Disclaimer: I do not own any of The Lord of the Rings; I'm just a random fan who, once upon a time, stumbled upon this wonderful site via her father.
Second disclaimer: I don't own the name-game that is played in this story. That belongs to Obelia medusa, who is someone with more talent than I'll ever have. (If you haven't read her stories, forget mine, you must go read them! NOW!) I also don't own the idea of Merry and Pippin coming over for Yule- that's also Obelia's. But, just so you know, nothing that happened in her story has happened in mine. (eg: Pippin hasn't gotten his nickname yet.)
Anyways, enough of that. Onward! (And if you haven't read Obelia medusa's stories, you shouldn't have even read this far! Go! Now!)
October 21, SR 2989
Frodo sneezed. Again. He hadn't thought that it was possible for there to be so much dust in one place, but it appeared that he had been wrong. Fighting back another sneeze, he continued to walk through the dusty storage room, his nose prickling and his eyes watering.
Bilbo had told him that, if he had looked in the first trunk to the left, he could have found where he had stored his winter cloak, as it was beginning to get rather chilly outside. Frodo had found it immediately, but the intrigue of this seemingly forgotten and untouched dusty little realm had stirred his adventurous side and had led him to light all of the lamps and explore.
"Now this would make a good cave," he murmured in awe. There were dozens of trunks everywhere, and towers of crates looming in the corners. This was one of the rooms near the center of Bag End, close to the cellar. Frodo had only been living in Bag End for not even two months, and he hadn't even known that this room existed until half an hour ago. It was apparent that this was where Bilbo kept a great number of his many mathoms that he had gathered over the years but had no use for.
Frodo carefully picked his way around the piles, now and again sneezing violently and causing clouds of dust to float up and then gently drift down again. His eyes were watering so much that his vision blurred occasionally. Suddenly, his foot caught on a rogue trunk and he fell with a muffled thud! to the floor. He groaned softly and sat up, brushing off his dust-streaked shirt and coughing. The lamplight flickered gently. Just as he was about to stand up and continue his exploration, a dim glint of light reflected off metal caught his eye. Curious, he decided to investigate.
The lamp light was reflecting off of a small lock on a box, which was the size of a very small crate. It looked as if it had lain forgotten for quite some time; there were several layers of dust. Frodo lifted his hand and ran a finger across the lid, wiping a brown streak amongst the gray. In the very middle of the lid were some deep grooves. He slowly traced a finger over them, and found the formed two letters: B. B.
'This must be Uncle Bilbo's,' Frodo thought. 'What could it be?' he drew his sleeve over the top to completely remove the dust and grit and gaped at what was before his eyes.
The lid illustrated a dragon, spewing forth flames, and seated upon its hoard of gold and jewels. The wood of the lid was dark, a rich red-brown, and it nearly gleamed in the light from being polished. There were many gems imbedded in the surface that his finger had somehow missed tracing over. But no wonder- they were all at the bottom, pressed together closely, representing the hoard. The dragon was delicately carved, with the minutest details noticed and attended to; there were individual scales, fine contours of the head and snakelike body, and seemingly dagger-sharp teeth protruding from its open mouth. The flames circled around his Uncle's initials, coming within an inch. The carved lines were stained a dark ebony black. But, as beautiful as the design was, what really caught Frodo's eye was the single, red ruby that was the dragon's visible eye. It was well-chosen; the ruby seemed to glare at him with an unquenchable fury.
Frodo let out a slow breath. It was beautiful! Who had made this box for his Uncle Bilbo? What was in it? It had to be as equally magnificent as its container in the very least. But there was a lock on the clasp. Frodo leaned over and examined it. The lock had gold plating, and was engraved with the letters B. B. once again. Frodo shook the lock, testing it, and with a small clink, a tiny silver key fell from the bottom. He looked at the bottom of the lock, and saw the keyhole. Frodo picked up the key and inserted it. It fit perfectly.
'This is an adventure,' he thought with a grin. With fingers trembling with excitement, he began to turn the lock when-
"Frodo-lad!" Frodo jumped as the door creaked open. Bilbo peered around the door to look inside. "Whatever are you doing? It doesn't even take me this long to find a cloak."
"Uncle! Come see what I've found!" Frodo cried excitedly. Bilbo came over and drew in a soft breath.
"Oh-" he whispered. "I had forgotten about that-" he trailed off and gazed at the box dreamily, his eyes appearing to be looking at absolutely nothing at all. He seemed to be caught in a memory of the years past.
"Uncle?" Frodo said uncertainly, snapping Bilbo out of his reverie.
"What? Oh, yes, yes- go on and open it. I'm sure you will be very pleased with what's inside, my boy." There was a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye as he said this.
Frodo resumed the action which he had been doing prior to Bilbo's interruption. With a small click, the lock turned smoothly, all the way around, and the gold-plated lock came undone. He reverently slid the lock from the clasp's fasten and placed it on the ground next to him. With trembling hands and wide eyes he lifted the lid and once more stared at what was before him. It was nestled inside the velvet lining of the box, rounded and smooth.
"Uncle? Wha- what is it? Can I take it out?"
"Of course you can. You'll see."
Frodo lifted the object. He could fully see it now. It was a light, leather helm, finely crafted and studded with white gems about the brim. He turned it in his hands reverently and looked at the inside. It was strengthened with steel hoops.
"Bilbo!" Frodo breathed in awe. "Where did you get this?"
"Come now, Frodo!" said Bilbo happily. "Surely you remember the gifts that Thorin gave me, don't you? I did tell you that story, didn't I?"
"Yes. Oh! This is the helm that Thorin gave you!" Frodo's eyes grew wide.
"You can put it on if you wish, my lad," said Bilbo.
Frodo reverently brought the helm over his head and set it down. It was too big, and it slid down over his face, hiding his eyes. Bilbo laughed, and Frodo broke into a broad smile.
"I'm Frodo the Fierce!" he exclaimed, and joined in laughing with his Uncle.
December 29, SR 2989
There were shrieks of laughter dancing down the hall from Frodo's room.
"Frodo! Frodo! Get off! Get- off-" Merry's shouting was broken by his fit of giggles as he tried to escape his cousin, who was tickling him mercilessly. "I mean it! Fro-" he was cut off again with another outpouring of laughter.
At that moment Aunt Eglantine came into the room carrying little Peregrin on one hip. She took the scene in with a glance: Frodo had Merry pinned on the bed and seemed to be prepared to tickle him to death, and young Samwise Gamgee was sitting on the floor, shaking his head bemusedly with a smile on his face. Frodo looked up, and then let Merry go; the latter ran and hid behind Sam, his eyes brimming with mischief and tears of laughter.
"I was considering asking you boys to watch young Peregrin here, but now I'm not so sure," said Eglantine, her eyes twinkling. "What exactly were you doing, might I ask?"
Merry opened his mouth but Frodo jumped in. "Merry was about to tell Sam about something from my childhood that didn't need to be said, and he wouldn't stop, so you see there really was no other option," he said quickly. "So, nothing, really."
"I see. Well, I suppose I can entrust him to you, then." She set Peregrin on his feet. "Fro!" he squealed. He toddled a few steps towards Frodo, fell down, and crawled the rest of the way instead.
"Hullo, Peregrin!" Frodo said, holding out his arms. Peregrin climbed into his lap.
"Keep an eye on him now!" Eglantine said cheerfully, and then left, firmly shutting the door behind her, so as to keep the little toddler inside.
"You can count on Frodo the Fierce!" he called.
"Frodo the Fierce?" asked Merry. "Where did you come up with that?"
"It was a game Bilbo and I invented after we- Ouch!" He pulled his finger out of Peregrin's mouth. "His teeth are sharp!"
"Rosie Cotton did that to me," Sam commented, holding out his finger. "She was about his age, and somehow she got her mouth to my finger and left a mark on me." There was a little white scar, contrasting with the brown of his smallest finger. "He didn't do that to you, Mr. Frodo, did he?"
"No, I'm fine, Sam." Frodo wiped his finger off on his trousers. "I just didn't expect that from one so little as Peregrin."
Merry was not easily distracted from the mention of a game by this brief interruption. "What game? Could we play it? How do you play?"
"It's not much, really. Just a name game. I bet we could-" Frodo stopped in mid-sentence. "Here. Take Peregrin." He put the toddler in Merry's lap and left the room. Sam and Merry could distinctly hear Frodo calling "Bilbo!" They glanced at each other.
"What d'you suppose Mr. Frodo went off for?" Sam asked Merry.
"I don't know. You can never really tell with Frodo," said Merry fondly, holding tightly on to the baby as he amused himself by bouncing on Merry's knee.
At that moment Frodo came in, carrying the helm he had found some months earlier. Merry leaned forward, highly interested. "Is that yours, cousin?"
"No, it's Uncle Bilbo's, but he said that we could use it for our name game. See," he settled himself down on the floor next to Sam, "you take the first letter of your name, and then you find another word that starts with that letter. Like Frodo the Fierce." Frodo reached over and placed the helm on Sam's head. "You are- Samwise the Strong!"
Merry grinned. "I get it! Samwise the Smart!"
"Samwise the Sage!"
"Samwise the Spec-spectacular!"
"Samwise the-" Frodo frowned for a moment, and then said, "Stouthearted."
"Sam!" crowed little Peregrin, who had left Merry's high perch on the bed to go and sit on the floor.
"Aye, Samwise the Silly, that's all I am," mumbled Sam, red in the face. "And Samwise the Stay-at-Home, it should remain." Sam removed the helm and handed it up to Merry who stood on the bed precariously, put it on, and struck a noble pose before almost tumbling over.
"I had best stay on the ground, I think," Merry declared, trying to maintain his grandeur as he half-fell off the bed to seat himself by Frodo.
"There's an obvious one for Mr. Merry right away: Merry the Merry."
"And Meriadoc the Mad."
"Hey! I'll have you know that I resemble that with all of my heart," Merry said, trying to sound as offended as he could with a large smile on his face. Frodo burst into laughter.
"It's resent, not resemble!"
"Oh. Well, it's close enough."
"What about Meriadoc the Magnificent?"
"Sam! That's a very good one. You can be Meriadoc the Magnificent."
"Here, Peregrin," Merry handed the helm to the baby, who solemnly accepted it in his small, pink hands before attempting to gnaw on one of its white gems. "No, you don't use it like that," Merry said, pulling the helm from the baby's grasp and setting it on his head instead. Peregrin's tiny head was swallowed into the shadow.
"He's Peregrin the Peregrine!"
"Peregrin the Prattler!"
"That's a good one, Frodo."
"Thanks."
"Peregrin the Perilous!"
"Peregrin the-"
"Pretty!" Peregrin shouted happily, clapping his hands.
Shrieks of laughter capered down the hall from Frodo's room once more.
December 17, SR 3019
A month before, the Shire had been Scoured. Now it was Bag End's turn.
Sharkey's men had made a complete mess of everything. The carpets were stained with unnamable things; many walls were scratched and carved with uncouth phrases; furniture was broken and splintered; no rooms were left untouched, save for a very small few.
The men had not been interested in the storage rooms that did not contain food; what point was there in rummaging through a Halfling's belongings when it was apparent that they cared not to have them used?
Frodo Baggins was standing outside of his old home, thinking of its former glory and laden with sorrow at what he saw. How could it be restored from such a sorry state? It looked as if there was no hope for it. But Sam thought it was possible. He thought that it would be a livable place once more, and that laughter would come back and ring through the halls again. "One step at a time, Mr. Frodo," he had said.
He was disturbed from his thoughts when Merry and Pippin came riding up on their ponies, still clad in their armor from Rohan and Gondor.
"Hello, cousin! How goes the work?" called Merry from his mount.
"It goes, I suppose. Sam has many hobbits in there, cleaning, repairing, all busier than dwarves in a mine of mithril."
"Look! There's Sam now!" said Pippin happily.
Sam came out of Bag End. He was carrying a cloth-wrapped, rich, red-brown box that Frodo had not seen the likes of for a long time. He brought it over and set it down on its cloth wrappings.
"What's in this, Mr. Frodo?" he asked, staring at the image of the dragon carved on the lid. "Bless me, but I've never seen anything like it!"
"I have," Frodo said, staring at the box, "and you have too, once you open it and see what's inside. Go on!"
Sam reached down and unlocked the lock, and lifted the lid purposefully. He gasped, and then lifted Bilbo's old helm from the velvet-lined case.
"I thought Bilbo had taken it with him when he left, all those years ago. That's why I didn't take it to Crickhollow with me; I didn't know it was here. You do remember, don't you?" asked Frodo softly, looking from Sam to Merry. Merry caught Frodo's eye and grinned.
"Frodo the Fierce, as I recall. I don't remember my name, or Sam's, though."
"I do." Sam said, his face pale, but with a faint trace of a smile. "You were 'Meriadoc the Magnificent'."
"Was I?" Merry looked startled. "And you?"
Frodo looked over at Sam and smiled. "'Samwise the Stouthearted'."
This time it was Sam's turn to look somewhat shocked. "Really, now?"
Merry turned to Pippin. "But we all remember young Peregrin's name, right?"
"Peregrin the Pretty!" chorused the three, like little hobbit-lads. Pippin merely sat on his pony and looked bemused.
"Did I miss something?"
And Bag End heard the first real, wholesome laughter it had heard in a year; a tintinnabulation of three, a fourth joining just for the sake of laughing. Happiness was back; that was all that truly mattered. For what is a house when the occupants have hearts of stone and tears? A cold place, unfit for any. Laughter is the voice of the soul; if cherished and encouraged, it can staunch any wound, if not heal all but a select few. Laugh, and it shall begin its magic.
One step at a time.