Frodo
Title: Frodo
Series: Of Kindred Spirits Born
Author: Katrine
Fandom: LotR (Post-Quest)
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: Five moments in the life of Frodo Gamgee.
Author's Notes: Next in line for the Gamgee children...
Frodo
When he is born, he does not cry. He squawks a bit, then settles to studying the world with a slightly disapproving expression. Rosie is worried, Sam slightly in awe, the midwife highly amused. She tells them to enjoy the peace while it lasts, for this strange predilection will fade fast.
It doesn’t.
He watches and studies, serious, and Sam only half-laughs when he says his baby son is wiser than them all. He remembers, even when the skill isn’t convenient. A scholar is the doom most often spoken over his head.
But in the garden, he laughs.
*****
He has an illustrious namesake; that much Da has made abundantly clear, even if his playmates and their mothers seem less than impressed by the tales. Only Elanor really understands, probably because she’s always pestering Da for yet another telling of one adventure or another. His namesake usually slips in there somewhere, though it doesn’t seem like Da does it on purpose. He’s just always part of the story.
There’s another part of the story, though, that keeps him captivated. Hushed and solemn, Da tells stories of elves.
His namesake was an Elf-friend.
That’s all the glory he needs.
*****
His mates think he’s a bit strange sometimes. He learnt to swim in Buckland, and learnt to fight in Tuckborough, and learnt to love rambling in the forest right at home in Hobbiton. He’s good at all three, and his da tells him if adventure comes for him, he’ll be readier for it than any hobbit ever was, even the Bullroarer.
True, that’s a strange thing to be proud of, but he likes it, anyway.
But when he looks out over his familiar bit of garden at sundown, staid and unadventurous, he knows he’s content.
He likes that, too.
*****
He comes home with a black eye and a split lip, knuckles scraped, knees raw. Mam acts as if he’s been gutted and filleted, and storms around hunting up cold cloths like a rampaging army.
Da wants to know what happened.
But he won’t tell that Merry wasn’t strong enough to fight for himself; he won’t impugn his own brother’s honor, not after thrashing two lads to defend it.
Merry tells Da himself.
Da tells a story that night about Faramir, who proved his honor after Da made rather a hash of things.
It soothes better than the cloths.
*****
He chews on a blade of grass and studies the mallorn intently. It’s an oddity come to rest in the Shire, a part of a field it has no right to be part of. It’s strange, and it belongs.
He wonders if hobbits can be that way, too.
There’s always a garden to come back to, and he knows where home is as sure as the soil beneath him, but there’s a bit of story he’s always wanted to see. The Elves may be gone, but surely their flowers remain.
It’s a quest his namesake would approve, he thinks.
Series: Of Kindred Spirits Born
Author: Katrine
Fandom: LotR (Post-Quest)
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: Five moments in the life of Frodo Gamgee.
Author's Notes: Next in line for the Gamgee children...
Frodo
When he is born, he does not cry. He squawks a bit, then settles to studying the world with a slightly disapproving expression. Rosie is worried, Sam slightly in awe, the midwife highly amused. She tells them to enjoy the peace while it lasts, for this strange predilection will fade fast.
It doesn’t.
He watches and studies, serious, and Sam only half-laughs when he says his baby son is wiser than them all. He remembers, even when the skill isn’t convenient. A scholar is the doom most often spoken over his head.
But in the garden, he laughs.
*****
He has an illustrious namesake; that much Da has made abundantly clear, even if his playmates and their mothers seem less than impressed by the tales. Only Elanor really understands, probably because she’s always pestering Da for yet another telling of one adventure or another. His namesake usually slips in there somewhere, though it doesn’t seem like Da does it on purpose. He’s just always part of the story.
There’s another part of the story, though, that keeps him captivated. Hushed and solemn, Da tells stories of elves.
His namesake was an Elf-friend.
That’s all the glory he needs.
*****
His mates think he’s a bit strange sometimes. He learnt to swim in Buckland, and learnt to fight in Tuckborough, and learnt to love rambling in the forest right at home in Hobbiton. He’s good at all three, and his da tells him if adventure comes for him, he’ll be readier for it than any hobbit ever was, even the Bullroarer.
True, that’s a strange thing to be proud of, but he likes it, anyway.
But when he looks out over his familiar bit of garden at sundown, staid and unadventurous, he knows he’s content.
He likes that, too.
*****
He comes home with a black eye and a split lip, knuckles scraped, knees raw. Mam acts as if he’s been gutted and filleted, and storms around hunting up cold cloths like a rampaging army.
Da wants to know what happened.
But he won’t tell that Merry wasn’t strong enough to fight for himself; he won’t impugn his own brother’s honor, not after thrashing two lads to defend it.
Merry tells Da himself.
Da tells a story that night about Faramir, who proved his honor after Da made rather a hash of things.
It soothes better than the cloths.
*****
He chews on a blade of grass and studies the mallorn intently. It’s an oddity come to rest in the Shire, a part of a field it has no right to be part of. It’s strange, and it belongs.
He wonders if hobbits can be that way, too.
There’s always a garden to come back to, and he knows where home is as sure as the soil beneath him, but there’s a bit of story he’s always wanted to see. The Elves may be gone, but surely their flowers remain.
It’s a quest his namesake would approve, he thinks.