Sewn with Love

By: Elemmírë

Series: Lord of the Rings

Summary: Esmeralda attempts to help a heartbroken Frodo cope through the stages of grief.

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

Author's Note: This was the second LOTR tale I penned and also my very first multi-chaptered LOTR fic. I chose not to post it until now, however, because of the time of year much of the tale takes place in.

When I posted 'Extreme Makeovers: Bag End Edition,' I had made reference to Frodo's "special blanket" in chapter 9 and alluded to an upcoming tale concerning its origins. This is that tale. I hope everyone enjoys! This tale takes place 4½ months after 'On a Moonlit Night.' Angst & hankie warning given.

Esmeralda is 44, Saradoc is 40, & Bilbo is 90 (ages 27½, 25½, & 58 in Man years). Frodo is 12 (age 7½ in Man years).

Esmeralda Brandybuck sighed as she entered what was now her sewing area located in the far corner of the sitting room. What a day it had been! Normally on this day, she and her husband’s family would be in Hobbiton to celebrate their cousin Bilbo Baggins’ birthday. Twelve years ago the Bagginses, Tooks, and Brandybucks had been blessed with another reason to celebrate as well, for it was also the birth date of another of their cousins. Frodo Baggins had been born to her husband’s Aunt Primula and Uncle Drogo, making him Saradoc’s youngest first cousin. Frodo was her cousin as well, through their shared Took ancestry. Esmeralda didn’t know who had been more happy with the long-awaited birth of Frodo ... his parents, or Bilbo. Drogo Baggins and his wife, Primula Brandybuck, had been the old hobbit's most favorite of relations ... until the arrival of their long-awaited son that is. Ever since, Bilbo had hosted a huge party every year for his and his 'nephew’s' shared birthday.

This year however, was the first in which Bilbo had not hosted a party for the two Bagginses' same-day birthdays. For this year was different; it was the first birthday Frodo would celebrate since his parents’ tragic deaths earlier that Spring. The unfortunate lad was turning twelve and Bilbo was going to be ninety--a very respectable age for a hobbit.

One lovely evening during one of their frequent stays in Buckland, Primula and Drogo Baggins had kissed their little son goodnight, left him in the care of Esmeralda and Saradoc, and had gone off for a romantic, late evening stroll together.

They never came back.

In the early hours of that fateful morning, a pair of fisher-hobbits from Standelf had first come across the body of a gentlehobbit floating facedown, apparently having drowned in the Brandywine River far downstream from Brandy Hall. On their way to the Hall with the recovered body, those same hobbits had happened upon one of the Brandybucks' boats, mysteriously overturned in the calm waters with nary a scratch upon its brightly painted hull. The Master had been awakened and had received the shock of his life to learn that the deceased hobbit was none other than his brother-in-law, Drogo Baggins.

A search party had commenced and late that morning, the body of Primula had been discovered as well, having washed up on the opposite riverbank. Their bodies had been covered with cuts and bruises and had been ice-cold and swollen from the water; their lips blue. Speculations and rumors would abound for years on end, but it would forever remain a mystery as to what had really happened that fateful night.

Needless to say, little Frodo Baggins had been beside himself and was deeply distraught with grief--his short life in sudden upheaval. The newly minted orphan was effectively stranded at Brandy Hall and having no children of their own yet, Saradoc and Esmeralda had volunteered to continue taking care of the child. It was discussed with Frodo’s closest relations and if the Brandybucks were willing, then the Bagginses agreed, feeling that Brandy Hall would be the best place for Frodo to be cared for at this point in his young life. After all, his Aunt Dora had felt she was getting too old to be able to keep up with the lad; his Uncle Dudo already had a daughter nearly of age, was tending his ill wife, and had felt he lived too far away from the rest of Frodo’s immediate relations; and Bilbo ... Bilbo had seriously considered taking the lad to live with him at Bag End, but he had felt that for now, Frodo would benefit from being around Esmeralda and the other hobbit lasses and numerous children to be found at the Hall; not to mention the fact that Bilbo still rather enjoyed wandering around both in and occasionally out of the Shire as well.

As head of the Baggins family, Bilbo now legally maintained primary guardianship over Frodo, but had relinquished the right to foster him to the Brandybucks, with the agreement that Frodo be allowed to visit him at Bag End or any of his other Baggins relations as often as he liked. Bilbo had been quite firm that he would not have the lad grow up without knowing more of his father's heritage, although no other member of the dwindling family name had ever volunteered to take on the orphan either.

No, this year’s same-day birthdays were very different indeed, Esmeralda thought as she proceeded to light a fire in the small fireplace of the sitting room to ward of the coming Autumn chill. Although many at Brandy Hall--including herself and Saradoc--thought the birthday party would do little Frodo a world of good, Bilbo had put his furry foot down, stating that he did not feel it right to have a joyous party of gigantic proportions so soon this sad year. Bilbo wanted nothing more than for Frodo to be happy, but he'd also realized that the now-orphaned child was still wallowing too deep in grief to celebrate anything momentous, such as his own birthday, this year.

Instead the elderly, but spry, hobbit invited himself to Brandy Hall and arranged for a very small, quiet get-together of Frodo’s closest relatives and few Buckland friends. The gathering had started off rather well; young Frodo had appeared to be enjoying himself as well as he could, given his unfortunate situation. Esmeralda had observed that he seemed to eat a little more without being cajoled; talk a little more; and even give a small, shy smile every now and then while in Bilbo’s presence. Esmeralda had marveled at how Bilbo, esteemed bachelor for his entire life, always seemed to know how to handle Frodo’s moods and melancholy when no one else could seem to get through to the little one.

Things had started going downhill when some of Frodo’s older teen and tweenage cousins had caught wind of the small gathering and decided to join in, knowing it to be a birthday celebration. The teens, especially, couldn’t understand why Frodo hadn’t invited them and had wondered where all the birthday mathoms were being stashed, for surly there were presents for all. Esmeralda, Saradoc, and even Bilbo had offered to take the lad shopping at the market to buy gifts or to look through the various mathom rooms with him, but Frodo simply hadn’t wanted to this year. His heart was not in it really and the hobbit child had shown no interest in his birthday at all until he had been told about Bilbo’s visit.

The tension at the gathering had escalated while the adults were busy with something or other. Some of the uninvited teens had turned surly, having begun to demand to know where their presents were and why the birthday cake was so small. Poor Frodo had stammered, trying to explain to his cousins that he didn’t have any presents to give out this year, (save three to Bilbo, Saradoc, and Esmeralda), but the young hobbits had refused to listen and had begun to taunt him, physically backing the much smaller birthday lad into a corner of the room.

A couple of the more mature tweenagers had tried to mediate on Frodo's behalf, but nothing but arguments and verbal assaults had ensued, resulting in Frodo running away in tears. Rorimac, Frodo’s uncle and the current Master of Buckland, had been forced to interfere and had chastised them all for their unacceptable rude and deplorable behavior. They were all old enough to know better than to attend a party uninvited and to squabble over gifts and cake like a bunch of overly-spoiled faunts. The Master of the Hall had been quick to dole out a suitable punishment for the recalcitrant teens and tweens, amongst which included an apology first and foremost to his nephew, but also to Bilbo, whose birthday it was as well.

While Esmeralda and her mother-in-law, Menegilda, had quietly thanked and disbanded the small gathering of invited hobbits, Bilbo and Saradoc had searched desperately for Frodo. Bilbo had finally found the distraught boy outside curled up by the Brandywine River, sobbing his heart out. In his little fingers was clenched the birthday present for his parents. It was a family picture he had drawn very early that morning, when he had been unable to sleep due to yet another nightmare.

Frodo had whimpered and had once again wanted to know why his parents had to die and leave him? ... Did he do something bad that made them go away? ... Why couldn’t he go too? ... Didn’t Mama and Da love him anymore? ... Why did they have to go away forever? ... Why couldn’t they ever come back?

Frodo had cried so hard that he wound up making himself sick and Bilbo had carried the small lad back inside; the crumpled up picture lying forgotten by the Brandywine River until a breeze whisked it over the bank, where it had floated momentarily before sinking beneath the water, just as the real hobbits it portrayed had suffered that Spring.

While Saradoc had prepared a calming tea mixed with a mild sleeping draught (as directed by the healer for times like this), Esmeralda had helped Bilbo to bathe Frodo and put him to bed. The three adult hobbits had once again found themselves frustrated that their ministrations and assurances were for naught and that their words sounded so trivial to their own ears. For young Frodo did not appear to understand any better now then when his parents' had died 4½ months earlier. His grief remained inconsolable and his melancholy only grew, instead of diminishing with Time.

Having left a stuporous Frodo in the care of his Uncle Bilbo, Esmeralda now sat herself down on the large plush chair in her small sewing area (her old sewing room now being Frodo's bedroom). She could hear the elderly hobbit’s deep voice soothing the distraught and hysterical lad, telling him a beloved tale from his Adventure with Gandalf the Wizard and the Dwarves. The tale of Bilbo’s Adventure was one of the few familiarities Frodo had left in his life now. If only the supposed wizard had power enough to bring back Drogo and Primula, Esmeralda thought sadly. If only it were that simple to utter a magical spell and make Frodo happy again.

She sighed, now wondering if even the small birthday gathering had been a good idea after all. She, like all of Frodo’s relations at Brandy Hall, simply wanted him to find his peace and happiness again. Hobbits were a very resilient people who normally bounced back into their age-old routines with great ease after tragedy, taking comfort and finding delight in the Shire and the other hobbits around them. It was easy to see that Frodo, however, was not coping very well at all with his new lot in life.

It was now months after the tragic accident and Frodo continued to have nightmares, often waking in the middle of the night screaming. He ate very little and spoke even less, despite her and her husband’s best efforts to engage the small lad in well ... anything; he also refused to speak of his parents at all to them, keeping his feelings bottled up inside. Unlike most of the other hundreds of their relations who were too busy with their own families and lives, she and Saradoc were willing to give the child as much time and patience as he needed. As they were now suddenly learning how to be parents, they wanted to desperately fill the void in Frodo’s life as he in turn filled their own childless void. Having Frodo around, even as despondent and sad as he was, made them want to strive to have a family of their own even more ... for they loved him so, as if he truly were of their own making.

After the funeral for Frodo’s parents, Bilbo, Dora and Dudo Baggins, Rorimac, Saradoc, and herself had taken Frodo to his smial in Hobbiton, the village where nearly all of the remaining Baggins family resided. They had all gone to help empty the now uninhabited smial of all its belongings before Bilbo either rented or sold it to a new family. They also gone to collect Frodo’s things that were to be moved into his new home at Brandy Hall.

One of the large mathom rooms at Brandy Hall had been emptied of its previous contents to make way for much of the larger pieces of furniture that had belonged to Drogo and Primula. There, it had been decided that they would be stored until given to the lad when he was older, as he was the sole heir of all his parents' worldly possessions. After packing the rest of his own clothing and toys, Frodo had been allowed to go through his parents’ effects and pick out whatever he wished to keep. If he was undecided over an item, it too went into storage for him until he was able to decide at a later date. It had been a very long day and a very emotional one for all concerned, but most especially for young Frodo. By the end of the day he had become highly cranky and irritable and though he was an extremely bright lad, Esmeralda had found herself wondering if he really understood the enormity and consequences of what was going on and on what level did he perceive them?

Frodo, however, had found himself understanding all too well. Watching much of his parents' furniture being carried out and placed into the waiting carts had been the final blow to him. He now knew without a doubt, that he was never coming back to what had always been his home ever again. That his parents were never coming back to him. It was a concept he would continue to struggle with and find unfathomable for a very, very long time.

When it had been time to leave for the night, Bilbo, Dora, and herself had found the lad in his parents’ room, curled up on the big bed (which was to be removed on the 'morrow) and nestled amongst the piles of clothes sorted there. He had been clutching one of his mother’s skirts to his face, and a tear had trailed down his pale cheek every now and then. He had absolutely refused to leave. When reasoning with him and even bribing him had failed, Bilbo had been forced to pick the lad up and carry him outside to one of the waiting pony carts. Frodo had shrieked and screamed, pounding his tiny fists against his uncle’s chest the entire way, howling that he wanted his Mama and Da. Esmeralda and Bilbo had looked at one another, each clearly seeing the unshed tears in the other’s eyes.

The sight of Frodo nestled amongst his dead parents’ clothes, clutching them dearly as if they could somehow bring his dear mother and father back, had broken Esmeralda’s heart. She had vowed to do something with those clothes other than just getting rid of them or giving them all away. She had spoken of her desire to Dora Baggins while they had all stayed at Bag End that night. It seemed that Dora had had a similar thought and showed Esmeralda the small bundle she had found carefully hidden away in the top drawer of a wooden chest belonging to Primula.

The elder spinster hobbit had unwrapped the bundle revealing the beginnings of a quilt. “Primula was hoping to finish this in time for Yule to give to Frodo,” she had said. “It was going to be the first quilt she ever made and she wanted to use all different shades of blue to match his eyes. Drogo used to tease her that she was making their son a new security blanket.”

Esmeralda had smiled in fond remembrance. After Frodo was born he had been wrapped in a soft blanket--a special gift courtesy of Bilbo, as family head, on the lad's Naming Day. The blanket was a beautiful shade of deep blue with leaves and swirls embroidered about the border in a paler shade of blue. Stitched in a shiny silver thread in the middle of the blanket, were three stars--two were of the same size, but the third star was smaller and set in between the larger stars. The scrolled outline of a golden heart surrounded the three silver stars, which symbolized the new family. Bilbo had said that the blanket came from the Elves and that the shade of blue used, matched the color of the Sea. Primula had loved the blanket because it matched her son’s eyes, a very rare color for a hobbit to have.

As an infant and faunt, Frodo could not be found without his special Elvish blanket and thankfully the material never seemed to take any abuse for the wear and tear that the wee lad had put it through. It went everywhere that he went until he was about eight or nine years old and then it lay folded neatly at the end of his bed (although, along with Beorn the Bear, it had always managed to find its way into Frodo's small travel pack whenever the family visited Brandy Hall). While helping Frodo to pack his belongings, Esmeralda had noticed that the blue blanket was one of the first things Frodo had taken from his own room and she knew he was currently wrapped up in its softness on the big bed, in what used to be Bilbo's own childhood room at Bag End. She remembered herself wondering just how Drogo and Primula had gotten their stubborn son to leave the treasured item behind on what was now their last visit to Buckland ... although he had brought his stuffed toy bear along ... only to sleep with at night, of course.

Fingering the material that Dora had found tucked away, the two hobbitess' had agreed that they should finish what Primula had started. The beginnings of Primula's quilt were set aside for safekeeping.

The next day when everyone else had returned to the smial, Frodo had been purposely left behind at Number Three Bagshot Row in the care of the Gamgee family of which the Gaffer worked for Bilbo, tending Bag End's magnificent gardens. It was the hope of the adults that Frodo would perhaps find some enjoyment playing with the Gaffer's two lads who were near or at his own age there, or even the younger lasses ... or possibly even take an interest in the new baby, Samwise.

Esmeralda and Dora had shared their burgeoning idea with the others and they had all spent the morning further separating all the clothing, creating a new pile to be used specifically for the quilt. At Rorimac’s suggestion, they had all picked out garments that would hold memories of his parents for Frodo. They had also picked out a few things that would hold stories that could be shared with the lad by his family--stories that happened long before he had been born, for Drogo and Primula had been married for many years before they were blessed with the birth of their only child. Bilbo and Dora had taken much of Drogo’s clothing to sort through at a later date. They had told Esmeralda that they would prepare the squares of material and bring them to Buckland when it was time to assemble the quilt. They had all agreed to have the quilt finished in time for Yule as Primula had originally wanted (according to Dora), and they planned to give it to Frodo on the first day of Yule.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Esmeralda now pulled a heavy basket laden with clothing towards her, opening its lid. The basket contained Primula’s many skirts and dresses. She decided that today was as good a day as any to start the project.

An hour later Bilbo found her in the little sewing corner, cutting out squares of fabric for what would become Frodo’s quilt. He recognized the faded yellow fabric with the pale green trim, as being the dress Primula had worn the night Drogo had asked Uncle Gorbadoc for permission to court his youngest daughter.

“Is Frodo asleep?” Esmeralda asked softly, already knowing the answer. Bilbo would never have left the lad if he weren’t.

“Yes, although he fought the sleeping draught Saradoc put in his tea all the way. Stubborn Baggins,” Bilbo replied, fingering the material Esmeralda held in her lap, lost in his own

now-wistful memories of the once happy and loving hobbit couple.

Esmeralda stopped her cutting and looked up at the old hobbit. “Do you think he will understand, Bilbo? Do you really think Frodo will like this?”

Bilbo placed a reassuring, permanently ink-stained hand on her shoulder. “He will love it, Esme. Frodo is a spirited lad and always has been. He just needs to find his spirit again is all. We just have to be patient and give him all the Time and Love he needs right now."

Grateful for the old hobbit's wise and encouraging words, Esmeralda nodded her head as she bent to the task at hand. Two hours later and with Bilbo's help, she finished cutting the material and after threading a needle, began carefully stitching a square cut from one of Primula’s dresses to another. Saradoc had joined them and offering Bilbo some Longbottom Leaf, the two gentlehobbits sat back with their pipes and quietly watched her work.

* * * * *

~CHAPTER 2: BILBO & THE BEE~

During Winterfilth (October), Esmeralda had made little headway with her sewing project as Frodo had been very sick for much of the month with the measles that were going around Brandy Hall. While he recovered, Bilbo had come again and entertained him for hours on end with his stories of Elves, Dwaves, and Men; and also such tales as the Fell Winter and how the Brandywine River froze, allowing the Wolves to cross; or how Bandobras Took fought off an army of orcs in the Shire long ago (and invented the game of golf at the same time). The narratives seemed to perk the melancholy lad up as he sat in his bed, propped up by numerous pillows. He continued to clutch at his blue Elvish blanket and listened to Bilbo with wide-eyed wonder, Beorn the Bear faithfully tucked at his side.

* * * * *

By the end of Blotmath (November), Esmeralda was nearly finished sewing the squares of Primula’s clothing together, working only after the lad was tucked into his bed. Frodo was finally starting to eat more of his own accord and he no longer awoke screaming from nightmares, although she and Saradoc had found him whimpering in his sleep for his mother or father several times still.

They were becoming more concerned, however, as Frodo was growing increasingly indifferent about the life of Brandy Hall that surrounded him. Things that used to hold his interest or comforted him no longer seemed to; and he spent more and more time alone by himself with every passing day. While helping the young hobbit clean his room one morning, Esmeralda observed his special Elvish blanket crumpled and tossed into a corner with apparent disregard. When she asked him about it, Frodo merely shrugged his small shoulders and said he didn’t care for it anymore and that it was just a stupid baby blanket.

Telling Frodo she would save it for him in case he changed his mind, Esmeralda carefully folded the blanket, eventually deciding to use it as the new quilt’s centerpiece when the young lad continued to lack any interest in it whatsoever. Beorn too, now sat slumped over on a shelf collecting dust--the days of Frodo reverting to an almost faunt-like need to keep the worn stuffed toy with him at all times after the accident, apparently over.

Esmeralda could only stand by and watch helplessly as Frodo now played by himself most of the time, despite her and Sara's encouragement otherwise to make new friends aside from the ones he'd had in Hobbiton. Then again, the few children he'd used to play with whenever he'd visited Buckland in the past also sensed his growing disinterest and most had long ago ceased their invitations to him for play and now even for parties too. In fact, Frodo seemed to have few friends at all anymore, save his cousins Pearl and Reginard Took when they came from Tuckborough to visit with their respective families.

Frodo's indifference toward the life around him was growing exponentially and there were times when he would became increasingly restless, fidgety, and even angry. Why just the other week the lad had been downright belligerent to his rather formidable Uncle Rorimac, which had resulted in a sound thrashing despite her protests. Saradoc had tried to have a talk with Frodo, but the child had not spoken to anyone for the rest of the day, stomping off in his emotional confusion and wanting to be left alone.

Esmeralda knew that if such continued and the voices and methods of the Brandybucks remained ineffective, Bilbo as head of the Baggins family would have to be spoken to about this type of behavior. Frodo would have no choice then but to listen and obey Bilbo without a word otherwise. She and her husband both fervently hoped it would not come to down to that. Meanwhile, she continued with her sewing.

* * * * *

In the beginning week of Foreyule (December), Esmeralda had finished her work on the quilt with the help of her husband’s Aunts Asphodel and Amaranth, and her own mother-in-law, Menegilda. She also received a letter via the Quick Post from Dora that the Baggins’ section of the quilt was ready and that Bilbo would bring it with him to Buckland the week before Yule. Dora expressed her regret at not being able to further help or see Frodo receive his new quilt, but the elder hobbit felt she would not do well traveling across the Shire in the middle of Winter. The rest of her letter contained advice as to how the squares of the quilt should be properly sewn together.

As promised, Bilbo arrived a week before Yule and handed over a tightly wrapped bundle to Esmeralda before going off to find Frodo, who by now had completely lost interest in everything and everyone. When he wasn’t being made to help with chores or tossed outside to play, he was almost always alone in his room staring at the walls, his toys lying long forgotten in a corner. Bilbo was utterly shocked to hear of this latest development and he decided to drag the lad against his protests to Brandy Hall’s vast library. The elder Baggins hoped to spark the boy's interest of books and love of tales once more, and perhaps encourage his already well-developed reading skills in the process.

That night, long after Frodo was asleep in bed, Bilbo volunteered to help Esmeralda, Asphodel, Amaranth, and Menegilda sew all of the sections of the quilt together. The hobbit ladies were quite surprised at Bilbo’s remarkable sewing skills and stated as such, making the Master of Bag End nearly splutter out his tea. All hobbits learned how to sew, but few lads showed any promise for it, those that did usually becoming tailors. Bilbo explained to them that as an only child he had often had to help his mother, Belladonna Took, on numerous occasions with her prize-winning sewing work. Not to mention that he was a self-sufficient bachelor; he went to a reputable tailor in Hobbiton to have his fancy clothing made up, but he was quite capable of doing any sort of mending himself, thank you very much.

Bilbo uncharacteristically blushed however, when Menegilda casually remarked to the other lasses present that the renowned Master of Bag End should invite himself to official quilting bees more often ... reputation of Mad Baggins notwithstanding, of course.

* * * * *

The first Yule celebration without his parents was very hard on young Frodo. The day started out with him awakening to find two wrapped packages placed at the end of his bed. One label read, ‘To Frodo, Love Aunts Menegilda, Amaranth, Asphodel, & Begonia’. The other, ‘To Frodo, Love Uncles Rorimac, Saradas, Dodinas, Dinodas, Rufus, & Cousins Milo & Seredic.’

Disinterested and not the least bit curious, Frodo left the gifts where they were and padded out of his room to use the water closet. When he returned, he found Esmeralda and Saradoc sitting on his bed waiting for him, still dressed in their nightclothes. Frodo felt a pang of sorrow go through his heart; he should be running to jump on his parents’ great big bed as he had done every Yule since he could walk … not this.

“Good morning, Frodo,” Esmeralda greeted with a smile, bending to give him a warm hug and kiss. Frodo gave her a half-hearted squeeze back in return.

“I see you have a couple of Yule gifts from our Brandybuck aunts and uncles already. Aren’t you going to open them?” Saradoc asked, sounding more enthusiastic than he really needed to be. Both he and his wife continued to be very worried about the young orphan they were fostering and they hoped Frodo would not be tormented by his overwhelming grief during the weeklong celebration and festivities of Yule. They knew they were going to have to find the proper balance of dealing with the lad this week--more so than usual. Try to get him to participate in too many activities that he didn’t want to do, and the lad would become belligerent. Let him have his own way all of the time and the child would seclude himself away from everything and everyone, wallowing in his grief and the memories of his parents. Either way they looked at it, the end result was the same--a miserable Frodo. The Brandybucks were fully expecting a tantrum of some sort this week from the Baggins lad; whether it would be of temper, tears, or both remained yet to be seen.

What they didn’t yet know was that Frodo had already decided that he was not going to speak at all today, not even to his favorite Uncle Bilbo, who was coming to spend Yule in Buckland with his Brandybuck first-cousins and their families. His heart was so full of sadness and longing for his parents that he felt that if he spoke, his pent-up grief and frustrations would burst out and consume everyone around him on what was supposed to be a joyous occasion. Part of him wanted the other hobbits living in Brandy Hall to understand what he felt and to be sad with him, but he didn't know how to tell them that. Another part of him didn't want anyone else to suffer from as deep a sadness as he was.

With a slight nod of his curly head to Saradoc, Frodo climbed back onto his bed and dutifully began opening the gifts from his mother’s six brothers and sisters, their spouses, and children. Inside one of the wrappings, Frodo found a new set of winter clothes made by his aunts. There was a new white shirt of heavy warm linen and a pair of dark brown corduroy breeches, complete with matching vest and jacket. There was also a new suit for the holiday. It was a lovely shade of pine green and made from a heavy, yet comfortable, wool. At the bottom of the package were a few pairs of under-linens, which Frodo would normally have been mortified to receive from any relative, save his parents. Today, he didn't care at all and merely placed them aside with the rest of the new clothing.

The package from his uncles and two of his first-cousins contained two pairs of suspenders, one a patterned dark green and one plain brown; a light-green cravat and pocket handkerchief, which matched his holiday suit perfectly; a gold and silver tack pin in the shape of the letter ‘F’ for the cravat; a primer for practicing his writing; a bag of various colored marbles; and a small tin of peppermint candies.

Esmeralda insisted that he should try the new clothes on right then and there. … They were all too big for his slight frame. “I suppose the Aunties made them a little big so you will have room to grow into them,” she said lightly, but made him leave the holiday suit on so his many aunts would see him in it at dinner later that afternoon.

Frodo stood still while Esme cuffed the sleeves of the suit’s jacket and tightened the suspenders to better hold up the sagging breeches. She then gathered a handful of excess material at the back of the high-waist breeches and pinned it together with a large safety pin. The slightly overlong vest and jacket would easily cover the pin from anyone's notice. Frodo knew that he should be feeling ridiculous in the too-big outfit, but he found that he really didn’t care.

Shaking his head at the poor lad’s misfortune with his new clothing, Saradoc pretended to stub his toe on something poking out from under the bed; he hinted that Frodo should have a look. When Frodo dutifully peered into the dark space underneath his bed, he discovered a brightly painted red sled with shiny metal runners. His eldest first-cousin helped him to pull it out. The tag on the pull-rope read, ‘For Frodo, Love your Cousin/Uncles Saradoc, Merimac, (& Little Baby Berilac.)’

Frodo blinked, holding back the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks at any given moment. At the sight of the sled built for a single rider, he suddenly remembered overhearing a discussion his parents had had earlier that year as the previous winter was in the process of fading away. He was supposed to have been sleeping, but he'd heard his father finally convince his mother that their son would be old enough to have a sled of his own for the upcoming winter. Needless to say, Frodo (like any lad) had been elated and had found himself jumping up and down on his little bed in excitement. His parents, of course, had heard him and had promptly tucked him back under the covers once more, bidding him a firm but loving goodnight.

Now, Frodo only felt that he should be at HIS home in Hobbiton with his OWN father showing him the ins and outs of using a sled, not a well-meaning Saradoc Brandybuck.

“Do you like it, lad?” Tentativeness replaced the enthusiasm that had been in Sara's voice as he watched the child's reaction.

Frodo automatically nodded his head, his gaze fixed upon the new sled. Saradoc looked at his wife and gave her a worried frown. Esmeralda shrugged, not knowing what was going through the Frodo's head anymore than her husband did. She didn’t know what to do or say to the young orphan anymore and she didn’t want to make him feel any more uncomfortable than he already appeared to be. She ruffled his dark curls gently and told him she would go make first breakfast and also what time he was expected to be ready to go to dinner in the main hall later that afternoon.

Leaving Frodo with his new gifts, his guardians left the small, windowless room and Frodo sat down on his bed again amidst the wrapping paper, marbles, peppermints, and so forth. He continued to stare unblinking at the red wooden sled, which was propped up against the footboard. The little hobbit reached out a small hand and hesitantly touched the sled, stroking a finger down one of the shiny metal runners. Suddenly with a heart-wrenching sob, Frodo jerked his hand back and grabbed a fistful of the brown wrapping paper and colorful ribbons. He ripped the paper to shreds with his little hands while tears streamed silently down his pale face.

* * * * *

After a splendid Yule dinner of gigantic proportions of which Frodo ate very little of, the hobbit children of Brandy Hall were directed by the Master and Mistress to sit in several large circles per tradition for the handing out of the Yule gifts. The faunts and toddlers were in one circle; the young children and teens comprised another very small circle (as there were not many of that particular age group); and the largest circle of all consisted of the tweenagers.

Frodo removed himself from the bustle of activity and climbed into in a chair located in one of the corners of the Great Hall, an unopened present resting on his lap. He could care less about opening yet another gift on this day, for he knew the gift he truly wanted would not be inside ..... and never would be. As much as he hoped ... as much as he wished, Mama and Da could never come back to him.

Frodo stared sullenly at the Yule log burning in the hearth across the large room. The well-meaning attentions of his large extended family were beginning to overwhelm and grate on him and he found himself wishing to be anywhere but here more and more throughout the long, tiresome day. It was agony for him to sit and watch the entire young hobbit population of the Hall be happy while he could not be. He was tired of their merry singing and watching them dance happily in groups or with their parents and siblings. He wanted HIS Mama and Da; he yearned to feel their loving hugs and kisses. He wanted to hear his mother call him her ‘sweet little lad’ and listen to his father’s hearty laugh as he tossed his son up into the air, only to catch him and tickle him mercilessly.

It wasn't fair.

He didn't wish ill upon the other children, but it just ... wasn't ... FAIR!

Did no one else in the entire Hall feel saddened by the loss of his mother and father as he did? Why did no one else seem to mourn them anymore? Instead, all of the hobbits appeared to be smiling and having a grand time at the Yule feast. Even Uncle Rory seemed to have lost that overly serious and guilt-felt mood that had overshadowed and burdened him since That Day.

Frodo knew he was quickly reaching his limit and if one more relation felt the pitying need to ruffle his curls and say, “Poor lad,” he was going to lash out but good. So far, he'd kept his promise to himself to not talk for the day and thankfully, Auntie Esme and Uncle Sara were not pushing the matter any. He wondered if they understood.

He looked over to where they were dancing away in each others' arms with nothing but love for each other in their bright eyes. Another pang of hurt and sorrow hit him as the orphan remembered once seeing that very same love in his parents' eyes anytime they had held one another. .... His parents should be out there dancing too, and he running about in his own merriment and mischief with a new toy in hand.

Frodo was staring at his guardians and the rest of the happy hobbits living their normal lives with such longing and despair, that he wasn’t aware of the old pair of brown eyes watching him. Seeing the lad was about to lose control of the pent-up emotions plaguing him all day, Bilbo came to the rescue and swept little Frodo up into his arms, carrying him away from all of the festive activity without a word. The unopened gift the boy had been holding now lay forgotten on the chair.

Frodo rested his head against Bilbo’s shoulder and closed his eyes, relaxing into his uncle’s strong embrace with a weary sigh. Bilbo, at least, understood … he always seemed to understand.

* * * * *

Bilbo carried Frodo back to his little bedroom in Saradoc's apartment and helped the tired lad get washed up, changed from his oversized new suit and into his comfortable nightshirt. Instead of tucking Frodo into bed, however, he plopped himself onto the settle in Sara and Esme’s sitting room, holding Frodo upon his lap. In a corner of the room, Bilbo spotted the Yule gifts he had given Frodo earlier in the day. They were all sent with Bilbo to Buckland from some of the Baggins side of their family. After warning him of Frodo’s dour mood, Saradoc and Esmeralda had graciously left Bilbo alone to bestow the presents to his favorite nephew. Bilbo had enjoyed helping young Frodo open them, their contents as much a mystery to him as they were to the despondent twelve-year old. (Frankly, he thought he enjoyed the entire experience more than the little one did.)

Aunt Dora had sent a box of her homemade candy and had made Frodo’s favorite biscuits. In addition, she had sewn him a small, stuffed toy sheep thinking he could certainly have use for another such comforting plaything while living amongst the Brandybucks ... and a friend for Beorn perhaps. The head, legs, and long floppy ears were all made from a very soft black , velvety cloth; the round body was made with real prize-winning wool from Uncle Dudo's sheep farm and Frodo had let his fingers stroke the soft lamb's wool before putting it down beside him. There was also a long letter from Aunt Dora, complete with the advice of not to eat all of the sweets in one sitting; however, there was also the advice that these were meant just for the lad and that he didn’t have to share them with any of his multitude of cousins at Brandy Hall if he did not wish to. Frodo had silently offered Bilbo a treat though, much to the older hobbit’s delight.

Uncle Dudo, his wife Chrysanthemum, and their thirty-year old daughter, Daisy, had sent a brightly colored ball and cup game made with painted wood and a string; a pair of soft mittens knitted with woolen yarn dyed blue along with a matching cap and scarf.

And Bilbo himself had given the young hobbit a new storybook complete with colorful pictures; a small bag of coins; along with a writing set that contained two fine quills, a clear glass ink well, several bottles of ink of various colors, sealing wax, and sheaves upon sheaves of fine parchment. He had told Frodo that he fully expected the lad to write to him more often using these, especially as it would be good practice. Frodo had run his small fingers along the paper and the feather quills, nodding solemnly.

And now the opened gifts sat right where Frodo had left them hours ago, untouched since the numerous boxes had revealed their secrets. Bilbo watched the flames dancing cheerily in the fireplace. All were merry and bright on this day … all except one deeply grieving little hobbit child.

Bilbo sighed and hugged Frodo closer to him and felt the small arms try to encircle him in return, tiny fingers clutching onto his holiday vest. He rested his chin atop Frodo’s soft curls and breathed in the sweet, clean scent of them. “Would you like to hear a story, my dear boy?” he asked eventually.

Frodo’s response was immediate, almost as if he had been waiting all day to be asked. Bilbo felt the sharp nod of the small, dark head and the lad cuddled into him even closer, resting one small hand atop his own larger one. Bilbo entwined his fingers within Frodo’s and closed his eyes in empathy … Frodo had yet to speak a single word to anyone today, even to him. Bilbo wasn't going to push the matter any, however, knowing full well the extent of Frodo's stubborness inherited mostly from his Baggins heritage, with a touch from his Brandybuck half as well. He couldn't even begin to imagine what the poor dear must be feeling today of all days, suddenly forced to partake in the holidays without his beloved parents at his side as they always had been. No, it was better for now to be supportive and just let the lad be. Tomorrow was another day.

“What would you like to hear, Frodo?” Bilbo asked, hopeful that the promise of a tale might just be the thing to loosen the lad’s tongue.

Frodo merely shrugged his narrow shoulders, the fingers of his other hand now playing with the brass buttons on Bilbo’s fancy vest.

The old hobbit gave a slight worrying frown into Frodo's curls at the lack of verbal response on his nephew's part. Deciding against a scary tale, an overly happy one, or even a melancholy one involving the Elves, Bilbo chose to tell Frodo a more neutral story. And so, he began to tell the little one all about the great Eagles he had met on his journey with the wizard Gandalf very long ago.

Frodo closed his own eyes and sighed in content, losing himself in the tale. He rested his head back against his uncle’s shoulder and listened in the hope of waylaying his grief and sadness. During Bilbo’s very detailed description of the giant birds, Frodo began to imagine that he would someday have an Adventure of his own in which he would meet one of the great Eagles. He wondered how big their feathers truly were? Could one be used as a quill for writing?

Frodo suddenly pictured Bilbo sitting in his study at Bag End writing him a letter with a quill pen made from an Eagle feather as big as he was. For the first time in a very long while, Frodo smiled a very small smile. Another image of Bilbo trying to dip the giant feather into an ink well floated into his mind ... and his smile grew.

His strong sense of curiosity peaked to the point of breaking his promise to himself, Frodo shifted, turning to ask his uncle about the Eagle feathers when the front door to the apartment opened. Uncle Sara and Auntie Esme strolled in together, hand-in-hand. Frodo’s eyes widened when he saw the time on the clock on the mantel. The First Day of Yule Party was now officially over and he had never been allowed to stay up this late before by anyone, not even his parents.

Gesturing for Bilbo to continue his story, the young couple sat down on the pair of wingback chairs across from the settle. After Bilbo finished his tale, Saradoc declared that it was far past time for a certain young hobbit be in his bed. He and Bilbo laid the still silent Frodo on his bed, kissed him goodnight, and stoked the dwindling fire.

Esmeralda then entered the room, carrying a neatly folded up quilt in her arms. Instead of spreading the blanket over Frodo however, she handed it to him. Frodo looked up at her quizzically, wondering if he was supposed to tuck himself in.

* * * * *

In his misery, Frodo hadn’t even realized that Auntie Esme had never given him a Yule gift of her own today. “This is my gift to you, Frodo-dear," she explained in a voice laced with hesitancy and tentativeness. "I made it with the help of your Brandybuck aunts, your Aunt Dora, and Uncle Bilbo.”

“Don’t forget Dudo, Esme,” Bilbo interjected. “I believe young Daisy and Chrysanthemum helped as well.”

“Oh yes, your Uncle Dudo had a hand in this as well as your Uncle Rorimac, as I recall.”

When Frodo showed little interest in the new quilt, Esmeralda unfolded it over him and wrapped the lad snuggly, tenderly brushing a stray curl from his brow. Frodo didn't say a single word and Esmeralda sighed in both sadness and mounting frustration. She had hoped that this quilt of memories would spark the boy's interest and encourage him at last to speak of his parents.

“Give him time, Esme,” Bilbo whispered in her ear.

She had given him time--they all had. ... How much time would he need? She and Saradoc had been there for Frodo every single day since the horrible accident, from sunrise to sunset. They provided for him, comforted him, tried to talk to him, loved him as if he were their own son. It was she that woke him in the morning with a song as she cooked him his first breakfast; and sang for him again while she helped him with his evening bath. It was Saradoc who'd deemed Frodo old enough to wear a real cravat and not a pinned-on one like the faunts and young little lads wore. Esmeralda remembered her husband and father-in-law spending one afternoon showing the twelve-year old how to tie his cravat properly like a real gentlehobbit. They had showered the lad with much encouragement, and then again with praise when he had finally tied his little cravat neatly around his neck just as they'd taught.

Esmeralda knew that was just it though. Frodo longed for Primula to be the one to sing and cook for him, and help bathe him; and for Drogo to show him all of the things a father teaches his lad. But when was Frodo finally going to accept that his mother and father were forever gone, save for their memory? When was he going to start accepting the love that she and Saradoc tried so very hard to surround him with every single day? Did he not realize that they missed his beloved parents very much also?

She knew the lad was not unappreciative at heart, but her frustration mounted at his increasing lack of response and interest in anything or anyone … and her own inability to help him. Although Brandy Hall was bursting at the seams with hobbits, she and Saradoc really had no one to turn to for help, for young orphans bereft of both parents were very rare in the Shire and few and far between. There was no one around with prior experience or real advice that they could use in their dealings and fostering of the grieving, melancholic child.

Esmeralda turned to leave the bedroom before she said something to the young orphan that she would regret; she didn't want to push Frodo any further away than he already was. Tears for the crumbling orphan formed in her eyes and threatened to spill over. She wiped a hand across her eyes hastily and leaned into her husband's comforting embrace as he started to lead her from the room. Saradoc was as much at a loss as his wife over what to do with Frodo Baggins.

Bilbo himself even frowned as he took it upon himself to blow out most of the candles lighting the room, leaving only one burning on the nightstand and the embers burning in the small fireplace. He shook his head sadly. Frodo used to have so much spirit about him. I know it is still within him ... somewhere, waiting to be let out again, he thought silently to himself. Stepping on a creaking floorboard, he missed hearing Frodo's startled gasp, as he pondered what more he could do to help Frodo overcome the past.

In his disinterest, Frodo hadn't really seen the quilt Esmeralda bestowed upon him. He didn't understand what was so special about it that half of his immediate family had been involved in the making of it ... until he turned onto his side with a weary sigh and part of it brushed against his cheek. Frodo suddenly smelled something he had been longing to smell again after many long months of heartache and anguish. The last time he had sniffed this particular scent was the very last time he had been in his parents' bedroom, during what had been his last trip home ever. It was the scent of his mother.

Quickly, Frodo sat up and studied the patchwork in the dim light remaining. His eyes widened as he saw a piece of his mother's favorite dress and ... and was that a square from one of his father's expensive vests? Frodo held the quilt up to his nose and inhaled deeply. Yes, it still smelled of his father's pipeweed, Old Toby.

Bilbo turned from adding kindling to the hearth and saw the boy sitting up in bed suddenly. "Frodo? Is everything all right, lad?"

Glimpsing that Esme and Sara were nearly out the door of his room, Frodo spoke for the first time that day. His voice was very soft, heartfelt, and bereft of the monotone quality it had taken on for the past several months. “Thank you, Auntie Esme.”

Esmeralda stopped cold and turned around slowly in astonishment. She spotted the small hobbit child sitting upright, the firelight glinting off his deep chestnut curls and highlighting them with a reddish glow. His fingers were tracing patterns over the patchwork of the quilt. With Saradoc still standing in the doorway, Esmeralda slowly returned to Frodo’s bedside.

Frodo continued, his soft sweet voice gaining strength as he spoke. “I-I remember that day you all took me home ... I saw one of Mama’s dresses hanging up on her bedroom door. Sh-she hung it there before we left to come visit Buckland. It was so soft against my cheek ... and it smelled of her. This is a piece of it here."

The three adult hobbits watched as Frodo held the quilt up and deeply sniffed the square of fabric. "It smells of her still. ... I-I’m sorry I haven’t been happy lately."

A tear ran down his pale cheek and Esmeralda gently wiped it away with a pocket handkerchief that Bilbo hastily thrust into her hand. She sat down next to the little one and gathered him into her lap, quilt and all, hugging him tightly to her.

"Oh, don't be sorry, Frodo-dear. You've suffered a terrible loss that no one your age should ever have to bear. We understand that you're sad and that you need time, but we only want to help you to be happy again."

"I don't know how anymore," came the most forlorn whisper any of the adult hobbits had ever heard.

Saradoc quickly crossed the room and sat on the floor at the head of the small bed. He placed a hand on Frodo's head, running his fingers through the dark mass of curls soothingly. "We know you miss your dear parents terribly and we all miss them very much as well. Esme and I know that we could never replace them ... nor do we ever want to. We can only hope to look after you as well they no doubt would have. Esme and I love you, Frodo. And we feel most blessed to have you now be a part of our life together."

Frodo looked down at his lap, another tear escaping down his face. Through his watery eyes he saw that in the very middle of his new quilt was his old baby blanket, the one made special by the Elves and given to him by Uncle Bilbo when he was born. No longer able to hold back the dam of emotion within him burst and clutching at the quilt he wept openly, bitter tears flowing in a torrent of anguish and woe.

Esmeralda cradled him and rocked him. The gentle action reminded Frodo again of his beautiful mother. "I want my Mama!" he cried harder. "It's not fair! I want them back!"

"We know, Frodo ... we know. We miss them very much too. ... There, there now. Let it out dear one, let it all out." Esme kissed the pale brow, continuing to rock the child within her embrace while her husband lent his own form of support in the manner of soothing strokes to the thick dark curls of one of Frodo's hanging feet.

In due course, the orphan wept all of his held back tears and lay limply against Esmeralda. He fingered his new quilt, wondering why she had bothered to take the time to make it for him when he had a perfectly good quilt already.

He looked up at her. "Why did you make this for me, Auntie?" His voice was hoarse from all of the crying.

The three adult hobbits shared a small, relived smile with each other. Frodo's insatiable curiosity was returning at last. "Well, it all started that day at your parent's smial; your Aunt Dora found a quilt for you just started by your mother, but she wasn't able to finish it ..." Esmeralda explained in a gentle voice, her Tookish lilt becoming more pronounced.

Frodo sniffled and stared at the small section of varying shades of blue squares that Esme pointed out to him. He remembered going once with his mother to buy fabric at the tailor shop in Hobbiton. Some of the blue squares looked like the material from one of the many bolts of cloth she had looked at that day.

"... the sight of you lying on your parent's bed amongst all their clothing tore my heart open. I couldn't just let these things that held such precious memories be thrown or given away. Along with everything else, they now belonged to you. Your Aunt Dora agreed and the idea of finishing your mother's quilt was born. When we went back the next day, each one of us picked out pieces of your parents' wardrobe that held special memories for us so that we could someday share them with you."

"You see Frodo-lad, when you're sad, we become sad too," Bilbo explained, sitting down on Frodo's other side; he fingered something in hidden in the deep pocket of his vest. The little hobbit looked up at him, his large blue eyes nothing but pools of sorrow and grief. The elder Baggins longed to see the lad’s bright spirit shine forth again. Perhaps today would be the first step of many towards healing.

He watched Frodo slide off of Esmeralda’s lap after giving her a hug and crawl onto his own, clutching his new quilt as if it were a lifeline. Which, he supposed it was in some ways.

"Will I ever be happy again, Uncle Bilbo?" Frodo asked, straddling the inviting lap and facing his uncle.

Bilbo smiled down at his favorite nephew, holding the slim shoulders to steady the lad. "Of course you will, it will just take a long time. Soon, one day will be a happy one for you and then as time goes by, more and more of them will be happy. I regret that you will always have sad days, Frodo my lad, but eventually the number of happy days will outgrow the number of sad ones."

“But I always thought they would be here,” Frodo said plaintively, folding his arms across his small chest. His expression was very serious, his mouth drawn in a thin line.

Bilbo sighed. “So did I, my boy, so did I. But you will always have them with you. You have only to look in your memory to see them. You will always have them there and in your heart. Always.” He placed a hand over the lad’s heart for emphasis.

Frodo uncrossed his arms and buried his face in his uncle’s fine woolen vest, smelling the Old Toby, ink, and parchment that was the distinctive scent of Uncle Bilbo. He felt tears trickling down his cheeks again. “But why did they have to die?” he sniffled.

Bilbo hugged the lad tightly to him. “I don’t honestly know, Frodo, but when I remember them, I always remember how happy they looked ... especially after they were blessed with you.”

And for the first time since they died, Frodo spoke openly about his parents. With Saradoc sitting on the floor in front of the hearth, and Esmeralda and Bilbo sitting on the bed with the small hobbit lad curled in between them, Frodo shared with them his memories. He held the quilt on his lap and fingered each square of fabric lovingly. He took his time and spoke slowly, unraveling a detailed image of whatever remembrance the patchwork evoked.

The adult hobbits listened and enjoyed hearing about their dear friends from this special child’s viewpoint. Whenever Frodo came to a quilted square he didn’t recognize, they told him who had picked out the fabric and why, in turn, sharing with him his family’s memories of Drogo and Primula Baggins.

After many long hours, Frodo began nodding off during one of Saradoc’s childhood memories of his favorite Auntie Primula. The young hobbit was exhausted emotionally--as well as physically-- after the very long day. He roused long enough to be tucked back into his bed, Bilbo reminding him to, “Be sure to write a thank-you note to your Aunt Dora as well as your Uncle Dudo and his family, Frodo-lad.” Bilbo removed Beorn from his shelf and blew the dust off him before tucking the bear, along the new stuffed toy sheep, into the crook of one little arm where they were eagerly snatched up and cuddled, tiny fingers disappearing into the soft fur and fluffy wool.

And for the first night since the tragic accident, Frodo slept soundly and had pleasant dreams while wrapped snuggly in his new quilt sewn of Love.

* * * * *

And Drogo and Primula smiled as they looked down upon their sleeping son, feeling at peace themselves, knowing their beloved was safe, cared for, and loved by many ....

~The End~

A Word From the Author: I initally wrote this story long before I started posting to SoA and it became a way to express myself at times. The plot for Frodo's quilt was based upon seeing my grandmother’s clothes laid out everywhere in her house after she died several years ago now. Her soft flannel and cotton nightgowns hung on the back of a door where she had left them before she became very sick. After she passed on, I stood there, feeling them--they still carried her sweet smell.

Oh how I wished that I knew how to sew as I stood there, for I would have turned them into a quilt of memories. Yes, I wanted to give the clothes to someone who really needed them, but they were also strong reminders of her and her sudden absence in my life now. By writing this inspiration through Frodo, it helped me come to term with some of my own lingering grief.

Thank you to all who read this story ... and a special thank you to all who took the time to leave a review, as well!!!!

~Elemmírë~