When he was older, and age had crept upon him and his wife, and his children had grown and had many children of their own, he would sit in what was once his master's garden, sit in the gentle Shire sunlight that gleamed through the trailing roses, and tell the stories that everyone had heard over and over, but still loved to hear. Stories of wizards, and battles, and great loss and greater triumph.
Each time he began, he would remember his master, and the pain in his chest would remind him that Frodo would have told the story differently.
This Lord Of The Rings story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at http://www.dymphna.net/fanfic/. And you can feedback her at dymphna@dymphna.net.