nightshirt billowing around his little legs before his body came to rest safely against his father's broad chest.

"I love you, Da!" Frodo threw both of his arms around his father's neck, planting a kiss on one ruddy cheek.

Oh, how Drogo and Primula both enjoyed hearing those words from their son. They had both waited for so long to become parents, almost giving up hope, before they were finally blessed with the sweetest and most beautiful hobbit child in the whole of the Shire. Primula knew she nor her husband would ever tire of hearing those three simple words from Frodo.

"I love you, too." Drogo tweaked the lad's lightly freckled nose and gave him a wet, sloppy kiss on the cheek before setting him back down on his own two little furry feet. "Now, off to bed with you, Frodo-lad," he ordered.

With a bright smile, Frodo scampered off down the rounded hallway, trying not to trip on the long hem of his nightshirt. Primula, with lamp in hand, followed him and gave a smile herself as she watched him hop into his bed. She lit the candle in the sconce hanging on the wall by the door, before making sure the fire in the small hearth had already died out on this warm Summer night. Setting her own lamp down on the child-sized nightstand, she drew the bright blue curtains close over the round windows of the room, before sitting down on the edge of Frodo's small bed.

Primula gazed lovingly upon her only child, taking in every already-memorized feature of his sweet fair face. She ran a hand through his thick dark curls, still damp from his bath earlier that evening, before kissing him upon his brow.

She pulled the soft linen sheet and quilt up to Frodo's pale little chin, finding his stuffed toy bear for him to snuggle with. "Here's Beorn," she said, tucking the worn and tattered bear underneath the warm quilt with him.

Frodo immediately latched onto his favorite sleeping companion for protection during the night. His Uncle Bilbo had given it to him as a present on their same-day birthday when he had turned four years old; it was soft and Uncle Bilbo had said it had been made by the Dwarves from the hair of a real black bear, and it looked just like Beorn from his 'venture. Someday, he was going to have a 'venture too, just like Uncle Bilbo. Maybe he would bring his Beorn and show him to the real Beorn when he met him on his 'venture.

Eyes shining brightly, Frodo kissed his mother goodnight as she leaned over him. "Goodnight, Mama," he said.

Rising from the bed, Primula took her lamp in hand and slowly headed for the door. "Goodnight, stars," she said, deciding to play the game she sometimes did when putting her son to bed. She remembered her own mother doing this long ago with her when Primula had been tucked into her bed.

"Goodnight Moon ... goodnight windows ... goodnight bed ... goodnight blanket ... goodnight books ... goodnight toys ... goodnight clothes ... goodnight candle ... goodnight door ... goodnight smial ..."

Peering over his covers with Beorn, Frodo giggled. Mama could be so silly at times!

Primula stopped in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. "Hmm, let's see, did I forget anything?" she mused thoughtfully. " ...Oh, yes! Goodnight, Beorn."

"What about me, Mama?" a little voice called out from the darkened room.

In her most loving voice, Primula replied, "Goodnight, Frodo. Sleep well and have pleasant dreams, sweetheart."

The End

Author's Note: Reminiscent of the popular childrens' book, "Goodnight, Moon," my mother would always read to me before bedtime and would often tuck me in using the same manner as Primula. The funny thing is she never read me "Goodnight Moon", but she often bade 'goodnight' to all of the things in my room, me last of all. I am glad to be able to capture this fond childhood memory of mine and share it via the hobbits.

Tending

By: Elemmírë

Summary: Because some things should not be forgotten ...

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

As he had been doing for every year since … well, since he had to, the lone hobbit made his way from the numerous tunnels of Brandy Hall out beyond the barns to a quiet, secluded area beneath the shaded canopy of trees. In his hand he clutched a bouquet of flowers; it was made up entirely of her name-flower. He followed the stone pathway around the gardens until he came to a well-worn dirt path that led away into the woods. The tall trees shaded him from the warm sun of late spring until he emerged onto a meadow dotted with wildflowers. He walked up the small hill until he came to the lone oak tree standing at the top, reaching up with one hand to touch the now familiar low boughs.

He looked out over the land and reveled in the sheer beauty of Nature spread below his vantage point. To his right was Crickhollow and he could see the Hedge stretching far out into the distance, the tall trees of the Old Forest rising up ominously behind it. To his left was Brandy Hall, and in front of him stretched the winding blue ribbon of the Brandywine River. Beyond the river were the lowlands and farms of the Marish, then the gently rolling green hills of the Shire.

He rested the palm of his left hand against the trunk of the great oak, his fingers feeling the heart carved into the solid bole long ago. He lifted his hand to read the initials carved inside of the heart.

This had been their favorite spot. This had been where they often courted to. This was where they had shared their first kiss underneath the summer sun. This was where she had accepted his proposal. This was where their wedding had taken place. This was where she had first told him she was with child.

He looked out at the Brandywine River once more. The sun glinted over its tranquil waters. All his life he had been taught to respect the river and he always had, but looking out over its waters now, he thought of just how deceiving the calm flow really was. It had taken them long ago and now ... this spot under the tall oak was their final resting place.

Turning away from the spectacular view before him, the hobbit knelt down in the new spring grass. A soft breeze ruffled the curls on his head as he brushed the dead, fallen leaves of winter from the large cut of granite stone embedded into the ground. Bilbo had ordered the resilient stone from the Dwarves long ago, as they were the distinguished masters of masonry and stonework in all of Middle-earth. The hobbit read the names etched into the hard stone, whose edges rose slightly above the ground.

He traced his fingers along the words inscribed into the beautiful stone, following the smooth outline of the individual letters. 'Beloved daughter & son; sister & brother; aunt & uncle; cousins.' If one looked close enough, a hint of mithril could be seen inlaid into the carvings, making them stand out nicely against the black speckle of the granite. Uncle Bilbo had spared no expense for the marker. Only the best would do for them, after all.

His hand resting atop the engraved stone, the hobbit closed his eyes in remembrance of the pair whose lives had been tragically lost. "I wish I could have known you, ..." he whispered as he did every single year on this day.

The hobbit carefully placed the bouquet of flowers atop the grave, arranging them so they lay in between the final two words adorning the marker: 'Mama & Dad'

A tear trailed down his cheek and with one last look to make sure all was in order, Meriadoc Brandybuck, current Master of Buckland, rose from the ground. When Frodo had departed for the Undying Lands aboard the Elven ship decades earlier, Merry had promised himself that he would tend what his cousin and dearest friend no longer could. The final resting place of Drogo and Primula Baggins continued to be well-maintained in the absence of their beloved son.

At first, the grave had been tended by Frodo, Primula's brothers and sisters, and Merry's own parents. As each relation had grown either too elderly to make the journey up the hillside, or had departed from life themselves, Merry's parents had taken over the care entirely. Merry had often come with them, most especially after Frodo had left Middle-earth never to return. With Saradoc and Esmeralda Brandybuck laid to their own final rest, it was now up to him. Merry would make sure that Frodo's dear parents would always be looked after.

~The End~

Choose Your Battles Wisely

By: Elemmírë

Summary: Merry and Pippin encounter danger during a very routine task. Merry is 17, Pippin is 9, & Frodo has just turned 31 (ages 11, 6, & 20 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.

Author's Note: This was written for Marigold's Tale Challenge 30, in which I had to include the following elements: Pippin, the Shire, a pony trap, a battle, & Harvest time.

It was a beautiful, Fall day in the Shire. There was nary a cloud in the blue sky as the Sun shone in all Her splendor, warming the fragrant earth. A gentle breeze rustled the branches of the trees and the green grass below them. The leaves were turning into vibrant shades of red, gold, and orange as the season called for, and they rustled when walked through after having fallen to the ground. There was a crisp feel to the air as the weather grew cooler, most especially at night and in the wee hours of the morning. The first frost had yet to come and the animals were busy building up their nests, burrows, and food stores in preparation for the coming Winter.

The hobbits too were busy preparing their own stores for the upcoming cold season. For it was Harvest time in the Shire and all the hobbits were hard at work reaping the bountiful fields they had sewn in early Spring. Gaffers and the older lads swung their scythes through the grain fields, while the tweens and teens gathered up the fallen grains, tying them into bundles to be stored for the Winter.

Gammers dipped and made bayberry scented candles of beeswax, while hobbitesses dried or canned the remainder of the summer fruits and made sure the vegetable sacks and barrels were filled to the brim. Meats were smoked, salted, cured, and hung to dry. Lasses helped out by gathering nuts and picking the fruit from the orchards. They also assisted in the spinning and dyeing of the wool sheared from the sheep one last time, before they were allowed to grow their winter coats.

The work was shared by all in the peaceful Shire, gentlehobbits and working class alike. That is, all except two hobbit lads; one a teen, the other a child. Both were currently hiding in a broken pony trap, one of its wheels cracked and the rear axel splintered.

"I have to go, Merry!" the youngest of the two hobbits whined, hopping on one bare foot in the back of the cart while clutching onto the front of his breeches in desperation.

"I know, Pip, I know! I'm thinking," Merry replied crossly.

Pippin switched feet and began hopping again. "Please think faster, Merry," he begged, not knowing how much longer he could wait. He already felt like he was going to explode.

"Maybe you shouldn't have had so much to drink this afternoon." Merry's eyes widened when he felt the broken cart shift beneath him. "Stand still, Pippin! You're tilting the cart even further. Do you want to upend us?"

Pippin stopped his jumping and cautiously stood on his tip-toes to peer over the rail of the cart. He ducked back down when a shrill crow rent the otherwise still air. "He's still out there, Merry. What are we going to do?"

Both lads were supposed to be helping Pippin's father and their uncles with the harvesting of Aunt Petunia's marrow* patch. Placed in charge of his young first cousin for the afternoon, it was Merry's responsibility to see to Pippin. And so when the nine-year old declared he had to go, the task fell to Merry to take care of. The outdoor privy had been closest, however it was the cause of why the two lads were now cowered in the back of the broken pony cart.

Making their way from the now far-off marrow patch, they had had to cross paths with the chicken coop in order to get to the outdoor privy. Both lads had forgotten to pay heed to the warning Auntie Petunia had given earlier to not go anywhere near the chicken coop or the surrounding area. Both lads were now paying for their minor lapse in attention.

Merry stood up boldly and glared for all he was worth at the huge rooster strutting proudly back and forth in front of the broken cart. Auntie Petunia's new rooster was quite territorial and had chased them into the cart, not letting them set foot near the outdoor privy.

The rooster sensed Merry eyeing him and he crowed, his feathers ruffling in warning. One sharp-taloned foot clawed at the dirt, sending little puffs of dust into the air. He pecked the air with his sharp beak before resuming his strutting.

"This is ridiculous," Merry muttered. He, a birthright Brandybuck, would not be defeated by a silly rooster. "Here's the plan Pip ...."

Minutes later, Merry was beginning to regret his great plan. "What was I thinking?" he moaned, clutching the broom he held tightly. Merry wished his mum or Auntie Eglantine were here, instead of going with Auntie Petunia to visit her and Mum's two other sisters at the Great Smials for the afternoon. They could have taken care of Pippin and then he would not be in this predicament. He wondered if his father or Uncle Paladin would be returning from the marrow patch anytime soon in the very near future.

While Pippin had made a mad dash for the outdoor privy, Merry's job had been to provided the irate rooster with a distraction. He had instead ended up having to grab a broom leaning against the nearby tool shed to defend himself with. He knew he should have suggested for Pippin to just aim himself at the foul creature and let loose.

Busy guarding himself with the broom from the angrily pecking rooster, Merry did not see someone else enter the area.

Frodo Baggins laughed and laughed at the sight before him. There was Merry holding the bristle end of a broom at Aunt Petunia's new rooster, while little Pippin poked his head out the privy door, asking if all was clear. At least he had the good sense to be terrorized by a few angry dogs while stealing mushrooms, and not do battle with one menacing rooster with only a broom in hand. Frodo laughed a little longer before coming to his young cousins' rescue.

~The End~

Author's Note: This story was inspired by my aunt. When she was a little girl in New Jersery, long ago, she and my grandparents lived on my great-grandfather's farm at first. My great-grandmother owned the terror of all roosters. As the story goes, my grandmother always had to take a broom with her when taking her toddler daughter to use the outhouse. (This farm was built in the early 1900s before plumbing came to America and had not been updated yet.) My grandmother used to tell of how this big, mean rooster would chase her and my aunt (and anyone else) away from the outhouse ... which the rooster claimed as part of its territory. This just seemed the very sort of incident Merry/Pippin would find themselves in. Hope you all enjoyed!

*A marrow is a large sort of squash, that sort of looks like a massive cucumber, and is found in Great Britain.

Bilbo's Challenge

By: Elemmírë

Summary: So just how did Bilbo come up with the ‘Merry Old Inn’ song? What inspired him to write it and when? A story in which Bilbo faces writing his own tale challenge. Written special in honor of Marigold's Tale Challenges in general, and this one in particular.

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

Author's Note: This was originally written for Marigold's Tale Challenge 31, which had to at least mention Bilbo.

'He took to writing poetry ... and though many shook their heads and touched their foreheads and said "Poor old Baggins!" and though few believed any of his tales, he remained very happy to the end of his days, and those were extraordinarily long.' ~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit; 'The Last Stage'

Bilbo knew it was quite childish of him, but he desired nothing more than to throw his ink-laden quill across the study. He had been working for over a week now on this particular project and had little to show for it. He was certain he was going to miss his self-imposed deadline and disappoint. He frowned at the short list of items Frodo had half-heartedly scrawled in response to his uncle's request for a writing challenge. An inn, a fiddle, a hornéd cow, silver spoons, the Sun. All items on the list had to be included, hence the challenge, but how was he going to make this work?

Bilbo reread the few stanzas written on the scrap of parchment before him and shook his curly head in disdain. "No, no! This won't do at all! It's far too predictable ... too Baggins-like. I need something more exciting than this drivel. Something more Adventurous, even bordering on the ridiculous perhaps."

But it could not be just any poem, it had to be a poem worthy of the attention of his most favorite hobbit relation. "And one that will put a smile on his dour little face," Bilbo mumbled to himself.

Frodo had been much too melancholy during the Master of Bag End's last visit to Brandy Hall located in Buckland. Not that the orphaned lad didn't have reason enough to be unhappy, but Bilbo had promised Frodo he would write him a poem and set it to music in time for his next visit, two weeks from now.

"And write it, I shall," Bilbo stated, taking up his quill once more, determined as only a Baggins could be.

* * * * *

'Then in desperation he began a ridiculous song that Bilbo had been rather fond of (and indeed rather proud of, for he had made up the words himself).' ~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring; 'At the Sign of the Prancing Pony'

Bilbo didn't think he had ever felt so nervous before ... well, except for perhaps that time during his Adventure when he was accidentally left behind in the tunnels and passes running through the Misty Mountains. He stood fingering the things in his pockets, as he was prone to do when making a speech to an audience, while little Frodo sat on the green grass before him with his legs folded beneath him. The child looked up expectantly at his uncle, awaiting. Yet he continued to have the most bland expression on his sad, pale face.

Bilbo cleared his throat and began.

Was that a hint of the old sparkle in his eyes, I saw just now? Bilbo wondered, as he continued to sing. His voice gained strength when the corners of Frodo's rosy mouth did indeed turn upward in the slightest hint of a smile, dimpling his cheeks. Frodo shifted position and now sat on his bottom with his knees hugged to his chest, as he listened to his uncle sing.

Bilbo looked his nephew in the eye and Frodo gave a shy smile in return. The old hobbit removed his hands from his pockets, giving his magic ring a final squeeze, before gesticulating animatedly to the words of the song he wove. He was elated to see the little one sitting before him begin keeping time with his furry foot.

Bilbo felt nothing but relief when at the end of the song, Frodo broke out into peals of laughter. Bilbo had never heard a sound so beautiful before. The lad's indomitable spirit was back.

"That was so silly, Uncle!" Frodo exclaimed. "Cows don't jump over the moon and dishes do not run with spoons!"

Bilbo bent over and tweaked the lad's sharp nose set between large blue eyes that were now filled with a mirth that hadn't been seen in over a year. "Well now how do you know they do not do those things, Frodo-lad, when you aren't looking?"

Frodo jumped up from the ground and hugged his uncle tight about the waist, tottering on his tip-toes. "Thank you, Uncle Bilbo. I ... I had forgotten what it felt like to laugh," the nearly thirteen-year old hobbit child whispered.

Bilbo swung Frodo's slight body into arms and held him close. All of his hard labor and frustrations penning the silly tune were now seen in a new light, knowing his efforts had been greatly appreciated by whom they were meant for.

"You are most welcome, my dear boy," he said and kissed the dark curls as Frodo rested his head against his uncle's shoulder in content.

For years thereafter, whenever Frodo needed cheering up, Bilbo sang 'A Merry Old Inn.' Frodo had deemed the song as being utterly ridiculous and totally unpredictable for being written by a Baggins ... but it never failed to make him smile and laugh.

~The End~

* Text by J.R.R. Tolkien in Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 9: -At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

A Bird’s Eye View

By: Elemmírë

Summary: A look at Frodo’s reaction to flying with the Eagles. Inspired by Shirebound's 'Return to Rivendell', Chapter 9: The Gift

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

Author’s Note: This came to me while flying home at 33,000ft. in clear skies for six hours from California to Connecticut. Since this short ficlet was inspired by Shirebound, I dedicate this to her. :D

Once he’d semi-recovered from the shock of being up so high and the awe of the great beast that was easily ten times the size of himself, Frodo loosened himself from Gandalf’s protective embrace. He leaned forward and looked down over the side of the Great Eagle’s neck, knowing that Gandalf would continue to hold him securely and that neither Wizard nor Eagle would let harm come to him.

Frodo gasped in fascinated delight when he saw the lands spread out below him like a painted picture in one of his many childhood storybooks. The many elaborate buildings that comprised Rivendell and dwarfed any structures to be found in the hobbits’ Shire, now appeared to him in miniature. The tall Elf, Arnen, looked to be so small from this distance and he could barely discern Merry, Pippin at all (nor their ponies) standing atop the cliff.

Frodo was amazed at seeing the canopy of treetops below him instead of always having to look up into their boughs. In the distance loomed the grey, mist-shrouded peaks of the Misty Mountains and the Sun shone with a clear and strong light in all Her splendor.

Sensing the tiny Ring-bearer’s growing ease of height, Gwaihir spread his wings and soared even higher. Gandalf was extremely pleased when Frodo emitted a laugh of pure joy, as the hobbit tried reaching a small, slender hand to touch the billowing white clouds. It was with a great sadness that the wizard knew his young friend would likely have few experiences that would touch him so again in what little time he would remain in Middle-earth.

Frodo was astounded at the sheer muscle power beneath him and all those beautiful feathers of Gwaihir’s. As they soared higher, Frodo felt a slight pressure in his ears that grew until he felt them pop disconcertingly. His curly hair was pulled back from his face in the winds. Frodo wondered if Gwaihir was going to fly them right through the clouds!

They were now so high up in the sky that Frodo thought he could see some of the green hills of the Shire and the blue ribbon of the Brandywine River snaking its way southward. He strained his eyes in vain to be able to spot the waters of the Sea, west of Rivendell and also of the Shire. The inexplicable longing in his heart returned, but the hobbit mistakenly thought it to be merely homesickness for his beloved Shire.

Landroval, Gwaihir’s brother, swooped near and Frodo looked over to see Sam and Radagast the Brown clinging to the eagle’s broad back. He grinned at Sam and waved.

Ever glad to see his master and friend smile and his blue eyes sparkle once again after their arduous journey to Mordor in an effort to destroy the One Ring, Samwise Gamgee let go his fierce grip with one hand and waved back. He remained too astounded at flying with an Eagle to be able to do much more.

When they began to descend, Frodo suddenly felt his stomach catch and feel like it was leaping into his throat. He tightly gripped onto Gandalf’s arm and his old friend gave him a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

Once the Eagles landed and both wizards helped their charges back down to solid earth, Frodo and Sam once again gave a low bow to the pair of Eagles to show their respect and gratitude.

“I’m afraid that a mere ‘thank you’ does not express all that I feel right now,” Frodo said, straining his neck to peer up at Gwaihir and Landroval.

Both Eagles bowed their great heads in return to the small hobbits standing before them; Gwaihir replied in the screeching speech of his kind. “Whether you think so or not, Frodo son of Drogo, it is I and all creatures in Middle-earth are forever in your gratitude. It was an honor to bear you and the Lord Samwise once more … and I am glad for you to be awake and perched upon my back this time, instead of dangling like a dead thing in my talons.”

Frodo smiled once more as Sam merely shook his head, windswept honey-colored curls settling once more into place with the movement. “Thank you great sirs. That was just as Mr. Bilbo described in his tale, Mr. Frodo!”

Frodo squeezed his dearest friend’s warm hand. “Yes, Sam, it was …. and even more.”

In the Wake of Yule

By: Elemmírë

Summary: A warm, cozy look at Bag End on the last night of Yule--through the eyes of a rather unique visitor.

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

Author's Note: This was written rather spur of the moment, as I wished to share a warm holiday moment with all of you. Happy Hobbit Days ... (I mean Holidays) to you all and may each and every one of you have a wonderful and prosperous New Year! ~Julie

It was a scene of utter tranquility, he thought to himself whilst peering into the round window of one of the curious tunneled homes of the fur-foots. The gently falling snow gathered at the base of the circular window sill and his cold, wet nose pressed against the glass windowpane, his frosty breath momentarily fogging the view. A deep sniff revealed the lingering scents of a scrumptious Yule dinner consumed earlier that evening.

Inside, there was greenery hung about the spacious room with its high-beamed ceiling. There were garlands of fir branches intertwined with ivy, along with wreathes of holly with its shiny red berries adorning the hole. A small pine tree stood in one corner of the room; it was decorated with baked biscuits hanging from red and green ribbons, strings of cranberries and nuts, and there were also chains of brightly dyed parchment circling its' girth. Underneath the tree lay an assortment of oddly shaped items with bits and pieces of brown or decorated paper and ribbons strewn amongst them. A warm, cheery fire roared in the round brick fireplace at the center of one cream-colored wall, while melting candles shed their glowing light into the dark corners. Along with two cups--one of milk and one of tea--a plate resting on the end table revealed the crumbs from some long-eaten piece of cake or biscuit.

Seated in the middle of the room on a large, cozy chair were the two fur-foots who lived in the hole. The elder with the slowly greying hair sat comfortably with his large furry feet propped up on a cushioned stool, his bare toes wiggling about every now and then. In his hands he held a book and if one listened close enough, one could hear an ages-old tale involving the Elves.

The younger of the fur-foots--the one with the dark curls-- sat beside the other, practically curled in his elder's lap underneath a soft, but well-worn patchwork quilt. In his little hands was clutched some sort of new wooden toy--of Dwarvish make, no doubt. Every so often, the young fur-foot would struggle not to let out a yawn and would blink to keep his large, blue eyes open.

Eventually the smaller of the two fur-foots fell fast asleep, its head of dark curls resting against the elder's shoulder. The elder fur-foot closed the book and set it aside, before carefully removing the coveted new toy from lax fingers and placing it atop the book. The elder fur-foot gently pulled the little one full into his lap, kissing a rosy cheek before holding him close. The blanket was tugged into place over both and soon the sound of the elder's snoring could be heard reverberating against the now-frosted windowpanes. The fire continued to crackle merrily in the hearth, providing a warm heat that permeated the cozy smial, sheltering it from the cold outside.

As silent as he had come, The Fox turned away from the warm scene and padded back down The Hill in the deepening snow. A perfect Yule night it was at Bag End.

A silly little Birthday mathom from me to all of you!

Tongue-Tied

By: Elemmírë

Summary: Frodo wonders if all the stuff the adults tell him is really true.

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

Frodo is 18 (age 12 in Man years)

Frodo Baggins knew that he was just too curious for his own good. In fact, there were some who would no doubt blame his inherited Tookish blood for this stunt. Others would just simply shake their curly heads, while muttering that this latest incident involving the orphaned Baggins lad went beyond mere curiosity and into the realm of plain stupidity.

Whatever would be said of him, Frodo at that point did not care. He wiggled once more, trying to get free of his current predicament ... and sighed when he realized he was stuck for good. It seemed that there was some truth to some Old Wives' tales after all ....

* * * * *

Ever since he was a faunt, Frodo could remember each Winter at least two or more adults preach this sage wisdom to any young hobbit within earshot. The warning was ingrained into their very being, especially the most wiliest of tweenagers: never stick your tongue to anything metal outside during the freezing cold weather or it would be stuck there for good.

As to how anyone had discovered this in the first place, Frodo had absolutely no idea. Who would be dumb enough to try such a silly thing? As was mentioned before, however, Frodo was a bit more curious than most young hobbits his age and he was not even a tweenager yet. He'd heard tales from his elders of scores of young hobbit lads (and a few of the more daring lasses) test this assumption .... but he'd never seen anyone actually try it.

Surely it was just an Old Wives' tale ... wasn't it?

Making sure no one was around, Frodo took his mittened hands out from the pockets on his woolen breeches. Using his hands to steady himself, he scrabbled up the pile of shoveled snow that had been made when a path to the stables had been cleared after a recent snowstorm. The snow surrounded a tall, wrought iron pole that was used to fly the Brandybuck family crest high overhead during special occasions.

Glancing around again to make sure he was still alone, Frodo gathered up his courage one last time before poking the tip of his little pink tongue from between his lips. Watching his breath billow and freeze in the cold air like dragon fire, the young hobbit tentatively placed the tip of his tongue to the ice-cold pole that rose up from the snow mound before retracting it just as quickly.

Frodo grinned in triumph. He saw the wet mark left he'd left on the metal, but his tongue had not stuck!

Thinking the old wives' tale disproved, Frodo again placed the tip of his tongue against the cold flagpole, this time firmly and with more confidence. His feelings of pride and accomplishment were rapidly depleted when he tried to pull his tongue off the pole again, however.

Large blue eyes widened first in surprise, then in fright as Frodo attempted to "unglue" himself from the wrought iron flagpole. He was stuck fast just as Uncles Rory, Dodi, Rufus, Dino, and all the others had warned would happen!

Frodo let out a squeak of terror. How would he get free? Would he be doomed to remain as such until the Spring thaw? Would he be made the laughing ridicule of Buckland? ... Or worse, would they have to cut his tongue off?

Hearing the approaching voices of some of the stable hands returning from their luncheon, Frodo panicked. Thinking quickly, he removed one mitten in order to free his fingers to brace his tongue. Thrusting his little body back with all of his might, Frodo suddenly felt the pole (or was it his tongue) give way as he fell to his bottom in the snow.

Getting to his feet, Frodo could clearly see the small circle of pink tissue left on the freezing pole where he had been stuck. Tears welled in his eyes as his tongue began to smart terribly and he tasted blood in his mouth. Holding his mittened hand to staunch the flow, Frodo staggered back down the snowy mound ....

* * * * *

It was several weeks later when Auntie Esme was gathering up Frodo's clothes to be laundered when she came across one light blue mitten with an odd-looking stain adorning its rounded end ... a stain that no matter how much it was scrubbed at, never seemed to fade. Frodo had blushed and averted his gaze when asked how his mitten had gotten so.

It was years later when he would finally admit what he'd done and how his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Uncle Bilbo had laughed. "The secret is to go with your spirit, Frodo my lad," he'd said. "After a century, I've learned that in order to make the most of every day, I must take a few chances now and then and put a little excitement and adventure in my life. So, when your curiosity consumes you, go ahead! Lick the frozen flagpole if you must. It may hurt a little," (and here the old hobbit winked) "but what fun you will have later in the telling!"

~The End~

Author's Note: I was about 11 or 12 when I did just what Frodo did in this fic, even though I too knew better. One cold winter day as I played on the snowdrifts created by the snowplows, I was insatiably curious to see if this warning was true or not. I was smart enough not to place the whole of my tongue against the freezing pole of the Stop sign in our front yard, so I placed only the very tip of my tongue against it. Naturally I became stuck, but I was able to "unglue" myself like Frodo did when I heard a car coming up the road. No one was ever the wiser at my childhood antics .... until many years later, but my mother always wondered where the small stain on my mitten came from. Hope you all enjoyed!