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elasg who wanted Bilbo’s and Frodo’s first meeting.
FIRST MEETING
I knock on the door of my favorite cousin’s apartment, and he opens the door. “Bilbo! How good to see you!”
I enter, and Drogo looks at me with a grin, and that mixture of astonishment and exhaustion often found on the faces of new fathers, I have observed.
“Do you want to see him?”
“Well, of course I should like to get a look at your excuse for missing my birthday last week,” I jest.
He leads me into the room where Primula rests with a blanket wrapped bundle in the crook of her arm. She smiles at me. “Have you come to have a look at our lad?” she says with that mixture of pride and shyness I have often heard in the voices of new mothers.
At my nod, Drogo bends over and picks up the bundle, which squirms a bit, and makes a mewling noise. Truth be told, I don’t expect much. Most week old babies look much of a sameness, all red and raw-looking, with squinty little faces, but it doesn’t do to say such things to the proud parents, and fortunately the children do grow out of it--most of them, at least.
He tucks the babe up in his arm, and carefully draws away the blanket. The little one is clad only in a nappy, and he is indeed rather red and new-looking. He has astonishingly thick dark curls on head and feet.
Drogo offers him to me, and I take him gently. He squirms a bit, and puts a tiny fist to his mouth like any other newborn.
And then he opens his eyes.
Oh my!
elasg who wanted Bilbo’s and Frodo’s first meeting. FIRST MEETING
I knock on the door of my favorite cousin’s apartment, and he opens the door. “Bilbo! How good to see you!”
I enter, and Drogo looks at me with a grin, and that mixture of astonishment and exhaustion often found on the faces of new fathers, I have observed.
“Do you want to see him?”
“Well, of course I should like to get a look at your excuse for missing my birthday last week,” I jest.
He leads me into the room where Primula rests with a blanket wrapped bundle in the crook of her arm. She smiles at me. “Have you come to have a look at our lad?” she says with that mixture of pride and shyness I have often heard in the voices of new mothers.
At my nod, Drogo bends over and picks up the bundle, which squirms a bit, and makes a mewling noise. Truth be told, I don’t expect much. Most week old babies look much of a sameness, all red and raw-looking, with squinty little faces, but it doesn’t do to say such things to the proud parents, and fortunately the children do grow out of it--most of them, at least.
He tucks the babe up in his arm, and carefully draws away the blanket. The little one is clad only in a nappy, and he is indeed rather red and new-looking. He has astonishingly thick dark curls on head and feet.
Drogo offers him to me, and I take him gently. He squirms a bit, and puts a tiny fist to his mouth like any other newborn.
And then he opens his eyes.
Oh my!