Flight. Ill-considered, stumbling. Over the wicket gate, not through; down the Hill proper, not the road, away from hearth and care and shelter that wasn't his and had never been, never would be…

Fear. What few people he passed leapt from his way—their motions quick, their recoil measured out in real time. While his panic snarled, snared him, trod his flight into unreal and slow measures of heartbeats and breaths and footfalls…

Entrapment. Halting groans escaped him as he fought the clinging mud, finally slogging his way to the borders of the field. The relative ease of going on firm, wet grass gave him wings and he ran, gasping and sobbing and unstoppable.

Voices. A dragon screaming, fanning its wings against heat and pain. Mutters and clucks and memories, spilling over sensation and filling his mind, foaming up to fill his throat and his lungs, choking him with nearness. With fire and air and awareness…

Refusal. He tripped, fell headlong, rolled a fair ways before he regained his feet. He skittered across a path, made an unsteady detour across a newly-ploughed field, sank nigh to his calves in mud and chop. His mind was ablaze with unformed impulse, with need, with terror. Renunciation no longer sheltered him, no longer held him on rational course, no longer secured him to now…

Awareness. It took him, screaming out of the dark and the deeps, pulverising long-shored walls of denial into dust. It was unstoppable. It pursued him, drove him, whips and teeth scoring head and heel. He couldn’t stop. He couldn't turn. He couldn't face it.

He wouldn't stop. He would run until his heart burst within his chest and then, perhaps then, it would all be over.

* * * * * *

Bilbo walked the Hill only slightly aware, his senses turned inward out of a wish to shut out the constant barrage of Lobelia and Otho detailing to Hiram Fastburrow exactly what they thought should be done about That Miller Sandyman. The Gaffer walked just behind him, also paying little attention to the Sackville-Bagginses, muttering softly a list of chores yet to be done before sundown. The Mayor was being his normal, good-natured self, answering their vehement conversation with polite diffidence. The action taken against Sandyman would necessarily be punitive—and Bilbo was very glad of that—but Lobelia's taste for revenge had gotten the better of her on more than one occasion. She'd always taken slights, imaginary or real, too much to heart—even as a young lass.

Rory had said on more than one occasion that any hobbit's discomfort with roots and social standing was sure to match their desperation to better themselves. Bilbo didn't agree with all of Rory's broad prejudices, but this one had a great basis in fact. Particularly with Lobelia's constant demands for attention, her blatant attempts to prove herself as a cut above the rest—she was a sad example of how a hobbit could take the blessing of opportunity and employ it not fine, but sour.

Miller Sandyman was another of that same ilk. Even when faced with hard evidence and a small but angry cadre of gentlehobbits, the miller had simply become more surly and obstinate. It had been his son Ted who had finally given, plainly not wishing to be tarred with his father's brush. The tween had confessed to knowing that his father was up to something, but had been just as unwilling to come forward against his own family. Bilbo was a bit sceptical of this, but accepting as the old miller, faced on two fronts, had become penitent. Neither of them were evil souls, and certainly they weren't worth the dire retribution that Lobelia kept trying to cook up. Thus Bilbo's invitation up to Bag End, to cool tempers with a spot of tea and come to some understanding without the guilty parties standing right there, invoking resentment.

So occupied with his own thoughts—and the sudden hope that Frodo was somewhat presentable for the impromptu company—Bilbo didn't even notice the familiar environs of his smial, only pushing the gate and motioning his guests up the walk politely. It wasn't until he heard the Gaffer blurting out his youngest son's name that Bilbo realised that all was not quite right.

Bilbo jerked his gaze towards the easternmost side of Bag End. Sam was standing there, shifting from foot to foot, dishevelled and splattered with mud. A load of Bilbo's best linens lay upended into the garden loam. There was an uneasy silence about Sam, a look to him suggesting dire things in the offering.

"D-dad. M-mister Bilbo… Oh." The grey-gold eyes moved to Lobelia warily.

Bilbo hesitated about two seconds, then he had darted forward to Sam's side. The Gaffer was on his heels. Left standing on the coping stones, Otho made a sour mutter of protest, Lobelia demanded to know what was going on and the Mayor gave a questioning noise.

Once he was on that side of the smial, Bilbo could see into the gardens and—more—what lay there.

"Oh, no," he said, and strode forward.

"Mister Bilbo, I—"

"Not now, Samwise." He bent down beside Lotho, saw the blood and mud and marks of quite a scuffle. Touching fingers to the side of the lad's throat, Bilbo was relieved to find a steady thread of movement there. He started to reach out again then halted, unsure and realising that he had absolutely no idea of what to do next.

The Gaffer had also bent down, shucking off his coat. "How long's he been here like this, boy?" he demanded, covering Lotho's prone form.

"Dad, I—"

"Bilbo, what on earth ails you!" Lobelia's voice came about the smial, obviously primed for full harangue. Bilbo looked up, saw his other guests behind her, wondered what for pity's sake they were just staring for, then realised that none of them could see exactly what they were bent over.

"Bilbo Baggins, I can't say I understand what this is all—"

"Lobelia," he said urgently, "shut your mouth and come here, for pity's sake."

Then the Gaffer moved from her line of sight and chaos ensued. Lobelia gave a cry and ran forward; Otho not two paces after, minus the scream. The Gaffer was shoved aside, Lobelia was bent over Lotho with a very real panic stirring in her eyes, and Bilbo looked up at Otho, who was whiter than his unconscious son.

"How did this happen?!" Otho demanded.

"I'll go and get the Widow!" Fastburrow turned and swiftly retreated down the Hill.

"Miz Lobelia," the Gaffer stated, "you've got to back off that boy, give him air—"

"You're getting above yourself, Gamgee," Otho growled, kneeling down to put a hand on his wife's arm.

"Stop it, right now!" Bilbo snapped. "He's only trying to help."

Lobelia had jerked back at the Gaffer's admonition and eyed him sourly, but she stayed back. Such calm didn't last, however, as she cupped her palm about Lotho's temple. Obviously somewhat conscious, he jerked from her touch and they all saw the ugly, jagged gash across his skull.

"He's been hit with something!" she shrilled.

Samwise started to reply, and Bilbo saw momentary fury in the beginnings of it, then Sam's eyes flickered downward. Bilbo wondered if he'd imagined it as the lad stayed silent, shifting his weight back and forth.

Lobelia, however, had also obviously seen something; she started to rise. Lotho gave a groan and she stayed put, cradling his head in her lap. Otho had no such constraints.

"How long have you been here, boy? Who did this?" Otho demanded of Sam. "Did you see what happened?"

"I—" Panic was starting to set itself into Sam's clear visage.

The Gaffer had also stood, eyes narrowing. Bilbo watched from his kneeling position beside Lotho's haunches then said, suddenly, "Where is Frodo, Samwise?"

Definite panic.

"He did this, didn't he!" Lobelia proclaimed. "That foundling sneak of a Brandybuck did this, and—"

"No, ma'am!" Sam protested. "No, it wasn't like that—"

"Then who did?" Lobelia demanded, still nigh to the top of her lungs. "Who else would have reason?"

About half the lads in Hobbiton, Bilbo thought acidly, and reiterated, "Samwise, where is Frodo?"

"He en't here," Sam said quite vehemently—and truthfully.

Bilbo rose to his feet slowly.

"He's done this and run off!" Lobelia insisted. "Bilbo, if you'd just listen to sense you'd know that boy wasn't to be trusted, but you always think you know best—"

"No!" Sam protested. "Master Frodo didn't… didn't run off! He… he wasn't.. wasn't here when I—"

"Why are you here, boy?" Otho said flatly.

"I-I had to deliver some laundry for m-my sister," Sam started actively to stammer.

"So what do you know about all of this?" was Otho's next suspicious query.

The Gaffer was staring at his son as if he'd grown horns. "Samwise, boy…"

"What happened, Sam?" Bilbo asked again, quite softly. Sam's eyes flitted to him, pleading, then to his father, then to the Sackville-Bagginses.

"Boy," the Gaffer said tightly, "did you do this?"

Sam's face went blank, then reddened. He lifted his chin. "Yessir. I did."

"What?" This from Lobelia and Otho both.

"Samwise!" the Gaffer seemed stunned at the answer—and Bilbo knew it was not from the ability of his youngest to fight. Sam had taken part in many a young lad's brawl and roustabout… no, this was based on the realisation of exactly who Sam had knocked down, this time.

"Sam…" Bilbo started.

Again the lad's eyes flickered toward his; the contact broken as Otho swore roundly and Lobelia started in again.

"How dare—this is outrageous, Gamgee! This goes past fisticuffs—Lotho has been hit with something, and—"

The Gaffer was peering at his son with a white face.

"I want him punished for this!" Otho was demanding, very loudly. "This is beyond belief—this is criminal!"

Sam was trembling, white as his father, his head lowered but standing his ground. "As y' wish, sir," he said levelly, and the tone of it brought Otho up short.

"You insolent little—" he started forward. The Gaffer jerked, and Bilbo strode forward, put himself between Sam and Lotho's irate father.

"Otho, for pity's sake, that's enough!" Bilbo protested.

"What seems to be the trouble here?"

Bilbo had never thought the Widow Rumble had the best tact, but right now he could have kissed her in sheer gratitude for her timing. Otho whirled as the dame came into the garden, flanked by Fastburrow. Soaring tensions were defused quite adequately as the Widow went straight to Lotho's prone form, peppering his parents with questions and giving instructions to all and sundry. Bilbo started to sidle over to Sam, then his Gaffer ordered:

"Samwise! Go get the Widow's trap, hitch it to the bay mare, and be right smart about it!"

Sam gave Bilbo another worried look, then ran to obey.

The barn was quiet, a thick, sweet-smelling peace after the muddy garden. Sam's hands trembled slightly as he quickly brushed off the pony that did duty for the Widow's needs of wort-and mid-wifery; his fingers actively shook as he took down the harness from its peg, quickly and capably fitting it to the mare. Tears kept starting in his eyes; he dashed them away angrily time and time again.

It was passing strange, how furious he was that his garden had been used as…

As what? It wasn't his garden, anyway—listen to him saying 'his' garden as if 'twas so, and he had any say over what was done to or within it. More likely than not it would end up going to those Sackville-Bagginses when mister Bilbo died and then he'd have poisoned trees planted in his magical place, not just poisonous things happening!

A sob rose in his chest and his quivering fingers snarled in the black mane as he combed through it.

It was wrong, and unnatural, all of it! He didn't know who he blamed the more—Lotho for doing what he had, or Frodo for coming into his existence and making him feel all tight and strange inside—only that the blame was also wrong, and he didn't know what to do or how to act. What was proper.

What was right.

He closed his eyes, laid his forehead against the mare's furry neck, inhaled the wholesome smell of horse and leather. It almost took away the other smells:

Blood. Stale, fear-sharp sweat. Mud.

Sam would never have believed that he'd ever find any of those enough to turn his stomach. Particularly the last…

Mud. Lotho kneeling in it and pinning his slighter cousin down in it—not to give him pleasure, but to hurt him.

How could anyone do something like that? How could even Lotho Sackville-Baggins do something like that? It was wrong. It was wrong.

Sam shook his head, dashed his hand over his eyes as another sobbing catch of breath took him. He backed the pony from her stall, walking her over to where the carts were stalled, several in a row. Capably he turned her, angling her between the shafts of the Widow's trap.

The mare was calm, standing solid as a rock despite Sam's own agitation. His hands faltered as he wrapped the traces about the shafts. He was a fool, and a worse one than he should be, to be this upset over it all. It wasn't as if that Brandybuck lad cared, running away to leave him with a proper mess. Running away, like Sam had heard he always did, even in Buckland…

Those other times Frodo had run, had that look of absolute terror been crawling behind his eyes? Had he been so wild and panicked before? Had he fought against a soft hand as if touches like Lotho had offered were the only ones he could ever, ever expect?

The look on Frodo's face when he'd knocked Lotho down.

The fact that he'd done it to help Sam.

And the awful sense that Sam had felt, deep in his bones—a queer discomfort embroiling within, as if in witnessing Frodo's vulnerability Sam had somehow betrayed him.

Sam swiped at the tears on his cheeks again, finishing his work. As he turned to lead the harnessed mare from the stable he halted, seeing who was in the doorway.

"Samwise." Bilbo's voice was very level, and very quiet. "Where is Frodo?"

"I…" Sam took a shaky breath. "I don't know, sir."

"Samwise." There was no quarter given in that voice, cold iron in the set to those narrow, stooped shoulders. "What happened up there?"

Looking away from Bilbo's unrelenting gaze, Sam clenched his jaw. His fist tightened on the rein in his hand. The mare tossed her head in surprise at the grip.

"Sam." This time there was a hint of desperation in that steely tone, "I need to know what happened. What really happened."

Sam threw him a panicked look.

"Lad, you don't understand what—"

"I do. I do!" The words burst from him; the truth, raw and unmanageable. "But…!" and he shut his mouth, looked away.

Nevertheless he could feel the old hobbit's eyes upon him, silent and contemplative. "Sam," Bilbo finally said, "why are you doing this?"

"Samwise!" His father's call echoed down the Hill, only slightly muted within the stable. Sam started forward, but mister Bilbo didn't move from the doorway. Sam stopped, inner conflict waging itself harsher with every breath he took, with the glint in mister Bilbo's eyes, with the sheer fury in his father's voice.

"Mister Bilbo, I have to—"

To Sam's vast relief, Bilbo moved from the door, let him pass. But the wheels had barely cleared the entry before the old hobbit's voice sounded again, all too quiet.

"I know you didn't hit Lotho, Samwise."

Sam halted, turned back to throw Bilbo a cautious glance. He wasn't even sure why he was doing it, why he was suddenly so wary of this hobbit who'd never been anything but kind and giving to him. Only…

Only that there was certainly no reason either, that Frodo should be wary of Bilbo. But he was, and Sam felt that there had been some kind of uneasy accord between himself and Frodo… and not only that but there had been something in Frodo's eyes that had begged for… refuge.

"Oh, Sam," Bilbo said sorrowfully, "do you really think Frodo needs protecting from me?"

"He's been in trouble before."

Bilbo contemplated his gardener's son, eyes narrowing. "And you think that because he’s a name for it that I’d automatically assume the worst?"

"Begging your pardon, sir," Sam retorted vehemently, hardly understanding why he spoke the words but only knowing that he wouldn't—he couldn't—betray this. He had to hold to it. He had no choice. "I’m thinking that everyone else has!"

A roar from uphill. "Samwise!!"

Bilbo mounted the cart and took the reins. "Get in, Sam."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I should—"

"I said, get in."

Sam got in.

By the time they crowned the Hill, the Widow had taped Lotho's broken nose, bandaged his head, proclaimed that he was simply and truly cold-cocked, nothing more, and had prescribed several days rest to insure it. Sam held the pony, jiggling the bit in her mouth to distract her while the adults loaded the injured tween into the trap—no small thing, Lotho not being exactly a light load even conscious. It took a while, but once accomplished, the Widow gave a satisfied grunt and took the reins from Sam's hands. He didn't miss the concerned look she bestowed upon him as she mounted the cart.

"I'll be back with the Widow's return, Gamgee," Otho pronounced as he and Lobelia also stepped into the cart. The Widow slapped the rein against the pony's haunches; the trap lurched into motion.

Sam stepped back, shot a quick glance at Bilbo, who was frowning, then looked at his father. The Gaffer's face was set and white as he turned from the retreating cart to his son.

"Get home, boy."

"Yessir," Sam said hoarsely and started to obey.

"Master Hamfast," Bilbo began, "you know as well as I that Lotho most likely started whatever…"

"I thankee kindly, mister Bilbo," the Gaffer said with utmost courtesy—and undeniable chill, "for trying to excuse my boy. But there en't no excuse for him raising his fists towards his betters." Sam watched as mister Bilbo started to speak, then visibly went silent as the Gaffer continued, "A rock, Samwise, have ye lost your senses? You could've hurt that tween, and bad." He turned from Bag End and started out the gate. "Home, boy. Now."

Sam leapt to obey; Bilbo grabbed his arm.

"Sam… this isn’t over."

The lad flung a glance at his father. "Aye, and I know that, sir."

Another roar. "Samwise!!"

Sam angled toward his father's voice obediently; Bilbo immediately released him and he fled down the Hill.

* * * * * *

It was a tree that finally did halt him. First roots to catch his toes, then the fall into air and momentary nothingness, then the trunk, solid and unforgiving, slamming into his chest and his face.

Panic broken by pain, throbbing along every nerve he possessed, swinging him dizzily upon a shrill, sensory wheel. The green-sharp tang of bark filled his senses, almost overwhelming the coppery taint along his bitten tongue. It was a copse of yew enveloping him, cool shadow and damp green. Tatters of bark hung like ragged clothes, baring crimson wood beneath, and red glimmers peeked at him from the evergreen; berries formed in the autumn's turning, just as he himself.

Silence. Frodo hung there against the tree, his toes throbbing and his hands scraped and his nose bloodied, possessed of a sudden and lucid hope that the fierce impact had stilled the voices.

It had happened before—it could happen again. He'd done it, he knew it now—silenced it all, locked it away in some airtight compartment in his mind, only… only now he knew what was happening and what he'd done and that knowing was, somehow, his undoing.

Awareness had always been his undoing.

No. Frodo lurched upward, tried to gain his feet. His ankle twisted in the root that still held to it; he was thrown against the tree trunk once more. His arms flailed; one flashed fire, grating against itself—this time pain betrayed him, made him remember how it had happened…

Frodo dug his fingers into the bark; it peeled away, baring crimson beneath to match the crimson berries amidst its evergreen. He slid, accidentally shoved his sore shoulder against the trunk; pain flashed up and down his arm, then ebbed into a slow throb. It echoed the pulsing of his mind, the opening of his senses. Nightmares. Flashes of happenstance, of knowledge, of long-secreted memory.

Panic had vanished. In its place was an inexorable and stilling vortex, taking him down. Taking him back.

"O…once upon a twilight…" the mutter burst from him, "th… there was a maiden wh…who lived in the West…"

"Sh-she was beautiful," he stubbornly overrode his aunt's censure, "and fair as the d-dawn… but she was cold, and would touch nothing, would…"

Frodo shook his head, slapped aside memory of his uncle's voice—and what events had caused Saradoc to lose his well-known aplomb. "..w-would hold to no man. Sh-she wore her solitude… like a cloak of stars…"

He squinched his eyes shut. "She would venture upon the land… far from her m-mother's keep, to… to claim the starflowers from th-the fields…"

It wasn't working. The stories were bringing no peace, no release, no…

No. It was the wrong story, that was all. It just required a different story. Frodo gritted his teeth. "He hangs," he tried again, voice breaking into the rhythm, displacing it. Different tale, different ending.

"For nine nights upon nine he hangs… wracked upon the cliff in pain… w-waiting." A shudder claimed him, Frodo continued deliberately, "He knows… knows his kinsman will come, will claim his rescue, sh-shall help…"

Help. But I have none to help, none to claim me…

"Sun bakes," he stated firmly, "and starlight chills, but he holds tight to life… to the…"

"Th-the… song of th-the stars…"

The Song. Maedhros hears it also. He is the Song; he has it pumping through his nerves, through body and bone like blood, like life…

"Thangoro…drim," through gritted teeth, "is his prison—"

"Morgoth… is his gaoler—"

"But he had to wait… the… the stars… their Song could not help him," Frodo whimpered, "for it could not unmake what he had… made of… it…!"

The song swells to a shriek. The embrace, so warm and vital, twists within and spins upwards, the pitch of his own blood speeds and strives to meet it. Her heartbeat—his heartbeat—their heartbeat—slows to a crawl, then speeds, burning…

He retched against the wood, clinging. Even the stories betrayed him, even they refused to re-shore the walls, to silence the howl of memory. Instead they encouraged, permitted play behind his eyes—a jongleur's tale in which he should never have taken sentient part, a song weaving through his blood and bone, his ethos and essence. And within that line of gossamer, otherworldly connection he was tangled, bound open, knotted into the knowing of what he should not have been aware of.

No. He cannot know this, cannot remember this. He is hearing voices… he is hearing her voices.

It is not… possible.

"Stop it," he pleaded. "Now…"

Frodo writhed against the thick burl of the yew, inadvertently striking his temple against it. The blow shot him back into now like a bolt into a well-oiled latch. The vision, temporarily broken, wisped away to fragments beneath simple physical duress, and he slumped, struck by the relief within the pain.

He could see branches reaching for the darkening sky. He could hear birds calling the dusk. He could breathe, could smell his own blood commingling with shredded bark and mist. It grounded him, earthed him, made him once again aware of now—he escaped gladly into the momentary surcease of it.

But it did not last. Not enough. Glimmers of appearing stars blurred before his eyes, taking him back…

"No more," he husked up to the sky. "No more. Make it stop."

He thought, for moments, that he could hear the stars… singing.

* * * * * *

"Why, boy? Why did you do it?"

"I had to."

"Why?"

No answer. The Gaffer shook his head, raised his arm. The rod whistled through the air and struck. Sam jerked against the barrel his father had made him bend over. At least the Gaffer didn't make him pull his trousers down like the Rumble lads had said their ma did to them…

"What did he do, Samwise?" His father voice trembled. "Did he hit you first?"

"Even if he did, you'd not let me fight back," he muttered against the hard wood, and the rod whistled through the air again, landing hard. Tear sprang in Sam's eyes.

"What would make you do such a thing?"

"I had to."

The rod bit into his buttocks again. His father growled, "I want a better answer than that. I deserve a better answer, after what you've done."

"You don't care why I did it," Sam blurted out, "you just care that I did it! And to who!"

The next strike was wielded with enough force to make him yelp, quickly followed by two more.

"Why?" the Gaffer roared.

"I had to!" Sam shouted back, against the barrel.

Another swish of air; Sam braced himself, but the blow never came. A harsh knock of wood to wood made him jump; out of the corner of his eye he saw the birch rod clatter against the wall of the shed and hit the floor, roll away. Slowly Sam unclenched his body, and his father's voice gritted into the stillness.

"Get to your hole and stay there!"

He didn't wait to be told a second time. Sam skittered for the door, feeling stabs of discomfort running down his thighs. Another sound, this one softer, stranger, came to Sam's ears as he reached the door. He stopped, looked back.

His father was looking after him rather bewilderedly, tears staining his seamed cheeks.

* * * * * *

He rolled against the bark, slamming his head back into it. Harder. Respite again, pain shattering focus. He could see again, could see the forest about him, could see the sky through grey branches and amber leaves despite the blur of pain and tears, and a small cry mewled in the back of his throat at the release.

It lasted longer, this time. But it didn't last nearly long enough.

"No. No. Please…" With each sob of breath, each shattered negation, Frodo drove his skull against the hard wood of the yew. Each time, it broke him from the apparitions. Each time, they returned more slowly. Each time, reality warped beneath him, morphed, ran backwards, ahead, ran…

He writhed, hung there, held to it, rammed his consciousness against it. "Stop…" Another dull thud, flesh against bark. "Please stop…" Thud. "I… I can't know this…" Thud. "It's… impossible—!"

Only one way to extinguish the blaze within. Only one way.

"I'll make you!" he stammered. "I'll make you be still, I'll—!"

Frodo had names for them—has names for them. He knew—he knows them, all too well.

Fear. Devotion. Surrender.

He knew… he knows what his father, cornered and driven past any reason, did—and will do.

Time is telescoping, past/future/present all of one, but Frodo does not yield. He didn't/doesn't want to know. He didn't/doesn't want to be held within this sway of fire and song, doesn't want to be there, again, as it happens. He is dragged along in her wake, twined fast in a song of Other-ness, and he tries to break away, tries to stop it, stop it, stop it.

Frodo rams his head into the tree so hard that lights flash behind his eyes. The world heaves about him; agony loosens his grip, makes him slide in limp shock down the trunk of the ancient yew, forces the breath from his lungs in a muffled shriek, as

No longer.

Warmth upon his eyelids, thick and heavy as blood. Frodo takes in a huge gulp and somehow it is air, not water, that fills his lungs. But nevertheless it is dark, and peaceful, making the voices fall away beneath the final hum of shadow and undertow.

* * * * * *

"Elladan," his brother said quietly, insistently. "There is a new voice within the stars."

They had stopped to see to Elrohir's stallion—he had trod on a sharp stone, and bruised the sole of his hoof so badly that they would need to rest him at least through the day and night. Elrohir had been packing the hoof with healing moss and cordial from his stores, and Elladan had been whetting the edge of his knife, humming an ancient, nameless tune, paying little attention to his twin's progress.

Elrohir loosed the horse's foot—it was well bound and padded—and leaned against the beast's shoulder with a seeming casualness… unless one peered into his eyes. They roiled like a summer storm, grey and blue, black and green.

Elladan started forward, his brows drawn together in shock and dismay; Elrohir held up a staying hand, although that hand trembled.

"Can you hear it, brother? Do you know it?"

Faint and young, new and faltering—yes, Elladan could touch it; it trembled like a captured wren as he bent his mind about it.

"I heard it when he was made, again when he was born." Elrohir's voice was calm, almost rote, but within his eyes still smoked the outward manifestation of inward travel. "But now… it is changing. And once challenged—"

"The stars will answer," Elladan said, low. "The song of making will not turn aside. It cannot."

"It knows him. It reaches for him. Even the stars begin to sing of him—to him—Elladan. They have laid claim. Something has… happened."

A quirk settled between Elladan's brows; he put a hand to his brother's whipcord shoulders. They trembled.

"Fate runs apace," Elrohir whispered, "Time seeks to take us up and mock us, because we know it not. In my ignorance I commingled mortal and immortal fire, and the carnal plane seeks to re-claim what I had thought to steal."

Elladan inclined his head until it rested against his twin's. "Then we shall run, you and I together. We cannot leave your mount alone and wounded—the wolves would take him. Let his brother remain with him, as I shall with you, both of us set to stand with the other."

Elrohir looked down, then nodded.

* * * * * *

Several people had seen the lad: "Aye, and pelting down the Hill so fast you'd think there was a pack of wolves on his heels!" as one miffed matron had put it. She had dropped her basket of potatoes as Frodo had brushed past her. Bilbo apologised and kept up his search. Several children had seen the lad labouring across one of the Cotton's newly-ploughed fields—sure enough, he had seen signs of a hasty struggle across the muddy earth, a line of retreat. While further investigating this, Bilbo had come across a few more people who'd seen Frodo—again, running—but no clue as to where he'd gone or even exactly when they'd seen him.

When he halted at the visible signals of the lad leaving the muddy field, there was nothing more than a few muddy footprints, their orientation obliterated by several wagons that had obviously passed through since. Nothing remained that would give further clue as to where Frodo had gone. There were essentially three ways: one leading to the easterly copse of trees, one headed to the Water, one headed to open farmland and, as the crow flew, towards the Tooklands. None of these choices seemed better than any other—and all had within them thousands of places a tween could hide should he choose.

However choice implied choosing, and from all he could see, Frodo's escape had not been considered, or even careful.

But from what had he escaped?

Helplessness literally swamped him, a deep sense of accountability and the inability to cope with such. Bilbo stood in the cart paths dividing Cotton's south section and the flood plain leading to the Water, clenching his teeth and his fists.

In the end, he went back upHill.

The garden—that plot of earth still unplanted as of yet—showed signs of a struggle. No longer tilled in soft, wet rows, it looked as if there had been a pig rooting and wallowing in it.

What in the name of the Valar's song had taken place here? Had all of this occurred before or after Frodo had flown, and what had driven him to do so?

Lotho. Bilbo wrapped his arms tightly about himself, looking out over the seedling expanse of rye that led to the Water. But Lotho would have to have been driven past any sense Bilbo knew he possessed to make another try at Frodo, and in the Bag End garden of all places.

Granted, from what Frodo had said, Lotho had tried him in less private places—a party, a bathhouse. But Lotho had known something then about Frodo that no one else seemingly had—that the boy was naïve, that he had no defenders he felt he could to turn to, that Frodo would more likely retreat inward than lash out when threatened. Bilbo frowned, realising how much time and effort it would have taken Lotho to learn so much from an obviously-reticent Frodo. He was dismayed by the sudden realisation of how far Lotho's fascination must have gone.

And perhaps still had?

It made absolutely no sense. The ramifications of being caught were too great—not only for Lotho, but when held against what his mother and father would do should they find that their son had in any way fouled their chances at inheritance of the coveted Bag End. Sometimes Bilbo wondered if the only thing holding that lad in check was his mother's will and his father's whip—he truly didn't want to see the day come when Lotho grew to not heed the effects of either.

One of Bilbo's best linen shirts was on the ground; he bent and picked it up, found it streaked thickly with mud. He gave a puzzled sound, clenched his fist in the soiled shirt.

Sam had claimed he'd been the one to knock Lotho out. Even without questioning the veracity of that, the fact remained that Lotho had been liberally coated with mud, and Sam had been merely splattered. Therefore, something else had happened. Bilbo seriously doubted that Lotho had been rolling in the mud by himself.

If he'd hurt Frodo…

Fury twisted into fear, raked chill down Bilbo's spine. He had the sudden wish to run himself, to somehow find Frodo, to hotfoot all the way to the Sackville-Bagginses and shake Lotho into consciousness and confession, to race down the Hill and pry the truth from Sam.

More evidence: Bilbo let out a low sound of dismay as he found his large Sindarin/Westron text splayed and bent against the wicker bench. He quickly picked it up, inspected and smoothed the offended pages with considerate fingers. His eyes flickered over the garden as he did so; a small splash of white in the torn-up wet earth made him slow his motions. He replaced his book carefully on the bench, strode over and stopped, the small flash of pale lying between his toes, a sheaf of parchment lying not two hands from it.

"Prim's book," he breathed, and knelt, taking it up as tenderly as he would a broken-winged bird. "Frodo… oh."

Several pages had torn, mud caked the back cover, the front binding had come nearly away. There was a small pocket in the cover there—he knew of it, for he'd been the one to set it in there, a hidden place for Primula to keep their correspondence should she wish—the other scrap of parchment must have been a letter within it. With a frown, he tucked the damaged book beneath his arm and opened the small paper. He recognised Esmeralda's careful, practiced hand:

The tone of it was pleadingly naked, and so unlike what Bilbo wanted to know of the Mistress of Brandy Hall that his cheeks burned and he immediately folded the parchment shut. He took the book from under his arm and started to tuck the note away into the pocket, then frowned. It showed signs of being sealed past its pocket opening, a thick line of glue to cover the small pocket, as if someone had wanted to hide it, or seal it permanently.

Bilbo could not imagine Frodo doing this to his precious book, either gluing it improperly in the first place, or ripping at it like this. He rose to his feet a bit stiffly, pondering and fretting.

Further exploration offered up little else. Only Frodo's coat, clean despite being tossed up against the wall. A hunk broken away from the surrounding sod of Frodo's window. Footprints in the damp earth next to the window—but these uncertain enough, since he knew Frodo had at least once used it as an impromptu exit.

The sun had begun to set when Bilbo, books and jacket and basket of soiled laundry still in his arms, went into the house. He was only within for a short time; not five minutes later he came back out, puffing nervously at a fresh pipe, peering rather disconsolately down the Hill. He hung a lantern on the hook by the door, unblocked it so that light spilled forth, golden and welcoming.

"Come home, lad," he whispered into the coming night. "Please, come back. You can, I promise you."

* * * * * *

Lamplight splayed fitfully over the small desk; Merry had spent some time trying to arrange one lamp to viewing satisfaction with little success. It seemed that whenever he'd move his hand it would block the light, ensuring that he'd make a mistake. He'd used drying powder and scraped mistakes from the parchment going on five times now, and had finally gotten another lamp and placed it across from the first one.

Not for the first time, he wondered how Frodo had managed to write so capably in feeble light. Perhaps his fingers just knew the letters better.

Merry had never bothered to write after dark before, but the daylight hours were so busy that he had no time for this except just before bedtime. He had been trying to write a letter to Frodo for several days. It was not easy. Not that he didn't have a lot to tell him, but making the words say what he wanted them to was all but impossible, somehow. He felt awkward, not only with the pen, but with what the pen described. He either told too much, or too little. Also, some nights Pip insisted on creeping in to sleep with him as well, and on those evenings Merry got nothing written. He felt awkward trying to pen an important letter in front of someone. Pippin would understand, yes, and approve. But it still was hard. He'd not said what he wanted to in that first letter. He'd been too angry and hurt.

He was still hurt. One night he had growled and ripped up the letter into tiny fragments which he'd then fed to his little wood-stove one at a time. He'd spent the remainder of that night lying awake, imagining Frodo doing the same twenty leagues away—except he wasn't alone.  Frodo had his older cousin, didn't he, and Merry had nothing.

Well, he had Pippin, sort of.  But it wasn't the same; not even close.  He wasn't sure in fact what he felt about Pippin, was relieved that Pippin at least now had a bunkmate in the person of Berilac—even though that merely meant that sometimes both the boys crept down to his room and piled into bed with him if they got lonely or told themselves one too many scary stories beneath the covers. Berilac at least slept quietly when this happened, but Pippin kicked like a recalcitrant mule if he was dreaming, and Merry's dreams were formless things that made him wake gasping and hollow and irritable at Pippin for kicking him and being such a bairn.

Berilac was staying with one of his stablehobbit friends, but Pippin wasn't here tonight—he'd been off his feed at luncheon, with a dull glint to his eye and a flush to his cheek that had worried Esmeralda enough to set him to bed early in the nursery. Several of the common-folk had caught the crimson fever from a band of tinkers passing through; Merry knew that his mum had buried several young hobbits who'd taken that sickness and not been treated until it had taken deep hold. Any small sign of illness in the past week had been given all serious attention.

And why didn't you, Meriadoc? It wasn't her voice, but his own in answer.

The nib skittered beneath the sudden clench of his hand, and spattered ink on his thumb and half the parchment surface. Merry used a word for which his mother would have washed out his mouth with lye soap, had she heard it, and contemplated throwing the inkwell and parchment both across the room. Instead he lurched up from his desk and stalked over to the window, still using choice words beneath his breath directed at his unskilled hand, Frodo being gone, Uncle Mac being able to go and further suborn Frodo away from Merry, and Pippin being a tagalong irritant—the last just for good measure.

Then a scream rent the silence. Merry jerked about, knowing who it was before he'd even registered the sound of it.

Pippin.

He bolted for the nursery.

His mother was already there, trying to gather Pippin up in her arms; his father was standing in the doorway and Merry couldn't get about him, had to wriggle halfway through before his father registered his presence. But Saradoc didn't move over; he shifted to grasp Merry's collar, preventing him from entering any further.

The child was flailing wildly. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open and another high-pitched wail rose within the smial. Esmeralda put fingers over Pippin's mouth; Merry tried to wriggle free. His father grabbed tighter and shook him.

"Settle!" he was told, in a tone that brooked no argument.

He watched in agony as his mother pulled Pippin close, and rocked him, speaking in a low, unintelligible voice. Oddly enough it worked; Pippin stopped flailing, and started to relax into her tight grip.

"Shh," Esmeralda said to the child, still rocking him and giving her husband a meaningful, strange look that Merry couldn't decipher. "It's all right. Just a dream, love. It was just a dream." She didn't seem horrified, or even the least bit worried, intent upon calming Pippin. As if she knew what was happening—which made no sense to Merry, because his mother was always so down-to-earth, so unforgiving of anything that settled itself beyond normal ken.

When the child did finally open his eyes and stare up at her, his normally lively gaze was glassy-flat. Pippin kept shuddering and whimpering, and all they could get out of him was, "Frodo…! Frodo…!!"

* * * * * *

It is cold.

It is dark.

It is… forsaken.

The wind riffles chill song through the fur on his feet, the down on his arms, the hair on his head. The air is sent swirling in his lungs as he breathes it in, tiny pants. Cool shadow and damp green envelopes him, somehow familiar.

Slowly he is made aware of the sharp tang of sweat and crushed green, of damaged tree bark and clawed-up loam, but it is all but overwhelmed by a sticky, coppery taint that lingers in the back of his throat, hangs cloyingly in the air.

And silence.

He sees nothing, realises that he lies face down. Rolling his head, he grimaces as the movement causes discomfort, but nevertheless he tries to lift it. The act for long moments seems impossible, but he perseveres, and gives a short whimper as material—his shirt sleeve?—sticks crustily to his face before finally ripping away. A small frown pinching his brows, he slowly pushes upright, kneeling there for an indeterminate length of time as green-wet spins about him.

There should be pain, some part of him kens, but it is a faraway presence, possible threat but quiescent, a dragon sleeping and sated upon its gold.

Finally he can focus, see the green and wet grow stable, look down at what must be his hands. They are splayed between his knees, slender and nail-bitten but also scraped and battered, streaked with dark, thick stains. That same, quite curious substance also soaks one sleeve to skin, cold and dark-thick, had stuck that sleeve to his face.

This should be distressing, somehow.

Shouldn’t it?

One hand holds a scrap of parchment; he starts to open it but something deep within stays him, sings him nay, tells him plain as plain:

No.

Instead he haltingly extends his arms out before him. They seem light as down, floating. Despite the shadowy trees about him, light filters through the branches, rays of silver almost bright as day dancing over his arms. Splaying his unencumbered hand curiously, he gives his own skin deliberate consideration. It glows pale amidst the dark, frosty with starlight. His pupils open in the darkness, let in even more luminous fire. The starlight is… shimmering through his fingers, dancing, writhing, reflecting against his wide eyes, coaxing him to draw his gaze up… up…

The stars glitter through the branches, cold-forged silver upon his cheeks. He raises one arm to the sky, witnesses starlight dance about his flesh. Cold, white light spears his pupils, and eternal fire caresses him, and the hum of blackness and doubt is swept up in the sight and sound of that mind-bending vastness—

Melyanna… Iorhael!

—calling him. Bewitched, bewildered, he goes limp. His arms fall to his side and he collapses backward.

Pain strikes him from disorientation; the instant his head lands back against the tree trunk he gives a choked cry and rolls over, landing on his hands and knees. One hand slides down the tree's bark; it shreds beneath his grip, baring dark crimson beneath. The tree is bleeding, too. But earth cradles them both, soft and unmoving and protective…

As soon as the pain comes, it eases, grounded into the feel of the soft dirt between his fingers. The starlight seems swallowed into the dark loam, eclipsed somehow by the smell of earth and green. Another, more familiar awareness pulses against his fingertips. Too-transparent flesh gains substance. He blinks stupidly, staring at his hands.

They are pale, yes—but clutched in dirt, streaked with—with what? As he watches, another droplet of dark liquid falls onto his left hand. He angles upward slowly, a questioning hand rising to his forehead; stickiness and warmth and sharp pain meet his fingers like a spark to fur.

For moments he mutely wonders if it is his, the pain.

How did this happen? What has happened to him?

It is a name, somehow he knows this. His own?

Melyanna…

Familiar, even moreso. A soft call of starlight beckoning. Home! it sings, Come nigh, be ours, be belonging! The sky surrounds him, lit with frost and fire, curling about him; it molds to him like a lover, trills sweet song in his ears. With a shiver, he backs up into its caress. Soft and leisurely, at first easily borne; clear and cool with promise, with pure sensation that takes him, shakes him, fills him to near repletion with his need, with its sound—

—then twisting, changing, shrieking into a high-pitched chorus of love and betrayal and razored edge of uncontrollable awareness.

Choking, flattened, overwhelmed, he buckles and falls forward once more. Agony shooting through his skull, he claps his hands over his ears, trying to shut it out. More pain as his own fingers brush his battered head; a groan wrenches from his lips and the sound of that, hoarse and here, cuts through the melody of knowing as a hot knife through chilled butter.

Release. Silence. And darkness—blessed, blessed darkness. He clenches his teeth, shuts his eyes and huddles on the ground, whimpering, trying to collect who and what he is.

He… isn't sure.

Once he must have been… someone; once he must have existed beyond this place, beyond here. But something… something happened, and it hurt him, and that ill-lit corner of understanding knows just enough to realise that if he gives into the song and looks too long upon the starlight, it will overcome him. It will be his undoing.

He would lie out here, forever perhaps, ensorcelled to some eternal aria his small existence is not meant to bear.

For long moments he stays, hunched and panting as any trapped and wounded animal, so impressed into Now that he can think no further. He's not sure he wants to think further—if he reaches out to know, then the awareness might come again, the song might once again—

—take him, make him when he is already made, change him into… "No," he chants, hands once again over his ears, fingers pressing into sore places, driving him back into Now. "No, I won't. I don't… I'm… here." Yes, here: huddling on the ground, wrapping himself about his pain, breathing and bearing it, using it as cloak and shield and focus, for he possesses nothing else.

Yet still the song writhes about the edges of his consciousness, offering him Sight, and Sound, and Knowing. He has no place, and the stars are calling him home, and it is tempting, so tempting to just let their Song enter, take him and burn away what tiny, nameless and displaced creature remains…

Yet again the deep-set, inexorable something stays him. Yet again it tells him:

Slowly, torturously, he drags himself to his feet. Pinwheels spin dizzily behind his screwed-shut eyes; he stands, swaying, for a long time. There is no concept of Before, or Next—all that exists is Now. He clings to it. Now, he is hurt. Now, he must stay on his feet. Now, he has to find help.

Now, he must go… home.

Home. He stands indecisive, swaying with the breezes that toss the green-black tree branches above him. What is home? Does he have one?

Small glimpses flash through his consciousness, smatterings of faulty possibilities. A small cottage by the river… a huge warren by the river… a golden-haired boy with timeless love and fealty in his indigo eyes… swimming with that boy in the river, all bright sun and forever-green, all coppery silt and cool, forgetful darkness… Then wood planking beneath his feet, wind in his hair and wanting in his bones… broad arms to hold him warm, a deep voice to soothe him, an intimate touch to thrill and delight him…

But all of that exists in tandem with the copper-clouded river, and the thought of it somehow drives shards of agony through his being. He nearly falls, by some fierce act of desperation keeps upright, sets his face into the wind. It is keen as a knife, cool against the wet tracks of his own blood, his own tears and sweat.

As if he were some vulpine pup, one hand-tamed then loosed to fend for itself, all he senses is that there had once been safety, if he can but find it. So he begins walking, his steps slow and tottering. Oddly enough the motions strengthen him. The simple act of putting one foot down before the other on the solid earth sets him hard against the starlight's pull, allows him to dive into that small, feral consciousness where nothing exists but Now, and Forward, and Instinct.

He can run no longer. He must go home. Home.

He traverses quite deliberately, one footfall at a time… now, and now… and for lengths the trees protect him, shadows curling about him, but when he leaves behind their dark shelter, the combination of sky and stars and moon-silver is nigh his undoing. He recoils, draws into himself; for mad seconds it seems his very being throbs and echoes, the rhythm of making beating down upon him, uncontrolled, uncontained, wild and ruthless and pure.

But something within him knows that he is as wild and pure as any song-filled alien impresser—that certainty burrows inward, its strength loosing outward. Instinct. Home. Song. Stars. Other glimpses, unfamiliar yet somehow not. Vague snatches, possibilities of past, present, future—he cannot separate them: the road beneath his feet and voices singing merrily about him… green fields and a burrow filled with warmth, the smell of ink and pipeweed and parchment… salt-tang of a fey harbour and the sun settling into the west, sadness and a final, desperate freedom… dancing and music, fire set against the night, sweat and passion and belonging… fire in the sky, golden glint of rage and despair… cool moonlight waning through the forest…

Starlight gleaming, beckoning, speaking, singing.

His feet falter, tripping him; he falls to his hands and knees with a groan.

Again, blood drips onto his hands. Sensation grounds him. The earth cradles him in her womb of Now, reminds him that he is indeed Hers, not… Other. That he is indeed…

He is here. He is now, and instance, and impulse. He knows nothing else, feels nothing else, has somehow been emptied of all save the simplest and most basic drum of life:

Survival.