For Eyes to See That Can
Author: Rowan
Summary: The Ring-bearer, as seen by his family and friends. Meant as a character study more than a story.
Rating: G
Note: As a reader, I prefer completed stories over works in progress. However, I'm now taking the risk of posting a WIP myself, justifying it because this is not really one continuing story but a series of short stand-alones grouped under one title. I hope to go through every major character who had some significant interaction with Frodo, but please forgive me in advance if I run out of ideas and just stop.
Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Chapter 1: Primula Baggins, April 1380

There is a fanciful old rumor about the Elves that says that at times they steal a mortal child and replace it with one of their own, who is then raised by the poor unsuspecting parents as theirs.

I do not believe this legend. I never had, even before my cousin Bilbo told me what Elves were really like -- and he should know, being the only hobbit living to have had extensive dealings with them. Even if they were given to such mischief, the deception would never work on a hobbit family, as our races are too different.

Yet sometimes when I look at my son, the silly story tickles at the back of my mind, and although I know good and well that Frodo is no elf, nonetheless I wonder what sort of cuckoo must have visited our nest that September night.

For he is not much like either Drogo or me, although there are elements here and there that we share if one looks hard enough, or from the right angle. I can see hints of his father around the nose, and myself in the eyes and hair. But my hair was never exactly that shade of inky brown, nor were my eyes ever quite that clear, sparkling blue, and his nose is much straighter and more chiseled than Drogo's ever dreamed of being.

Although the three branches of hobbitkind have become so mingled over the ages that one can barely tell them apart anymore, I think that, somehow or other, Frodo came out more or less pure Fallohide. It shows in his build -- which I can tell already will be tallish and slim -- as well as his fair appearance and the fact that he seems more interested in scholarship than in crafts. He learned his letters earlier than most, at his own insistence, not ours, and whenever we lose track of him, we invariably find him sooner or later curled up somewhere by himself with a book. Neither Drogo nor I ever have more to do with books than we must, so where Frodo could have gotten this habit is beyond me.

Still, for all that, he is unquestionably ours.

I had not intended to have only one child. I was the youngest of seven, myself, and I had always dreamed of presiding over a similarly large yet close-knit brood of my own. I'd warned Drogo of that when he proposed to me, and when it didn't faze him I knew he was the one. But over fifteen years of marriage, the dream stubbornly refused to become fact.

Seven times I had conceived. Only once had a child of ours lived long enough to be named: a girl, Mira (after my mother, but more in the Baggins style). We found her a week later, dead in her crib; the midwife said she had simply stopped breathing. Two others, a boy and another girl, were stillborn. The others never even quickened.

One might find it understandable, then, that during that early spring of 1368, when I realized I was carrying again, I felt no joy, only dread. I delayed telling Drogo until after I had begun to show.

We took no chances. The midwife confined me to bed through much of it. It was a difficult time. I was miserable, and I'm sure I made poor Drogo's life even more so. Even the fact that the child continued to grow and move within my swelling body was hardly a comfort, after the disappointments we had suffered. We didn't even talk about names.

I went into labor late on September 20th, and remained thus throughout the 21st. It was an hour before dawn on the 22nd when Frodo entered the world at last. I'm told that I nearly didn't pull through. The midwife warned both of us afterward, very emphatically, that I must not get pregnant again.

But this baby, at least, seemed strong and healthy, although it took us well nigh a month, and many reassurances that he showed no sign that he might not continue to thrive as he had been, before we began to relax, stop fearing the worst, and simply enjoy his presence. I used to spend hours, it seemed, just gazing raptly at his face as I held him, unable to believe that this wonder had come out of me.

Frodo will never know from me that his life almost cost me mine, although he must wonder at times why I don't seem quite as strong as the other children's mothers. I tire too quickly to chase him about for long, and I tend to let Drogo handle the physical aspects of play -- and discipline. For Frodo is a sweet child, but make no mistake, he can be a handful when he gets bored, which is usually whenever there is nothing in the immediate vicinity to challenge his intellect.

I dote on him, I admit it. Partly, I believe, it is because all the pent-up love that I would have shared out among his siblings has instead been poured solely onto him. Partly it is to offset Drogo's reserve -- don't mistake me, I know he loves Frodo every bit as much as I do, but he has never been particularly demonstrative, even with me. I am trying to get him to be a little more open, for Frodo is a sensitive lad and needs affection. I think, though, that Drogo is finally starting to thaw somewhat; I saw him ruffle Frodo's hair the other day, and I also saw how Frodo beamed, soaking up the gesture like a flower soaks up rain.

And perhaps it is also because of an uneasy feeling I have had since he was born, for no reason I can name, a feeling that Frodo's life will be a difficult one, and he will need every ounce of love he can find to strengthen him and see him through.

Like every mother, I wonder what my child will be like as an adult. I imagine him, in my mind's eye, grown tall and handsome, a hobbit to be reckoned with. I try to see him on his wedding day, and visiting us afterwards from time to time, bringing his wife and their children.

But sometimes after I have been conjuring these blissful images, a shiver runs through me, and I think to myself, It will never happen. I don't know why. I don't really have any fear of losing him, now. He's never had anything worse than a cold, or the normal bumps and bruises and occasional skinned knees of childhood. Yet it is enough to make me try to curb my foresight, uncertain as it is.

My dreams are another story. In them, he is grown. Once I saw him walking in an ethereal golden landscape of strange and beautiful trees, with wonder on his face as he gazed about him. Another time I saw him standing beside a rocky cliff, his hand clutching something at his chest while he glared sternly downward at something or someone I could not see. And in another one, I saw him standing on what looked like -- a boat? no, a ship -- holding up a bright light in one hand as he got smaller and smaller in the growing darkness.

I know that Frodo has had strange dreams himself. He told me one time, when he was eight, that he had heard the Sea. I asked him what it sounded like, and he made childish swooshing noises in reply.

"How do you know that's the Sea?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know how," he said simply. "I just know."

"Well, no hobbit has ever heard the Sea, or seen it either, and come back to tell of it, so I was just wondering."

"I did hear it!" he insisted, sounding a bit upset that I didn't take his word for it. So I hugged him, told him I believed him, and let him have an extra biscuit for tea as a peace offering.

Now he is eleven, and will be twelve this autumn. We are visiting Brandy Hall, my home smial, for the occasion of my nephew Milo Burrows' coming of age. It will be good for Frodo to be surrounded by people other than just his parents, I think. And there are plenty of adults about to keep an eye on him while Drogo and I seize the opportunity to slip out and be alone together.

We managed to do just that tonight, leaving Frodo in the charge of Sara and Esme, though our escape was not quite a clean one. He came running after us just as we were heading off at sunset with a bottle of Old Winyards.

"Mum! Da! Where are you going?" Frodo threw his arms tightly around me, as I exchanged an amused glance with Drogo. We had already told him we were going out after supper.

"We are taking a walk, sweetling," I said, stroking his hair. "Down to the river."

"Are you going on a boat?"

"Perhaps."

"Can I come?" Frodo's eyes were huge with hope.

Drogo spoke up with a smile. "Not this time, Frodo. I'm sorry. Now, none of that," he scolded mildly as the boy predictably let out a groan of disappointment. "You know how nice it is sometimes to be by yourself, don't you? Well, sometimes grownups like to be by themselves too."

"Please? I'll be quiet. I can be real quiet when I want." Frodo turned The Look on his father. Naturally he had discovered very early that he could sometimes get what he wanted just with a soulful gaze at some susceptible adult, and those eyes of his gave him a particular advantage of which he had to be at least somewhat aware.

However, I know Frodo's tricks, and I have a counter-weapon. I lowered myself so that our heads were on a level, pointedly imitating his wide-eyed expression until he giggled despite himself. I laughed too, and hugged him. "I know you can be quieter than the quietest baby mouse, sweetling," I said. "But we're leaving for home tomorrow, and what with all the rain there's been during our visit, this is going to be the only time your da and I can have a walk together on our own while we're here."

Frodo wasn't beaten yet. He made one last attempt. "But I like the river too. Sara and Mac took me boating one time. It was fun. I caught a fish."

"I remember."

"I'll tell you what, Frodo," Drogo said, squatting down on the other side of him despite the bad knee which has been acting up lately. "We'll come back to Brandy Hall in September, and we'll have your twelfth birthday party here. We can all three of us go out on a boat then. How does that sound?"

"All right," Frodo murmured, his eyes downcast just enough to let us know what an enormous concession he was making.

"There's a good lad." Drogo patted his head and straightened, his knee creaking, just as Esmeralda appeared in the doorway.

"There you are!"

"He was just seeing us off, Esme," I told her with a smile. "Be good for Cousin Esme while we're gone, Frodo. You mind her and Cousin Sara like you would me and your da. I'll come to fetch you after we get back."

"All right."

One last kiss from each of us, and Frodo finally let us go. I felt his eyes upon us as Drogo and I walked off, hand in hand. As we left the circle of soft lamplight shining from the door, Drogo began to whistle.

I would not trade my life for anything.