Handkerchief

"Frodo?" Bilbo's voice was tinged with worry as he came into his younger cousin's room to find him lying in bed with a yellow handkerchief over his eyes. It was not like Frodo to be quiet in the afternoon when he usually passed the time between lunch and tea chopping wood, pottering in the kitchen or reading in the study, where his murmured Elvish set a backdrop as steady and reassuring to Bilbo as the familiarity of the study itself. "What's the matter, lad? Are you ill?"

Frodo plucked the handkerchief from his eyes with a sigh and sat up as Bilbo settled at the edge of his bed. "I miss Merry, Bilbo" said the tween, with a flat voice.

Bilbo's worried expression softened into understanding. He said nothing, knowing that words could not help when such problems arose. He looked at the handkerchief in Frodo's hand. Frodo followed the direction of Bilbo's gaze and his eyes dimmed.

"His last birthday before I moved here, we played blindhobbit in the party, using this," he said as he lifted the handkerchief, "as blindfold. A lot of the cousins, uncles and aunts took part; it was hilarious. When it was Merry's turn, I went to him and offered my hand. He only touched it lightly, without taking it, or feeling it. But then he smiled and said 'It's Frodo.'"

Frodo sighed and pressed the handkerchief to his face. "He knows me so well, Bilbo. And I've forgotten the sound of his laugh."

fin