A/N: Inspired by the comfort of my heavy afghan, and the tradition of quilts and quilting that are passed on through the generations as brought home to me by the pair of quilts that I acquired after my grandmothers' deaths. Many thanks to Febobe (Frodo Baggins of Bag End) for the encouragement to post this. :)
Quilts
As the weather turns cooler and the leaves turn colors, the beds in Bag End turn in their light summer quilts for fluffy down coverlets, with a heavier winter quilt folded across the end of the bed for good measure. All of the beds, that is, save for Mr. Frodo's. Rosie couldn't understand how he could prefer to burrow beneath a fair pile of quilts when one good counterpane would do the same or better, and brought herself to ask one day. "Mr. Frodo," she says as she helps him make the bed one morning, "One counterpane would do as well as all these quilts, and be much lighter, besides."
"I know, Rosie," he says slowly, deliberately smoothing each layer individually, lingering to trace this diamond, that square. "But I prefer the quilts. They're-" he paused, seeming to search for words. "They're more comforting," he says at last.
She nods as if she understands, but she doesn't, not really.
As the weather turns cooler, Rosie finds she never quite feels warm enough. So her Sam, dear old Sam, airs out some of the old quilts and layers them upon their bed, taking care to smooth them down before carefully laying the next. On the top is one of Mr. Frodo's favorites, from his parents' hole and faded with wear, but still whole. She lies beneath the pile that night, actually warm for the first time in ages, and thinks she begins to understand Mr. Frodo and his quilts, just a little.
When illness forces her to remain abed, she comprehends a bit more, for when one is first waking from an unexpected nap, lost in the between, not sure if you live or die, the familiar weight of quilts across your chest reassuringly brings you back to the living world, pained though it may be.
As the winter of her life draws near its end, the quilts hold her in their warm embrace even when Sam cannot be at her side. She relaxes into their comfort, feeling in their pull across her shoulders the fond memories of those who had been so enfolded in the past, and envisioning those who would yet use them in the future. A simple quilt could survive the generations, and would contain a piece of her long after she was gone to cuddle the children she would never see.
Then, she thought she finally understood.
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