by Sangwaelen
A young hobbit sat uncomfortably between his crying aunt and teary eyed uncle, and stared into the waves of faces streaked with tears. I should be crying, he thought with guilt, and slumped lower in his chair. His uncle noticed and pulled the lad up by his collar.
"Come now Frodo, sit up straight. Nearly a teenager." Frodo scowled, willing his tears come, but they would not. His aunt Esmeralda could hardly stifle her sobs with her hand, and her eyes were wet. Being only twelve, Frodo did not realize that his grief ran far deeper than tears. It was like a knife that cut so deeply it severed the nerves, and he felt no pain, only numbness. At least, as long as the nerves were damaged. The lad gazed across the hall, looking at his favorite uncle, or cousin, he wasn't sure. He refused to look at the two bodies between them, though they were hidden in their simple caskets.
He and his aunt, sister to his now deceased mother, led the procession outside. Frodo felt like cursing the sky for not being grey, but the deepest blue he had ever seen in his short life. If I cannot cry for my parents, why should I expect the sky to join in as well? As the caskets were lowered into the ground, Frodo caught Bilbo's eye. The blank, empty expression on the lad's did not leave the older hobbit's mind for days.
After the final handful of dirt had been cast upon the graves, all of Brandy Hall was filled again, with the bustling of many hobbits. While there were still a few tears to be shared, there were also happy memories and, of course, food. Frodo found a chair and sat down, soon to be surrounded by the sympathetic and relatives, both close and distant. He curled himself into a ball, his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms crossed over his eyes, so all that was visible was his crown of curly, dark hair.
"Esme, I do worry a bit about that lad," Bilbo said, nodding toward Frodo. Esmeralda followed Bilbo's nod, her eyes still glassy with tears.
"Oh, Bilbo, I don't know what to do. Did you know he hasn't spoken a word to anyone since we gave him the news?"
"Well, that doesn't seem too unusual. It would be a horrible shock to lose your parents at such a young age, and it has been only a few days."
"I suppose, but, oh, he hasn't even cried, not even a small sob, and his eyes are blank. They lost the spark they had, as if his inner fire had gone out." She blew her nose and ran her hands through her hair, obviously worried.
"No, Frodo still has some light in him yet, and he's a young lad. He'll bounce back, he just needs time to grieve," Bilbo reassured her, though he was not sure he trusted the sound of his own voice. "Maybe I should try to talk to him, yes? But not now, no, he may need some time to just be alone." As if he had heard Bilbo, Frodo uncurled his body and stretched slowly, then headed for the door, and succesfully got past the tangle of relatives and friends still trying to comfort him. I hope he doesn't head for the river, Bilbo said, a hint of fear running through his limbs. No, Frodo isn't a stupid lad. He's a Baggins, for goodness sake! Still, there were tales of hobbits so overcome with grief that...but those were just tales, though Bilbo knew that tales could often contain a large amount of truth. He made sure that Esme was occupied with someone else, grabbed his overcoat and followed the lad.
Frodo sat at the edge of the steps of Brandy Hall, tugging aimlessly at the buttons of his vest. He was wearing the clothes he was meant to wear on his thirteenth birthday, to celebrate the beginning of the long road to adulthood. Esmeralda had removed the golden buttons (a gift from Bilbo, no doubt) and replaced them with black so he could wear it to his parents' funeral. He put his face in his hands, breathing hard, but producing no tears. A small fit of coughing made him snap his head up and around, his eyes narrowed. They widened immediately, as if in apology, when he saw the culprit.
"Sorry, my lad. Just came out for a bit of a smoke, see?" Bilbo held up an old pipe, worn but familiar in his hand, and struck a match to light it. "Too full of people in there to enjoy it properly. I miss my old Bag End sometimes, I forget that most hobbits don't lead such solitary lives." Frodo only shrugged in reply. "Harumph..." Bilbo sat next to the lad, not saying anything for a bit. They sat in silence, and if it hadn't been for the familiar scent of Old Toby wafting through the air, Frodo wouldn't have known Bilbo was still there. They sat there together for what seemed an unmeasurable amount of time, one grieving for those long past and another grieving for one that seemed to have ended life before it had begun.
As the sun sank below the treeline and the din in the hall lowered to a murmur, Bilbo got up and stretched his stiff legs. Several hobbits were staying at Brandy Hall that night, including he, but most had retired to bed early, being exhausted from crying or comforting.
"Come now, Frodo, we best be getting inside before your aunt misses you." Frodo rose wordlessly and followed Bilbo inside, his head hung low, but eyes still dry.