Frodo jumped, scattering half a dozen or so loose papers across the floor of his study. He clutched at his heart, shutting his eyes firmly. He had been startled out of his deep concentration by the smallest of sounds, and yet it never ceased to alarm him.

It was the sound of a meow, clear and small, and almost pitiful. He glanced down with a look of slight disdain at the small kitten that had wandered in. The tiny creature repeated it's sound. He sighed, scooping the small thing up in his hands. He hadn't ever seen a kitten before this one, and had been amazed by how very tiny it was. It could fit between the palms of his hands effortlessly at first, and hadn't grown much since.

He hadn't had the thing for very long yet, but he was already regretting taking it in. It was only for Sam that he had even considered it. His gardener had found it, lying half-hidden in a bed of blue Poppies, sleeping soundly. The poor thing had a half-starved look, it's little ribs poking out starkly. It appeared practically newborn, barely three or four weeks old, far too young to be away from it's mother. And yet it had been there, alone and shivering, whimpering helplessly in the kind hands of a Gamgee.

Samwise had always had both a liking and a way with animals. They understood him, and he them, in a way Sam had never been able to understand even other hobbits, and the kitten was no different. He had meant to take it home, care for it as his own, but he knew his father wouldn't allow it. The Gaffer was far too practical; pets took up time, energy, and food, and simply weren't allowed.

So Frodo had found Sam, smiling sheepishly on his doorstep, the kitten bundled in his work shirt. And despite Frodo's misgivings towards animals, and his hesitance in accepting a pet, the look in Sam's honey-colored eyes was something he could not ignore or refuse.

And now he was stuck in his study, eyeing the kitten as if it were a dragon about to spit flame at him. He had never been good with animals. Even ponies had been wary of him, and his skill as a rider had not improved much since he was a boy in Buckland. The kitten looked up at him, blinking its large emerald eyes wearily. It settled itself into a small raven ball of fluff in his hands, shutting its eyes swiftly.

Frodo eyed it suspiciously for another moment, and then tentatively set it on his desk. The purring decreased slightly, yet the creature did not move. He sighed with relief, and bent to pick the scattered papers from the floor. When he straightened back up in the chair, he found himself staring into lamp like eyes. He jerked again in surprise, and the papers were again on the floor.

He glared for a moment at the kitten, which yawned lazily and stretched.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, but there was no edge to his voice, "Why must you startle me like that?"

He ran his hand down the creature's back. It arched its small form up to meet him, purring loudly.

"You know, you're actually quite soft," he picked up the small creature, scratching behind its ears, "not to mention cuddly. I wonder if Sam has thought of a name for you yet, little one."

"No, I haven't," came a voice from behind Frodo. He jumped for the third time that afternoon, nearly dropping the kitten in his arms. "I've tried, mind you," continued the Gamgee as if nothing had happened, "I've racked my mind for all the names I've ever heard of, but none seem to fit."

"Samwise Gamgee," scolded Frodo, but again his voice held no real anger, "First the cat, and now you. Is everyone in Bag End trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Well, no Sir," Sam said with a smile, "You're in Bag End, and certainly you aren't trying to give yourself one."

Frodo snorted indignantly, "You and your cat."

---

After another week, Frodo was almost used to the small creature roaming through his Smial. He only jumped once in a while, and then only when startled from deep concentration or thought. And now that his disquiet over the kitten had lessened, his worry over it had increased. Under the constant watch of Sam Gamgee, it gained the weight it should have had, but it had barely grown any in the entire month they'd owned it. Frodo had always heard kittens grew quickly, but this one was barely growing at all.

"Sam," Frodo said one evening, as they sat before the fire, smoking together, "I'm a bit worried about the kitten. She's not growing."

"I know," Sam's brow furrowed, "I think that's why it's mother abandoned it. I think it's a runt."

"A runt? Won't it grow at all?"

"I dare say she will, but not much at any rate. She may double in size yet, but still won't be half as big as most cats."

Frodo scooped the small creature off of the pillow where it had lain, nestled, fast asleep. He had come to like the tiny thing, the way it purred when he scratched under her chin, even if he wouldn't admit it to Sam. He knew Sam understood.

The kitten opened its wide eyes, blinking up at the hobbit that held him. It opened its mouth in a wide yawn, and meowed gently.

"Begging your pardon," Sam said suddenly, "But she needs a name. I was thinking of naming her for a flower, but she doesn't seem to fit any of them. She may be small and delicate, but she's far too playful to be named for a flower, if you follow me. Perhaps . . ." he trailed off uncertainly.

"Perhaps what, Sam?"

"Well, I was thinking, what about Elvish? Is there a word in all that to fit her? The language is so pretty."

"Maybe, Sam. Either way, it's a good idea."

---

Frodo was having no luck in finding a name. He'd been pouring through book after book, the kitten resting beside him, to know avail. Eventually, he resigned himself to merely settle back in his chair, mumbling Elvish words to himself from a book.

"Iavas, ilúvë, ilye, im, imbe, isil-" the kitten meowed. Frodo reached out absentmindedly to pet her, "kal, kemen, laer, laire, loth-" (see footnote)

He stopped short. The kitten had risen, walked over to him, and set her front paws firmly on the pages of his book.

"What are you doing?" he asked her. She meowed again. He tried to redirect his attention back to the book, but found it impossible, "Are you hungry?"

The kitten sat determinedly down, right in the middle of the volume.

"What?" She only gave him another soft sound. He scooped her up, setting her back on the desk. He went back to reading, retracing the words slightly. "Imbe, isil-" and she'd meowed again. He glanced up at her in annoyance. Then, an idea struck him.

"Isil," he breathed. She looked up at him with wide innocent eyes, "moon."

He scooped her back up, "Isil. Isiloth, moonflower."

The kitten meowed more loudly. Frodo smiled, and rushed off to find Sam.

---

He found the gardener in a bed of wolfsbane, weeding thoughtfully.

"Sam!" he called out. The Gamgee turned towards him, surprised by the sight of the kitten in Frodo's arms, and the grin splitting his face. He stood, brushing the dirt from his hands.

In one swift movement, Frodo rushed to him, pressed a firm kiss on his lips, and deposited the kitten in his arms.

"Isiloth," he said, "means moonflower."

Sam smiled, "I love it."

Frodo grinned again, more proudly this time, and Sam was the one who did the kissing.

---

And so it was that when all animals shied away from the handler Frodo Baggins, a small runt of a kitten curled herself willing into his lap. When said Baggins had no one to speak to and matters weighed heavily on his mind, he found comfort in the vivid green eyes of the cat.

Frodo laughed as Pippin played with her, and Merry scratched her ears thoughtfully. He understood when she instinctually hid from the Sackville-Bagginses as they came down the road. He smiled as the little thing meandered behind Sam in the garden, or sat lazily in his wheelbarrow. To Frodo, the small kitten forever reminded him of Sam, especially of his kindness and heart.

To Sam, the kitten always reminded him of Frodo. Its black fur was as dark as Frodo's curls. It's eyes looked too big to be allowed, the color to intense to be natural. It was a small thing, as cats go, just as Frodo would always be slight by hobbit standards. Both had lived from a young age without proper parents, orphans in a way. It contented Sam to see the two of them, sitting together in a chair by the fire. Frodo would have a book in one hand, the other contrasting severely with midnight fur as it ran down the cat's back. He loved to see Frodo patter down the halls of Bag End, a plate full of dinner scraps in hand, calling 'Isil, Isiloth' gently into each doorway, and smiling when he found her.

For a while, the cat had come under suspicions from some of the neighbors (the Sandymans, namely). She had been seen out of doors, and the miller had quickly come to the conclusion that the little thing was mistreated. He hadn't liked how small she was, and had accredited it to everything from lack of food to Elvish curses. The other inhabitants of Bag Shot Row merely rolled their eyes. They knew there was no other pet in Hobbiton, maybe even all the Shire, so spoiled.

A fact Mr. Frodo Baggins of Bag End was quite proud of.