Title: *Atarlindi* (Father-Song)
Series: N/A
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Author: Orangeblossom Brambleburr
Email: rice_al@yahoo.com
Rating: G
Summary: Sam's first night with his newborn son. NonSlash.
Chapters: 1
Status: Complete
Completed: Marc 2002
Disclaimer: Nope. Nope. Not mine. I wish, oh, how I wish they were.
Notes, Dedications & Thanks: For Brian, for disproving all my fears about fathers. For Mike, for the father he'll be someday. For Sean, for bringing Sam to life in ways that will inspire a thousand more fics from this poor author. For my truly spectacular betas: Petra, Em, Astra and Van
You like it in here, don't you lad? It's warm and quiet now that everyone's gone. Your mother needs her rest now, son, so let's us let her sleep a bit, and I'm hopin' you won't wake hungry for a time yet. And I reckon we've got some acquainting to do, haven't we?
Ah, little one. Little Frodo, may you be everything and nothing like him you was named for. May you have his strength, and his light, and his courage. But not his sadness. No, never that sadness, not as I've got strength to keep it from you.
What will become of you, I wonder? Will you follow along after your father and till the earth? Or will it be off after one of your uncles, or perhaps something all your own? I reckon I've done a few things no Gamgee expected to, but I pray that you never see such things. No, never: he made sure of that. We all did.
I wonder what sort o' father I'll make for ye. I reckon I've done fair well for wee Elanor--she's your sister. But it's somehow different with girls; there's so much there I've never known about. Your mother will take care o' the raising and training of her, and it lies in me just to love her and care for her like the most beautiful flower in the garden.
But you, wee lad, I've so much more I must be concerned over. I reckon I'll want to give in to whatever you want. Already I want naught but to see your little face smile, and here you've only been about but a few hours. It will be hard to be stern with you. When I was a lad I never thought it was hard on the Gaffer when he'd pull me up short, but I see now it must have been.
I can't stop looking at your little feet: they're so perfect, so finished. I remember doing just this with Elanor when she was born too; I counted her toes over and over again, just to make sure they were all there. And just look this golden fuzz, like down on a baby bird. Lighter than on your head, and so silky soft--does that tickle you, lad? You screw up your face like it does. You'd laugh if you were old enough, wouldn't you? I hope you learn to laugh early. I hope you never stop laughing.
It's a mighty strange thing, lad. I've the oddest feeling when I says your name. Frodo. Most of my life that name was Mr. Frodo, as was well and proper. To just say the name without the title...well, it's as if it tastes strange on my tongue. But I can't call such a wee lad like you Mister, now, can I? The idea! Fancy me calling across the garden: 'Stop that right now, Mr. Frodo!' Ah, what a laugh that's given me!
I'll have to watch myself, make sure it don't slip out from force of habit. You're not him, bless you, and I wouldn't have you be anything but your own sweet self: my son. Your eyes call him to mind, though. Blue, as his were, and seemingly going right down to your soul. Time'll change that soon enough, I imagine they'll darken like mine, or like your mother's. But them being so big and round, when you've got them open...
I miss him, lad, I do. It galls me that he'll never see you, his own namesake. I've memories of him dandling Elanor at his knee; he mightn't have been a father himself but he had a way about him; by times he was the only one to get her to sleep when she was upset. And seems I'd give a part of myself if you could have known him. He was a dear friend and a fine hobbit. He would have loved you well, of that I've no doubt; loved you like he would his own. Don't fancy he'd have had any of his own, but he might have stayed anyway.
I'm sorry, laddie, I go on about things that happened long before you were born. You'll find I tend to ramble; by the Shire, I'm more like my Dad every day. 'Fore long it'll be you quotin' *me* at the Green Dragon! I still listen to the Gaffer's wisdom, you know, grown as I am. I wonder if you'll hold me in the kind of awe I held him? Not so sure how I feel about that; it's a mite scary, fancying myself as your hero. Because when I was young, that's just how I saw my Dad: my hero that I wanted to be just like.
I don't like being a hero, Frodo-lad.
There's times and places where it's nice, but I'd have given it all up, every moment; even though I'd have had raised you on Bagshot Row rather than in this fine home; even had I never seen an Elf my whole life: I'd rather have just stayed a gardener, workin' here for Mr. Frodo, raisin' you and Elanor without any sadness over them that'll never see you grow. Aye, I would, but I can't.
Though I suppose if all that had gone, maybe you wouldn't have come along just as you are. And if I would give it all up to have him back, I reckon I'd live every moment over again if I got to hold you like this afterwards. To have a daughter and a son such as I have, I've been blessed, surely.
Time will ease things, I'm sure. And someday Frodo-lad will be more natural than Mr. Frodo, I suppose, and you'll grow to look like me, or like your dear mother if you've more luck than that. There'll never be no confusing you with him then, to be sure. Someday you'll be the Mr. Frodo of Bag End, won't you lad? Strange, the way things work out, ain't it? Can't help but have me a bit of a chuckle over that.
Shhhh...shhhh...hush now, son, there...Ah, is that better? You're not hungry yet, but you want something to keep your mouth busy. These old fingers will have to do for now, little one. Now then, that's better. Just look at these wee fingers! Why, your little hands look just like mine! Tiny, and not so brown and worked, but the shape is there. There's nothing about your sister that looks like me, save your mother says her smile. But son, my son, your hands are Gamgee hands, true's you're here in my arms. Them's hands that'll serve you well.
Now, little one...shhhh...here, lets walk a bit together. Shh...shhh...ah, but you won't be shushed, will you lad? Your mother will say you're as stubborn as I am. Little son, sweet Frodo-lad...well, there's no helping it: you're hungry now. Aye, a proper hobbit-lad you are. Come; let's find your mother so you can have your supper. We've your whole life ahead of us for me to talk your wee ears off.
Series: N/A
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Author: Orangeblossom Brambleburr
Email: rice_al@yahoo.com
Rating: G
Summary: Sam's first night with his newborn son. NonSlash.
Chapters: 1
Status: Complete
Completed: Marc 2002
Disclaimer: Nope. Nope. Not mine. I wish, oh, how I wish they were.
Notes, Dedications & Thanks: For Brian, for disproving all my fears about fathers. For Mike, for the father he'll be someday. For Sean, for bringing Sam to life in ways that will inspire a thousand more fics from this poor author. For my truly spectacular betas: Petra, Em, Astra and Van
You like it in here, don't you lad? It's warm and quiet now that everyone's gone. Your mother needs her rest now, son, so let's us let her sleep a bit, and I'm hopin' you won't wake hungry for a time yet. And I reckon we've got some acquainting to do, haven't we?
Ah, little one. Little Frodo, may you be everything and nothing like him you was named for. May you have his strength, and his light, and his courage. But not his sadness. No, never that sadness, not as I've got strength to keep it from you.
What will become of you, I wonder? Will you follow along after your father and till the earth? Or will it be off after one of your uncles, or perhaps something all your own? I reckon I've done a few things no Gamgee expected to, but I pray that you never see such things. No, never: he made sure of that. We all did.
I wonder what sort o' father I'll make for ye. I reckon I've done fair well for wee Elanor--she's your sister. But it's somehow different with girls; there's so much there I've never known about. Your mother will take care o' the raising and training of her, and it lies in me just to love her and care for her like the most beautiful flower in the garden.
But you, wee lad, I've so much more I must be concerned over. I reckon I'll want to give in to whatever you want. Already I want naught but to see your little face smile, and here you've only been about but a few hours. It will be hard to be stern with you. When I was a lad I never thought it was hard on the Gaffer when he'd pull me up short, but I see now it must have been.
I can't stop looking at your little feet: they're so perfect, so finished. I remember doing just this with Elanor when she was born too; I counted her toes over and over again, just to make sure they were all there. And just look this golden fuzz, like down on a baby bird. Lighter than on your head, and so silky soft--does that tickle you, lad? You screw up your face like it does. You'd laugh if you were old enough, wouldn't you? I hope you learn to laugh early. I hope you never stop laughing.
It's a mighty strange thing, lad. I've the oddest feeling when I says your name. Frodo. Most of my life that name was Mr. Frodo, as was well and proper. To just say the name without the title...well, it's as if it tastes strange on my tongue. But I can't call such a wee lad like you Mister, now, can I? The idea! Fancy me calling across the garden: 'Stop that right now, Mr. Frodo!' Ah, what a laugh that's given me!
I'll have to watch myself, make sure it don't slip out from force of habit. You're not him, bless you, and I wouldn't have you be anything but your own sweet self: my son. Your eyes call him to mind, though. Blue, as his were, and seemingly going right down to your soul. Time'll change that soon enough, I imagine they'll darken like mine, or like your mother's. But them being so big and round, when you've got them open...
I miss him, lad, I do. It galls me that he'll never see you, his own namesake. I've memories of him dandling Elanor at his knee; he mightn't have been a father himself but he had a way about him; by times he was the only one to get her to sleep when she was upset. And seems I'd give a part of myself if you could have known him. He was a dear friend and a fine hobbit. He would have loved you well, of that I've no doubt; loved you like he would his own. Don't fancy he'd have had any of his own, but he might have stayed anyway.
I'm sorry, laddie, I go on about things that happened long before you were born. You'll find I tend to ramble; by the Shire, I'm more like my Dad every day. 'Fore long it'll be you quotin' *me* at the Green Dragon! I still listen to the Gaffer's wisdom, you know, grown as I am. I wonder if you'll hold me in the kind of awe I held him? Not so sure how I feel about that; it's a mite scary, fancying myself as your hero. Because when I was young, that's just how I saw my Dad: my hero that I wanted to be just like.
I don't like being a hero, Frodo-lad.
There's times and places where it's nice, but I'd have given it all up, every moment; even though I'd have had raised you on Bagshot Row rather than in this fine home; even had I never seen an Elf my whole life: I'd rather have just stayed a gardener, workin' here for Mr. Frodo, raisin' you and Elanor without any sadness over them that'll never see you grow. Aye, I would, but I can't.
Though I suppose if all that had gone, maybe you wouldn't have come along just as you are. And if I would give it all up to have him back, I reckon I'd live every moment over again if I got to hold you like this afterwards. To have a daughter and a son such as I have, I've been blessed, surely.
Time will ease things, I'm sure. And someday Frodo-lad will be more natural than Mr. Frodo, I suppose, and you'll grow to look like me, or like your dear mother if you've more luck than that. There'll never be no confusing you with him then, to be sure. Someday you'll be the Mr. Frodo of Bag End, won't you lad? Strange, the way things work out, ain't it? Can't help but have me a bit of a chuckle over that.
Shhhh...shhhh...hush now, son, there...Ah, is that better? You're not hungry yet, but you want something to keep your mouth busy. These old fingers will have to do for now, little one. Now then, that's better. Just look at these wee fingers! Why, your little hands look just like mine! Tiny, and not so brown and worked, but the shape is there. There's nothing about your sister that looks like me, save your mother says her smile. But son, my son, your hands are Gamgee hands, true's you're here in my arms. Them's hands that'll serve you well.
Now, little one...shhhh...here, lets walk a bit together. Shh...shhh...ah, but you won't be shushed, will you lad? Your mother will say you're as stubborn as I am. Little son, sweet Frodo-lad...well, there's no helping it: you're hungry now. Aye, a proper hobbit-lad you are. Come; let's find your mother so you can have your supper. We've your whole life ahead of us for me to talk your wee ears off.