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The morning proved to be a perfect opportunity for Frodo to tend to the garden, an activity he never thought he would enjoy (if his writer’s calluses were anything to go by). However with plenty of practice (and lots of patience), Frodo found he had a solid green thumb. The garden might not be as extravagant as the ones he walked in Lothlórien or Rivendell, but he built and nurtured it from the first peony seedling to the handful of flowerbeds it grew into. In Frodo’s eyes, that made the garden even more extravagant in comparison.
With plenty of experience under his belt, it’s been a while since Frodo had any problems with his flowers, but the new poppy seedlings were proving to be more than he bargained for.
He sighed as he inspected the wilting shoots, a small crease forming between his brows. No matter what trick or remedy he tried, the seedlings were determined to wither and die before Frodo had the chance to plant them. He placed all his hope on his latest attempt and prayed it would be enough, but no luck. He was not ready to give up on them so easily, but what was he to do?
Suddenly, he heard the soft sounds of gardening shears working on the hedges and Frodo lit up. Sam! How could he forget? If there was any hobbit that could coax life out the most withered of plants, it would be his Sam.
Frodo turned around, beaming. “Sam!” He cried and his smile immediately faltered, for it was not Sam tending to the garden’s hedges, but Bilbo. He felt his head swim and a pit grow in the depths of his stomach.
Of course.
This wasn’t the gardens of Bag End he remembered so dearly, but his small garden behind his small smial outside of Avallonë. It’s been years since he last seen those gardens.
(Years since he last seen Sam. His face, his smile, his voice, his arms around him-)
“Frodo,” Bilbo said, concern creasing his brows.
(Not again. He was doing so well.)
“Forgive me Uncle, the sun is getting to me is all,” Frodo muttered quickly, ducking his head back to the seedlings. Now that he thought about it, he had so much to do today! And here he was, wasting sunlight by the second. With a shaky hand, he picked up his trowel and began to dig holes, for which plant? Who even knew. He just needed to keep digging, keep his hands busy, keep his mind away from what stayed behind East of the Sea.
Frodo didn’t notice when the shears had stopped snipping, nor the approaching footsteps. He felt arms pull him into a hug, and the thread snapped. He crumpled and sobbed into Bilbo’s chest, his arms clinging onto his uncle as if it were the only thing keeping him afloat.
He didn’t know how long it took for the worst of it to pass, and then Frodo looked up to Bilbo. “B-Bilbo, I-“ he started.
“No need to explain yourself, my lad,” Bilbo said, his hand carding through his nephew’s hair soothingly, “I understand.”
“I just miss him so much,” Frodo wept, collapsing back into his Bilbo’s embrace. Bilbo said nothing, and instead slowly rocked him as a new wave of tears crashed over Frodo.