One year Frodo gave his mum a rose on his birthday and laughed with joy and love as Primula hugged him tight and thanked him for it. They picked out just the right vase for it for Prim loved her flowers and there were many vases to choose from.

“Use this one, Mama,” Frodo said, standing on a chair and straining on his tiptoes to reach a clear, slightly red glass.

“Oh, Frodo, that’s perfect!” Primula said.

They filled it up partway with water and grinned at each other for how beautiful it was.

The next year he placed the rose on his parents’ grave and the only water was from his tears. He had a terrible aversion to any water for a very long time after that. He didn’t like even to wash his hands or scrub his face and he absolutely refused to take a bath. His aunt, uncle or cousins had to sponge him down, usually with him on their lap, for he would not tolerate it any other way.

When his cousin Merry was born, he was still suffering. He almost snatched the wee lad out of his mother’s arms when Esmeralda gave him a bath in a small tub. “No, Auntie!” Frodo cried. “He might drown!”

Merry was in no danger. Esme had him firmly held and the water was just enough for the lad to splash around him and soak her as much as him. His face lit up to see his most beloved cousin and he splashed even harder which left Frodo jumping back and spluttering, but Merry splashed all the more, giggling hard. The room was a mess when they were done and it was a chore to clean up, but Esme counted it the best time she had had in a long while. She was soaked, but she was happy. For Frodo was soaked too, but he was smiling. He started helping his aunt with Merry’s bath and slowly he learned that it was all right to be wet.

He still avoided the River though and only reluctantly accepted baths in a tub again, though he still wouldn’t sit down in one. The roses he continued to leave at his parents’ grave, each year on his birthday and the pain slowly grew less.

When Merry was five, he took his brother-cousin’s hand and tugged him to the River. For a long time Frodo didn’t come closer than to have the water lap at his toes and only then because he didn’t want to let go of Merry’s hand for fear of something happening to the lad. The little one happily splashed about, the water rising higher and higher and soaking both of them throughly.

“Oh, Frodo! This is so much better than that small tub!” he cried and then he tugged Frodo in further. The older hobbit froze, his hand tightly around Merry’s until the wee one was squirming and trying to get loose.

“I’m sorry, Merry-lad, I don’t like the water,” Frodo said, loosening his grip but not letting go of the lad’s hand.

“It’s all right, Frodo. I won’t let it hurt you.”

The older lad looked down into his beloved cousin’s earnest face and smiled a little. As much as he tried to protect Merry from hurts and dangers, he sometimes suspected that Merry was doing the same for him by drawing him away from his fears. He held onto the little one’s hand and with a visible act of the will, fought to master his terror of the River. It swirled around his calves and true to his word, Merry did not let it hurt him.

By the time he left for Bag End, Merry had taught him how to swim again, though only in the shallow pool the faunts and other younglings used.

Two years later, Frodo proudly watched as Merry gave their squealing cousin a bath, very carefully holding on to the lad as Pippin splashed about even more than Merry had. Frodo even had the courage to splash back a bit which delighted the wee one and encouraged him to splash even more. The two then engaged in a water fight at that point that left them both giggling so much they were breathless. Frodo wasn’t afraid after that.

Not until all the horror and terror came back to him as he watched his Sam nearly drown, trying to reach him after all his efforts to leave everyone behind and not draw them to their deaths. His own he had accepted before even leaving the Shire, but he could not accept any others.

“Sam!” he cried out and frantically tried to reach his beloved friend before the River claimed him. The panicked hobbit’s wild flailing mimicked and mocked the innocent, joyful splashes of Merry and Pippin and for a moment, Frodo saw them there also and his parents’ struggles that he had seen only in his nightmares.

The tears he shed after he pulled him abroad and hugged him tight were just as much for them and himself as they were for Sam. It was a long time before he let his heartbrother go. He couldn’t until he reassured himself that Sam was indeed alive and the little lad who had wept for his parents and wailed for their return was comforted by the sound and feel of his dear friend alive and well in his arms.

Frodo had no idea how life-giving water could be until they had nearly died from its loss.

"Light and water," Sam begged the Lady as he and Frodo struggled on to the Fire. And both gifts came.

Every year he had returned to his parents’ grave and placed his rose there, as close to his birthday as he could. Every year except the one when they were leaving and returning from the Quest. They were so close at Crickhollow, but the danger was closer and that time was missed. They were on the way home the second year. Sam had noticed his master’s growing melancholy even in Minas Tirith as the day of his parents’ death grew nigh. He made some discreet inquires, then took him to a flower merchant. They laid a single rose each at the graves of a man and woman whose son had been killed in the battle and who Sam had been told had always placed a rose there. Sam had learned from long experience how to ease his master’s heart best and indeed it had helped.

After Frodo went over the Sea, Sam made the yearly trip to Buckland to place the rose on the grave of his beloved master’s parents. Every time he told Primula and Drogo a memory of their son. He never repeated himself for his heart stored many, many treasured memories. Before he left, he thanked them for their son and kissed the top of their gravestone in honor and love, just as he always kissed his own mum’s stone and left her flowers, remembering all the times Frodo had done so as well.

He placed one also when the time came on his own Rose’s grave, kissed the stone, and then went forward, toward the half of his heart that he had so long ago watched leave. He tossed one last rose into the Sea as he boarded the ship and watched it be pulled out further and further, very soon lost to sight, but in his heart’s eye, he saw the rose wash ashore and be picked up by a being as singularly beautiful as that flower was and be placed in a vase by his bedside. He would be home soon.