AN: This fic has gone through a Rewrite and is hopefully not as choppy nor as riddled with mistakes. I kept most of it the same just wrote it better and added in some new things. Hope you enjoy it.

Yavanna, Vala of all things green and growing, watches two Hobbits with a small, sad smile. They are her creations, just as the Ents are hers and she loves them as if they were born from her body and not from earth and grass and flowers. The fact that these two tiny beings carried the greatest evil ever to grace Middle Earth is a mere footnote, an added bonus of pride. They deserve rest, she tells herself as she watches them in her Garden, rest that is available here. A chuckle escapes her as one nearly face plants as he tries to spread out a blanket one handed. Here in Valinor, you become the age you were the happiest and the young one; the one balanced oh so securely on one hip, the one with thick curly hair and adventure seeking young eyes, the one sucking on his hand, Frodo, switches between ages. Today is a young day, a day where Bilbo, the older one, the one who bears a heavy heart, the one who wants to cry but can't, the one who stays comfortably at fifty, gets the joy of babying him. She takes them in, knowing that it will take time for their bodies to heal, little Frodo is still missing his ring finger, and even longer for their souls to heal. It's not fair, her Hobbits did not deserve the hand they were dealt even if they played it admirably.

Her smile widens just a bit when Bilbo looks up, spotting her standing there and beckons her over, beckons her to join them. She walks over to them, calmly though her heart soars at the easiness of the gesture. When they first landed, old, broken, lost, pain filled, neither of them would meet her eyes. Too shy, too new to seeing the Valar up close... Though, she remembers with a smile as she takes the reaching Frodo from Bilbo, Frodo had a habit of wandering off and exploring the lands, listening almost afraid to the stories told between Valar and Bilbo, Bilbo could be caught making aborted movements to cross from her Garden to her husband's Mountain. She pushes those thoughts away, tucking them away in the back of her mind, as Bilbo finishes spreading the blanket. A sense of contentedness and pride settles on her as she has elevensies with her Hobbit children. It's relaxing and she feels her shoulders go lax at the idle chatter that she exchanges with Bilbo. Then Frodo looks up from his food and asks around a mouthful:

"Uncle Bilbo, can you tell me da story wid da Dwarrows again?"

Bilbo laughs, gathering up Frodo onto his lap where he proceeds to tickle the younger Hobbit's side.

"You shouldn't talk with your mouthful," he scolds over the squealing laughs Frodo lets out, "Besides Frodo lad, our guest may not want to hear it."

Yavanna lets out a very unladylike like snort that turns into a cough when Frodo lets out a shocked gasp. The black haired lad turns to her with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip.

"You don't wanna hear da Dwarrow story?" he asks and she cups his face gently placing a kiss on his forehead.

"I would love to hear this story Frodo."

Frodo brightens and turns expectantly to his uncle, little hands clapping and body bouncing. Bilbo changes like magic, or perhaps he merely spins it as he tells his tale. Each person gets their own voice and he never mixes them up. It's enchanting to watch the emotion flow on Bilbo's face and behind his eyes though half of his captivated audience falls asleep shortly after the troll scene. Frodo's head rests on Bilbo's shoulder, delicate snores rumble and cause the two awake to share a laugh. Yavanna can sense his hesitancy to keep going and gives him a small nudge.

"Feel free to finish it," she whispers. The rest of the story doesn't flow like the first, it's broken by long pauses and held in sobs, once flawless hand motions become jerky, Bilbo doesn't need to be strong with Frodo asleep.

"I-I just miss them, miss him, so much," Bilbo admits once the story is done. He is squeezing Frodo to him, eyes red and puffy as he gazes off. Yavanna watches as he sniffles silently, not needing to ask who the 'them' he speaks of are. She remembers the searching, hopeful eyes, the whispered words Bilbo thought no one could hear, saw his face fell. Slowly she reaches out and brings them both into her lap, pale green hands cradling them to her. Sometimes her youngest children are cursed with hearts belonging to her husband's children. And really it wouldn't be a curse if they weren't as stubborn as their father. She kisses the top of Bilbo's head.

"I know Bilbo. Oh, I know," she sighs softly beginning to rock. Absent-mindedly she sings, soft and low and sweet in Hobbitish lulling Bilbo to sleep. She looks down at them, at the slowly healing souls that call out to her, at the bodies that tell their own stories. Surely there has to be something she can do. They are hers and she knows them. Is it wrong to want to help them? Can she? Her face gets a determined set to it as each thought passes through her mind.

"Oh no, I know that look," a lilting voice snaps her out of her plotting. Standing in front of her are three of her fellow Queens. The one who spoke, who is tilting her head and smiling, the one with gray eyes filled with sympathy, is Nienna.

"The last time she got that look was when she went to Eru to get the Hobbits created," chimes Este at Nienna's left. Vaire, who stands on the left nods.

"You refused to take no for an answer," Vaire says as they sit down, the three chuckling softly as they band together.

"So we know you are planning something and we want to help," Este says after some time of silence and watching the Hobbits sleep. The Healer reaches out and grabs Frodo's hand, rubbing the joint where his ring finger should be.

"Some tapestries need to be rewoven," Vaire says almost flippantly with mischief shining in her eyes. It startles a laugh out of Yavanna.

"Thank you," she breathes out.

Bilbo wakes slowly, his hazel eyes blinking rapidly in confusion as he takes in the ceiling above him. How did he get from the Garden to inside... Oh, how he desperately hopes that the Lady did not carry him... Wait a moment... That crack... it looks like the crack in his master bedroom, the one that gave him many a sleepless night worried that it would grow and reach something load bearing. He tries to shift only to stop when a weight registers. A grin slips across his face at the sight of his nephew, appearing to be around twenty-five, curled up like a cat upon his arm. Then Frodo's face scrunches up, looking so young as he wakes. Blue eyes dart about in confusion, noticing no doubt the change in scenery because the master bedroom of Bag End is most certainly not Yavanna's Garden. And though Bilbo doubted the Wizard had anything to do with this, Bilbo blamed Gandalf for whatever is going on.