22. Halimath 1368

"To Primula and your son!" shouted Saradas Brandybuck, raising his mug. Drogo and several other hobbits in the Jumping Pike followed his example.

Drogo emptied his mug in one go, beaming with pride and joy. Primula had woken him in the dark of night announcing that her pains had started. He had been on his feet immediately and had not left her side until an hour before noon when his child was born. He had been absolutely sick with worry, so much so that Menegilda joked he looked worse than Primula did and she wondered if he was the one giving birth not his beloved wife. He had not been of a mood to laugh then, but Primula had and he had been glad of it.

Now, however, he was more than able to see the humour of the situation. Primula had gifted him with a healthy and vigorous son and that was all that mattered. His worries and troubles were forgotten and his heart was light. Drogo's sole focus was the wee babe who'd protested at the top of his tiny lungs as Gilda gently wrapped him in a blanket and placed him in his mother's waiting arms. Oh, the tears of joy he had shed when he had first looked at that small bundle! Dark hair clung to the baby's damp, discontentedly furrowed brow and a toothless mouth opened, eager to announce the little one's protests. Yet, resting in his mothers arms quickly put the child at ease and he fell silent. Drogo wondered if he might had fallen asleep had Gilda allowed it, but the midwife had taken the little one to wash and check on him. Primula had not been too happy about that but knowing that the midwife would take good care of her son she patiently waited.

Drogo had kissed his wife and gone with Menegilda to wash the baby. This work would later be his, if it could be called work at all, and so he watched with rapt attention. Afterwards, he returned to his wife who looked very tired by now. He stayed with her and together they marvelled at their child until exhaustion finally claimed her and her breath became slow and even. Kissing her again, his sweet, brave Primula, he had a long look at his son sleeping contently in a pram Menegilda had placed beside the bed. His small, sleeping face was so sweet and innocent and his tiny fists so fragile and yet strong. It seemed unreal to finally be a parent, but Drogo knew beyond any doubt he was this beautiful child's father and his heart burst with love for his newborn son and the woman who had borne him.

It was difficult to let them out of his sight, but as both needed their rest, he had gone to Bucklebury to tell everyone of his incredible fortune. In the Jumping Pike he had found enough listeners to spread the good news throughout Buckland and probably in the entire Shire. The inn smelled of ale, mead and pipe-weed, smells that were almost masked by the scent of fresh bacon and roasted 'taters. Dim lamps lit the common room with a soft, welcoming light. After congratulating him, the other patrons had gone back to their tables to finish their meals and continue whatever conversation they had been involved with before Drogo's arrival.

Saradas slapped him on the back. "Now, when will I get to see my nephew, Baggins?"

"Not before tomorrow," Drogo answered with a smile. "Primula needs some rest and so does my son."

"I hope you take good care of my sister," Saradas said earnestly draining the last of his mug and sitting down at a table beside Drogo.

"Believe me, I will!" Drogo laughed pulling out his pipe from his breast pocked. He definitely deserved a good smoke now. Saradas followed his example and Drogo held out his pipe-weed to share with his brother-in-law. "After today, I love her more than ever, if that is actually possible."

Saradas laughed. "What else could we do but love them? We don't have any choice."

His eyes sparkling with joy, Drogo puffed at his pipe and nodded. His dear wife's strength all through the morning had astonished him. He had tried to support her as well as he could, holding her hand and wiping her face, telling her whatever nonsense came into his mind to comfort her. Yet, he could not tell who he wished to comfort more with his whispered words - himself or Primula - for he had soon learned that giving birth to a child was not an easy task at all. That she would go through such a trial for their love humbled and endeared him.

Drogo could suddenly see his son's face; amazingly blue eyes that looked at him questioningly through long dark lashes. He was not sure if his son's eyes would remain blue or if their colour would change, but he had never seen eyes so remarkable and that pleased him. They made his son unique, even in his looks. Frodo, Primula had named him and Drogo was pleased with that as well. He had thought of many names in the past months and even when Primula had ,decided he should only worry about a girl's name he had still thought of a few boy's names as well. He had been ever so curious about the name his wife had chosen and yet she would not tell it to him. Only as she'd first held their son in her arms did she mouth it and Drogo's heart had ache with joy. Frodo. It was perfect. He could not imagine any name better suiting his son.

Drogo smiled to himself in the dim light of the inn. Frodo Baggins. That was a name that would stay in the mind.