Mourning: Frodo

It was quiet in Adamanta's smial, quiet, cool, and peaceful. His guest room reminded him of his old room at Brandy Hall in his youth. It was small, an inner room without windows, though not as lightless as his room there: it boasted a clever skylight over the bed with shutters operated by a cord, so that if he wished he could keep out the morning light. Frodo preferred to leave it open to the stars at night. He would lay there at night and gaze at the distant, familiar lights, not so different from the stars at home, though they seemed brighter and clearer here West of the Sundering Sea.

He missed Bilbo with a deep ache of longing; he missed sharing with his cousin the new things he discovered, the events of his day. He missed their frequent reminiscences of their long years together, their history of friendship and kinship that went as far back as Frodo could recall. And for the first time in a long time, he wished he could be back in the Shire, where Sam and Rose, Merry and Pippin would know what to say and do to assuage his grief.

Yet Adamanta was the kindest of hosts. She did not press him to do anything at all, but meals were always there, all six of them at appropriate intervals. As time passed he attended them more often than not. He would sometimes join her to work in her garden, or go fishing in the river below the hill.

And Gandalf was there, his own sorrow plain to see. Somehow knowing how deeply Gandalf missed Bilbo as well seemed to help. They could talk about him or not as the mood took them, and sometimes they could smile or even laugh at the memories.