By: Dana
Summary: He'll give them a chance, and hopes that it will be enough.
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Rosie, Elanor
Pairings: Rosie/Sam/Frodo
Rating: PG
Warnings: Polyamory
Author's Notes: Written as a Christmas present.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.
This is fanfic based on another fanfic: Mary Borsellino (original fic series, Pretty Good Year)

They're dancing now, out under the imagined emptiness of the star-splattered sky; Rosie, with flowers and ribbons in her done up hair, wearing a fine party dress of dark gold and green with a wide skirt that flares about her legs; Sam, dressed up in his very best dress-coat and trousers, faded-gold curls shining with a dull yellow-green in the darkness and the light. Frodo sits on the long garden bench, cradling Elanor close; he holds her gently, in a light bundle of warm blanket, as careful as he would as though he were holding the very finest of elven treasures.

In a way, Frodo feels he does.

Fireflies flare softly in the gathered evening, drifting in the still of warm summer air, naught but dim motes of shadow themselves in the light of moon and stars and hanging lanterns that burn overhead. There is no music, neither is there reason for this celebration, not that either fact seems to matter, not when it's Rosie and Sam who are the ones dancing; laughing and pressing close, twirling and then parting, coming back together only to laugh in joy again.

(Why must there be darkness? Why must joy fade?)

Frodo hums beneath his breath, lightly tickling Elanor's cheek with his thumb, and she smiles, gives a sleepy yawn, and giggles, pulling on his thumb with both of her tiny baby hands. It is an old song he halfway-sings, one he remembers as having been sung when he had only been a child, and though his mind is sharper, now, the words have faded into time. Sam is a lucky one, Frodo thinks, having this little flower, and to have his Rose, too. There is a sense of peace in his heart that Frodo feels, particularly when he thinks of Sam, his Sam, growing old but well-loved, with such a family to surround him.

Elanor is but the first child, Frodo knows; more will come.

When Frodo lifts his gaze, Sam is looking at him, and Rosie, too, both having stilled in their dancing, like leaves caught in a storm, or breath caught in a still, no bright laughter leaking from their mouths, only concerned gazes that have been turned on Frodo instead.

("We have been talking, Mister Frodo, and we don't think it right – " Sam falters.

"What my Sam is saying, Mister Frodo," Rosie speaks up, and her voice is no-nonsense, bold as she is wont, "is that it's not right. This is your home, still, and you'd best not forget.")

Sam frowns, stepping forwards: "It don't as such seem right for you to sit out and watch the baby while we're making merry, sir," Sam says, and Rosie nods, stepping forwards, too, then holding out her arms and beckoning for Frodo to rise. Frodo grins and shakes his head, though he does rise to his feet, and he settles Elanor in the crook of his arm, which causes the baby to lightly squeal.

"You make it out as if I mind looking after Elanor," he says, smiling with sincerity. "I have looked after my share of little cousins in my time, you know, and I must admit, Elanor is a far deal better behaved than, say, Pippin had been when he was but a small lad. "

"Perhaps she is," Rosie says, grinning sweetly, and she laughs. After that breath, Sam chuckles, and earnestly says: "I can't think of a lad who was as much trouble as that young Pippin, sir, so it hardly seems fair comparison."

Elanor seems to agree, though her language is laughter, one tiny fist grabbing hold of Frodo's jacket, the other taking hold of the elven jewel that hangs about his neck, gifted to him by the Queen.

"Would you like to dance, too, Elanorelle?" Frodo asks, and the baby giggles, squealing. "Your Mum and Da would like it, I think." As if understanding, and giving her answer, she gives the jewel on its chain a delighted tug. "Why, I do think she'd like a dance."

(In her eyes, he sees his own smile looking back, thinner, softer, but for the moment, no less bright. For a moment, he is stunned, startled by that light.)

"That lass of ours does have the very best of taste," Sam says, beckons Frodo closer, and Frodo's steps seem steady, but light. "She gets it from her Mum, I reckon, and no mistake."

Frodo, a grin cracking on his lips, laughs out loud. Rosie's laugh is deeper, ringing out like the tone of a struck bell. Elanor joins them both, softer, clearer, baby-song bright.

"There's no need to go saying things such as that," Rosie says, once she's gathered her breath, and she takes Elanor right from Frodo's arms, cradling the bundle of baby close.

There is still no music as they dance, though Frodo could hardly call it proper dancing, and Frodo thinks that he just might be able to do it for them all, that he might be able to keep on living, that he'd be able to love them all enough that he'd stay, even though he already knows he'll be leaving; but he could stay for them, right now, a promise of a life lived together that speaks louder than any other words.

He will, at least, give them a chance and, hearing the music of Elanor's laughter, he hopes it will be enough.