Drogo hugged Primula from behind, whispering in her ear, “What are you preparing for him this time?” He could feel the loveliest hobbitess in the Shire – his wife – smile and turn a little to meet his ready lips. Primula’s silky ones melted against his, and Drogo returned the passion fired into him with enthusiasm. They stayed like that, bonded with each other, for a long moment.

Primula was the first to pull back, and Drogo sighed in discontent. “I’m rather occupied here, my love,” soothed Primula with a tint of apology. “It’s my mathom to Frodo -- I finally thought of something.” Drogo gave a light chuckle, disappointment no longer shadowing his ruddy features.

“What is it this time?” he repeated, letting go of his wife and circling the table to perch on a stool across from Primula. “Nothing like a small, lacy pouch or embroidered, sunny-coloured weskit, is it? Our son, well, it’s a son, and not a daughter.”

Clouds shaded Primula’s face a little before they altered into a blush. Primula ducked her head. “I’ve always wanted a lass,” she mumbled. Drogo reached out and squeezed her hand.

“Now, now. You do not regret having him, do you? Frodo is as beautiful as a lass.”

Primula smiled shyly and, looking up, met her companion’s affectionate eyes. “I know,” she said. She did not regret having a stunning son, for certain, with his fair skin and dark hair definitely taking after her, but she would not deny that her heart also desired a lass with more tanned complexion and golden hair -- like Drogo. But still, Frodo was undoubtedly blessed with more love a lad could ever have. And…

“Ah!” Drogo pulled back from his wife’s grasp after realising he had been holding her smeared hand. He shook his hand hard, splattering wet bits all over the table and walls. “What is this?” He scrutinized his greenish hand. “What are you making?” Drogo sniffled at the substance. “It smells like … ink?”

Primula grinned. “Yes. You know that Frodo loves to write or draw anything. I eventually knew just the thing to give to him. Ink. Colourful ink, to be precise. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find it for sale anywhere, so I asked your cousin Bilbo to help me obtain some substances to make it.” Primula pointed at the materials in the bowls on the table. “These are some extracts from roots and wood barks to be made into paste, and in those basins are the dyes. They don’t come cheap, but you know your cousin,” Primula giggled. “Bilbo will not allow me to pay him back.”

“Of course he won’t,” muttered Drogo, gazing at the pair of gentle eyes behind downcast lashes before him. “And what a clever idea it is. Frodo will love it very much.” He leaned forward, brushing another small kiss upon her lips.

~ * ~ * ~

In her mind, Frodo would hug her tight, wish her a happy birthday, and, after receiving the birthday mathom from his mother, would look her in the eye with his own – gleaming, brimming with tears – and whisper to her how he loved her.

Well, almost.

The lad did hug her and tell her the birthday wish, but after gathering the wrapped present and opening it, what happened was completely different. Frodo’s eyes did gleam, but with immeasurable joy and surprise instead of with tears. He squeaked and bounced, and disappeared as fast as lightning into his father’s study. Drogo could only hide his laugh behind fist, and cough as he saw Primula’s crestfallen shrug and smile. He gently took her in his arms.

“Come on,” Drogo coaxed her softly. “Let us see how many rolls of parchment our son has ruined.” And Primula began to laugh, tears of understanding and joy rolling down her cheeks.

~ * ~ fin ~ * ~