Author notes:
This story was inspired by Slightly Tookish who wanted me to write something about Pippin asking Frodo about his parents.

Thank you to Ariel for her mindful and encouraging beta.

~*~*~

Somewhere to Belong

Rain clattered against the glass. Lazily Frodo traced the line of a single drop with his finger. Rain, rain, and each day and every night fresh drops poured from the sky, soaking the soil and drowning the plants. It was Forelithe yet it felt more like Solmath with the wind blowing chilly and the sun always hidden by clouds. Frodo heaved a sigh as he leaned his head against the cold glass and gazed sleepily into the dark of night.

Smouldering embers cast their red light into the tween's room. A single candle flickered on the nightstand illuminating the framed drawing of a happy family and the gentle features of the boy sitting on the window sill his left leg tucked up, his right dangling. He had his father's looks yet his face was as tender as his mother's. Sometimes his heart still ached for them especially when the weather was dreary and his mind heavy with concern. Not that he worried often, but today's events had exhausted him and caused his thoughts to wander.

His young cousin Pippin, who was staying with him and Bilbo while the rest of his family visited relatives in Long Cleeve, didn't feel well. All day long he had been whiny and cranky without even the hint of a smile on his usually cheerful face. His brow was slightly warmer than was normal, but Pippin hadn't complained about any pain and if not for his lack of appetite and his unusual desire to be held close, Frodo and Bilbo would both have agreed that the lad simply had a bad day. Shortly after lunch, which Pippin had hardly touched, Bilbo left for the market and that was when the trouble started.

Frodo was finishing the dishes when Pippin suddenly tugged at his shirt and stated that he was sick. Even as the boy spoke, a fit shook him and what little he had eaten came back up. Frodo stepped back in automatic revulsion, almost chastizing Pippin before he realised that the child was not to blame for becoming ill. Pippin heaved again and Frodo snatched a bowl from the cupboard which he held while Pippin bent over it. It was better than the floor perhaps, but Frodo made a mental note never to use that bowl again.

The child was trembling violently, tears streaming freely down his pale face. Frodo pulled his cousin to his side to support him and the small body immediately went limp against his. Cold sweat covered Pippin's nape and Frodo could feel the muscles of Pippin's stomach clenching convulsively against his hand as the child heaved though there was nothing left in him to throw up. Frodo closed his eyes desperately and tried not to breathe. He was not good with such things, and would add his own share to this mess if he couldn't control his stomach's instinctive reaction. His mind screamed for Bilbo as Pippin's weak body sunk against his chest with a pitiable moan.

Twice that afternoon Pippin vomited between fits of weeping and pleading in a heartbreaking whimper for his parents to come, before sleep finally claimed him. The lad's almost delirious cries and Frodo's and Bilbo's desperate attempts to comfort him had reawakened foggy memories of Frodo's own childhood.

The dreams… the water…
"It's all your fault!"
Esmeralda's voice close to his ear: "Wake up, child. I'm here."
Thoughts reeling, mind spinning…
"I don't belong here!"
Screams echoing from silent walls….
Father… mother…

The click of the doorknob startled him awake. Frodo looked up to see Pippin's tousled and weary form. His cheeks were flushed but if their bloom was from sleep or recovering health Frodo could not tell.

"Sick again?" he asked worriedly. He was relieved when the child shook his head.

Pippin stood motionless for a while, his green eyes seeking his cousin's and yet avoiding a direct look. Frodo smiled at this timidity and stretched out his arms. With a smile, the young lad leaped into his arms and snuggled close.

"You should be sleeping," Frodo scolded though his voice lacked sternness.

Pippin shook his head burying his face in Frodo's chest before the rattling rain caught his attention. "It's odd without them," the child remarked in a small voice and Frodo immediately knew who he was talking about.

"I know," he answered placing a gentle kiss on the lad's auburn curls, "but they'll be back in less than a week."

Pippin nodded sleepily as if he had already considered this. A peaceful silence closed about them, which was only interrupted by the child's never ceasing curiosity. "Where are your parents?" he asked in a concerned voice. "I've never seen them."

Frodo smiled sadly. "But you have," he said and when Pippin turned a puzzled face to him, he reached for the framed drawing on the nightstand. It showed a young boy of about eight summers sitting between his parents. His mother held him close while his father had an arm around them both. "That's them."

Frodo drew a gentle finger across the features of Drogo and Primula Baggins. He always did that when looking at their happy faces. Pippin followed his example. "They look awfully nice."

"They were," Frodo agreed nodding, "but they died a very long time ago."

"Oh," Pippin said simply and gave him an extra tight hug. "But you don't look very sad. Did you never miss them?"

The smile slowly faded. Frodo turned towards the window and closed his eyes, remembering.

~*~*~

Frodo staggered along as Merimac, a tight grip upon his upper arm, lead him speedily back to Brandy Hall. The heavy bag he was carrying rattled with every step. The sun smiled down at them and Frodo felt mocked by her happiness. Anger and fear alike surged within him. In vain he tried to regain his freedom knowing what he was headed for.

They had not spoken a word since Merimac found him. His cousin's face was stern, his eyes fixed on Buckhill and yet there was something about him that made Frodo wonder whether it was really only fury he saw in Mac's gaze. He almost felt sorry - for himself. This was not leading him anywhere, not if he got caught every time he tried.

"What were you doing up there?" Mac blurted out, turning him round abruptly.

Frodo glared at him fearlessly, locking those greenish blue eyes to his. Why did he have to stop him?

"If Saradoc knew…"

"And if he did I wouldn't care!" Frodo spat, his eyes glistening with defiance and frustration. "He is not my father! And neither are you!"

"Perhaps not, but…" Merimac grabbed him by the shoulder as he tried to move away, turning him around again. "We care for you, Frodo, and whether you wish it or not we will look after you."

Irate, Frodo pushed the hand from him. "I don't need looking after. I need…"

"Yes?"

Frodo shrunk back, suddenly intimidated by his cousin's huge form looming up before him like an ominous shadow. His voice broke, losing its venomous bite. His heart beat heavy in his chest and his breath came out in short gasps. Looking into his cousin's eyes again he suddenly perceived what he had felt all along. There wasn't only anger in that gaze, but also worry, sorrow and pain. Frodo took yet another step backwards aiming to turn and run but Mac caught him in time. "Let me go!" he cried struggling hard against his cousin's tight grip.

"Frodo," Mac tried to calm him but Frodo wouldn't listen.

Feeling like a trapped animal he screamed and when Merimac finally loosened his grip and let go Frodo stumbled backwards. Immediately his eyes were on his cousin again, cold and deathly. "You think you care for me, but I don't need you. I need a home," he gritted out between closed teeth and even he could feel his composure faltering. "A home! Can you give me that?"

"We're trying to."

Frodo started at this new voice, his face turning ashen. He closed his eyes as if in pain, not daring to breathe.

Saradoc approached him slowly. Frodo could hear every single footstep on the soft grass. "You were on your way to the Bywater smial again?"

It was a question even though Frodo was convinced his guardian knew the answer already. In the past few months he had tried several times to return to his family's old smial in the Westfarthing - unsuccessfully. Whenever he was caught, Saradoc escorted him back to his room where they would have a long conversation, though his cousin usually did the talking and he simply sat, resigned, or so it seemed. He loved Saradoc dearly and the pain he caused him hurt Frodo all the more. Yet he could not help it. He did not belong here.

"I caught him at Brandywine Bridge," Merimac explained, sighing heavily.

Frodo could hear the helplessness in his voice and he might have rejoiced in his small victory had he not felt the same weakness in his own heart. What could he do? Where could he run to? Who could return to him what he had lost?

"Frodo?" Trembling, Frodo met his guardian's gaze as Saradoc placed a hand upon his shoulder and knelt before him. Deep concern shone in the green opals of his cousin's eyes causing Frodo to swallow hard. "What can I do to make the Hall feel more like home for you?"

Bring them back to me.

Frodo shook his head violently finally giving in and allowing his guardian to embrace him. It would be so much easier if he could offer another reply, but instead he whispered almost inaudible: "I miss them so much."

~*~*~

"Frodo?"

The tween turned back to his young cousin. The candle cast an odd light on the young one's face causing his eyes to glisten questioningly. Frodo drew him close and, moving his finger yet again across the drawing of his parents, he finally answered Pippin's question. "I did and still do at times, but it gets better."

It was true. Every year it got a little better. The first had been an ordeal. He had been torn and was constantly fighting himself and everyone who dared come close enough. It was a struggle to understand, a fight he kept up even today for never would he fully comprehend why his parents had been taken from him so early. In the second year, the arrival of little Merry had brought a little hope back to him.

Bring them back to me.

Saradoc might not have returned his parents, but he had given him Merry, the first one who had been able to bring a genuine smile on his face. The one he could cling to, the hobbit who made Brandy Hall home and thus had helped him to involuntary make his peace with the other inhabitants. Yet it was only through Bilbo that Frodo had been able to make peace with himself and there were no words that would ever describe how grateful he was for that.

"That's good," Pippin nodded, sleepily curling into a small ball on his lap. "You know, I could share my parents with you if you miss yours too much," he added yawning. "I would rather have an elder brother than three elder sisters."

Frodo grinned. "I don't doubt that."

"I'm sure mother and father wouldn't mind. Well," Pippin furrowed his brow thinking. "They might, but I'm sure you could convince them that you're better than Pearl, Nell and Vinca combined."

"You put a lot of trust into my abilities, my dear cousin," Frodo snickered. Surely the sisters couldn't be that bad.

Pippin nodded, closing his eyes. "I just don't want you to be lonely."

"I am not," Frodo assured him with a smile as he stroked a stray curl back Pippin's temple. "I have Bilbo, you know."

"But he is old!"

Shaking with silent laughter, Frodo was unable to answer. Dear Pippin was ever so provident and certainly didn't mince matters. He was right; Bilbo was old, but age was not important. Bilbo and Bag End were his home and he would never leave either of them unless he had to. This was where he belonged. Even his parents couldn't have given him a better place to live.

And as night settled onto the Hill, Pippin's breath grew even. Frodo looked out of the window and was smiling again as he combed through his cousin's curls.

~THE END~