Compassionate Hearts 

Chapter One - To Bag End

“Come along, Pip.” Merry stood at the end of the village road that turned onto the narrow lane leading round The Hill. He watched as puffs of vapor from his breath evaporated before his eyes. The sound of his voice fell at his feet; the thin shroud of snow absorbed much of the resonance of the outdoors. It was a very frigid January morning--what was left of it anyway, as it was nearly noon.

His young cousin lagged behind as if his feet were hundred pound weights. This wasn’t the first time since getting off the coach in Hobbiton that his cousin prolonged their walk, so this time he waited for the eight year old to catch up to him and then let him pass in front. Merry pulled his free hand inside his cloak and placed it between his other arm and ribs to warm it up. The other hand that carried his luggage would remain cold until they were inside Bag End and thawing themselves in front of a warm fire.

“Good mornin’ to ye young Masters!” It was the old Gaffer who lived at Number 3 Bagshot Row. He was walking down the lane in their direction. “I’m on my way to have a few words and a pipe with Farmer Cotton. Lovely day, don’t ye think?”

Merry smiled as best he could, under the circumstances--and the weather. “Good morning, Mister Gaffer,” he responded. “It is indeed a fine morning. How’s Sam these days?”

Pippin gave a sharp look to his older cousin. Merry stifled whatever sarcastic remark was about to roll off his cousin’s tongue with a stern look of his own. The wordless ‘conversation’ wasn’t lost on the old hobbit.

“Just Gaffer will do,” he winked to Merry. “and my Sam is doin’ splendid. Though, I see today isn’t a grand day for us all.”

“I must apologize, Mis--Gaffer, sir,” Merry said. “Pippin and I are on holiday to visit our cousin Frodo, but it isn’t a happy holiday.”

“Oh? I’m sorry to hear that,” the Gaffer said as he looked at the young Took. Pippin made no reply.

“We’d better be going,” Merry said, “I’m certain lunch is waiting at Bag End, and Bilbo expects us to be prompt.” Merry put his hand on Pippin’s shoulder and gently prodded him forward. “Good day to you, Gaffer.”

Pippin was feeling out of sorts this day so Merry let him ring the bell as they stepped up to the round, green door. Pippin always like to ring doorbells--though this bit of joy often got him into trouble whenever he visited Great Smials.

They only waited a few seconds before Frodo opened the door. “Hullo, cousins! Come inside and get warm!” One the lads were inside the warm Smial, Frodo shut the door on the cold weather behind. He then took the luggage from each cousin, saying, “Lunch is ready; after you warm up a bit, go on ahead to the kitchen. I’ll meet you there once I’ve put your bags away.”

They stood in front of the large hearth in the sitting room warming their cold hands and toes until an elder hobbit called to them.

“Lunch is on the board, lads. Come and eat.”

Merry wasn’t quite warm yet, but the smell of Bilbo’s mushroom stew drew him into the kitchen. He and Pippin found their seats and waited for Frodo to return from the back bedrooms. Pippin observed the tableware; he had vivid memories of a birthday celebration that took place here mere months ago. Inwardly, he wondered if all meals were this plush at Bad End. The dining table was covered with a crisp white tablecloth with richly embroidered designs stitched into the corners of the fabrid. Matching linen napkins were meticulously folded next to the plate, and the silver flatware placed on top of it. The plates themselves bore a lovely floral design that Pippin remembered from a far away spring. The ceramic salt and peppershakers, along with the sugar bowl all matched the plates. Such extravagance he knew only the wealthy could afford. His own family was no less wealthy, however, they served their meals in the most simplest manner. Pippin only saw this sort of elegance at Whitwell on special occasions, such as seasonal holidays or celebrating someone’s birthday--like his father’s birthday…which was just one month after his own-- Pippin flinched when a voice broke into his thoughts.

“Smells delicious!” Frodo came into the kitchen and sat down between Merry and Bilbo. “Bilbo makes the best mushroom stew in all the Shire!” Frodo smiled, hoping the good humor would spread among the guests, but the somber mood continued.

The meal was eaten mostly in silence. Only Bilbo and Frodo shared news in bits and pieces, hoping their guests would warm up to more conversation. Merry ate only enough stew to warm his toes; after that, he slowly stirred the mushrooms around inside the bowl. His thoughts were elsewhere. Pippin barely ate at all. After a couple spoonfuls his stomach began to feel strange--almost as if he were in serious trouble and was waiting out his punishment. It had been a while since he last felt this way.

Frodo wanted desperately to ease his guests. “Pippin, your father is strong,” he said. “The Sickness will pass and he will be fine.”

That wasn’t what Pippin wanted to hear. He remembered being deathly ill himself once or twice before and knew just now sick his father really was, and this made him feel sadder than he had ever felt before in his life. He laid down his spoon; he was done eating.

Bilbo gave Frodo a look and turned his attention to the young lad sitting next to him. He lifted the boy’s chin and saw tears running down his face. “Pippin lad,” He said softly, “you may be excused. Your bedroom will be at the end of the hallway on your left.” Pippin sniffed and wiped his eyes with his sleeve, laid aside his napkin and left to go to his bedroom.

Frodo sighed. “I’m terribly sorry, Merry,” he said apologetically, “I only wanted to try and cheer him up a little. It tears at me to see you both so wretched.”

Merry had laid aside his own spoon and now gazed into his lap, watching his fingers trace the intricate stitching in the napkin. “He’s very sick, you know--my uncle.” Merry bit his lower lip, trying desperately to hold in his tears. “I‘m frightened, Frodo,” he said. Now that Pippin was no longer present, Merry felt he could let his guard down. The embroidery blurred as he felt his eyes welling up with tears. He wiped an errant tear away as it ran down his cheek. “I feel so selfish.”

Frodo took Merry into his arms, allowing his young cousin to sob into his shoulder. “No you’re not. You are one of the most unselfish hobbits that I know, Merry! Paladin loves you very much, and I know how you feel towards him. It won‘t do either of you--or Paladin--any good by worrying.”

Bilbo watched the discourse sadly. He’d remembered the tremendous grief Frodo went through when he lost his parents. Perhaps it was this same empathy that his own adopted heir was now displaying. Fortunately, Bilbo thought to himself, Paladin was still living and breathing....for now. Just as parents should never have to bury their children, Bilbo felt that young children should never have to bury their parents. This young teen wasn’t one of Paladin’s own children, but was more like an ‘adopted’ son himself. And Bilbo experienced first-hand just how close nephew and uncle were this past autumn. “Frodo,” he said, “why don’t you take Merry and show him his room?” He felt that a good cry is what both Took and Brandybuck needed.

Later that evening, Bilbo decided to check in on his two young guests before he went to bed. Starting with the furthest bedroom, he knocked lightly and opened the door ajar. “Pippin?” No answer, but he was hoping to not receive one; hopefully the child was asleep. He opened the door further and was surprised to see the bedcovers were laid aside and the bed itself empty. He swept the room with his eyes--looking for any sign that the boy was only hiding. All he saw and heard was the crackling and the hiss of the warm fire burning low in the hearth. After a moment he decided the child wasn’t there and closed the door. He would check on the other young guest before doing an all out search of the Smial--looking for an unhappy hobbit child.

It was a quick knock on Merry’s door as Bilbo twisted the handle and let himself in. Once again Bilbo felt the cozy warmth of flames in the fireplace, but as he stepped more inside he saw not one, but two lumps in the bed. He hoped one of these lumps was Pippin. He softly treaded to the other side of the huge bed for a better view of them. Sure enough, there was Pippin all snuggled up against Merry; both lads deep in slumber. Merry’s arm was wrapped over his young cousin. As if protecting him from some unseen night monster of the sort that most young children Pippin’s age were afraid of. Neither lad stirred as Bilbo pulled the blankets up over their shoulders. He turned around and quietly left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

For unknown reasons, Bilbo found himself turning the door handle of yet one other bedroom. This one was Frodo’s. It seemed ages since the last time he had checked in on the lad before going to bed. He did it routinely for the first few years when the Frodo first arrived at Bag End to make sure he was adjusting properly, but as the tween approached the age of adulthood, Bilbo imagined the young hobbit disliked such nonsense.

At first, Bilbo thought Frodo was asleep, but then the blankets moved. Bilbo was about to bring the bedcovers back over Frodo’s shoulders as well when the lad rolled over to face him. His eyes and nose were red and puffy. “Hullo, Bilbo.”

Bilbo sat down on the bed and sighed, rubbing the tween’s shoulder, “This whole affair with Paladin has affected you, has it not?” He reached into his vest pocket and handed Frodo his pocket-handkerchief.

The young hobbit nodded as he took the cloth and then proceeded to clean his face. “I thought I buried my Mum and Dad when I was twelve. But I found today very hard,” he sniffed. “I keep hoping that Pippin nor Merry doesn’t have to go through what I did.”

“I hope not, also.” Bilbo sat on the bed for a few minutes until he saw Frodo’s weary eyelids blink. Finally, his eyes shut altogether, and his breathing became soft and deep. Bilbo smiled; he couldn’t resist brushing away a few unruly curls from the young hobbit’s face as he used to. Then the elder hobbit got up, bringing the blankets over the sleeping lad’s shoulders, then quietly slipped out.