Author notes:
There are some things a sickness is good for - tiny stories being one of them. Thank you Slightly Tookish for beta reading.

Fathers and Sons

Year: 1347

The lights in the family bathroom burnt low. Steam hovered in the air like thin clouds, wafting this way and that, embracing the mother and her two sons. Menegilda brushed a lock of her brown hair from her forehead and ushered her eldest to fetch his nightshirt from the shelf. This done Menegilda got to her feet and lifted her youngest out of the tub, wrapped him in an oversized towel and rubbed him dry from head to toe.

"He's as pink as a pig now," Saradoc giggled when he approached them, Merimac's nightshirt in his hands.

Merimac stuck out his tongue. "You're a pig yourself."

"My beautiful piglets," Menegilda quickly pointed out to nip the upcoming dispute in the bud. She held Merimac closer when the lad tried to break away and pulled the nightshirt over his head.

"I'm a pony," Merimac objected and neighed to put his words to proof.

"Whose little pony?"

At the sound of the voice Menegilda sighed with relief as both her sons darted to her husband with an excited "Papa!" Merimac all but jumped into his father's outstretched arms and giggled delightedly when Rorimac lifted him high into the air before settling him on his left arm so that he could welcome Saradoc also.

Menegilda approached the trio and kissed her husband. "Will you?" she whispered feeling too exhausted to bring the children to bed herself.

Rorimac nodded and telling the lads to say good night to their mother, he reached for Saradoc's hand and left for the boys' room.

"Will you tell us a story?" Merimac asked as soon as Menegilda was out of earshot. "A scary one, full of monsters, strange things, and the Old Forest."

Rorimac chuckled. The Old Forest had become a must in every story ever since his son had first heard bits and pieces of its history.

"What would you and grandpa do if the trees attacked Buckland again?" Saradoc inquired, sharing his brother's interest. "Would you burn everything down in a great fire?"

"I fear that would be the best solution," Rorimac admitted while setting down Merimac at the top of the staircase in order to light a candle. While the lower levels of Brandy Hall were always flooded with light, the family quarter in the upper level was usually in the dark.

The boys ran ahead knowing the way to their room even in the corridor's partial darkness. Rorimac looked after them for a moment wondering why it had become so easy to get the children to bed. He could not wonder long, however, for as soon as he entered the room Saradoc crossly informed him that Merimac again seemed determined to sleep in his brother's bed. Indeed, Merimac was already collecting his pillow, coverlet, and stuffed pony to move with him. Rorimac cleared his throat noisily and shook his head. "I think your mother and I have arranged you a bed of your own, young boy."

Merimac agreed to that quickly enough but he also told him rather matter-of-factly that it would be more comfortable to tell a story when both brothers lay in one bed rather than in two different corners of the room.

"Very well," Rorimac nodded seeing the point in that. "You may take your blanket with you to Saradoc's bed…"

"Father…" Saradoc moaned immediately but Rorimac spoke on as if he hadn't heard him.

"… But as soon as the story's over you'll go back to your own bed without complaint - blanket, pony, and all."

Huge calf-eyes and pouting lips on the right, and a challenging but contented smile on the left as Rorimac looked from one son to the other.

"Come here." Rorimac put the candle on the nightstand to wave Merimac to him.

The lad complied, eyes still pleading, but Rorimac didn't yield. Taking the blanket from him he allowed Merimac to climb into his brother's bed where he tucked him in tightly, knowing that Merimac would fall asleep during the tale. Rorimac always had to carry him back to his own bed. Saradoc grumbled a little but was too eager to listen to a bedtime story to complain.

"Once upon a time…" Rorimac began at last. The candle's soft glow illuminated his features as well as that of his children whose wide eyes grew ever sleepier as the story proceeded until they eventually closed. Rorimac kissed Saradoc goodnight and pulled his blanket up before he gently lifted Merimac. Once the lad was settled, Rorimac repeated the action.

"Good night, lads," he whispered and with a last fond look at his children he took the candle from the nightstand and left the room

~*~*~

Year: 1378

"Beat you again!" Drogo cheered, handing cup and dice back to his son with a grin.

Frodo scrutinised the objects, the light in his eyes brought out even more by the golden flames reflecting in them. "You've influenced them."

"I daresay I have," Drogo smiled. "The magic spell I cast has worked wonders. The sixes should fall only for me tonight."

Frodo's look changed from wide-eyed to challenging. He shook the cup vigorously, not taking his eyes from Drogo's, and promptly offered two sixes. "I think you must practice more often," the lad told him smugly.

"Very self-confident," Drogo announced with a nod. "Indeed, far too self-confident if you ask me." That said he once again took the dice from his grinning son.

"Lads?" Primula called from the door. "Bedtime."

"Oh no, mummy! Let me play for some time yet. Just half an hour. I swear I shall not at all bother you afterwards and go to bed all by myself."

Primula raised an eyebrow in confusion while Frodo stared at him open-mouthed, for once bereft of his voice. Barely able to suppress his laughter Drogo gazed at his wife with Frodo's most pleading look, knowing well his son's tactics

"And you keep telling me I'm spoiling him?" Primula announced at last, waving her hand and once again retreating to the kitchen.

Drogo could well see her shaking with silent laughter. Frodo, on the other hand, kept gaping. "Shut that mouth, boy. There's a draught."

"What was that?" Frodo called out instead of complying.

Drogo laughed. "That, my boy, was my son."

"I don't sound that childish!" Frodo told him indignantly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"But it worked," Drogo replied and ruffled his curls.

Frodo evaded his touch, pouting even though Drogo could see the smile which threatened to curl his lips. "You still made fun of me."

"Poor lad," Drogo replied with not a trace of pity in his voice. "Smile, come on."

And smile Frodo did. In fact he broke into a fit of giggles which sounded like music to Drogo's ear - especially when he had not been home for several days. If a little silliness was needed to provoke this sound he would gladly sacrifice propriety, particularly if Primula was the only witness to it.

"Come here, lad," Drogo said and without waiting for Frodo to react he pulled his son into a big hug and kissed his hair. "I missed you very much while I was away."

Frodo snuggled against him as only a child could, half burying his face in Drogo's waistcoat and flinging his small arms as far around him as they would reach. "I've missed you too, father."

Drogo could have sat like that forever, but Frodo, voice muffled against his shirt, soon inquired whether they could go on with their game.

"Of course," Drogo laughed. "That was my intention anyway."

Quickly he picked up the dice and, by the light of the fireside, they once again engaged in their game. Frodo happily prattled away beside him, no longer caring about victory. All that mattered was home, family, and togetherness.

~*~*~

Year: 1382

Cheeks glowing softly in the firelight, petal-lips suckling, twitching into a slight smile from time to time, a give-away of the dream the baby was having. Saradoc was torn between the wish to touch him and the desire not to disturb him. Enchanted, he gazed into the cradle oblivious to the noises around him and his own silly smile. He had told Esme he would check on little Meriadoc - never mind that Lavender, the nurse, sitting close by with her knitting was waiting for him to wake up - but that might have been hours ago

"He is quite endearing."

"Yes," Saradoc nodded dreamily.

Silence ensued, disturbed only by the sound of the fireside. It was only when a heavy sigh cut into the quiet that Saradoc realised he wasn't alone. Frodo stood beside him, eyes resting on Meriadoc. Tilting his head to one side Saradoc looked curiously down at his fosterling.

"You have him now," the lad announced quietly without looking up. "Your son."

"Yes," Saradoc said softly. "My son."

"Yes," Frodo repeated forlornly after a moment's hesitation. From the corner of his eye Saradoc caught his shy glance and stayed the boy from retreating.

"You're his cousin, Frodo," Saradoc told him with a smile. "And his brother."

Frodo looked up, searching his face and, not finding what he was looking for he smiled an uncommonly bright smile. "I should like that."

Saradoc nodded and put an arm around his charge. Don't fret, lad. I will not abandon you, he thought to himself as he pulled Frodo a little closer. Together they stood at Meriadoc's cradle, father and adopted son, watching over their youngest family member.

~*~*~

Year: 1399

Paladin blinked to discover the room still as dimly lit as he remembered it. He wrinkled his nose to get rid of the itching. He then shifted a little, his back aching from lying abed for too long. At the same time he realised that this wasn't the reason for waking up.

"… and Ma said that we'll go to Buckland as soon as we're healthy again. If we write a letter to Frodo and Bilbo they might go to the Hall as well. It would be great to see not only Merry but Frodo also, wouldn't it, dad? If Frodo doesn't want to travel we can take a shortcut and visit Bag End, couldn't we?" A short pause ensued. "Dad, when will you be well?"

Paladin was tempted to reply that that would be the case when Pippin stopped talking but he checked himself and only mumbled some incoherent words not even he could understand. Speaking led to coughing which led to his chest aching which meant he felt even more miserable. His head was pounding and it felt dreadfully heavy. Pippin's constant chatter seemed to add to that heaviness. Paladin turned slightly and placed an equally heavy hand on his lad's brow. "Isn't your fever gone already?"

Eglantine had said that Pippin was to stay in bed until at least his fever went down. Unfortunately it was Paladin and Eglantine's marriage-bed where she had placed their son out of convenience. "Better to have both sick ones in one room," she had argued.

Pippin shook his head. "Ma was here while you were sleeping and forced me to drink some nasty tea. It was some herb - I forgot its name - but it tasted so…" Pippin demonstrated by shuddering violently. "It was like…"

"Pippin," Paladin weakly reminded him of his question and struggled to a sitting position as the feared cough broke loose.

"It's not as high as it was but I am to stay in bed."

"Pity," was all Paladin could answer. If he was to die he would rather pass away alone - and in silence.

"I can look after you until Ma comes back," Pippin suggested with a cheery, if hoarse voice, and promptly offered him a steaming cup of tea. Paladin couldn't even start to guess where the lad had it from but accepted it gratefully despite its horrible taste.

Totally spent from the effort of drinking Paladin sank back onto his pillow and closed his eyes, breathing heavily.

"Good night, Dad," Pippin whispered and rested his head on his shoulder. "I will chase away your fever."

Paladin didn't find the strength to reply and barely managed the loving smile for Pippin. He immediately fell asleep.

~THE END~