In his misery, Frodo hadn’t even realized that Auntie Esme had never given him a Yule gift of her own today. “This is my gift to you, Frodo-dear," she explained in a voice laced with hesitancy and tentativeness. "I made it with the help of your Brandybuck aunts, your Aunt Dora, and Uncle Bilbo.”

“Don’t forget Dudo, Esme,” Bilbo interjected. “I believe young Daisy and Chrysanthemum helped as well.”

“Oh yes, your Uncle Dudo had a hand in this as well as your Uncle Rorimac, as I recall.”

When Frodo showed little interest in the new quilt, Esmeralda unfolded it over him and wrapped the lad snuggly, tenderly brushing a stray curl from his brow. Frodo didn't say a single word and Esmeralda sighed in both sadness and mounting frustration. She had hoped that this quilt of memories would spark the boy's interest and encourage him at last to speak of his parents.

“Give him time, Esme,” Bilbo whispered in her ear.

She had given him time--they all had. ... How much time would he need? She and Saradoc had been there for Frodo every single day since the horrible accident, from sunrise to sunset. They provided for him, comforted him, tried to talk to him, loved him as if he were their own son. It was she that woke him in the morning with a song as she cooked him his first breakfast; and sang for him again while she helped him with his evening bath. It was Saradoc who'd deemed Frodo old enough to wear a real cravat and not a pinned-on one like the faunts and young little lads wore. Esmeralda remembered her husband and father-in-law spending one afternoon showing the twelve-year old how to tie his cravat properly like a real gentlehobbit. They had showered the lad with much encouragement, and then again with praise when he had finally tied his little cravat neatly around his neck just as they'd taught.

Esmeralda knew that was just it though. Frodo longed for Primula to be the one to sing and cook for him, and help bathe him; and for Drogo to show him all of the things a father teaches his lad. But when was Frodo finally going to accept that his mother and father were forever gone, save for their memory? When was he going to start accepting the love that she and Saradoc tried so very hard to surround him with every single day? Did he not realize that they missed his beloved parents very much also?

She knew the lad was not unappreciative at heart, but her frustration mounted at his increasing lack of response and interest in anything or anyone … and her own inability to help him. Although Brandy Hall was bursting at the seams with hobbits, she and Saradoc really had no one to turn to for help, for young orphans bereft of both parents were very rare in the Shire and few and far between. There was no one around with prior experience or real advice that they could use in their dealings and fostering of the grieving, melancholic child.

Esmeralda turned to leave the bedroom before she said something to the young orphan that she would regret; she didn't want to push Frodo any further away than he already was. Tears for the crumbling orphan formed in her eyes and threatened to spill over. She wiped a hand across her eyes hastily and leaned into her husband's comforting embrace as he started to lead her from the room. Saradoc was as much at a loss as his wife over what to do with Frodo Baggins.

Bilbo himself even frowned as he took it upon himself to blow out most of the candles lighting the room, leaving only one burning on the nightstand and the embers burning in the small fireplace. He shook his head sadly. Frodo used to have so much spirit about him. I know it is still within him ... somewhere, waiting to be let out again, he thought silently to himself. Stepping on a creaking floorboard, he missed hearing Frodo's startled gasp, as he pondered what more he could do to help Frodo overcome the past.

In his disinterest, Frodo hadn't really seen the quilt Esmeralda bestowed upon him. He didn't understand what was so special about it that half of his immediate family had been involved in the making of it ... until he turned onto his side with a weary sigh and part of it brushed against his cheek. Frodo suddenly smelled something he had been longing to smell again after many long months of heartache and anguish. The last time he had sniffed this particular scent was the very last time he had been in his parents' bedroom, during what had been his last trip home ever. It was the scent of his mother.

Quickly, Frodo sat up and studied the patchwork in the dim light remaining. His eyes widened as he saw a piece of his mother's favorite dress and ... and was that a square from one of his father's expensive vests? Frodo held the quilt up to his nose and inhaled deeply. Yes, it still smelled of his father's pipeweed, Old Toby.

Bilbo turned from adding kindling to the hearth and saw the boy sitting up in bed suddenly. "Frodo? Is everything all right, lad?"

Glimpsing that Esme and Sara were nearly out the door of his room, Frodo spoke for the first time that day. His voice was very soft, heartfelt, and bereft of the monotone quality it had taken on for the past several months. “Thank you, Auntie Esme.”

Esmeralda stopped cold and turned around slowly in astonishment. She spotted the small hobbit child sitting upright, the firelight glinting off his deep chestnut curls and highlighting them with a reddish glow. His fingers were tracing patterns over the patchwork of the quilt. With Saradoc still standing in the doorway, Esmeralda slowly returned to Frodo’s bedside.

Frodo continued, his soft sweet voice gaining strength as he spoke. “I-I remember that day you all took me home ... I saw one of Mama’s dresses hanging up on her bedroom door. Sh-she hung it there before we left to come visit Buckland. It was so soft against my cheek ... and it smelled of her. This is a piece of it here."

The three adult hobbits watched as Frodo held the quilt up and deeply sniffed the square of fabric. "It smells of her still. ... I-I’m sorry I haven’t been happy lately."

A tear ran down his pale cheek and Esmeralda gently wiped it away with a pocket handkerchief that Bilbo hastily thrust into her hand. She sat down next to the little one and gathered him into her lap, quilt and all, hugging him tightly to her.

"Oh, don't be sorry, Frodo-dear. You've suffered a terrible loss that no one your age should ever have to bear. We understand that you're sad and that you need time, but we only want to help you to be happy again."

"I don't know how anymore," came the most forlorn whisper any of the adult hobbits had ever heard.

Saradoc quickly crossed the room and sat on the floor at the head of the small bed. He placed a hand on Frodo's head, running his fingers through the dark mass of curls soothingly. "We know you miss your dear parents terribly and we all miss them very much as well. Esme and I know that we could never replace them ... nor do we ever want to. We can only hope to look after you as well they no doubt would have. Esme and I love you, Frodo. And we feel most blessed to have you now be a part of our life together."

Frodo looked down at his lap, another tear escaping down his face. Through his watery eyes he saw that in the very middle of his new quilt was his old baby blanket, the one made special by the Elves and given to him by Uncle Bilbo when he was born. No longer able to hold back the dam of emotion within him burst and clutching at the quilt he wept openly, bitter tears flowing in a torrent of anguish and woe.

Esmeralda cradled him and rocked him. The gentle action reminded Frodo again of his beautiful mother. "I want my Mama!" he cried harder. "It's not fair! I want them back!"

"We know, Frodo ... we know. We miss them very much too. ... There, there now. Let it out dear one, let it all out." Esme kissed the pale brow, continuing to rock the child within her embrace while her husband lent his own form of support in the manner of soothing strokes to the thick dark curls of one of Frodo's hanging feet.

In due course, the orphan wept all of his held back tears and lay limply against Esmeralda. He fingered his new quilt, wondering why she had bothered to take the time to make it for him when he had a perfectly good quilt already.

He looked up at her. "Why did you make this for me, Auntie?" His voice was hoarse from all of the crying.

The three adult hobbits shared a small, relived smile with each other. Frodo's insatiable curiosity was returning at last. "Well, it all started that day at your parent's smial; your Aunt Dora found a quilt for you just started by your mother, but she wasn't able to finish it ..." Esmeralda explained in a gentle voice, her Tookish lilt becoming more pronounced.

Frodo sniffled and stared at the small section of varying shades of blue squares that Esme pointed out to him. He remembered going once with his mother to buy fabric at the tailor shop in Hobbiton. Some of the blue squares looked like the material from one of the many bolts of cloth she had looked at that day.

"... the sight of you lying on your parent's bed amongst all their clothing tore my heart open. I couldn't just let these things that held such precious memories be thrown or given away. Along with everything else, they now belonged to you. Your Aunt Dora agreed and the idea of finishing your mother's quilt was born. When we went back the next day, each one of us picked out pieces of your parents' wardrobe that held special memories for us so that we could someday share them with you."

"You see Frodo-lad, when you're sad, we become sad too," Bilbo explained, sitting down on Frodo's other side; he fingered something in hidden in the deep pocket of his vest. The little hobbit looked up at him, his large blue eyes nothing but pools of sorrow and grief. The elder Baggins longed to see the lad’s bright spirit shine forth again. Perhaps today would be the first step of many towards healing.

He watched Frodo slide off of Esmeralda’s lap after giving her a hug and crawl onto his own, clutching his new quilt as if it were a lifeline. Which, he supposed it was in some ways.

"Will I ever be happy again, Uncle Bilbo?" Frodo asked, straddling the inviting lap and facing his uncle.

Bilbo smiled down at his favorite nephew, holding the slim shoulders to steady the lad. "Of course you will, it will just take a long time. Soon, one day will be a happy one for you and then as time goes by, more and more of them will be happy. I regret that you will always have sad days, Frodo my lad, but eventually the number of happy days will outgrow the number of sad ones."

“But I always thought they would be here,” Frodo said plaintively, folding his arms across his small chest. His expression was very serious, his mouth drawn in a thin line.

Bilbo sighed. “So did I, my boy, so did I. But you will always have them with you. You have only to look in your memory to see them. You will always have them there and in your heart. Always.” He placed a hand over the lad’s heart for emphasis.

Frodo uncrossed his arms and buried his face in his uncle’s fine woolen vest, smelling the Old Toby, ink, and parchment that was the distinctive scent of Uncle Bilbo. He felt tears trickling down his cheeks again. “But why did they have to die?” he sniffled.

Bilbo hugged the lad tightly to him. “I don’t honestly know, Frodo, but when I remember them, I always remember how happy they looked ... especially after they were blessed with you.”

And for the first time since they died, Frodo spoke openly about his parents. With Saradoc sitting on the floor in front of the hearth, and Esmeralda and Bilbo sitting on the bed with the small hobbit lad curled in between them, Frodo shared with them his memories. He held the quilt on his lap and fingered each square of fabric lovingly. He took his time and spoke slowly, unraveling a detailed image of whatever remembrance the patchwork evoked.

The adult hobbits listened and enjoyed hearing about their dear friends from this special child’s viewpoint. Whenever Frodo came to a quilted square he didn’t recognize, they told him who had picked out the fabric and why, in turn, sharing with him his family’s memories of Drogo and Primula Baggins.

After many long hours, Frodo began nodding off during one of Saradoc’s childhood memories of his favorite Auntie Primula. The young hobbit was exhausted emotionally--as well as physically-- after the very long day. He roused long enough to be tucked back into his bed, Bilbo reminding him to, “Be sure to write a thank-you note to your Aunt Dora as well as your Uncle Dudo and his family, Frodo-lad.” Bilbo removed Beorn from his shelf and blew the dust off him before tucking the bear, along the new stuffed toy sheep, into the crook of one little arm where they were eagerly snatched up and cuddled, tiny fingers disappearing into the soft fur and fluffy wool.

And for the first night since the tragic accident, Frodo slept soundly and had pleasant dreams while wrapped snuggly in his new quilt sewn of Love.

* * * * *

And Drogo and Primula smiled as they looked down upon their sleeping son, feeling at peace themselves, knowing their beloved was safe, cared for, and loved by many ....

~The End~