The early afternoon was lovely, and cool, with the breeze riffling his curls and scudding small clouds across deep blue. The sky hung close. The garden was still, and moist—for another light rain had fallen during early morning, leaving fresh, new scents in its wake. Slender, dark-furred feet set themselves with great care, softly amongst the rain-sodden leaves which had fallen from the rooftop oak. No doubt the gardener and his lad would have it all cleared away in a matter of hours once they came, but for now, the leaves were soft puzzle-pieces of brown-gold, an irregular carpet laid over the muddy bare plot upon which no decision for planting had yet been made.

Frodo left no footprints this way, almost as if he wasn't there.

Perhaps he wasn't. Surely such tranquillity would not suffer itself lightly broached. And it was so quiet. He wasn't sure that he'd felt this alone, this small… even on that first morning here, when he'd looked out onto this garden and wondered if he was the last being left on earth. Even his reflection in the pool was overawed by sky, by tiny ripples of wind.

The Hill was, as Frodo was beginning to realise, at this after luncheon stretch of day mostly untrodden and quiet. The view down the Hill was strangely barren, all of the bright colours and carts and activity of the Tithing gone. Yesterday's clean-up had gone successfully, the tinkers all packed up and rolling away for the next fair, the next copper to be made. The Hobbiton folk who had nearly drowned out the rain on the mill's roof with song and clapping and dancing were back at their normal daily doings. Merimac was no doubt on his boat by now, setting his face into the southerly winds. Even Bilbo was absent—he'd left directly after tea to see to Miller Sandyman.

Everyone was gone…

With a grimace, Frodo dabbled the toes of one foot in the pond. He used to crave solitude, and now that he had it he was unsure what to do with it?

Nonsense. He had a solid meal in his belly, a thick book in the crook of his arm, and the solitude, stillness and time to fill with nothing but glorious printed words. Frodo's first impulse of the day had been to take his mother's book out; it had been several days since he'd had a chance to stop and realise it wasn't on his person. But he'd spent several hours after breakfast shelving books in his study, and all those bound tomes had teased him rather unmercifully. Finally he'd given in and chosen one.

His mother's book was secure in the trunk beneath his bed; it was close should he really wish to read it. For now, there was this one. He hugged the large, leather-clad binding to his chest and thought of ancient tales and far-flung fantasy. Of forests sown with deepest magic, spelled to silence and made as sentinel. Of dungeons deep and mountain fortresses impassable by any save immortals tall and strong. Of mirrored pools in moonlight, to see future or past…

Frodo drew his toes from the cool water, clenched his brows in a distracted frown, shook his head and turned his back on it.

The wicker seat next to the little pond offered a nice spot to be seated without getting soggy upon damp ground; he took it, curling up into the curved wood and opening the tome in his lap. Bilbo had specifically suggested this particular text; it was as entertaining as any of Bilbo's collection of myth, but more instructional than most. To the right hand was scribed Westron translation in Bilbo's spidery, elegant hand, and to the left was the same tale, but in Elvish characters. Of course he couldn't read the Elvish, not more than a word or two, and some compression and also some expansion had happened in assorted places in the text. But it was such a clever and novel idea to have each turn of the page telling the tale in two languages that Frodo minded not the unevenness, either of the scripting or his faulty knowledge of it.

Soon enough all reality faded away: the strange wistful loneliness, the emptied vastness of the Hill, the brisk breeze which alternately tossed and flattened his curls—even the garden about him, waiting and peaceful, was veiled into non-existence. One hand resting along his cheek, lips moving and his other hand caressing the sepia-scrawled pages, Frodo was lost—lost in the valour and heart and disenchantment of Fëanor's eldest. Maedhros, taken by Morgoth and hung upon the cliff-face for countless nights until his brother had rescued him—and how such salvation had crippled him.

Frodo looked at his own hand, warm and splayed across the book, and wondered if freedom was worth such a price. It surely had not seemed so to one-handed Maedhros, who had, in the end, thrown himself into the bowels of the earth. Did all prisoners, in casting off their chains, mourn them?

The breeze fingered his hair and riffled it into his eyes, tickled along his ear and at his nape. Determinedly casting aside such morbid speculation Frodo shivered, shook his head, focused upon the words again. Again the breeze played with his curls, and he batted at it, wondering how such an inconsequential thing had drawn him from his reading. With a grumbling mutter and a squirm in his seat that made the wicker creak, Frodo re-attended himself to his story, then stopped mid-word, his hand clenching upon the parchment with a rattle. For the fall-scented breeze was cool, scented wet and green.

This was neither.

Another waft of air fanned his nape, a damp heat that nevertheless froze him to marrow. This time it was accompanied by two hands which laid themselves to either side of his hunched-over shoulders and a voice, all too familiar.

"You and your books."

A creak and squeal of wicker staves, the heavy thud of the book hitting the damp turf, and a sharp intake of breath as Frodo leapt to his feet and whirled to face that voice.

Lotho was still leaning on the back of the chair, and Frodo wondered with a sick sensation how long he'd been there, just breathing him in. Frodo's own breath thumped in his chest.

"You know, I think the first time I saw you, you were holding one of those books of yours." Lotho gave a withering look at the text splayed on the turf. "I was very surprised to see the possible scourge of my smial curled up in the sunny grass with some smelly old parchments. You weren't what I expected, not at all." He bent over, picked it up, scrutinised it. "And this one? Another book on the elves, like the one you carried everywhere with you at Brandy Hall?"

Abruptly glad that his heirloom wasn't upon him, Frodo backed a very small step, not taking his eyes from Lotho for a moment. The lanyard with its precious key hung heavily about his neck; he could feel it lift, pulsing madly with his heartbeat. It seemed that Lotho's eyes for long moments focused on it, nestled in the vee of his shirt.

"How very interesting." Lotho tossed the book onto the wicker seat. Frodo made a sound of protest, silencing as Lotho met his eyes. "Outlander books for a little outlander bastard."

The last three words curled about the odd quivering in his belly, changed unwilling fire into ice. Frodo barely recognised his voice when he finally did speak—it was low, and harsh. "Why are you here?"

"Well, that should be obvious. You're here, aren't you? All by yourself, waiting for me."

"You're delusional!" Frodo snapped. "How can you possibly think I'd wait for you anywhere?"

The dark eyes glittered; Lotho straightened and walked slowly about the chair. His gait still bore that remarkable smoothness to it—the silent, feline ease that always surprised Frodo for Lotho seemed so ponderous otherwise—but today there was a puzzling hitch to it, and to his speech. "You're a fine one to talk of delusions. Do you even know how long I've been here, watching you?" Lotho kept stepping closer; Frodo found himself retreating. As much as he begrudged the recoil, still Frodo wanted to keep as much space between himself and Lotho as possible, trying to discount the reality that yes, Lotho had been here for much longer than he truly wanted to think about.

"After all, you do at least one thing normal—you prefer to dally with your kin. I'm only expecting to be welcomed as you've welcomed some of your other cousins." Lotho suddenly smiled, but it held nothing pleasant. "Tell me truthfully, Frodo. Satisfy my curiosity. Do you service the old hobbit as well?"

Frodo halted in stiff outrage, fists clenching. "Leave, Lotho. Take your filthy mouth with you when you go."

"I have no intention of going anywhere, least of all at your order." The smirk disappeared. "Who do you think you are, to be telling me what to do? As if you belong anywhere, least of all here in Hobbiton with the Bagginses."

The words sought to pink him, but the memory of Bilbo standing beside him—on the step of Bag End, on the grounds of the Tithing—filled him with a cool indignation. "Either I'm kin to you and Bilbo or I'm not. Decide which, and leave me alone."

"Oh, I don't think so. It doesn't matter to me which you are—though it does seem to matter to you, doesn't it?"

Frodo was silent.

"I think it's past time for you and I to part company on the same terms as we always have. I think we need to share a bit more than that, don't you?"

"We share," Frodo said tightly, "nothing."

"You're sure of that, are you?"

"Quite."

"All these pretty protests of innocence. But everything you do says otherwise." Lotho stepped towards him, still oddly ungainly but nevertheless coming closer with every word. "I've been watching you. Ever since I knew you'd come here I've been watching. You wander these gardens at night. You climb that big roof tree."

Frodo stiffened. "H… how…"

"You have this… need for the water, don't you?" Lotho smiled as Frodo's eyes widened, furthered silkily, "You like the feel of it, trailing over you. Almost as well as your own hands."

Anger was losing its foothold amidst revulsion and dismay as Frodo remembered: sounds, feelings, wondering, the creeping of hair at his nape. The feelings of being watched, yet not, and wondering if he was imagining it all, or acting… mad.

"A rainstorm, the little pool there, the rainspout at sunset… Old Bilbo's rainwater spout is nicely private, isn't it? He's not given you the best of the Bag End rooms, but your little smial is off to itself as well. All manner of things can enter on this side, and never be seen."

"You," Frodo breathed in sudden, sickened comprehension.

"I kept leaving things there for you… and you know, your bed smells of spices and pine boughs." Lotho's words were almost a purr, and when he reached out to twitch his fingers into Frodo's dark curls, Frodo was so pole-axed that he couldn't jerk away, or even so much as voice a protest.

"For a while, it has been enough to just… watch you," Lotho continued. "Just as you've been watching me."

"That's not… I wasn't… you don't…" Frodo kept trying to voice something, anything—his voice was choked, uncooperative, "…understand."

"I understand, all right. I saw you. You watched me when you were hanging on him." Lotho's fingers twined harder; his other hand lifted and touched Frodo's chin with startling gentleness. "All the time, you were hanging on him and looking at me. Then later. During the dancing. You weren't with him then, but you lacked no partners, did you?" The bark-brown eyes were more lit and focused than Frodo had ever seen them; but they gave off no warmth, only a chill of illumination that pierced him with threat. "Would you have danced with me, pretty lad?"

Frodo couldn't move, he couldn't think, he could hardly breathe, he was torn nigh in two with repulsion, fascination, horror… a mouse beneath the kestrel's stare, looking into the face of his own ruin.

"And after the dancing, in the shadow of the mill-wheel." Fingers tightened in Frodo's hair. "You were with him again. Do you remember me watching you, then?" Lotho's hitch in gait and voice made abrupt, horrific sense as his breath fanned over Frodo's cheek; he smelled, not only of stale sweat and heat but overwhelmingly of sweet hops, bitter and mealy. Lotho sober was bad enough—Lotho even slightly drunk was something Frodo did not at all want to contemplate. Frodo's own reaction to that heady, heavy smell, unasked for but innate, rippled down his spine. Panic quivered in his belly and flowered there, reaction primed.

Frodo shied from Lotho's grip. Hair ripped from his scalp; he whirled and blindly fled.

Three steps only, then damp, hard sod halted his ill-considered flight; Frodo rammed into the earthen side of Bag End with a grunt. Twisting about frantically, Frodo saw that by some mischance he was up against the wall, right next to the window of his room. The Hill curled about his left and up—no escape there—and Lotho was before him.

He was cornered—against the very place where he'd thought to find refuge.

Lotho smiled. "You certainly have a gift, Frodo, for finding the nearest wall and putting your arse to it. One would think you'd something to protect." He reached out again, ran one finger down Frodo's temple; Frodo jerked away. "Which I find laughable, now. Was your sailor cousin that good, then?"

Frodo's back stiffened, his fingers dug into the earth about him. Cornered, yes, out-sized, yes. But literal fury, cold and harsh and mind-clearing, started to pump through every fibre he possessed. It dispelled panic, brought a sharp-whet reply to his lips. "Yes. He was. Very."

Colour flared on Lotho's already-flushed cheek. "Well, he would be, wouldn't he? He's been gaming lads long past the time he should have grown out of it. If he wasn't good at it, then he'd have to be bloody incompetent."

"How dare you—"

"How dare I what? I'm not the one that was crawling all over a Brandybuck river-rat in front of all Hobbiton. In front of me." Lotho leaned against Bag End, his hands on either side of Frodo's dark head, his face a mere hand's separation from Frodo's own. "Let me tell you something about Hobbiton, my dear," Lotho informed him in a quiet, husky voice. "It's not like Brandy Hall. The festivals relax everyone's scruples, to be sure—we aren't stupid in Hobbiton, we know what a body needs—we're just a bit too concerned with the odd pretense of propriety."

Frodo blinked, unable to believe he was standing here, in this situation, listening to Lotho wax drunkenly eloquent about the societal differences between Hobbiton and Buckland.

"Certainly," Lotho continued almost pleasantly, "most Shire-folk would rather that lads and lasses kept to our own until we're able to claim and support what bairns we might make, but still… Hobbiton isn't as accepting of such brazen gaming, you know. They know it happens, but they don't necessarily approve of having it shoved in their faces. And," he leaned closer, putting a finger to Frodo's lips as he started to protest, "what they don't approve of, they talk about. In the market. In pubs."

Frodo stared at him, contempt and anger and shame all contorting within him. He knew he was trembling with the force of all of it, and that telling reaction made him all the more angry—at himself for displaying such weakness.

"And let me tell you something about me," Lotho continued softly. "If someone starts a game with me, all so brazen, then they finish it."

Somewhere beneath it all, the dragon growled warning.

No, Frodo told it silently, his fingers digging into the moist soil of Bag End. Go away. Not now…

"You finished it with your old cousin, didn't you? You begged him to finish it; he could have had you on your knees in a trice if he'd wanted it, and if he hadn't put his hand over your mouth they would have heard you in the mill. But I heard you. He was good, wasn't he? Enough to make you scream, anyway. Or," the words were a caress, "is it just really easy to make you scream, Frodo?"

"Don't… you… touch me." Frodo grated at him. "I'll do you again, I swear."

"You've not 'done me', not yet, but I think you will." Lotho said sweetly. "Time to finish the game, Frodo." He leaned closer. "Maybe I can even make you scream."

"I'm not as ignorant as I was at the Hall," Frodo said between his teeth. "I know what you're trying to do, now."

"That's all to the better, because," Lotho shrugged nonchalantly, "I don't particularly care for virgins. And I weary of… watching."

"Then we do have one thing in common." Frodo's fingers tightened into the earth. It broke away, moist and mealy, in his palms; he clenched his hand about it, wondering if frost were pumping through his veins instead of blood, he felt so strong and cold and angry. "I weary of you watching me."

And Frodo swung, slapping the handful of mud right into Lotho's face.

Lotho recoiled in surprise; his face went slack. Satisfaction filled Frodo, more cool strength to act as firebreak to any dragon or any insecurity, combating the heat of that inner breath. Then as flat fury rekindled in the dark eyes, Frodo knew immediately it was perhaps the stupidest thing he'd ever done. With amazing swiftness Lotho retaliated. Frodo ducked, but Lotho's hard fingers snarled in his hair, yanking sideways and ramming Frodo's skull against the sill of his window. He stumbled sideways; just before he went to his knees, Lotho grabbed him with vise-like hands and jerked him upwards, shoved him back. Frodo's tailbone impacted against the lower edge of the window; another shove sent him arcing backwards and headfirst towards the interior of his room.

Lotho prevented him from falling by grabbing his thighs. Frodo tried to lurch back upward; Lotho leaned against him, one hand flattening against Frodo's chest and keeping him in a literal backbend across the wide window-ledge. "Do you really think you can take me, Frodo?" he hissed. "Are you really stupid enough to think that you could beat me in any fair fight?"

Every bit of breath Frodo possessed had abandoned him from the impact; he fought to regain it and jerked, trying to bring his knees up hard. Lotho merely pressed down on him, bent him even further back. Frodo's hands shot out, grasping at the sills; he couldn't reach one but clawed at the other, trying to scramble back up. Lack of air and Lotho's hand stayed him; for helpless moments Frodo hung there, head hanging below his hips, the window barking his spine as he struggled. Lotho's free hand traced upward, touched at the lanyard hanging about Frodo's throat, and in the same, smooth movement Lotho straddled his thighs. He bent over, shoved his hips forward, and it was suddenly very obvious that Lotho found rough play quite stimulating.

Unfortunately, it also made it obvious that Frodo was reacting to the situation—and not in a way that he would ever, given choice, prefer.

"That's much better," Lotho muttered approval and ground up against him. "No more teasing."

Air finally fought its way into his cramped lungs. Frodo gasped out a curse, clawed at the windowsill once again. This time he succeeded in gaining purchase; with a grunt he pulled himself forward, refusing to just hang there helplessly. Unfortunately it brought him closer against Lotho, who just smiled, brilliant-dark and pressed tighter. Frodo clenched his knees in pure instinct; his arm quivered, but he held relentlessly to the wooden ledge, hunched and silent and absolutely refusing to let go.

"Game or tame you," Lotho told him. "It's all one to me."

Frodo should have been petrified, horrified, all of it. However for some reason he was able to hold Lotho's gaze with his own—still ice, still chill, defiant calm. "You might be bigger than I am, and stronger. You might be able to force me. You might be able to make me react to you. But understand this, Lotho—that's all it is, something forced from me, something I don't choose," Frodo snarled out the last words, had the satisfaction of seeing Lotho blanch, even if slightly. "You want me? Well, I don't want you, the very thought of you repulses me, and if you think I'm just going to let you do this to me and remain silent about it again, you're wrong. If you release me now and walk away I'll say nothing, to Bilbo or anyone else—"

"Bilbo?" Unaccountably, for his face had grown more white and furious with every word, at this last Lotho chuckled. "So you think you know the old hobbit better than I do? I've lived in Hobbiton all my life; I've known mad Baggins since I was born. Don't you think he came by that name for a reason? He doesn't stay in one mind for longer than a week at a time. The only reason he's allowed you to come here is to flaunt you, use you as a threat to my parents' rights."

Remembering nearly the same words from Lobelia and her cronies at the Tithing, spoken with much the same venom, Frodo stilled.

"Do you really think Bilbo will believe you, that he will stand by you if it means standing against his relatives—his blood relatives? Against my mother?" Lotho said pityingly. "You're dreaming, Frodo. Again. My mother is a formidable dame. She won't stand for it, having you here—not when you threaten everything she wants."

"Wh-what are you talking about?" Frodo grated out. "Rights? Threat?"

Lotho smiled and snaked an arm about his waist, pulling him close. Frodo pushed back against the sill, hard and resistant, but Lotho lined up against him until they were nose-to-nose.

"Don't be obtuse, my would-be cousin. You really should listen to gossip more. Next to my father, you're considered one of the likely heirs to this splendid bit of real estate known as Bag End. Bilbo knows that. No doubt he brought you here specifically to thwart my father's claim and my mother's desires." Frodo tried to squirm back and away, Lotho's hands stayed him, Lotho's voice was a hiss. "Do you really think he wants you here for you? A scrawny, troublemaking orphan? Face the truth, Frodo. You don't belong here. You don't belong anywhere."

"I belong here, until Bilbo sends me away." The words shook, the strength beneath them growing more fragile and thin with every word.

"And how long will that be, then?"

Frodo dropped his gaze to the ground, a muscle in his jaw jumping and quivering.

"You know," Lotho breathed in his ear, scenting blood, "I'll warrant he even thinks you're one of us. It makes the old fool feel magnanimous to be giving charity to one of his poor relations. But 'relations' is the key, isn't it? I mean…" He reached upward and slowly twined a dark curl about his index finger, examining it as if he had all the time in the world, "What would happen, I wonder, if old Bilbo indeed found out that you are in fact no true Baggins at all?"

Chill swamped Frodo; he clung to it, an ice raft amidst steaming rapids, cold reason flooding. "All you could tell Bilbo would be another rumour, another nasty insinuation. He will hear no words spoken against my mother. He won't believe you. You have no proof, not of anything—OW!"

Lotho's fingers had snarled, once again yanked his head sideways and back against Bag End with a dull thud of impact. Frodo staggered, a splash of light sparking behind his eyes. "You're wrong to call me on my word." Strangely enough, Lotho didn't come closer—he pushed slightly away. Frodo shook his head to clear it, using the sudden reprieve to regain his balance and angle away from the windowsill as well as his precarious position. He hesitated as Lotho held out an object to him, his mien one of triumph.

"So many secrets, Frodo. And finally, I know them all."

Frodo blinked, stared at it uncomprehendingly, wondering if somehow Lotho had clocked him harder than he'd thought. But, no. It was there, extended in the cage of Lotho's long fingers, battered and torn.

His mother's book.

"I can't believe you haven't missed it, yet," Lotho said charmingly.

Frodo couldn't begin to form an answer. Tears rose into his eyes as he saw that the cover was half-ripped and unbound. It was impossible. Impossible. He put his hand to his throat, touching the key; Lotho saw the gesture and smiled.

"Remember the night that halfwit Gamgee boy came to your door?" Lotho queried. "You left that key on your bed. I saw you lock this," he gestured with the book, "away in your trunk before that."

"He's not… You can't have… my room was—"

"Empty? I saw you in the pond, and while you were there, I hid in your room. In the wardrobe."

Frodo stared at him, abruptly remembering the candles flickering in the room's stillness, the curtains riffling in a non-existent breeze. "B-but it was in my trunk after that night," he protested rustily. "I saw it—"

"You saw another wrapped up the same way. I wanted time, you see."

With a small growl, Frodo made a snatch for the book; Lotho shoved him back against the wall, hard.

"When you got your precious book wet that one night—in the pond?" Lotho continued. "The cover worked its way loose, and I really have to thank you for that, because if you'd not gotten it wet and left this about…" his fingers snaked upward, tightened about the key on its lanyard, "I never would have found the pocket."

"Pocket? What… pocket?"

Another smile. "So you don't know. How interesting. Well, truth to tell I thought I could… convince you with just the book. But it had its own secrets. And I find I don't need this," he held up the book, "anymore." With a negligent gesture he flipped the book over his shoulder; Frodo lurched forward as it fell, broken-spined, into the wet mulch. Lotho's fingers tightened on the lanyard about his throat; Frodo hit the end of it, was pulled back against Lotho.

The book, the hands upon him, the dragon lashing its tail with entrapment and fury and panic, all of it writhed within him and erupted. Frodo spun about, struck out with fists and feet. "Let me go!"

He was too close to do any real harm, but Lotho fell back in surprise at the onslaught. In the wake of this, the heel of Frodo's hand connected hard with Lotho's nose, the other fist smacking into his left eye; Frodo gained his freedom and the satisfaction of hearing Lotho yelp in real pain.

Running over to the book, Frodo picked it up with trembling hands, cradled it close, turned on his adversary. "Get out of here. Now."

Lotho had cupped his hand to his face; as he lowered it Frodo felt even more satisfaction at seeing blood trickling from the reddened nose. "If I leave now, you will be even more sorry than if I stay. That I promise you."

The dark eyes were flat and furious, but Lotho's voice was strangely calm, and that in itself stayed Frodo. His fingers twitched on his mother's ruined book. Secrets. Lotho had said it held secrets… "I don't care!" he retorted.

"Oh, I think you will." There was a serene, gloating satisfaction in the words that turned Frodo's stomach. "I told you I didn't need the book anymore. There were papers in it, you see. Three very private papers." He sauntered over slowly. Frodo watched him, every bit of sense he had telling him to run, and now—nevertheless unwillingly charmed to stillness by Lotho's calm threat. "All of them were quite interesting, but one in particular gives me everything I've ever wanted." He stopped not a hand's span from Frodo, his fingers flaring the small bits of parchment like playing cards. "Including you, I'm thinking."

Frodo's gaze flickered from the ravaged book in his grasp, to the slips in Lotho's hand, then to Lotho's seething eyes.

"Perhaps your dear 'Uncle' Bilbo sets no store on rumour. But what if he has proof of those rumours, proof set before his eyes?"

Frodo swallowed hard, no longer even contemplating escape. Ire and its protective ice were both melting in the wake of hot insecurity, kicking any props of safety or comfort from beneath Frodo. Those props, they were too newly shored. As much as he wanted to not believe Lotho's words, too many of his own doubts were interlaced with them.

He could not take Bilbo's gaily-given kindnesses for granted.

Lotho dandled the parchments in his fingers, counting through them with maddening surety. "One of them doesn't seem to be much—lovelorn tweener nonsense from your Aunt Esme to her 'Dearest Prim'—"

Frodo slipped his tongue between his teeth, bit down to forestall the very real sense of panic.

"—and even though your sweet Auntie has some interesting things to say about how her playmate spent too much time in the Old Forest with Elves and with Bilbo…" Lotho shrugged, then tossed the note aside. Frodo watched the breeze catch it, flutter it to lay beneath his windowsill, "I don't think it really matters for now. Not to us." He held up the other two. "But these? Quite a different story.

"The second one is a will, where it describes in goodly detail how your mother does not want you ever darkening the doors of Bag End, and why—"

Puzzled, Frodo turned his eyes back to Lotho, only to drop them quickly as he saw, once again, the murky satisfaction there. "And what," Frodo voiced hoarsely, "is the third one?"

"Ah, so you've guessed. It's the best of the lot." Lotho put his lips to Frodo's ear. "It's a letter from your mother. To your father. Sort of a confession, really."

The heated breath made Frodo tremble; Lotho pulled back, straightened and met his eyes, putting the second of the slips into his pocket, opening and holding out the third.

"This, my sweet, is the prize indeed. All the proof I should ever need to convince old Bilbo of what you really are."

"No—" Frodo whispered before he could bite it back.

"Would you like to hold it?" One hand proffered the document almost negligently; Lotho's other hand came to rest on Frodo's collarbone, thumb pressing near his windpipe. "Would you like to read it?"

With trembling fingers Frodo took the slip from Lotho. His eyes flickering up constantly—he no more trusted Lotho than he could toss him one-handed across the garden—Frodo read the first lines in quick, panicked snatches:

Air hiccoughed in Frodo's lungs, twisted and painful. His pulse thundered in his ears. The words, faded and brown and filling the page in his mother's hand, continued:

The letters swam away, blurred to non-existence; Frodo's hand dropped to his side, the parchment crumpled in a shaking fist.

"Take care, you don't want to damage the evidence, do you? So much to think about," Lotho said, once more as pleasantly as if he were discussing the weather and not rending Frodo's precarious little world into shreds. "There's not just Bilbo to consider here, is there? Your aunt knows—she said as much in that letter she wrote, but do the other Brandybucks know? Mayhap that old sailor who fancies you?"

Eyes closing, Frodo tried to speak, could only mouth a silent negation.

"Does he know about this? Is that why he left? Or would he take you in regardless, since you're so willing to pay your berth in coin he can understand?" Lotho waited; Frodo stood twitching, unresponsive.

"Perhaps he wouldn't. Perhaps you can't buy a place there, or his acceptance of this, not even with your sweet body. Or keep paying for Bilbo's, once he tires of you. Once he knows." A tremor rolled through that body, and Lotho stroked his index finger along Frodo's pulse-point. "Perhaps, though, you can buy a place with me. My… silence."

Frodo stared numbly at the crumpled parchment in his hand.

"Make no mistake, Frodo; my mother would be ecstatic to get her hands on something like this. She'd call up a Farthing-court and have you publicly denounced, ensure that you would be thrown out and never lay any claim to Bag End, ever."

All his fears dragged out and examined, piece by shadowed piece. And Lotho, smelling of brew and seething with sibilant insinuation, rousing the spectres Frodo had so carefully if inadequately caged.

"Frankly, she and my father would sooner I bugger some stray cur than lie with you. But you know something?" Lotho reached up, brushed a lock of hair back from Frodo's temple, curling it behind his ear. Frodo shivered, unable to do so much as duck aside, and Lotho's voice hoarsened, twisting with chilling satisfaction. "That just makes it better, doesn't it? If this," he put his free hand over Frodo's clenched, paper-filled fist, raised it between them, "gets me what I want… then they can't have it."

Frodo's gaze followed his clenched fist, then rose to hang upon Lotho's satisfied expression.

"It will be our secret." Broad fingers laced with Frodo's own, crushing the parchment further. "I want you. Willing. I should think it's a fair trade-off, a good choice, don't you?"

Fair. How could it be fair when there was no choice? Again.

It doesn't matter. Revulsion spiralled, but reason attempted to regain control. He can do what he wants, you can do what you must, and then you'll put it away. Just as you've put away so many other things that you've not wanted to see, been unable to know…

The admittance echoed deep, into an inner well dark and unsounded. With it, the first tumbler of a hitherto frozen lock clicked itself within his consciousness.

His mother's book slipped from his fingers.

"What," Lotho murmured, "do you want, Frodo?"

Claim? He wanted no 'claim' to Bag End, he only wanted a home, a place… he wanted Bilbo's approval and respect, he wanted the warm wrap of Tithing night, that feeling of belonging, of being—

—instead of the shadows and the voices and the undertow of darkness that would come, night or day, and remind him that he did not belong, that he never would, that indeed he did have too many secrets and he was something other—

Frodo lowered his head, bit his lip to still its quivering, then slowly began to shrug from his coat. Lotho stiffened and the hand over Frodo's tightened, then went slack once he realised what Frodo was actually doing. The laxity of grip allowed Frodo to wriggle back and toss his coat to the ground behind him. Lotho made a small, indefinable sound and pushed Frodo back several steps, putting him up once more against the earthen wall of Bag End. One hand twined at Frodo's nape with a ferocity that was dizzying and nauseating.

Taking a shallow, shaky breath, Frodo twined one hand into Lotho's shirt, cast his gaze smokily and slowly upwards. Gesture and look worked as successfully upon Lotho as it had the several times he'd tried it on Merimac; Lotho twitched, and he stared at Frodo with sudden confusion, as if he could scarcely believe what was happening.

His consciousness seethed with shadows, promulgations of memory; instead Frodo focused into his enemy's dark eyes. Lotho shivered again, and the simple guerdon of that was horridly gratifying. The bittersweet knowledge that he could hold sway over someone in such fashion—Frodo gave silent, numb thanks to his absent mentor as, with fingers that shook no matter how he tried to still them, he ran a light touch along Lotho's collarbone and up the thick line of his neck.

Lotho's hands fisted tightly at his nape, pulling his head back, exposing his throat. As much as Frodo wanted to pull away, he stilled the impulse. He could lose himself in it, and then it would all go away. He'd done it before. He could forget. He could make it—

Consciousness dropped, set itself deep; another small click of cognizance, another tumbler unset, another self-protective instinct turned into…

Awareness.

Lotho bent over him and Frodo gasped for breath. He felt wet warmth at his pulse point, as though his very life was being sampled, tasted. No dragon, no fire, only faint, locked-away whispers.

Please. He found himself petrified, begging the dragon's return, willing himself wreathed in willing flame. If he was to have no outward choice, then this was going to be under his own terms and his own decision, none else. Stop it. Take it. Take it from me.

It had done with Merimac, it had done even with his own hands. Why, then, was there no answer? He cast deeper into his own defences, yet only chilled silence answered. Only heated mist from where the dragon had holed itself away, and locks opening instead of snapping shut.

A shudder wrenched Frodo's knees weak; he held them forcibly straight, squeezing his eyes tight. His other hand was still clenching the parchment, a hard, shaking fist trapped behind him and nestled in the small of his back. A negation shrilled in the back of his throat, strangling itself into a choke.

Merimac had taught him something more. And that something burned in his chest, hard and sure. The reality of choices. And of self.

Lotho started to unbutton Frodo's shirt. He had to achieve this one-handed, as the other was still tightly entwined in dark hair. His fingers were cold against Frodo's bare chest. They trembled.

The awareness ran both ways, inward and out.

Frodo suddenly realised exactly what he was doing. And it made him sick.

Better that he be thrown back to the Brandywine. Better that he throw himself in than just let Lotho take this, too; let him violate every sweet, dear thing that Frodo had ever garnered from Mac, and Merry, and somehow also Bilbo…

His shoulders tightening into an obdurate knot, Frodo moved his own fingers to Lotho's waist. As he made his hand trail a knowledgeable path from navel to sternum, Frodo was rewarded by the hand at his nape loosening even more, by lips forming his name, almost silently.

"Who would have thought," said Lotho, suddenly releasing his strangle-hold on Frodo's hair to pull his shirt open, "that you really would have been such an easy take once you got a taste for the play?"

"Either I am willing to let anyone have me for the price of a roof," Frodo said, sliding his hand down to the buttons of Lotho's trousers, the tremors that he could not halt giving his voice a harsh staccato, "or I'm not. Am I your cousin, or not? You can't seem to make up your mind about me, Lotho, not in any fashion!"

Frodo grabbed the inseam of Lotho's trousers and viciously cranked. Lotho doubled over with a harsh yelp. Frodo broke from his corner entrapment like a race pony at the starter's shout.

He made it nearly to the pond, then something slammed into the back of his left knee and Frodo went flying, landing on his chest in the newly-ploughed patch of dark, wet dirt. Fingers gripped his ankle; he kicked out, hit solidness, felt it give and heard Lotho grunt in pain once more. Frodo didn't stop to relish the sound; he scrabbled forward on the slippery earth, trying to regain his feet.

There was nothing Frodo wanted more than to turn on his opponent, give him as good as he had at the Hall—but this was different and he knew it. He couldn’t win this. He could only run from it. The advantage of surprise, hard hands and wiry muscles couldn’t make up for the simple fact that he was no fighter and Lotho, very obviously, was.

Hearing the sound of Lotho's breathing change, Frodo ducked to one side, felt the wind of the blow pass dangerously close to his left ear; with instinctive aim he twisted and kicked out. Lotho was starting for him again; two bursts of momentum combined and the kick split Lotho's upper lip.

That was as far as his luck held—the kick threw Lotho sideways, but he slipped in the mud with a curse and fell against Frodo, sinking them both face-first into the muddy loam. Frodo writhed under the substantial weight that pressed down on him, trying to gain free. A satisfied sound came from Lotho's chest, and he pressed down harder, all but paralysing Frodo.

"Don't start what you aren't able to finish, Frodo," Lotho hissed in his ear. The wet earth was cold against Frodo's bared chest, stinging his eyes; Lotho's frame was hard against him, driving the breath from his lungs. "No one's here, we're up on the hill all by ourselves, your precious Bilbo is at the mill with my parents attending to Sandyman's failings, and your river-rat cousins aren't here to save you this time." Frodo bucked underneath him, trying to gain purchase of some sort; reaching upward with one desperate hand, he found lank hair and yanked. Lotho lurched atop him and swore in his ear, then set a knee into Frodo's kidneys, grabbed the shoulders of his shirt and snatched it down, nails scoring stinging furrows across pale, freckled skin, the motion effectively imprisoning Frodo's arms.

Frodo twisted wildly, fell forward; Lotho grabbed him and heaved him over, onto his back. Frodo kicked out again; the blow was ineffective at such close quarters as Lotho merely grabbed his legs, pulled them straight. Frodo twisted, tried to strike out; his arms were tangled and tied in his shirt, his struggles all but useless. Lotho merely straddled him and put a hand to his throat, dug his fingers in. Frodo choked.

"Twice now," Lotho hissed. "Twice I've given you the choice, and even now you'd rather have me tell them what you are than game me. You're the one who took me, made me want you more than I've wanted just about anything, and you've done nothing but make a fool of me, lead me on then refuse me. Even now." The words were vehement, furious, but all the time Lotho was smiling, velvet-dark as any pit. Blood from his nose dripped onto Frodo's cheek, thick and warm. "You're not even a Baggins, you're some Elvish whelp of a Brandybuck whore, and you think you can tell me no?"

The dragon rumbled return, steam and ash. Terror, fury, rebellion: all, quivering sudden steel into his spine. Frodo looked Lotho full in the face and said, very quietly, "No."

Lotho stared at him for a full five seconds.

When the blow did come, it made Frodo's ears ring, snapped his head sideways, split his cheek. With the same lightning swiftness Lotho fetched him two more, then stilled and bent over him, caressing where he'd struck with strangely gentle, muddy fingers. Those fingers slid over Frodo's temple, stroked the hair back, then suddenly tightened, snarled. His other hand reached down, yanked at the fastenings of Frodo's breeches. Frodo thrashed beneath him, trying to get free.

"I'll… I'll scream," he growled out. "And I'll scream so loud it'll carry to the mill."

"I don't think," Lotho said slowly, "that you will." And he yanked Frodo up by the hair, wrenched him over and shoved him full length into the mud.

Reflex tried to take over; Frodo almost sucked in a breath but the strangely-fortuitous position of Lotho's knee against his spine forced air out instead of in. Broad hands tugged at his breeches, and Frodo scrabbled and heaved, trying to pull his face up from the soil. By some chance he managed to get one knee beneath him and rock up, out of the mud. Lotho cursed, tottered off balance; sucking air into his lungs, Frodo tried to gain his feet but his shirt-tangled arms were no use and he fell forward, trying to writhe from the confinement. He got one arm free; Lotho cursed at him again and grabbed at that newly-freed limb, twisting it brutally upwards. Frodo felt something give way, heard a horrific pop and shrieked before he could stop himself.

He fell forward, Lotho's weight once more on him, rolling him back down into the mud. It clogged his eyes and nose, oozed into his mouth and Frodo had never felt so much pain in his life; pain and fear and from somewhere, voices shouting his name, a dragon shrilling insubordination…

Breathe… he couldn't breathe… he couldn't move, he was wounded, he was trapped… and suddenly it was as if he was at the bottom of the Brandywine, red haze clouding his vision and silencing the shrillness. Drowning. He could see it, finally, he could feel it, lungs starved for air, struggles, betrayal…

Frodo actually felt it happen, was for the first time fully aware of his mind's own instinctive resistance as it shut itself down. Then his body, following suit, going limp against the lack of air as it all… went… away…

A curse, muffled as if from a distance. Sudden weight lurching upon him, smothering, tangling, then that, too was gone. Voices. His arms were freed, but still he could not move. Then fingers in his hair, wrenching his head back and his face upward into the air. Frodo was almost sorry as his starved lungs took in a great heaving gasp, because it brought him back from nothingness. He hadn't been here, and here was no longer safe. Here was Lotho, tugging him over onto his back with his shirt half off and mud all over, one arm useless, pain immobilising him and no one to help, no one to stop it.

"N…no…" he twisted in the grip, flailed out; hands grabbed him and held him tight, pulled him close.

"…Frodo?" The voice was insistent, and familiar. He tried to curl away from it, but the hands upon him were strong. "I've got you. It's safe…"

No. He couldn't shut it away anymore; nowhere was safe. Nowhere.

This time, he was aware.

* * * * * *

Sam heard it before he saw it—a strange cry, quickly muted. He walked the well-mulched path faster, frowning. He had been sent up the Hill with a load of laundry; May, who had four more loads to do before nightfall, wanted the Squire's taken up to Bag End before he returned from Sandyman's.

Cocking his head, Sam quickened his pace. He kept straining his ears as he gained the hill's crest and the wicker picket of Bag End with the gate flung wide. Striding quickly into the yard, he saw nothing, heard less, wondered.

Then another strange sound, as if something was in pain or in trouble. It sounded like it was nigh to the east garden plot, the unplanted one a length outside the Brandybuck lad's window, and was followed up by what sounded like a dull thud. Sam hefted May's basket onto one hip, trotted to the side of mister Bilbo's smial then stopped dead, his eyes popping wide.

The Brandybuck lad was on his back in the mud, and it was Lotho Sackville-Baggins had him pinned there. There was no doubt, with the unfastened clothes and the purposeful shift of Lotho's hips, what they were doing. Sam had certainly seen lads fooling about before, but this particular scene made his belly crawl and he wasn't sure why.

Frodo said something upwards at Lotho, and Lotho fetched several sharp blows. They were no love taps, jerking the dark head sideways; Sam flinched, started forward. But still Frodo didn't struggle—instead he spoke again. Sam hesitated, unsure about what he should do, if anything, or if he should just turn and leave.

Then Lotho hauled Frodo over and shoved his face into the mud, and Sam could see that Frodo couldn't hit back—his arms were tangled in his shirt. Lotho started yanking at Frodo's breeches, and Frodo started bucking and kicking beneath him as he was able, and Sam was sure that this didn't match up with any play he had heard tell of or imagined.

All of May's hard work went strewing into the mud. Sam sprang forward, ran the remaining lengths to the scene, skidded to an uncertain halt in the slick soil, nearly falling himself atop Lotho and Frodo. Neither were aware of his presence. Sam reached out, grabbed Lotho's shirt and with every bit of muscle that manual labour had given him, youth or no, hauled Lotho off his Squire's nephew.

Lotho whirled quickly as a snake caught mid-strike but hesitated, obviously not sure who had halted his bit of fun. Sam spared no time to think of consequences, fair or foul, but took advantage of the pause and swung, his hard fist catching Lotho under the chin and laying him out full length on Bilbo's orange mums.

At his feet, Frodo was still lying in the mud, one arm flung at an awkward angle—its hand clutching what looked like a piece of parchment—and the other arm still tangled in his shirt. He was still—too still—and sudden fear arced through Sam's chest. Quickly falling to his knees beside the prone figure, Sam didn't bother with a genteel questioning shake, just clutched fingers into the dark hair and yanked the lad's face up into the air.

For a tense matter of seconds there was nothing, then a wet, rattling gasp of air issued from between the muddy lips. Sam put hands out, grasped and turned Frodo over; a hoarse cry shuddered itself outward from mud and pale flesh, and Sam quickly assessed the damage—mostly that one bare arm, hanging out of socket—and found himself pulling the slender frame closer. Unaccountably Frodo fought him—no wonder, though, if Lotho had…

Sam was never one to see anything taken advantage of—there weren't many bullies his own status in Hobbiton that didn't fear his wrath, and that same impulse made his heart go sinking within him, softened his voice and his hands. "Shh, master Frodo," Sam told him. "I've got you. It's safe."

Frodo twisted, cried out again as his arm nudged Sam, went limp. With a grimace, Sam realised that there might not be a better time to put that arm back into its place. It was plain Frodo was still addled somehow, and better now than waiting for the adults to get back, and by that time all the swelling making it more painful to go back in.

"I'm sorry, master Frodo," he muttered, putting one knee to the older lad's armpit. "This is going to hurt."

Frodo just lay there, gasping like a landed trout. Sam clenched his teeth, set both hands gingerly to the displaced arm then grabbed firm and gave a solid, upward twist.

Pain succeeded where gentle queries had not; Frodo gave a strangled shout and lurched forward, his eyes flying open to meet Sam's. There was no recognition in them for scattered seconds, then they focused just behind Sam and went wide. Before Sam could react to this, hard hands grabbed the collar of his shirt and heaved him upwards, flung him sideways. He hit the mulch beneath the pear tree with a grunt.

"What are you doing here, Gamgee?" was Lotho's stony query, wiping blood from his lip and walking a bit unsteadily towards Sam. "Sticking your interfering nose between me and my cousin... Getting a little above yourself, aren't you?"

"No, sir," Sam said, shooting a quick look towards his master's ward then focusing himself back on the most immediate problem: Lotho's capable fists. They were clenched and, as Lotho took one final step towards him, the right one arced out, aiming for Sam's face.

Sam ducked just in time; Lotho staggered forward from the momentum, obviously still a bit addled himself.

"I think you need to go, sir," Sam said firmly.

"I think you need to mind your own business, my lad!" Lotho growled, and on the last two words, swung again.

Sam ducked again, danced sideways; Lotho grabbed his shirt, yanked him back, and this time the blow connected, slamming into Sam's belly with the force of a cow-kick. Sam staggered; Lotho grabbed his collar and pulled him upright once again.

"If you weren't just a bairn," Lotho spat, shaking him like a mongrel, "I'd whip your common little arse into the ground."

"Don't let that stop you!" Sam choked back. "You're so good at picking on people smaller than you… uh!"

This as Lotho slammed him against the trunk of the pear. Several over-ripened fruits fell; one hit Lotho's arm but he scarcely flinched. "You listen to me, Gamgee, and you listen well. If you don't get your mangy carcass away from Bag End, and hold your tongue, I'll—!!"

There was a sickening, meaty thud. Lotho jerked sideways, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell like a stone.

Revealed behind him was a dark-haired, trembling apparition. Blue eyes stared glassily from a filthy, mud-caked face. One pale arm was poised; in that fist was gripped a large rock. The other arm hung limply, the crumpled parchment still somehow clenched there. Those eyes trailed downward, took in Lotho's prone form. Sam's followed.

There was blood trickling from Lotho's skull, matting the sandy curls, and he lay sprawled, frighteningly still. For the second time in just a matter of moments, a horrific tremor of fear lanced through Sam at the lad's utter stillness—he couldn't even see Lotho breathing.

Next to him, Frodo's arm slowly lowered. Those eyes were enormous, staring at their fallen foe as if not truly recognising him. The rock slipped from nerveless fingers and skittered over to rest by Lotho's thigh; Frodo swayed and staggered back several steps.

"He… He was g-going to… hurt you…" stammered Frodo. "I… He…"

Then Frodo toppled forward, landing almost at Sam's feet.

In almost the same moment, Sam saw a slight breath raise Lotho's chest, and his own sick trepidation unknotted itself. Just knocked out, and good riddance. For moments he was all but paralysed, unable to make any move, looking from one prone tween to the other. For two wild seconds he debated just leaving them there. He was certainly of a mind to leave Lotho where he lay with hardly a qualm; his father would have at him for getting involved in this mess, and no doubt. But that Brandybuck lad…

Frodo wasn't quite senseless; he'd curled about himself once again, shaking, and it looked so like to a wounded and fragile animal trying to soothe its own hurts that Sam's heart flipped over in his chest and wrung him into action.

Just to leave him here was not right. Not with what had… happened.

He strode over to May's ruined load of laundry, gave a few precious thoughts to the tongue-lashing he'd no doubt get from her, then snatched up a shirt from the scattered linen and sprinted back to the Brandybuck lad's side.

"Master Frodo?"

Frodo rounded further into a tight ball, his hands over his ears. Sam bent down, tried to raise him. With a grunt Frodo twisted, shoved away from him with surprising strength. "Master Frodo," Sam murmured, doggedly taking hold of the older lad once more, gaining purchased by kneeling down in the mud. "Wake up, now. Wake up."

In answer Frodo faltered and choked, wheezing as if he couldn't get enough breath past all the slime on his face. Sam grimaced, gripped closer, knotted up the shirt in his free hand and scrubbed the mud from Frodo's nose and mouth—

"Frodo." That voice again, the soft one, the one that insists it is safe…

"Frodo, wake up, now. Wake up." The voice seems concerned, but strangely musical. Not Lotho.

Not Lotho?

He hangs over the void, suspended, clinging. As a mouse clutched in a serpent's coils. As Maedhros upon the cliff. As treasure in a dragon's claw.

"Frodo!!" Sharp, the voice. Hands shaking him, breaking the otherness. Release into light and air and chill. A muffled, tight denial wails in his chest and he feels himself half-lifted, cradled in a firm embrace. His eyes won't open; they are leaden, unresponsive. He can't breathe. Something scrapes at his face, and concerned murmurs, so nigh and yet faraway, touch his ears.

The voice, half-whispered, tendering care into his ears. Reality shifting, his world shattering beneath the weight.

"No," he says. "No. Don't. Don't take me."

Arms hold him, stilling him when he shifts, half-asleep, unaware.

Fabric smelling of warm yeast and hops trails across his face, cups itself over his nose and mouth…

"Just lie you quiet," the voice tells him. "It's over, now."

It snaps something within him; Frodo feels it give as certainly as he'd felt his arm give. An almost audible 'click'. The last tumbler. The last lock, keyed not this time by hate, but a warm, caring touch…

Frodo opens his eyes, looks into gold-brown familiarity. "Let me go—"
 

Sam scrubbed gently at the rest of the mud from the pale face. "It's all right. It's done."

Frodo didn't seem to hear him, He was stiff as a caber in Sam's supportive grip, only his whispers and his breathing and the heart hammering frantically against Sam's forearm even suggesting he was there. "Master Frodo?" he queried, becoming uneasy.

Frodo twisted in his grip. Sam's hands tightened. "Master Frodo?"

"No."

The voice compelled, but something in Sam's heart wouldn't let him obey. "Frodo," he said softly, forgetting any honorific in his sudden concern.

"No. Don't. Don't take me."

Something twisted inside Sam, hard and hungry and hurting. "Just lie you quiet," he repeated miserably. "It's over now." The mud-streaked, white face raised to meet his. Blue eyes opened and there was something there, hectic and wild, that halted Sam in his tracks.

"Let me go." A plea. Still, Sam disobeyed.

"I can't," Sam told him simply.

"Let… go," was the choked reply, "I… can't hold it… all in… if you won't let me…"

Tears, and a plea, and a deep, deep well of whirling something behind those eyes, empty and bottomless, transfixing, asking. Frodo tried to pull away; it was a rather weak effort, as if he wasn't sure what he was doing. Sam did the only thing he knew to do; he pulled him even closer against his chest.

It felt right, but the reaction was all wrong. Frodo twisted in his grasp with a cry bursting from his chest. "Let me GO!"

Suddenly instead of an injured, terrified hobbit Samwise held a raging storm in his grasp. Frodo literally exploded against him, struck out at him with feet and his uninjured arm, and the sudden power in it was surprising, throwing Sam backwards. Frodo lurched upward, tripped, almost fell again, then bolted.

Sam sat on his backside in the dirt, stunned past reasoning.

And Frodo was gone.