Frodo's Birthday
Summary: Frodo's POV as he spends his 42nd Birthday with his best friends and beloved cousins. Written, of course, for Frodo's Birthday. Complete
Author's Note: Hello there. Feeling very embarrassed, because I've been so busy with pre-School Certificate exams that I forgot Frodo's upcoming birthday, and as such forgot to finish the fiction I began months ago, written especially for the event. So this small fiction is my last minute tribute to the special day. HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRODO!
I do not own Tolkien, or any of the following names or places.
Frodo's Birthday
I try my best not to laugh, although I have the feeling that the copious amount of ale I have consumed tonight may start to work against me soon. It is hard to refuse the drink, when Pippin was so generous in the refilling of our glasses. No doubt I will feel it in the morning, but not nearly so much as my renegade cousins.
Pippin did not make it to midnight, as he swore he would. Not that I can fault the lad: He's rather enjoying the privilege of legal drinking. I have a good idea of what those two would get up to when they disappeared at other birthdays. Merry didn't know any better, I suppose. But evidentially it didn't harm my baby cousin in the least, because his taste for ale has only doubled. I've heard from Paladin that a singing Merry, and giggling Fatty had returned his drunken son home many times in the last few months. I'll have to have a word to Peregrin, but not tonight.
The youngest member of our party is sound asleep; his curly head buried firmly upon his folded arms. Surprisingly even his famous singing did not last long, after Sam bought out the ale. Giggling had come next, and then drunken laughter. Finally Pippin must have passed out on the table, but I cannot remember it.
Berating myself, I stagger to my feet. 'I am a bad role model', I announce to no one in particular. There is no one to hear it, besides.
I let out a giggle as I step over Merry, sprawled on the floor. I faintly remembering him staggering, and his exaggerated laughter afterwards. Apparently he was not bothered to get up, because he is also sound asleep now, snoring into the floorboards.
Merry's drinking habits have, in all fairness, lessened considerably since he reached twenty-five, but he still enjoys a night at the Inn. Probably too much.
Fatty must have gone home, because I cannot find him amidst the cluttered furniture and empty glasses spread about the floor. I grin, realising that our company over the last hour must have become dreadfully boring. Not that Fatty did not manage to put a few away himself. Last I remember, he was belting out a drinking song with Merry on the porch.
Sam was wise, I think, in waiting until after supper to release the barrels of ale upon my friend's. That way, we at least had an hour or two of decent conversation. I vaguely remember Pippin and Merry telling me of life in Buckland, and Tuckborough. Fatty spoke somewhat of his sister, and I seem to remember Merry paying particular attention to that part of the conversation. I must have a word to him, as well.
Sam did not stay long, though. I managed to convince him to stay and have a drink with us, but I cannot help but wonder if Pippin and Merry's singing scared him away.
I turn briefly to smile down at my cousins. It really would not be a proper birthday without them. I have not spent nearly enough time with them of late. Something that will have to be rectified.
I step outside, and sniff the cool, early morning air. A pale shade of blue light is beginning to appear beyond the hills in the distance. It will be sunrise in a few hours. An owl hoots not far away, and I lean forwards, delighted to still have the wits to recognize the sound of the water, lapping at the stone walls of the pond.
I truly do love the Shire. Sometimes certain residents can be bothersome, I suppose. Lobelia namely. At that thought, I slip my hand into my pocket, and finger the ever-present trinket I find there.
I give it no more thought, however, more interested in the beautiful landscape spread out before me. I can see candlelight from inside the windows of Sam's room. I smile, figuring that perhaps Sam had managed to down slightly more ale than he let on.
Looking down the pathway, and then onto the road, my smile fades. That way. That is the very way he left my life. Wouldn't it be easy to follow?
My feet step mechanically onto the path, and I walk slowly towards the gate. I suppose it would be easy to... No. I shake myself, and turn back. 'Too much ale', I declare. 'Goes straight to my head'.
What is Bilbo doing right now? I used to imagine him among friends, sitting before a campfire and singing a drinking song in celebration. He always did want another adventure. Perhaps he is wandering the Misty Mountains. Mirkwood? Rivendell?
Wherever he is, I hope he is as happy as me.
At that thought, I clear my throat and turn back, staggering up towards the front door. I pause at the small mark in the corner: remembering Bilbo's explanation of how Gandalf 'bashed in' his front door with his staff.
So many memories, in Bag End. And I would never part with them for the world.
The End
Happy Birthday Frodo!