A/N: Hello, welcome to my first LOTR fanfic. I am so excited to share this with you. I tried to stay as faithful to the books as possible, but I do use the movies as a reference for the characters' appearances. I hope you enjoy and would appreciate your feedback. Thanks for reading :)

Whispers of Fate

by

Elephanza

"Are you sure he has to go all the way to Hobbiton?" Primula Baggins asked her husband, Drogo. They were going on holiday for a few days and needed to make arrangements for their son, Frodo. The lad was only twelve years old, which is rather young for a hobbit, and he was an impish little fellow at that. He was beginning to make mischief wherever he went, much to the dismay of Primula and Drogo, who considered themselves respectable individuals. Which presented them with a problem.

Frodo's reputation as a troublemaker was spreading among his relatives in Buckland. Whispers of the Baggins boy sneaking out in the middle of the night, exploring the woods, and stealing mushrooms from Farmer Maggot were spreading as fast as dragons can breathe fire. The whispers were all unfounded of course, since the soft-stepping Frodo could conceal his whereabouts with ease. If he was sneaking out, Primula and Drogo were none the wiser. They were always pleased to find their young son asleep in his bed by curfew and at the breakfast table come sunup.

But now Frodo needed some place to stay while his parents were away, and his aunts and uncles in Buckland were not eager to open their doors.

"He's not exactly the best influence," continued Primula, as she fashioned dough into second breakfast biscuits. She wiped off some excess goo onto her apron and placed the biscuits onto the brick oven.

Meanwhile, Drogo had been packing a sack of clothes and supplies for their journey. Hobbits traveled lightly with clothes and heavy with food; that is, when they traveled at all, which was rare. "Come on, Prim, Bilbo's not as bad as they say. Don't believe all of the rumors you hear."

"But Dahlia told me that he –"

"Dahlia can blow it out her ear," interrupted Drogo. "Bilbo's our kin. And he's always treated us kindly. The main thing is that he's willing to look after Frodo."

Drogo approached his wife at the washbasin and wrapped his arms around her. He nuzzled his face in her neck and breathed in the earthy smell of her soft, dark brown curly hair.

"I suppose you're right," Primula conceded. She smiled and turned to the side, kissing Drogo square on the lips.

Breaking away from the embrace, Primula added, "You'd better go tell Frodo that second breakfast is ready."

Drogo squeezed his wife's hand. Then he rushed out the front door of their hobbit hole and into their grassy front yard.

Although it was only April 6, the Shire was alive and beginning to bloom. The mid-morning sun made the late dew glisten. Spring was dawning, and the birds were of good cheer. Farmers were working day and night planting their crops, but they came home happy and fulfilled.

Off to the side of their yard, sitting in the tall green grass, was Frodo Baggins. Too young to go to work with his father, he had made a habit of going out to play between breakfast and second breakfast. Right now he was creating a "playground" for ants and other soil-dwelling bugs. Relatively harmless, thought Drogo, as he approached his son, unless you're a bug.

"Frodo, the courier's just brought us a message. We've found somewhere for you to stay while mother and father are away."

At this, Frodo flung his stick away and put his head down. He didn't like the fact that his parents were going away. The other hobbit parents never left home!

Drogo's heart softened at seeing the instant change in his son. He walked over to him and pulled his slight body off the ground. Frodo wrapped his grubby hands around his father's neck and buried his face in his chest.

"Why must you go, father?" Frodo asked, whimpering.

Drogo stroked his son's matted dark brown hair. "Shh, we'll have none of that," he soothed. "Guess what? You're going to Uncle Bilbo's!"

At this Frodo looked his father in the eyes, dumbfounded. He remembered meeting Uncle Bilbo many years ago at his home in Hobbiton. Until now, Frodo had forgotten the visit, but all of the memories came rushing back. The old hobbit had welcomed him with open arms. When his parents were socializing, Bilbo gave him a personal tour of Bag End, let him eat all the food he wanted, and even showed him his books. Oh, how Frodo loved the books! He couldn't wait to go back.

"Are you glad, son?" asked Drogo, not knowing if Frodo's expression was one of pleased or dissatisfied surprise.

Frodo could do nothing but nod. He was speechless. He wriggled free of his father's grasp and took off running down the path towards Hobbiton.

Drogo laughed. "Not yet, Frodo! Come inside and eat second breakfast. Then we'll finish packing your things and head to Bag End." Frodo was the only hobbit he knew who would deny second breakfast in favor of an activity involving exercise.

After a seemingly endless pony ride, Frodo's family had finally arrived at Bag End. Drogo dismounted his tan pony and Primula handed Frodo to him.

"Aren't you coming, love?" Drogo asked his wife. "Don't you want to say hello to Cousin Bilbo?"

Primula hesitated. "Frodo can tell him for me. We must be off soon if we're to make the most of the daylight."

Drogo rolled his eyes, setting Frodo down. He thought it was a tad immature of Primula to worry about the gossip associated with talking to Bilbo. But he honored her wishes, squeezing Frodo in a hug before he remounted the pony.

As soon as Frodo was released, he took off running towards Uncle Bilbo's hobbit hole.

"Yes, mother, father, goodbye!" he yelled, without turning around. Gone was the hesitant little hobbit who didn't want his parents to leave.

The first thing Frodo noticed were all the beautiful flowers, grasses, and shrubs growing outside of Bag End. Their coalescent smell was enough to make his nose go mad with pleasure. He bounded up the steps as fast as his little legs could carry him, noticing the shadow of a gardener walking to the back of the property. So that's who makes this place smell so nice, thought Frodo.

The lad was so excited to reach the top of the stairs that he forgot to be out of breath. Knock, knock, knock, Frodo's tiny fist wrapped against the big green door. Immediately the hinge swung open, and there appeared a stout hobbit who looked nowhere near his ninety years of age.

"Uncle Bilbo!" Frodo squealed.

"Frodo!" Bilbo smiled and opened his arms. Frodo ran to him and jumped inside.

Meanwhile, Primula and Drogo, seeing that Frodo had stepped inside Bag End safely, rode away quietly on their ponies.

Bilbo shut the door behind them. If he was distressed that his cousins Primula and Drogo hadn't come in to say hello, he didn't show it.

"I have a whole lot planned for us to do!" Bilbo continued, setting his young cousin down and taking him by the hand. "We can take walks, bake, and if you're good, I may even teach you how to climb a tree."

Frodo's cerulean eyes – which were too big for his face – widened in disbelief. Climb a tree? All the hobbits in Buckland would never do such a thing. But it did sound like oh so much fun. Then, he remembered something.

"You forgot something, Uncle Bilbo!" he exclaimed.

"And what's that, my boy?" Bilbo chuckled.

"The books! Aren't you going to read me your stories?"

Bilbo's expression softened and grew contemplative. "You remembered my books, did you? You're a keen one, Frodo. What do you say we make supper and then I read you a story? I bet you're hungry from your long trip." It was nearing four o'clock, and Bilbo had just finished his own supper, but he wasn't about to tell Frodo that. What was the harm in eating two suppers?

But to his surprise, Frodo declined. "We ate lunch on the way. I'd much rather hear a story, if you please, Uncle."

Skipping supper for a story? That's rather odd, thought Bilbo. He wondered why the boy was hungrier for knowledge than much-needed food. Not that the elder hobbit was complaining. If there was one thing he liked more than a second supper, it was reading aloud his stories and poems.

For the next two hours, Bilbo enraptured Frodo with stories, both written and recounted from memory. Frodo listened intently as Bilbo shared tales and rhymes concerning Elves, Men, and the race his uncle seemed to know best: Dwarves. It sounded to Frodo that his uncle was speaking not from passed-down legend, but from experience. However, even the imaginative young hobbit knew that couldn't be possible.

After a while, Frodo did notice his stomach start to growl. Bilbo prepared dinner for the two of them. Bilbo cooked the chicken and potatoes while Frodo measured out the ingredients for the pies. Bilbo wondered if he should trust the lad, but he was having too much fun being around his energetic, boundless young cousin to think twice about it.

When they were setting everything out on the table, a face peered in the window followed by a knock at the door.

"Ahh, it's the old Gaffer, come for a meal," Bilbo said as he opened the door.

"Who are you calling old?" replied a sturdy-looking hobbit, with greying curly hair and sweat glistening on his face.

Bilbo pulled out a seat for the hobbit, who often shared evening meals with Bilbo when he worked late.

"I'd like you to meet my nephew, Frodo," said Bilbo. "Frodo, this is Hamfast Gamgee, better known as the Gaffer. You can call him 'Old Gaffer' – he likes that better." Hamfast scowled at Bilbo.

This was the one Frodo had seen tending the garden. "I admire your work, Old Gaffer, I really do. The yard smells delightful," complimented Frodo innocently.

The Gaffer guffawed heartily at Frodo's remark, and when he finished laughing, Frodo gave him a funny look to cause him to start up again. His stream of laughter was infectious and began to spread to Bilbo and Frodo. Their combined roars shook the room and almost made the plates and utensils fly straight off the table.

The three hobbits were so involved in their merrymaking that they didn't even hear the hard, fast knock at the door. It was more of a pounding than a knock. When it received no response, the knock became a thump, the sound of someone trying to break down the door!

Frodo's acute hearing was the first to pick up the thuds.

"Uncle Bilbo! Do you hear that?" he cried, becoming frightened. Back in Buckland, no one ever knocked on his family's door so loud.

Bilbo and the Gaffer quieted down, and the pounding continued, followed by a lusty yell.

"Hamfast Gamgee! Are you in there?" called a female voice. "Open this door!"

The Gaffer and Bilbo seemed to recognize the voice, so Frodo became a little less scared. He still hid behind Bilbo's waist. Bilbo was frozen in astonishment; he was unaccustomed to so many visitors, but not entirely displeased.

The Gaffer hustled towards the door and opened it. A red-faced hobbit woman with disheveled auburn hair appeared on the other side. Her apron had red stains on it and her fingernails contained clumps of crusty blood. Seeing this, Frodo revered back to his original fear.

"Took you long enough!" she huffed in exasperation.

"Mrs. Tenderfoot!" said the Gaffer.

"No time for pleasantries!" she shouted. "The baby's here!"

She grabbed the Gaffer's arm and yanked him out of Bag End. They both ran down the steps, down the road, and disappeared from sight, leaving Frodo and Bilbo behind.

Bilbo quickly explained to Frodo that Mrs. Tenderfoot was a midwife in Hobbiton. Bell Gamgee, the Gaffer's wife, must have given birth. She had been with child for some time, but the baby was not supposed to arrive for another few weeks, if he remembered correctly.

Frodo didn't know what to make of it. He didn't know much about babies, save for the fact that they were cute. The babies in Buckland were quite boring, though; they couldn't do much of anything. Frodo's stomach rumbled. They hadn't gotten a chance to eat. Bilbo noticed this and motioned for Frodo to sit down.

Bilbo and Frodo ravenously ate, and within minutes, they had wiped their plates clean. Bilbo always liked to clean up when he was done eating, and put the dishes in their proper place, but this time he could make an exception.

"We'd better gather up some supplies for Bell," he said. Frodo helped him pack some clean linens, some leftover dinner, and some soap. They were ready to leave Bag End when Bilbo stopped. He smacked his hand to his forehead.

"I haven't a gift for the baby!" said Bilbo. "I was going to buy one this week," he lamented. Although hobbits give gifts to others on their own birthday, Baby Gamgee could not do so just yet. So it was only right to shower the newborn with presents. How humiliating it would be if he showed up with supplies for mother but nothing for her pride and joy. Well, one of her pride and joy's. This was Bell's fifth child.

Frodo had an idea. He hated to see his Uncle Bilbo in distress. He ran to his overnight bag and unbuckled it. He pulled out a soft, green knit blanket that Primula had knitted before Frodo was born. Even at twelve years old, it still brought him comfort. He looked at it for a moment, remembering.

"Now you have a gift," said Frodo, getting up and handing the blanket to Bilbo. "This is Hug. I don't need him anymore." he said, and walked out the door. Bilbo took it, moved by the gesture. He followed Frodo out, glanced at his suddenly empty, quiet, front room, and closed the door. He caught up to Frodo, ruffling his nephew's hair. It had been so long since he had spent any length of time with a little one, he had forgotten about children's unassuming selflessness. He didn't know how he was going to say goodbye when Frodo's parents came to pick him up.

"My word, how precious he is!" exclaimed Mrs. Tenderfoot, wiping her brow. Delivering the baby was quite a strenuous undertaking for the mother, but the expended energy of the midwife was not often considered.

Mrs. Gamgee was oblivious to any pain, as well as her uncombed appearance. The baby cooed peacefully at his mother's tender touch. His four siblings stood around the bed, waiting to hold their brother – even 4-year-old May, who was but a toddler herself – but it was hard for Bell to give him up. The Gaffer sat proudly by, dangling a finger in front of his tiny son.

Just then, Bilbo and Frodo burst through the door, bundles of supplies in hand.

"How is Bell? We thought she could use these." Bilbo asked, practically throwing his mound of supplies at the Gaffer. Bell smiled, touched at Bilbo's generosity. She didn't have many encounters with him, but she knew that her husband enjoyed working for him. He often told her of Bilbo's kindness, urging her to forget the town's labels of him as eccentric and queer.

Bell smiled and peeled back the layers of the swaddled baby's blankets. His eyes blinked at the increase of light and noise. A curly tuft of blonde hair sat messily on his delicate head.

"I'd like you to meet our son. We're calling him Samwise – Sam for short," said Bell.

Bilbo gazed upon the child, marveling at his peace. Frodo peered out shyly from behind Bilbo.

Bell was grateful for the clean cloths, sheets, and soap, but she wasn't quite ready for a full meal. She knew her children would appreciate the food, though; they had been with their mother all day. Fifteen-year-old Hamson perked up at the whiff of meat, cheese, vegetables, and muffins.

Frodo carried a canteen of water in one hand, which he set down on a cluttered wooden table, and his blanket – "Hug" – in the other. He slowly walked up to Bell, brushing against Bilbo's side, hoping for an introduction.

Bilbo put his arm around Frodo. "This is my nephew, Frodo. He's visiting for a few days." The Gamgee family all smiled and said hello to Frodo. This was his chance.

"This is for Sam," peeped Frodo, handing Mrs. Gamgee the blanket. "I called it Hug, but he can call it whatever he likes."

"I think Hug suits this blanket just fine." Bell took the humble gift, tears welling up in her eyes. The blanket clearly meant something to Frodo. She, the Gaffer, and the children were all surprised that a child would offer such a prized possession to a stranger. May rushed over, intrigued by the blanket's bright green yarn, and ran her hand over it.

Bell added the blanket to Sam's layers, and rubbed it against his cheek. He gurgled and cracked a toothless smile.

"He likes it!" Frodo was barely able to contain his excitement. He could feel the love and affection for the child emanating throughout the room. Maybe babies were boring, but they certainly made everything a whole lot better.

After some more well wishes, Bilbo and Frodo said their goodbyes to the Gamgees. They exited the humble hobbit hole and began making for Bag End. The sky was pitch black and alive with stars. The night was chilly, and Bilbo wrapped Frodo in his extra cloak.

"I'm very proud of you, Frodo," Bilbo said earnestly. "You really saved my skin. And it's not easy to give up something you love. Especially for someone your age."

Frodo looked at the sky and thought for a moment. Finally, he said, "I think it's easier for someone my age to give up things. We've spent less time loving them, and have less memories to lose." He quickly added, "Besides, Sam could use Hug more than I could."

When they reached home, Bilbo tucked Frodo into a bed in a special guest room he had been preparing. The down-feathered pillows were fluffed up and the knit quilt danced with complimentary colors. He was sitting down to read his nephew a goodnight story, when they heard yet another knock at the door. This one was soft, slow, and could almost be considered sad, if knocks had feelings.

Bilbo rose, and of course, inquisitive Frodo needed to come along. The elder hobbit opened the door, and lo and behold, there stood Rorimac Brandybuck, Primula's brother, who had said he was too busy to look after Frodo.

"Uncle Rory?" Frodo blinked a few times. Was he seeing clearly, or was he just tired? Uncle Rory lived at Brandy Hall in Buckland; what was he doing standing on the doorstep of Bag End in the middle of the night?

Rorimac looked at his young nephew with deep compassion and pain in his eyes.

"Frodo. Bilbo. There's been an accident," he began. Bilbo ushered him inside. They all sat down and Rory recounted the story of how Primula and Drogo had been boating on the Brandywine and somehow ended up in the river. They, like most hobbits, didn't know how to swim, and had tragically drowned. For Frodo's sake, he left out some of the more gruesome details already being spread by hobbit busybodies.

During the telling, Bilbo gripped Frodo's hand tightly. Frodo looked down at the floor in disbelief. His imagination was running wild. Why couldn't Uncle Rory give him specifics? But then, he thought, maybe it was better if they were left unsaid.

Rory tried to hug his nephew, but Frodo's slight body remained like stone. Bilbo offered to put up Rory for the night, a gesture that he gratefully accepted. Matters would be attended to in the morning after everyone could regain their focus with some sleep.

Bilbo carried a motionless Frodo into the guest room and tucked him into bed once more. Frodo was not asleep, just numb with denial, rage, fear, guilt, and some feelings he couldn't name. Tomorrow he would have to return to Buckland with Uncle Rory, without his parents waiting for him. Never again would he taste his mother's love-filled meals or feel his father's strong, working arms lift him up. He didn't even get to say goodbye.

Frodo resisted sleep until his fatigue became too powerful and overtook him. He fell into a restless slumber, visions from the day jumbling inside his mind's eye: goodbyes, travel, fun with Uncle Bilbo, a birth, and death.

He didn't want to picture what happened, but his dreams forced him to. He was at the bottom of what he thought was the Brandywine River. He was swimming downward, trying to catch a glimpse of his parents' faces. Were they buried in the sand? The murky water stung his eyes. He saw an object glittering, gold and stuck in the sand. He saw a body falling, falling to the bottom. It was a male hobbit! His father? Frodo hoped so. The figure's face was down, and Frodo extended a hand to him. His head tilted up, and his hood revealed blonde hair and green eyes. Frodo's mind didn't know who this hobbit was, but his heart told him it was baby Sam, all grown up. Sam limply grasped Frodo's hand and was pulled to safety. The golden object remained in the sand, forgotten until it was remembered.

The End.