Frodo missed Bilbo very much, not having much of a chance to say good-bye during or after the chaos of the eleventy-first birthday. But having Sam around for company certainly helped. Frodo privately held onto the hope, though, that he'd see his dear cousin again some day. He began rummaging through the old desk, looking over the translations of Elvish poetry Bilbo had been working on. He remembered the difficulty, trying to find words in their native tongue to match those of the elves, and still having it flow as beautifully as the original.
'Fairer and fairer, as one grows,
Beauty wrought by the trials and throws;
Age bringing grace steady as the Anduin flows,
Intellect and tact brought as this Age slowly goes,
But the child's innocence the wise one still tows;
Enjoying more the company of friends than the rivalry of foes,
Words spoken eloquently as the easterly wind blows,
Until finally into the West, the last one rows.'
Frodo smiled, moving onto the next drawer. He found one of Bilbo's old pipes, rather small, and intricately carved with beautiful leaves and flowers, tiny imps seeming to flutter around among them. Its size was most likely the reason this one had been banished to the drawer; most of Bilbo's pipes were larger. Placing the pipe on the desk, Frodo carried on with his rummaging. He moved now to an old bookshelf. Here he found one of Bilbo's old sketchbooks, full of drawings of the Shire, and even some doodles of Smaug, some of his dwarf fellows, and Gandalf the Grey. Frodo was never allowed to look at these drawings when Bilbo was around.
"The musings of an old mind, realized on paper, are no matter to a tween such as yourself," Bilbo would say, closing the book whenever Frodo leaned over to catch a glimpse. But now, Frodo was of age, fully grown as a hobbit. He didn't think his dear Uncle Bilbo would mind if he looked now. As he came to the last page, he felt warm tears pricking the corners of his eyes. It was a doodle of Frodo himself, sitting in an enormous chair in Bag End, cross-legged, staring intently at a book. Frodo remembered what he was reading then; Bilbo's love for detail allowed Frodo to know the exact book. It was a compilation of stories about Utumno. Utumno was the place where many of Melkor's creations resided, things like Balrogs. Melkor was the member of the Valar who had gone towards evil. Frodo had a hard time getting through this book, as he would look away from the pages every time he became frightened. Which happened a lot. He hadn't realized that Bilbo was looking at him at the time, much less drawing him. A tear fell, and smudged the corner of the page. Frodo quickly closed the book, and put it away. As he turned to move onto something new, he felt another presence in the room.
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam said cautiously, momentarily forgetting his promise to drop such formalities.
"Yes, Sam?" Frodo asked, trying to wipe the tears from his big blue eyes. Sam looked to the sketchbook, and instantly understood. Bilbo had shown him its contents many times, as Bilbo considered Sam much more mature than most other young hobbits. He used it as a story telling device, for when he would spend hours telling young Samwise the stories of his endeavors outside the secure boundaries of the Shire.
Sam silently went to Frodo, taking him in his arms. Frodo leaned back against the wall, and slowly slunk to the floor, Sam carefully helping him as to prevent any injuries. Sam continued to cradle Frodo, kissing the tears on his cheeks, and gently rocking him.
"He shouldn't have left me, Sam!" Frodo cried, ears turning red.
"I know, Frodo, I know," Sam said, trying to comfort his love rather than reason with him. That's not what he needed he right now.
"I just turned of age, he should have stayed! Right when I needed him most!" Frodo continued to bawl, grasping Sam's sleeves with both hands, and burying his face in the front of Sam's shirt.
"It'll be all right, Frodo," Sam said, delicately fingering Frodo's curls.
"I miss him so, Sam. I miss him." The anger had passed, and turned to an even deeper sorrow. It pained Sam down to the very bottom of his soul.
"You may see him yet, Frodo. Never give up hope," Sam whispered, silently begging the Valar that he wasn't telling a lie.
"Yes, yes. I know. But, Sam…Sam I'll never see them again," Frodo said, looking up from Sam's shirt directly into his eyes. Sam didn't know what to say. Frodo hardly ever spoke of his parents. He had only been twelve when they passed, hardly enough time for a son to get truly acquainted with his parents.
"I'm sorry Frodo. But…I'm here." This was the only comfort Sam could hope to offer. Frodo's eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks covered with trails from tears. Tears no hobbit should ever have to cry.
"Thank you Sam," Frodo said. He seemed to be calming down. He leaned back into Sam's lap.
"I wouldn't leave you, Frodo. You know that, right?" Sam asked, gently cleaning Frodo's cheeks with his shirtsleeve.
"I know Sam. And I intend to hold you to that." Sam smiled, and Frodo allowed a small, slightly pained smile to play across his face. Frodo rose, and offered a hand to help Sam up. Sam ignored the hand, pushing himself off of the ground.
"Well, I must say I feel a bit famished now. Shall we get something to eat?" Frodo asked, the only sign of his sorrow now held in the sad beauty that never left his eyes.
"Certainly. I'll see if I can't get those cousins of yours back in here. You know, young Master Peregrin seems a bit too interested in those lassbugs crawling around on the tomatoes," Sam said as they walked down the hall towards the kitchen.
"Sam, I have enough faith in my cousin to believe that he would never eat a bug," Frodo laughed.
"Alright then, Mr. Frodo," Sam said; another lapse into a time that felt like ages ago.
"Sam," Frodo cautioned, his skin almost crawling at the title being delivered from the mouth he had kissed so many times the night previous.
"Sorry, Frodo. Frodo. Oh, that is still going to take some getting used to, make no mistake," Sam sighed as they arrived at the kitchen. Pippin was sitting at the table, eyes full of tears, Merry coming up from the ice-shed with a makeshift cold-compress.
"What happened here?" Frodo asked, inspecting his young cousin.
"He was stung by a bee," Merry said nonchalantly, handing the ice to Frodo to put on the sting. Pippin showed Frodo a large red welt on his hand.
"I was picking a flower; I wanted to give it to a lass I saw walking down by the duck pond. But when I reached down, a big angry hornet came out and stung me right on my hand, Frodo!" Pippin cried. Merry rolled his eyes.
"Calm down, Pip, it's just a bee sting."
"Peregrin, have you ever been stung by a bee before?" Frodo asked. On hearing his given name used, and so sternly, Pippin became nervous, as did Merry.
"No. Why?"
"Your father is horribly allergic to bee stings. You could be too," Frodo said, quickly dragging Pippin out of the chair and to the sink.
"What's going to happen?" Merry asked, sounding panicked, joining Frodo and Pippin at the sink.
"I don't know, it depends on the severity of his allergy," Frodo said as he scrubbed the wound.
"Ow, it hurts, Frodo!" Pippin cried, Frodo scrubbing the wound raw.
"I must try and get the venom out, Pippin," Frodo said, trying to sound patient, but his words stunk of anxiety. He soon abandoned the scrubbing, and brought Pippin's hand to his mouth. He attempted to suck out as much of the venom that he could, but such a small amount would have been delivered by such a small insect, it almost seemed pointless.
"Fro…I need…sit," Pippin gasped out, Frodo immediately leading him into the nearest bedroom. Pippin was quickly put onto the bed, where he lied down, gasping for air.
"It seems to be worse than Uncle Paladin's," Frodo murmured, leaning Pippin's head back to try and open up the airway a bit more. Pippin's eyes were opened wide, tears leaking out. His face had gone from deep red to ghostly white to a horrifyingly deep bluish purple. Merry was kneeling by the side of the bed, holding Pippin's un-stung hand. This only brought to him more clearly how harsh this reality was, as the stung hand was swollen to twice the size it had originally been. Sam was standing in the doorway, waiting for a command. When none came, he couldn't take it any longer.
"Frodo, what can I do?" he asked, stepping a little more into the room.
"I don't know Sam. I'd say get a healer, but by then…" Frodo's voice trailed off. But Sam new. There's no time to fetch a healer. Either Pippin recovers, or he dies. Merry was crying, his head on the bed next to Pippin, not able to watch as he slowly gasped for air. Pippin was absolutely horrified. No matter how hard he tried, he could not draw air into his lungs. He commanded them, breath, breath! But they wouldn't respond. His throat felt tight, it was closed. He felt lightheaded, and slowly everything around him began to fade. His eyes closed, and finally young Peregrin Took gave up his fight for air. Frodo began to lightly slap him across the face.
"No, no Pippin, do not close your eyes. Don't you dare close your eyes Pippin!" His yelling started as a command, but ended as a plea.
"Pip, don't leave me. Not yet. We haven't seen it all, Pippin. Please. Don't go," Merry cried, leaning over his cousin, his face only inches away from the tip of Pippin's nose. Usually when Merry was this close, it was due to a small hiding spot. Either hiding from the cooks as they snatched something from the Brandyhall kitchens, or hiding from some distant relative who, for some reason or other, felt they needed to be punished. But where he was usually met with a sweet smile and a warm breath smelling of milk and gingerbread, he found nothing but cold, stale, un-circulated air. Where he would typically be smiling back at a set of bright green eyes, full of vitality and wanderlust, he saw nothing but pale eyelids, not even a flutter of his long black lashes. His dearest friend, his closest cousin, his world, was gone.