A Mother's Day Gift

By: Elemmírë

Summary: Primula receives her very first Mother's Day gift.

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

Author's Note: I apologize that I am late in posting this fic for Mother's Day, but I just came off of working nightshift all weekend.

When Primula Baggins awoke that morning, the first thing she did was to rub one hand across her tummy. When she first learned she was finally with child, she had been so astounded, that each morning when she awoke she had to feel her abdomen to quell her disbelief. As the babe (and her tummy) grew, the gesture had now become habit.

Yesterday, the midwife had given her and Drogo the best of news. The midwife had estimated Primula to be 18 to 20 weeks pregnant; her chances of miscarriage had dropped considerably with every day she carried the child past 12 weeks. The hobbit couple was elated to hear such news after wanting a child of their own for so long.

Soon Drogo awoke and after propping his wife up on several feather pillows, he left for the kitchen to make them first breakfast, allowing his dear wife to relax in bed. When he soon came back, Drogo nearly dropped the tray laden with food that he bore. Primula was holding her slightly swollen belly with two hands and had such a look of concentration on her pretty face that it scared him.

Drogo hastily set the tray on the nightstand before rejoining his wife in bed. "What is it, Prim, what's wrong? Do you need me to fetch the healer or midwife?" he asked quickly.

Primula's frown deepened and she moved one of her hands slightly, then a slow smile crept across her face. "Shh, Drogo-love. I'm fine. The babe is fine, too."

She grasped one of her husband's larger hands and placed it on the growing swell of her abdomen. "Here Drogo, feel your lad or lass's first movements."

Drogo started when he suddenly felt a gently bump hit the palm of his hand. His own frown quickly spread into a grin and he laughed when he felt the baby's movements again.

"You've quickened!" he exclaimed in wonderment, tracing the curve of his wife's swell with his fingers.

Primula positively beamed. "Aye, just like the midwife said would soon happen. Before we know it, Halimath will be upon us and we'll be holding our very first."

Ignoring their cooling breakfast, the happy couple spent the next half-hour feeling their first child's movements underneath their hands. Sometimes the movements were sharp, making Primula wince as her insides were kicked, and at other times they could barely feel the softest of flutters as the babe shifted about inside.

Eventually his own hunger grew and Drogo placed his hand on his wife's growing tummy a final time before kissing her. "Happy Mother's Day, sweetheart," he said. "Now eat up! You're feasting for two this morning, you know."

The babe gave one final little kick before settling down, seeming to know that it was time for his mother to eat. To Primula Baggins, feeling her babe alive and well, was one of the best gifts she could ever ask for on her first real Mother's Day.

The End

Sorrow

By: Elemmírë

Summary: Not all are happy on Mother's Day ... Frodo is 14 (age 8½ in Man years)

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

Author's Note: Author's Note: I apologize that I am late in posting this fic for Mother's Day, but I just came off of working nightshift all weekend.

14-year old Frodo Baggins felt like an outsider. He sat by himself on one of the blankets spread out near the banks of the Brandywine River, watching his aunts, uncles, and cousins on this bright, sunny afternoon. Today was Mother's Day in the Shire--a special day set aside in mid-Spring when all mother's were celebrated. Except, Frodo no longer had a mother.

His sadness grew tenfold as he was forced to participate in the family picnic. Sadness soon combined with jealousy and even anger as Frodo observed the other hobbits take advantage of what he could no longer have. His hands clenched tightly the blanket beneath them, resulting in little white-knuckled fists.

Aunt Menegilda, matriarch and the Mistress of the Hall, sat beside her husband. Both of them sat proudly, watching over their two sons and their two grandchildren. She would coo and praise her grandsons whenever they were near, lightly pinching their rosy cheeks.

While Uncles Saradoc and Merimac were smoking their pipes and holding discussion, Auntie Esme bounced baby Merry in her lap until the infant giggled and waved his chubby little hands around in the air. Aunt Begonia was encouraging little Berilac to toddle toward her, while Cousins Seredic and Milo showered their mothers with small gifts and a loving son's attention.

Frodo sighed heavily. It was three years since his parents had died, but on days like this, Frodo missed his mother more than ever. He would give anything to be able to hear her voice again or to see her beautiful face and smile. He missed her hugs--she gave the best hugs--and he missed the way she would often ruffle his curls. He missed the way she took care of him whenever he was ill, or the way she would kiss his hurts to make them feel better. He missed the way she would tuck him into bed each night, saying 'goodnight' to not only him, but to everything in his bedroom from his toy bear, Beorn, to the books in their case. He missed how she would cut his sandwiches into four little triangles for him to eat, or how she would let him lick the batter off the mixing spoon when she baked. He missed her asking him which color dress she should wear or which mathom would be best to give Da on her birthday. He missed her singing silly, little songs as she cleaned their smial. He missed the little surprises she would sometimes leave on his bed for him to find, like a new toy or book. He missed sitting on her lap every night before bed and following along as she read him a story. He even missed her punishing him for some wrongdoing. He missed ... he missed HER.

The lump in Frodo's throat threatened to give way to tears at any given moment and he quickly got up from the picnic blanket and walked away. Little did he know that his own mother had once sat in the very same spot, experiencing a jealous twinge of her own as she had watched her brothers and sisters celebrate many a Mother's Day with their own children, feeling like she and Drogo didn't belong either.

Frodo's wandering brought him up to the grassy hill where his mother and father's final resting place was. He sat down beside the granite stone bearing their names, fiddling with a long blade of grass in his fingers. "I miss you, Mama. I hope you're enjoying a Happy Mother's Day, wherever you and Dad are ...."

* * * * *

Meanwhile, back at the picnic, Esmeralda noticed her nephew's absence and grew worried. She was about to search for Frodo when her mother-in-law stayed her. "I think Frodo is missing his own mother very much today and he went to go be with her," Menegilda explained softly, pointing to a hill in the distance.

Esmeralda tracked the line of sight until she saw the form of a small hobbit sitting underneath the great oak tree upon the crest of the hill. "I should go to him-" she started to say, gathering up her skirts.

Again, Menegilda halted her. "No. Give young Frodo some time alone with them," she advised in the wise tone that only elders possess. "He talks to them, you know--tells them the things he wouldn't dare say to anyone else. It is good for him and helps him to grieve. Let him be for a while, then go to him. We can watch him just as well from here."

An hour later, Esmeralda made her way up the hill leaving a napping Merry behind with Saradoc. As she broached the tall oak tree, she could see her little nephew on his knees, bending over the grave marker sobbing. She settled down onto the grass beside him and gently pulled Frodo into her lap; the shaking young hobbit cried all the harder.

Esme let him cry his tears of mourning as she rocked him back and forth soothingly, not saying a word. After several long minutes, Frodo's weeping subsided and he sniffled, turning his face away from her in embarrassed shame. "I'm sorry, Auntie," he whispered.

Esme turned the dark head so the young teen was forced to look at her. "Don't be sorry, Frodo Baggins. It is perfectly all right to miss your dear mother .... I miss her too and I wish she were here with us today, just as much as you."

She took a corner of her skirts and began to wipe away the tears that trailed down his pale cheeks before holding him close once more. "I'll tell you what, Frodo. How about instead of lessons tomorrow, you can write your mother a letter instead and then you may bring it here for her. Would you like that?" It was something that Old Bilbo Baggins had introduced to the lad and it often worked at helping to dispel the child's melancholy for a short time anyway.

Frodo nodded, suddenly feeling very tired and worn for his fourteen years. He let his aunt continue to hold him, feeling a mite selfish, knowing that she should be enjoying her first Mother's Day with her own son and not him. He said as such to her.

Esme just shook her head at him. "Merry is fine; he and your uncle are in the midst of their afternoon nap. You need me more right now, Frodo-lad," she insisted in a firm, yet loving manner.

The two hobbits watched the doings of the picnic below them in silence. As the sun began Her descent, Frodo shifted and turned around. "Thank you for being here with me, Auntie Esme," he said shyly. "I love you."

Esmeralda planted a kiss on the orphan's head of curls before allowing him to help her up from the ground. "Oh, Frodo, sweetie. I love you too, and nothing will ever change that."

Frodo wrapped as much of his arms as he could around his aunt's ample waist, squeezing her tightly. "Happy Mother's Day," he whispered.

The End