Frodo stood there, hands in his pockets.  He was reminded vividly of a day long past, when he had let out all of his anger and frustration at his Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda, only to feel foolish afterwards when he discovered that what had triggered his fury was all a misunderstanding on his part.  He hoped Mirimë would be as understanding of his rudeness as they had been.

She turned to him, her expression surprised.  “Apologise?”

“For being so abrupt with you the other day; it wasn’t your fault that I had so many questions.”

Mirimë’s laughter went straight to his heart.  She sounded so much like his mother.  “Questions are your heritage.  You would not be the long-son of my Tûk if you were not filled with questions!  But some of them I cannot answer, for I was not there to see all that transpired for my children.”

Frodo nodded.  “I realise that now.” 

The wind freshened, bringing to them the sound of seagulls, and they looked up to see the seabirds dancing upon the breeze.  They stood companionably and watched the antics of the gulls.  Frodo cast a sideways look at her, seeing the delight on her face.  He tried to reconcile this appearance, a matronly hobbit in her later years—plump, strands of silver in her dark hair, lines of laughter about her lips and eyes—with what she really was. 

She turned a fond smile on him, and something in her expression reminded him of Gandalf.  It broke upon him like the dawn, the realization that she was very like Gandalf—that they were akin in ways he could not fathom, but that there was one way in which he could understand.

“You really do like being a hobbit, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”