The second anniversary of his parents’ deaths was a little easier on Frodo than the first one since he had his little Merry to look after. The child had been very well named, Esmeralda thought, for only he could tease out the still so very rare smiles from Frodo. Watching them together gave her peace and joy, little Frodo so solicitous of his beloved brother-cousin, and wee Merry, no more a few months old, but already completely attached to his most frequent companion. Their hearts were already firmly wrapped around each other and Esmeralda thought with uncommon certainty that they always would be. Frodo never talked baby gibberish to his Merry, but always as an adult would speak to another and the baby seemed to take in every word, staring up at the one who held him and looked so adoringly at him and he at him. Yes, they would always be there for each other, and Esmeralda knew Frodo would need someone like that.

* * *

It was the second anniversary of Frodo coming to leave at Bag End and having met Sam that he remembered for many long years after. He made blueberry tarts as his birthday present for the beloved brother of his heart, and for his dear uncle, he had painstakingly wrote and illustrated a book of Elvish poetry. It was in Westron, but one day, he was determined to write one in Sindarin. He didn’t know enough of that yet, though he was learning more all the time. Bilbo and Sam both loved to listen to him speak it or anything else for that matter, with that Brandybuck lilt to his voice that he hadn’t yet lost. Bilbo wished he never would, though he knew some of the talk that went about Hobbiton about how strange his lad was. But then he heard most of what they said about him too and had been saying since his unexpected return and he didn’t care a whit about it. He wasn’t sure if Frodo knew until that birthday when his lad had come back with his hair tosseled, his breeches smirched with grass, his feet muddy, his knuckles bruised and scrapped and his eyes full of tears.

“What in the Shire has happened to you, my boy?” Bilbo asked, shocked and concerned at Frodo’s appearance.

“They called you names, Uncle! Said you were cracked. I couldn’t bear it!”

Bilbo took the tween into his arms, held him and stroked his curls as Frodo stood there, trembling and sobbing, his arms wrapped around his uncle tightly.

“There, there, now, my lad, my beautiful lad, they’ve done that for many a long year. It doesn’t bother me anymore and you shouldn’t let it bother you.”

“They teased me about my parents too and how they died and how it was my fault.”

Bilbo continued his gentle stroking. “Pish posh, my light. That is naught but nonsense. Those lads were just looking for trouble. Nothing about your parents’ death was your fault. Nothing at all. You are different from most hobbits, Frodo, and so you are more vulnerable.”

“I don’t want to be different,” came the muffled protest.

Bilbo opened his arms a bit to raise the chin of the beloved son of his heart. Frodo’s teary eyes looked up at him. The old hobbit smiled at him and wiped at his tears.

“But you are, my dearest hobbit. You are a rare one, so bright and beautiful, that I would think a drop of Elven blood must flow in your veins, because you are filled with a grace that I have seen only in them. But it is also in you, too, my very own, and it gives me such joy to see it each morning and each evening. Do you know there are times that I come and watch you after you’ve fallen asleep and just look at you and your soft light, as though you hold moonlight within yourself at night and in the day, you hold the sun. You are very different, my Frodo, and that makes you very special. I hope to not miss it when everyone else realizes it too.”

“Truly, Uncle?”

Bilbo kissed his head. “Truly.”

* * *

Sam saw Frodo standing in the middle of Bagshot Row, hands in pocket, facing toward where Buckland was many miles away.

“Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo turned. “It’s been two years now since Bilbo left, Sam. I know he’s all right for I would have felt it in my heart if he wasn’t, but I miss him, Sam, I miss him so much.”

Sam put his hand on his master’s shoulder. “You’ll see him again one day, Mr. Frodo. We’ll go together and have that adventure we always talked about.”

Frodo smiled and hugged his dear friend quickly. “I’m glad you’re with me, Sam, and will be with me.”

“No other place I would be, Mr. Frodo.”

“I know. I’m very blessed.”

* * *

Frodo rubbed his shoulder as it throbbed when he had been stabbed. He was sitting in the study and it was getting cold for the fire had gone out. He hadn’t noticed it and Sam hadn’t yet returned from the market to check on him. He shivered but more from the memory that he was trapped in, than the lack of the fire. His book was laid out in front of him, but he didn’t see it. He didn’t see the candles burning down or the spreading ink stain on his wrist where he had laid the quill down on the page, ruining it when the memories had overtaken him and he was back on Weathertop.

“Wounded. Never heal,” he murmured over and over to himself.

He was barely aware of Sam entering until his beloved guardian placed a hand on his shoulder and sent the first warmth into his cold soul that he had felt all day.

* * *

Frodo and Bilbo celebrated the second anniversary of their arrival in the West with a tea party at the shores of the Sea that had first welcomed them. Their hearts had been healing for some time, but Frodo hadn’t ceased to miss those he had left behind. The memories were growing kinder and milder though and more like to bring a smile than tears now. The ancient hobbit smiled himself each time he saw one of those smiles on his dearest one’s lips, each time his light brightened and strengthened in the blessed light of the West. Too many times already had he held Frodo as the younger hobbit had sobbed out his pain. Too many times had Bilbo been held as the elder Ring-bearer had cried his own torment. It was helping them to help each other. This day, though, there were few tears and more smiles. There were toasts to missing loved ones and there was another one made as it had been made the year before and would be made each year until it was no longer necessary, the wish and hope for Sam to come.

Bilbo hoped Frodo would take to his pipe again, but it was too early for that. The smoke was too much of a visual reminder of his trauma and his lungs hadn’t yet recovered fully either to be able to take it in. But the air was wonderfully clean and pure here and the color had at last returned to his dear one’s cheeks and vigor to his own limbs. He and Frodo went on long tramps together, walking sticks in hand, munching on mushrooms. Frodo had long lost his Brandybuck lilt, but retained the one he had acquired in Hobbiton. It was a joy for Bilbo to listen to him now, speaking fluently in Sindarin and increasingly so in Quenya. It brought a smile to any Elf also who heard their tongue spoken so well with a delightful accent.

* * *

The second anniversary of Bilbo’s death was spent much the way the first one was. Frodo sat beside the one grave there was in all of the Undying Lands, the one raised on the mound by their home, the one that faced both west and east. It was towards the east that Frodo looked today, across the great gulf and felt that distance keener and farther than ever, but at the same time, held tight against his heart, he touched the bond that he had always had with Sam, and with Merry and Pippin. He wished more than ever he could be with them, for he was alone now, the only hobbit on the island, and he wished Sam would come. His wounds had been healed and he was at peace now. He had come to see the gap between his fingers to be a symbol of grace and mercy, not the terrible reminder of failure that had haunted him so long. He was no longer empty. He had only now to wait for the one whose arrival would complete his healing.

* * *

It was still dark when Frodo moved from beneath Sam’s protective embrace. This was a special day and he wanted to make sure he was prepared for it. Sam stirred and murmured in his sleep, seeking to pull his treasure close again, but Frodo stopped him with a kiss to his hands. “It’s all right, my Sam. Slumber a little longer.”

He paused long enough to assure himself that his beloved brother and guardian had indeed fallen back to sleep, then he padded softly out of room and into the kitchen. He would have to hurry, if he wanted to be all ready before the dawn came. Carefully he pulled together what he needed and then satisfied, he returned to his bedroom. He tiptoed to the bed and leaned over to wake Sam with a kiss to the forehead.

He took his brother’s hand and led him to the kitchen where a single candle stood lit on the table. He turned and smiled at his dearest friend.

“Happy anniversary, meldanya otorno. My light in dark places.”

It was after dark that Frodo rose from his afternoon nap to find the entire smial in the dark but for the kitchen. It was then he realized another candle had joined the one he had lit.

“Happy anniversary, meldanya otorno,” came Sam’s voice behind him. “My light in dark places.”

Frodo turned and came into his brother’s open arms and was enveloped in that inviting embrace.

A/N: Meldanya otorno is my dear or my beloved brother.