***This is a work of fanfiction. I do not own Middle-Earth. All rights go to J.R.R. Tolkien***

Author's Note: So, this is actually slightly AU. I wrote this whole thing before checking up on my facts (foolish, foolish, never do it. :P) and discovered that Frodo's parents died when he was twelve.

Hehe.

But I liked my version still. So I decided to call it a "what-if-Frodo's-parents-died-when-he-was-younger".

Wow, I feel sheepish though.

Also, the title is a subtle allusion to the old hymn "It Is Well With My Soul". The second line reads, "...When sorrows like sea-billows roll."

Header art is by Stars_Alight!

The 30th of September, T.A. 2968

"Nonsense. Nonsense, you did not just say that!"

"Confounded protocol of society," Bilbo Baggins grumbled, buttoning up his waistcoat in front of the hall mirror. "It's a silly christening."

"Your own nephew's christening!"

"Well, that's one method of putting it. On the other hand, I'm also his first and second cousin, once removed either way, and that's certainly not worth the bother of going to his christening."

"My mother went to her fifth cousin's christening. Mr. Baggins, you're crazy." Marigold Bolger slapped her hands firmly on her hips, her brown curls bouncing.

"Show some respect for your elders, lass." Bilbo harrumphed at their reflections. "I was fifty years old before you were born." He studied himself, and a faintly repentant look crept into his eyes. "It's not that I don't like Drogo, of course – or Primula! They're dear young things. And I'm sure their son is a darling child. It's just that – Marigold my dear, I've got this marvelous idea for my book. I haven't had a moment's peace for weeks, and I was just about ready to settle down and begin it for real. Why, I had the beginning down pat! But there's birthdays, parties, celebrations, never-ending, and now a christening! Huh. All this fuss over nothing. Silly hobbit-folk dictating me to follow these silly rules, when all I want to do is have a bit of time alone.

"I daresay it would give a fine scandal if I didn't show up." A sly grin hovered on his pleasant face. "I think I won't!"

"Mr. Baggins," Marigold persisted desperately, "my mother thinks you're a queer old scoundrel, and it's a wonder she lets me come visit you at all. If you don't come, it will be a scandal, and she'll forbid me from ever talking to you again!"

Bilbo groaned. "Well, I suppose there's nothing for it. I shall have to endure a lot of simpering relations and gossipy old wives, and no doubt those dreaded Sackville-Bagginses will show up as well and make allusions to all those teaspoons they've never returned." He ruffled the top of her head affectionately. "What I do for you young folk."

~

Marigold shoved through the press of eager hobbits to reach the beaming mother in the center of them. Primula's honey-brown curls tossed around her slim face with the movement of her head; one moment she was greeting guests, the next making tender love to the baby in her arms.

"It's Marigold Bolger!" she exclaimed happily as the breathless younger hobbit reached her. "I hoped you'd come. Look at him, isn't he sweet?"

"Ohh!" Marigold leant over the tiny bundle with a squeal. "His eyes are just like yours, Prim. And oh, his little ringlets!"

"I could kiss them all day long," whispered Primula fervently. "So dark and fuzzy! I hope they stay that way. Mine were dark, says my mama, but they all fell out when I was three months old and grew back in blonde."

"He's crumpling up," said Marigold regretfully. "I think he's scared of me."

"Oh no, Frodo dear," Primula crooned over him. "You don't be scared of Marigold! She was your age just twenty-three years ago. There, can't you smile at her? (He has the most melting smile, Marigold! I thought it would break my heart the first time, and at only two days old too! Asphodel's baby didn't smile until five days old.)"

"Do I get to see the infant?" came a slightly reproachful voice behind them.

"Oh, of course!" said Primula quickly, looking up. "Why – Bilbo Baggins! I – I'm delighted you could come."

"What's the matter, Primula?" asked Marigold in some amusement.

"Matter – I – nothing, Marigold. Here you are, Mr. Baggins." She held out the baby for his inspection, and drew him back after three seconds.

Bilbo nodded politely, and with a philosophical air turned and left.

"Prim, what on earth is wrong with Mr. Baggins?" demanded Marigold, on the verge of laughter.

Primula shrugged. "He, well, he makes me nervous! Drogo says he hasn't been respectable at all since his – well, his absence."

"He's queer, I'll grant you that," said Marigold. "And a bit gruff and impatient sometimes, but no more than any other old hobbit. You're a Brandybuck; all your folk seem to think he's fascinating to no end. He's a nice man, Prim! Wait till you hear his stories."

"I won't hear his stories," said Primula firmly.

"Frodo will," said Marigold, tousling the baby's soft hair. "And then he'll tell them to you."

~

July, T.A. 2975

Wind blew warmly over the green hills, carrying all the sweet scents of summer on its breath. Twenty-nine-year-old Marigold Bolger flopped down on her stomach in the grass and sniffed at dandelions and clover as she waited for her favorite second cousin to arrive.

"Maggie! Maggie!" came a faint call from somewhere down the slope.

"Up here!" Marigold answered lazily, running her fingers over the tickling blades of grass. She smiled. Nobody else called her Maggie, but from Frodo Baggins' lips it was the prettiest thing she could hear.

"I'm here," he panted, throwing himself down beside her. "Where are we going today?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Marigold sprang up to her feet, grabbed the boy's hand and skipped away down the hillside. "What about Bamfurlong?"

"I don't wanna go that way," said Frodo quiveringly. "Farmer Maggot spanked me last week, and his dogs are mean."

Marigold frowned and stopped walking. She bent down to face her cousin with a probing eye. "Now Frodo... what were you doing to make good old Maggot thrash you?"

Frodo's cheeks flushed hotly pink, and he shuffled with his feet. "Eating... mushrooms, maybe?" he admitted with a quick, nervous peek up at her.

"Now, Frodo," said Marigold severely. "You know you shouldn't have done that. Stealing, of all things! It's very wrong, and you're a respectable Baggins besides. What would your parents say?"

"They know already," Frodo mumbled, looking more miserable than ever.

"Oh dear, Frodo, don't cry. You won't do it again. Come, let's go see your mama, shall we?"

"I know where she is!" said Frodo brightly, and scrambled up the rise again, and was over the next with marvelous speed. Marigold ran after him, giggling and breathless.

"Look!" cried Frodo when she caught up to him again. He was standing on a low, round hill that sloped gently down in a golden-green expanse of meadow to a glittering expanse of water – the Brandywine River. "Look, Marigold, see out there?"

"Yes," said Marigold disapprovingly. "They're out on a boat. Foolish things."

"They're my parents, Maggie! They're not foolish, are they?"

"Your parents?" squeaked Marigold. "Out – boating?"

"They do it all the time," said Frodo carelessly.

Marigold gulped and took her cousin's hand securely, hoping that she was not too late to instill a sense of decency into this young hobbit's head. Boating! Of all things! Prim was a Brandybuck, but Marigold still thought she had more sense than that. And how had she convinced her husband to do it with her?

"...Maggie, why?"

The odd tone of Frodo's voice broke into her indignant thoughts. A tone wondering whether it should be frightened or not.

"What again, Frodo dear?"

"Why are they going swimming with their best clothes on?"

Marigold's heart dilated and burned in her chest. She stared out at the river, where a boat was floating upside-down on the rippling waters.

"Mag-gie?"

"Prim!" Marigold screamed. "Prim! Drogo! Help!"

Frodo burst into tears at her feet. She snatched him up and ran over the hills as fast as her legs could go.

~

"Take him in? Now Marigold, of all the absurd things, why –"

"I suppose you want to leave him to the Brandybucks!"

Bilbo looked helplessly at the upset, girlish figure in front of him. "Now, Marigold dear. They'll at least have young folk his age! With me, well, there's just me. What am I doing with a boy in the house? He shan't even have a proper mother."

"But you're his own uncle!" Marigold sucked in her lower lip to stop its trembling.

"You've got to give me more reasons than that, my dear. I can see there's another reason; why don't you tell me that."

"Please, Bilbo, you know every wife in Hobbiton would dote on him! I – I don't want him to be far away with nobody he knows – well, nobody he knows as well as me. He loves me, Bilbo, he knows me, and I could come and see him every day..."

He looked down at Marigold's pleading green eyes, her slim face trembling on the verge of tears.

"All right, my dear." He patted her hand. "I may regret this one day, but I do like my nephew too. And as you say, we wouldn't want him growing up with those Brandybucks."

~

Bilbo opened the door to Bag End, and stopped on the threshold. Frodo was sitting, a small lonely figure, on a large chair hastily shoved by the coat-racks.

Bilbo stared into the bewildered, solemn blue eyes.

"My daddy's dead," Frodo said, softly.

What could he say to that?

"My mama's d-dead, too." His childish resolve began to crumple. "They're never coming back."

"No, they aren't," Bilbo said with simple, direct finality. He came forward and knelt by the chair, taking Frodo's hands in his. "But I'm here, my dear lad."

Frodo burrowed his head against his uncle's chest, and Bilbo held him close. "When you have a trouble, come to me, dear lad. If I can't fix it, I'll be there with you through it. Through it all."

Word count: 1684