Work Text:
Bilbo crouched over the crib, ears twitching, proof he was listening intently. The crib was made of cherry and each slat was delicately carved with winding vines, fruit, and grain. Small gold studs ran down each leg, every one pressed with a star. It had been a gift to Bilbo’s mother, Belladonna. She’d told him it was from a Dwarvish princess, and though the tale seemed fantastical, Bilbo couldn’t deny the expert craftsmanship in the piece he had yet to find in the Shire.
He tried to remember if his mother had ever stood over him like this, watching in the moonlight. He knew she had. He had memories of her singing to him, strange songs, and rocking the crib in tune. His own voice was better suited for stages and concert halls, so he wouldn’t employ that technique tonight. As he focused, leaning even deeper over the crib and angling his ears just so, he finally heard it. Thump-thump, thump-thump. It was gentle but even.
Frodo was nearing the end of toddler age, almost too old to even fit in a crib, but Bilbo was not going to deny the poor boy any comfort, especially not now. Terrible thing, with Primula and Drogo. Bilbo wondered if they’d had a crib for Frodo. Maybe something homemade. Could Frodo tell the difference? Thump-thump, thump-thump. Bilbo nodded, and padded out of the room