"Well, mister Bilbo's called it the Party Tree for as long as I can remember," Sam was saying. I'm not sure there's a couple in Hobbiton that hasn't been handfasted 'neath its shadow, or a birthday party that hasn't been toasted nigh to it…"

Frodo had been too exhausted to write; left too numb by simple physical reaction to question. In consequence Sam had drawn closer once again, possibly sensing the wane of Frodo's self-imposed solitude, as if Frodo was one of the plants or animals that Sam so doted upon.

"The only reason Tithing's held in the Grange meadow is so the carts can come directly in. No room nigh to th' Party Tree."

The weather had held warm for days, now. Frodo was still unwilling to open his window, but to sit on the front stoop and peer down into the Row and the Valley—there was still the sense of unassailability, here. Not many would pass over the Hill's crest, save those who had business here, and those few were expected, known.

At Bilbo's—and the Widow's—insistence he was still well-wrapped in woollen cloak and thick quilt against possible chill, but the sun was out, fingering warmth over him; Frodo's unwillingness to bestir himself from Bag End had begun to slowly melt away beneath that warm radiance. He kept closing his eyes and raising his face to bask in it.

Earlier the Gamgees' voices had wafted softly from the side gardens; Sam's high tones that occasionally warbled into a deeper state, and the Gaffer's rougher voice. A pair of swallows had chattered in the wainscoting behind him; when Bilbo had first brought him out here they had dove at him, defensive sickles of brown and blue. They had quieted, however, when he scarcely moved; he turned his head to see them, perched in their little mud and daub nest, eyes brightly riveted upon him as if reserving judgment.

For some reason they had returned early, a promise of spring past the early, hard winter.

But now—at Bilbo's pointed request of the Gaffer—Sam was seated beside Frodo on a milking stool he'd cadged from somewhere. There was a book held firmly open in his lap—as if it were a recalcitrant kitten he had to bathe, Frodo thought with soft amusement. But Sam had, moments before, read the words out loud with a competency that merely proved he'd spent more than a few afternoons in such practice. Until Frodo had asked him about the huge oak that dominated the valley.

"You're falling asleep, master Frodo," Sam broke off his recitation with the mildly injured statement.

"I'm sorry," Frodo mumbled, not because he was altogether sure he was sorry, but because placating his earnest companion seemed the right thing to do. He was sleepy, this much was true. In fact, he was flat worn out from an assisted walk to the outdoor privy.

Sam gave Frodo a look that seemed to mix fondness with severity. "I'm thinking you did too much today."

"I just went to the privy!" Frodo protested.

"Aye, and mister Bilbo taking you the long way around from the front door. M' Gaffer says you've got no more sense than you should, being a tween, and mister Bilbo needs to take more care..." Sam seemed to realise mid-harangue that he was being impertinent and said, lamely, "Well, he does."

Frodo's lip curled with a soft smirk. "Bilbo doesn't listen to much of anyone, does he?"

Sam sighed. "Daisy's told me more than to the once't she's right worried that he'll push you back into being sick."

With a distinct heat in his cheeks, Frodo closed his eyes. He remembered several days previous, when Daisy had come in the Widow's stead to check on him. Finding him nearly asleep, she'd put a cool hand to his cheek and whispered him awake, talked to him with quite frank concern, then kissed his forehead as she'd left…

"Samwise!" The Gaffer's voice rose from just out of sight, about the curve of the kitchen gardens; Sam rose with a dutiful shrug.

"Comin' Dad!" he called back, then looked down at Frodo. "You're falling asleep, 'tennyrate," he said with a shrug, then placed the book carefully down next to Frodo and strode off, presumably toward his father's whereabouts.

Beneath the welcome pressure of silence and sun, Frodo did fall into a half-doze. He wandered in and out, sometimes aware of the birds and the Gamgees' voices, sometimes not. It took the approaching sound of a solitary pony to bring him to some semblance of awareness, laying a quiver of unease through him—though not enough to make him open his eyes, or move. Hopefully it was merely a dream…

But the hoofbeats came ever closer, slowed, abruptly danced a little in place then stilled. Then a voice, rather choked, speaking his name.

"Frodo?"

He knew that voice. His eyes flew open.

On the other side of the gate stood Merimac, reins held limply in one hand, mouth half-open and eyes wide. "Frodo?" he said again, hardly a whisper.

Frodo couldn't move, couldn't speak. He wasn't sure how, but the pony was left ground-tied at the gate, that gate was flung open, and Merimac was suddenly stumbling to his knees before him, his head falling into Frodo's lap.

Still Frodo was mute. He tried to form words—Merimac's name, anything—but nothing issued forth. Instead he reached out, tangled his fingers into those bistre locks, tried to pull up Merimac's face to meet his. His cousin refused such urging, burrowing tighter against Frodo's lap; his browned hands had clenched strongly into the blankets, those broad shoulders shook, and Frodo suddenly realised that Merimac was crying.

It loosed his vocal cords, if only a little. "Mac?" he whispered.

"I didn't know," Merimac said into his lap, and Frodo's heart lurched and twisted tightly at the raw distress in that voice. "I've been out past the Bounds on the North-most run; we were locked in there by ice and snow."

Frodo kept murmuring his name, began combing his fingers through too-straight, wind-snarled hair.

"I didn't know. No one told me, I had no letters, nothing. If I'd known, I swear I would have come…" Finally Merimac did look up, and Frodo saw the harsh lines etched into his cousin's face, the lack of sleep in those swollen grey eyes. The uneasy nights Frodo had spent wondering after he'd finally sent that letter—the doubts, the imagined dangers and humiliations—it all rushed over him, tightening his throat and chest painfully.

"Mac," he whispered, "I wrote you. I wrote you and I wrote Merry. And when you didn't answer, I was afraid that something had happened, or…" he trailed off miserably.

"Or that I'd forgotten you? Never. I keep telling you that, you know, and you don't seem to hear me. Nothing happened but the bloody weather." With each word Merimac's voice was returning to some semblance of normal strength. "We broke a mast because of the ice. The River was a nightmare. We limped and swore our way back down to Buckland. Had I known even a hint of what had happened, I would have come," he insisted. "Somehow."

"I know," Frodo said thickly. "I was… foolish, to doubt."

"You were," Merimac said fiercely, then his voice went coarse, threatened to break again. "They gave me your letter. They had it at the Hall. I read it, and they told me you'd almost died."

He had gotten the letter. And he was here. Now. "Mac…"

"I almost lost you, and I wouldn't have even known it when it happened."

Frodo once more felt that tight, painful lurch of his heart within his chest.

"Sara and Esme told me. I left the moment I heard—Sara came to Gillyflower the night after we docked... last night, I rode all night..."

Again, the fierce twist in Frodo's chest. With a smile that threatened to spill over into tears he pushed the hair back from Merimac's forehead. "You look it."

"Well, you can give me a bath later," his cousin retorted, albeit shakily. "It's been a bad night and I've not gotten much sleep. Esme said that you were recovering. Sara said—and I could scarce believe it at the time—that it might have been better had I taken you. It was he told me you'd almost died."

Frodo kept running his fingers through Merimac's hair, and wondered when the tables had so turned, that he should now be the one offering comfort, that he should now be the one angry at what burden had been placed—surely unintentionally, but still placed nonetheless—upon his cousin. The same cousin who shouldered burdens or shucked them aside with deliberate ease, but had bent, somehow, beneath this…

"Frodo, I heard a—" Bilbo came through the Bag End entryway, stopped dead at what must have been a strange tableau: the pony nibbling at his hedge, Frodo bent forward, Merimac kneeling before him with head and hands clenched in Frodo's lap.

Frodo suddenly realised that the Gaffer and Sam were also watching from the kitchen side of the smial. Beneath Frodo's sudden notice, the Gaffer coughed and shook himself into action, striding forward to save the hedges from the marauding pony. Sam just stood and gaped.

"I take it," Bilbo said slowly, and there was an odd edge to his voice that made Frodo glance sideways at him, puzzled, "we've a guest. Merimac, I think Frodo's been concerned, not hearing from you, but I know you've quite the knack for landing on your feet."

"It seems our young cousin does, as well," Merimac said, and stood up with a light pat to Frodo's cheek. It was a relief to Frodo, who wasn't quite sure what to do with the exhausted and overwhelmed hobbit who had descended upon him; he could see, from Merimac's expression and the crimson tinge to his weather-browned cheeks, that his cousin belatedly realised this.

It was quite the experience, though, seeing Merimac blush. Frodo hadn't thought he'd known how.

"I'll take the pony…" Merimac started, but the Gaffer halted him.

"Nay, sir, I'll have my boy here take him for ye," he said, grimly pulling half-chewed greenery from the pony's mouth. "This en't the best forage for ponies, 'tennyrate, they've no stomach for such… Samwise!"

The lad jumped at his father's call. "Sir?" he said, reluctantly pulling his eyes from the scene.

"Get over here, boy, stop yer gawpin' and take this pony to th' shed, see to him for mister Brandybuck."

Sam quick-stepped over, taking the pony's rein. He shot another puzzled glance at Frodo, who shrugged with a slight smile. As his father gave a meaningful jerk of his greying head, Sam led the pony away.

"Sir," said the Gaffer to Bilbo, "are you needing me to send May up to get any rooms ready for your… guest?" His mien was certainly respectful; however Frodo had to stifle a smile as the gardener's eyes raked over Merimac's unkempt appearance, took measure and found it sorely lacking.

Bilbo was also peering at Merimac still with that indefinable expression; he seemed to shake himself as the Gaffer spoke to him. "I beg your pardon, Gaffer, what did you say?"

The Gaffer slid another sour look towards the upstart newcomer, then turned back to his master and politely repeated, "Should I send my girl up to see to the rooms, mister Bilbo?"

With his usual aplomb, Bilbo had recovered and turned to the Gaffer with a smile. "My thanks, master Hamfast," he said, placing a hand on one stooped shoulder, and directing him towards the gate. "That would be quite welcome. I'll walk with you, if it's all right; I do have some questions about those new seedlings Sam is raising in the greenhouse." He hesitated, turned to give Frodo a piercing look. "If you don't mind, my boy?"

Frodo shook his head.

"Well, then. It won't take but a moment." He turned back to the Gaffer, started down the Hill. "And master Hamfast, I've also heard tale of a new variety of potato from the north—do you think it would…" His voice grew fainter as they traversed downward, and the gardener was starting to answer with some authority as they rounded the first corner.

"Bilbo has his coxswain in old Hamfast," Merimac suddenly said, very quietly, his eyes scanning past the two older hobbits to the bottom of the Hill, where a lad and pony could just be seen heading for the stables. "And I'm thinking you may have found yours, master Baggins."

Frodo peered at him, thoroughly confused. "My what?"

Merimac shook his head with a small chuckle. "Never mind." He reached out and tugged at Frodo's ear, then ran his fingers up to the thin mark on Frodo's forehead and cheek, trailing the pads of his fingertips over them very gently, one by one. "Someone did a frightful job of giving you a haircut, lad," he said, purposefully light. "And now you've some scars of your own, it seems, for comparison when you have your own young and gorgeous playmate."

Frodo just looked at him, feeling as if that heart that had been twisting and leaping within his breast was now about to burst. "I don't want another playmate. I have you."

A smile graced the dirty, lined face. "That you do, my dear." The smile slipped, chased itself away, but the fingers never stopped their hesitant, gentle path.

"Frodo," his cousin suddenly murmured. "In your letter. You said… you said that you had so much to tell me."

"How long do you have?" Frodo murmured back, still looking up at him. The soft touches on his face were igniting nerves he'd thought long gone, forgotten.

"Right now," Merimac answered, "I've as long as you need."

* * * * * *

Merimac got his bath.

Frodo wanted to be the one who got it for him; Bilbo had come back in time to nix that with a "You'll bloody well not!", Merimac protested that he'd take a hose off under the rainspout first, and Daisy arrived behind Bilbo, firmly stating that May was bringing the linens soon, but in the meantime she herself could be getting a bath for Himself's fine relative, just see if she didn't.

The two older males got out of her way with some alacrity and alarm. Frodo was amused by this, but was unsure he was similarly amused by the way Daisy kept covertly eying Merimac.

Merimac, unfortunately, had noticed this. Once he was submerged to his collarbones in hot water, he and Frodo left alone in the bath-room, Merimac grinned a bit maddeningly. "She's not exactly my type, lest you forget."

Frodo, who had been tempted to join the bath but rather unwilling to suggest it in front of either Bilbo or Daisy, ducked his chin into his collar and flushed, moving carefully towards the seat carved into the wall. Not only had Frodo felt a distinct and rather-dismaying surge of territoriality about Merimac, but there had also been the perplexed wish that Daisy would scale him with her eyes as she had his cousin.

Merimac watched his progress with an edge to his glance that seemed almost angry; Frodo gripped tighter the walking stick that he could, more and more, do without and hurried to be seated. There was a distinct silence, broken only by the 'tap-tap' of the wood stove expanding with heat, the slosh of water against wood, and a heavy sigh from Merimac. A knock at the door made Frodo start in his chair; after a small pause Bilbo re-emerged, half in and out of the little doorway.

"I wanted to let you know," he said, "that Daisy has insisted upon preparing supper herself."

Frodo wasn't sure he liked that, either. And he still wasn't quite sure he understood why.

"And after supper, Merimac," Bilbo continued, his eyes glinting strangely in the room's muted light, "I'd like a word with you in my study, if I may."

Frodo shot first Bilbo, then Merimac a puzzled look. Merimac didn't return it; in fact, there was a light in the grey eyes to match Bilbo's as he met the old hobbit's gaze and answered, "I'd welcome the word, Bilbo; I've a few of my own to share with you as well."

"Hum," said Bilbo, and turning on one heel, left the room. The door shut behind him rather firmly.

Knowing that something was afoot, and also sensing that it somehow seemed to focus about himself, Frodo started to open his mouth, ask what on earth was going on.

Merimac beat him to it, but not with any answer to the question Frodo wasn't sure how to ask. "Next time we'll bathe together, eh?" Merimac grinned at him, that too-broad and wide expression that always seemed to hold too much impertinence even if the subject was totally innocent. "I'm too filthy to contemplate anything but solitary bathing at present, anyway."

An answering smile tugged at Frodo's mouth, but a tiny shiver of discontent rippled down his spine as he watched his cousin sink beneath the water.

So much had… changed. Would this change, as well?

He wasn't sure he wanted things to change… but to stay the same was unthinkable as well.

Something of his inner disquiet must have communicated itself to Merimac, for his cousin's brow quirked and he angled forward, leaning his forearms on the tub sides. "Frodo?" he queried softly, and the gentle compassion on that sun-lined face was almost more than Frodo could bear.

"I've missed you," he said fiercely, and Merimac's concern lit up into a smile.

"I've missed you as well, my dear," his cousin said and, leaning back, grabbed for a round of soap.

* * * * * *

Sam was not very happy, and he wasn't sure why.

It was a definite comfort to hear his father's grumbles on the way home from the end of their day at Bag End, and those grumbles directed at gadabout relatives who should keep themselves to their own place, no matter how queer that place was, and not be bothering the Squire with visits out of the blue.

Upon arriving home, Sam had given May and her playmate Hyacinth Tunnelly—over to share the baking chores—a hand. He ended up dropping the rack of fresh baking when he heard May giggling with Hyacinth about how when she'd taken the laundry up to Daisy for Bag End, Daisy had told her it wasn't a chore at all to fill a tub for young master Frodo's cousin—particularly when he'd peeled from his waistcoat and shirt before she was done.

As an entire day's work went skittering over the floor. May had descended upon him furiously and smacked his pate, told him he was being a silly git and to pick up that bread before the mice came a-runnin' for a free feed.

Sam had done so, huffing with annoyance. And just how was he being a silly git? He wasn't the one making cow-eyes over some old and odd bit of riverhobbit. He'd dusted the loaves with exaggerated care, put them in the baking safe and gladly escaped the girls' insinuative gigglings

Now he was lying in bed, tired but not sleepy, his mind going in various uncomfortable circles. He didn't like it when his thoughts were too busy… and he just didn't like Frodo's Brandybuck cousin, and that was the truth. All this coming and going, up and leaving without even a 'by your leave'… and if no one else had seen the look in Frodo's eyes as Merimac had arrived, Sam had, and it was like there was a large rent that had appeared, and without the usual cool protection that was there otherwise. Master Frodo was still too poorly for this sort of carry-on, this back and forth, couldn't they see it?

Sam hadn't missed mister Bilbo's irritation; in fact he'd welcomed it, more proof that he wasn't the only one as saw this.

However Sam was rather dismayed how fiercely he wanted to plant a good jab of the fist to that cheeky, no-good riverhobbit's eye.

* * * * * *

Supper was very, very quiet. Particularly for Bilbo, who could be silent but preferred not to; mealtimes at Bag End had so far consisted of Bilbo waxing loquacious about a variety of things, most of them fascinating—and he hadn't seemed to mind one whit that Frodo hadn't much to offer in exchange regarding mealtime conversation.

This was different. Even Daisy recognised the stilted atmosphere; she'd met Frodo's gaze quizzically several times as she'd served the meal, and once finished with that had refused Bilbo's offer to sit at table and gamely quit the field, claiming family obligations.

"Lovely lass," Merimac had said in her wake. "She'll teach you a bit come Ploughing, that one."

Frodo flushed and smirked; Bilbo said, with some spirit, "I'd rather you not talk about my beholden tenants as if they were riverside wenches, if you please."

That was uncalled for, surely. Frodo blinked; all Merimac had done was make a perfectly legitimate comment about something the entire district knew about. And Frodo had no doubts that Daisy would be fine and fair… this time such contemplation pounded at and heated his ear-tips. He applied himself assiduously to the lamb chop on his plate. There was no doubt that Daisy also knew quite a bit about cooking—it was delicious, spiced with rosemary.

Merimac seemed totally unscathed by Bilbo's terse comment. "Mm. The riverside entertainers could teach us all a thing or two, actually. Fine business sense, all of them, and what tricks they don't know aren't worth learning."

Bilbo started to reply; Frodo spoke quickly, forestalling… well, he wasn't sure what. "Merimac, I didn't give you my birthday's present."

Bilbo huffed and looked down; Merimac turned to him, not breaking his easy pose at all. "And when did you have the time to get me anything, silly lad?" He reached over, tapped at Frodo's cheek. "Between being so sick and laid up." At this last, he cut his eyes over towards Bilbo, whose own eyes narrowed.

Eagerly, Frodo started to get up, grabbing for his walking stick. "It's in my press, I'll get it—"

Bilbo shot up so quickly it was a surprise his chair didn't fall over. "You sit; if you're so intent on giving it now, let me get it for you."

Merimac frowned up at the old hobbit a bit quizzically; suddenly the idea of giving Merimac his gift seemed a truly unsuitable one, particularly in front of Bilbo. Frodo hunched his shoulders and shook his head.

"No. No, I'll do it later. If that's all right?" he queried of Merimac, whose somewhat-irritated expression softened as he turned towards Frodo.

"Whenever, whatever; it's all perfect for me, my dear," Merimac said, smiling. "I'm grateful that you thought of me. So I'm not about to be greedy, though I will admit to having my curiosity piqued. Mayhap we can spend a little time together in Bilbo's famous garden and you can give it to me there if you like."

Another spasm of unease twisted itself in his gut; Frodo dropped his eyes to his plate, managed to say, "Perhaps…" and stabbed his fork at another slice of lamb, aware of not only Merimac's but Bilbo's gaze riveting to him. And they kept looking at him. A spark of pique flared in his breast, lonely and untoward, but there.

"I won't break," Frodo said mutinously, and stabbed at the beans this time. "You don't have to keep peering at me as though I might."

When next he peeked, both older hobbits were industriously attending to their meals. The sudden satisfaction it gave was well worth the slight culpability at speaking so.

* * * * * *

Merimac played the grateful and helpful guest by insisting upon doing the dishes, rolling up his sleeves and blowing soap bubbles off his palm into Frodo's lap. The display coaxed smiles from Frodo, but seemed to just ratchet up Bilbo's grumpiness.

"Can't you do any job without playing?"

"Ah, ah…" Merimac wagged a soap-laden finger at him. "Be careful, old hobbit, you're sounding more and more like my father, eh? Or my brother."

"I am nothing like your brother—" Bilbo began rather heatedly.

"In fact," Merimac continued as if the interruption hadn't occurred, "I learned the fine and fickle art of playing through the work from your mother's family. Paladin was all for play as a young lad; such a Took, my old Pal."

"Paladin grew up," growled Bilbo.

"Oh, and surely you know Paladin much more than I." There was a slight hint of waspishness in Merimac's tone, but he didn't stop smiling or washing the dishes.

Frodo decided that he, like Daisy, would retreat from the field while he still could. "My head hurts," he lied. "I think I'll go rest for a while."

Immediately all was solicitousness and concern. Bilbo offered to help him to his room; Merimac's eyebrows gathered rather thunderously and he gruffly wondered if they were talking too loudly. Frodo fought off both over-reactions with an insistence that he could walk by himself, thank you, and yes, he would appreciate some quiet. In his room. Alone.

It was wonderfully peaceful and dark there. The sun was in the west, so there were only roseate reflections in the skylight, and he'd drawn the curtains on that wretched garden earlier in the morning, and there were no well-meaning and annoyingly attentive cousins hanging about to make sure he could breathe on his own, and it was just… so… quiet…

He took off his waistcoat and unlooped his braces to let them hang at his hips, rotated his shoulders where the braces had chafed—he had only lately begun wearing them again, and his shoulder tendons had softened while he'd been a-bed. In fact, most days lately he felt like a huge lump of uselessness, and he wasn't too terribly appreciative of Bilbo pointing it out in front of Merimac…

Of course, was he much better, pleading a headache, of all things? Like some swooning, over-stuffed-into-her-dress lass?

With a silent snarl, Frodo toppled into his bed.

It did feel good, though, to just lie surrounded by soft, rosewater and wind-scented sheets. The weather had been so fair, lately, that the washing in consequence smelt heavenly, not tainted with the musty tang of winter indoors…

"He's been up and down so many times, he's on a rack, and now you arrive, the adventurous and randy cousin straight from some tale—"

"Bloody damn, Bilbo, this is not one of your wretched stories!"

Frodo sat up, twisted about to see that his door, which he had quite firmly and loudly shut behind him—show them he was weak and unable!—had in fact come open once more. In consequence Bilbo and Merimac's voices—not loudly raised, but strong and emotive—carried easily into his smial.

"And what do you think it'll do but confuse him more?" Bilbo overrode any protest angrily. "Because I know you, young hobbit, and you won't stay put for long."

Frodo started to move forward, close the door. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't.

But once he reached the door, he didn't complete the motion of closing it.

"As to that, I think the pot's calling the kettle black, old hobbit." The exchange of obvious nicknames held little fondness. "Why don't you just say what you mean, eh? It's not Frodo you're thinking about—it's yourself."

"That's prepost—"

"I am, yet again," Merimac said, and it was oh, so icily courteous, "in the way. In your way. How tragic, considering."

Frodo no longer even wanted to close the door. The tension of the past afternoon made sudden and unwelcome sense.

It was about him.

It made him angry. He leaned heavily against the sill, almost not recognising it; such anger was an emotion he'd lain uneasily with since… since…

"Why are you here, Merimac?"

"You know bloody well why I'm here. I offloaded near Buckleberry, my crew exhausted from struggling down-River under jury-rig, only to find Saradoc waiting with a letter from Frodo in his hand—"

"Frodo sent you a letter?" The unpleasant undertone to Bilbo's voice was surprising—and confirmed Frodo's uncertainty about telling his guardian that he had indeed sent it. "So it was that brought you? Or was it the pretty tale your brother and his wife no doubt told you of my 'negligence'—"

"I have this habit of not necessarily believing 'pretty tales' from my brother or his wife," Merimac shot back, cold and clear. "Unless they aren't so pretty and smell of the truth."

"Truth!" Frodo could all but see Bilbo swell up like a mad gander. "I'll tell you right now, Merimac Brandybuck—"

"You'll tell me nothing!" Merimac snapped back. "Except what happened, and I'll have it right now, if you please!"

"I owe you nothing, and certainly not any sort of explanation given as if I were standing accused at Farthing-court!"

"You owe me the reason why Lotho was allowed near Frodo. Again." The words were bitten off, so quietly that it was clear exactly how furious Merimac really was.

"You say that as if I all but shoved them together and—"

"Bloody damn, Bilbo, the lad is walking with a cane."

There was a thick, heated silence. Frodo leaned more heavily against the doorframe, tears stinging his eyes. He blinked them angrily away.

"I trusted you, old hobbit," Merimac said into the silence, and his voice shook. "I trusted you to look after him."

"What was I to do, lock him up and never let him out?" Bilbo retorted, just as shakily. "That miscreant sod of a Sackville-Baggins waited, and watched, and made sure there were none about. Never for an instant did I think—"

"Never for an instant did you think Lotho would set himself against you, did you? You were so sure, were you, that your precious place and name would protect Frodo—that same name Frodo is so unsure is his in the first place?"

Frodo's eyes widened at this.

Merimac continued on. "Don't look so surprised. You're so sure, so smug in thinking you know him, eh?—but there are others who know him, too, and I've known he thought himself a bastard since the first whispers of it. I've even heard that some elf prince sired him, which is bloody preposterous—and unlike myself, you knew what was true, but I didn't see you trying to settle those rumours!"

"Now see here—"

"I do see, Bilbo, more than I frankly would like, and as to that Sackville-Baggins snot—he's a reprehensible turd who only cares for what he can get and what price he'll pay to get it, and if you refused to see it then you are negligent! He tried Frodo on the outskirts of a child's birthday party, for the Mother's sake!"

Bilbo made no reply.

"And doesn't master Lotho have that Baggins surety in spades?"

Bilbo still did not reply.

"What happened, Bilbo?"

No, Frodo thought shakily, don’t tell him… I need to tell him, I need to look in his eyes, I need to know…

"I was gone," Bilbo answered finally, woodenly. "I had business just downHill. I still don't know exactly what happened, but Lotho beat Frodo, and would have taken him had not the gardener's lad interrupted."

"And Frodo became sick from the beating; he got the lung sick, Esme said, and brain fever from the damage to his head."

"I…" Bilbo started, then fell silent. Frodo breathed a silent invocation to whatever spirits—earth, wind or water—would hear him that Bilbo went no further, explained no more.

"Is Lotho still about?" was Merimac's next demand.

"Curse it, no!" Bilbo fairly exploded. "Do you really think I would let him remain after what he did? Faith, the entire community cast Lotho out—Frodo has been chosen as the young laird for harvest, and—"

"How convenient, tying him here."

"Frodo chose to stay here. With me."

"It isn't Frodo's choices that I question. It's yours."

"You have no idea—"

"I think I do, Bilbo. You took responsibility for him; face up to it! You miscalculated. We all did, every one of us, and every one of us has to answer to what happened because of it!"

Frodo blinked.

"That's why I'm here, old hobbit. That's why. And if you can't or won't understand that, then perhaps Esme's right and you've no business fostering a half-grown tween, even for a little while!"

Suddenly there were heavy footsteps thumping toward the easterly half of Bag End; Frodo twisted, tripped himself up and almost fell, shuffled as quickly as he could to the bed and fell into it, pulling at the coverlets to right himself just as those footsteps halted before his door. His open door.

One of the longest moments of Frodo's life passed. Then that door began to open, wider and ever so slowly, to reveal Merimac standing a bit pale-faced just beyond. For several moments he peered at Frodo sprawled ungracefully across the bed, then he said, very quietly:

"You heard."

* * * * * *

"Bilbo isn't happy you're here, is he?" Frodo said. He was looking at his hands, which were still fisted in the coverlets.

The door was still not shut; however Merimac had gone to see if Bilbo was about and, finding him closed into his study, had come back to seat himself at the foot of the bed. One hand curled about the end post, as if for support, Merimac shrugged at the obvious understatement. "I suppose he isn't."

Frodo looked sideways, and Merimac saw a glint in those eyes. Almost immediately the pointed chin quivered and set itself, as if refusing to give into the luxury of tears. Oh, lad, lad… still?

"Frodo, I'm so desperately sorry. Had I realised you were… well, I would have insisted we take it outside. Or something."

"And I would have continued to watch the two of you dance about me and not understood why," Frodo retorted, still not meeting his gaze. "That's so much more fair, isn't it?"

Merimac's mouth tightened.

"Mac, I didn't want…" Frodo started, faltered as Merimac kept peering at him. What he did say was not what he'd intended to, Merimac was sure of that if nothing else. "It wasn't Bilbo's fault. It wasn't yours."

"There aren't many things I'll allow to being responsible for, but you and I mean a bit to each other, so that holds me responsible." Merimac's gaze locked those blue eyes to him, held firm. "It also holds to you."

Frodo's brow twisted uncertainly, but he didn't look away. There was a distinct longing in those eyes, which hardened as Merimac spoke further.

"When I left here, it was under the impression that Bilbo would be able to look after you."

"If that's what you mean by 'responsible', I don't want it. I don't need to be looked after," Frodo said tightly. "As if I were a bairn."

"My dearest," Merimac said, in gentle contrast. "Look at what happened. You almost died."

"But—"

"And it has nothing to do with being a bairn. Berilac's mother is no bairn, believe you me, but the responsibility between us is there, bound by our son. It means we care enough to look after each other if it is necessary. Bilbo took that same duty in regards to you, but he didn't treat it seriously—"

"You don't know that."

"I know that he was too bloody overconfident. He was so sure that he understood you, and understood you enough to see that nothing would happen to you. But did he truly understand more than any of us? Enough, anyway, to stop any of it? Please, correct me if I'm wrong."

"He couldn't stop it, don't you see? It was… Neither of you…" Frodo trailed off, once again looking rather miserably at his hands folded into the covers. "It wasn't your fault that you didn't know. It wasn't his fault that it happened. He didn't do anything."

"I'm well aware of what he didn't do," Merimac said, very quietly. He reached out, covered both of Frodo's hands with his own and began resolutely untangling them from the bedclothes. "Perhaps you should tell me what he did do."

"He was… he was here."

The blurted-out words cut all too sharply, and Merimac's face must have shown it, for Frodo immediately protested, "No. I didn't mean it like that… not that way." His words were earnest, begging comprehension. "I'm not really sure how to explain."

"If you don't explain, how can I understand?" was Merimac's quiet counter. "Frodo, my love, that's a responsibility that you've never wanted to hold to, and perhaps it's time you tried."

Frodo flushed, then went pale. Slowly, he nodded, biting his lip, and Merimac felt a pang at the acquiescence, wondered what indeed had happened to make such possible. Frodo took a deep breath, with a hint of wheeze to it that intimately reminded Merimac how a brush with death could change many things. "It wasn't… I mean it was not just that he was here. But everything he did was… not because he felt he had to. I didn't want to take anything from him… only I had to. I was… very sick, they said."

"Yes." It was a whisper. "They did."

"I couldn't do much, for so long… and it never seemed to bother him. I was always a bother to Aunt Esme and Uncle Sara…" he trailed off as if half-expecting Merimac to correct him, but Merimac didn't. He knew. Frodo gave him a shaky smile at this, slowly continued.

"Bilbo… he never made a fuss, never… made me feel awkward… or beholden. Though I… I am beholden, I know." Frodo swallowed hard. "Every time I would open my eyes, if he wasn't here he made sure that he was within call, or that somebody was. But it was never… too close, if you understand."

Merimac remained still, listening, his eyes never leaving his cousin's face.

"He would tell me stories. More often he would just be silent, and sit with me. He listened, even when all I could say made no sense—he listened to me as if it did make sense, or as if it would." He raised his eyes, met Merimac's own. "Once he brought me a writing desk, and paper, and a folio to keep it in… and then he left me there with it, let me alone, on my own, to just…" Frodo's voice tightened, scaled upward. He looked down, the faint crimson of blood-tint and the ink of half-closed lashes staining his cheekbones.

Merimac was silent for long moments. Then he squeezed the hands clasped in his own and rose; going over to the window, he parted the curtains and looked out for long moments. Finally he glanced back at his cousin, who sat with a patient and almost-numb wonderment that cut into his composure akin to a whip-lash.

"Frodo," he finally was able to say despite that heart-breaking expression facing him, "do you remember Munro?"

Frodo blinked then answered, obviously confounded, "Yes. He's your coxswain, the old hobbit who sees to the management of Gillyflower when you're not there."

"And when I am there. Believe me, I couldn't make do without Munro. But I owe him a lot more than that. "

"Mac," Frodo said worriedly, "what—?"

"Aside from our cousin Paladin—and he had troubles of his own with the choices I had to make in the end—Munro was the only person who was ever, as you say, 'there'."

Frodo's mouth was open, his eyebrows furrowing together; bewilderment attempting understanding. Merimac considered that it was a bit pleasant to have that particular oar on his side of the barge for once and smiled, continued.

"He was the one who first set my hand to a tiller. He was one of the only riverhobbits who didn't just toss a rich brat of a stowaway overboard—or debate what coin he could wrangle from the Master of Brandy Hall for the return of his youngest. Munro listened to me brag that I could set a sail—then fished me out of the River when the boat jibed. When I learned to heed him, he said more with what he did than what he said. I knew, when I was with him, that it wasn't so odd to burn for the water—because I saw the same fire behind his eyes." He took a deep breath, seeing the dawning of comprehension in Frodo's expression.

"Lad, if in this time Bilbo has been one tenth to you of what Munro was to me… if Bilbo gave you one tiny jot of the belonging and acceptance that Munro gave me… well." Merimac shrugged. "I can forgive quite a lot, in that case."

Frodo was silent, eyes cast downward, hands still clenched in the bedclothes. He looked disturbingly frail, thin, and strangely naked without the tangled fall of hair to cover his eyes—altogether more vulnerable than Merimac had ever, ever seen him.

"Will you ever…" the soft voice was hoarse, tight. Afraid. "Can you ever… forgive me?"

And if that wasn't enough to twist his guts into knots. Before he even realised what he was doing, Merimac had crossed the little smial and sat down, pulled Frodo into his arms.

Frodo was indeed far too thin—Merimac felt as if he were holding a bird against his chest—but that heart was hammering strong, and Frodo's return embrace had, if not the strength of before, a fierceness that protested weakness. "What is this," Merimac chided against the short curls of Frodo's temple, "about something to 'forgive'?"

"I was so… so unkind to you…" Frodo said into his neck.

"You were hurting," Merimac soothed. "Even your not-so-sharp cousin clocked that. When you hurt, it's oft-times hard to consider what you're doing to yourself, let alone others."

"I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry, Mac, I didn't mean it… but… I couldn't… couldn't let anyone in. Do you see? If I had let anyone in too far, then the rest of it would have come tumbling out…"

Merimac wasn't too sure that he understood what Frodo was talking about; neither did he care—this was achievement beyond hope, the simple concession made. Instead he laid a kiss to Frodo's temple, ran the back of his hand across Frodo's cheek to the nape of his neck.

A strange shudder went through Frodo's body; for moments Merimac thought he would pull away, then he pressed closer, all but burying his face in Merimac's chest.

"Even now," he murmured. "It's all… too close. I don't think I ever want to feel so much again."

A frown gathered itself on Merimac's brow; he started to speak then caught sight, above Frodo's dark head, of Bilbo walking past the doorway. The old hobbit stopped midway past the open door; Merimac cursed himself for not closing it, then cursed Bilbo for not merely continuing on, making an issue of it. Bilbo took in the sight—boy, bed, bounder cousin—with not a little chagrin, then met Merimac's eyes levelly. He made a light-seeming gesture, as a swordsman would acknowledge a well-made hit and, turning about, continued on to wherever he'd been heading in the smial.

Damn you Baggins, Merimac thought, and said lightly, "You're wavering on your feet, my dear. Perhaps you need to take some rest?"

"I'm tired of resting," was the peevish response, and Merimac grinned, glad to hear it. Nevertheless, as he pushed Frodo back slightly and grasped him by the shoulders, he knew by the lined quality of Frodo's face that he needed respite.

He was more than glad Frodo hadn't seen Bilbo. Of course, the old hobbit hadn't intended that Frodo should, had he? Bloody stubborn Baggins…

"Fair enough," Merimac told Frodo, "but take pity on your old cousin. I rode all night, remember? Why don't we go into your uncle's garden and be lazy for a bit?"

He wasn't at all prepared for the reaction to this.

"No!" It was obvious Frodo thought to pull back, and heartening that he didn't; instead he went very still. "I don't want to go there. Maybe we can… Can't we just sit in the parlour for now?"

"All right. There's nice window seat there; we can curl up there," Merimac said, still lightly. "Just like old times, eh?"

Frodo looked up at him, uncertainty still lacing the smile he gave. "If you like."

It took a while to get settled; the window seat was wonderfully wide, but as such meant more pillows had to be used to pad it into comfort. Once there, Frodo relaxed against the more-solid pillow of his older cousin. He spent far too long fighting obvious sleepiness; Merimac remained quiet, and finally Frodo passed out.

Merimac sat there cradling him for some time, listening to the stirrings of the birds in the eaves and the wind against green. It was more like to early spring than winter—the weather had just been bloody odd, and that was all there was to it—but it didn't mean Merimac wasn't set to enjoy of it what he could. He inhaled deep the crisp air and listened to his younger cousin breathe; the halting quality of said breathing made his lips compress thin.

Finally it was the reality of his buttocks tingling painfully on the hard seat that made him realise it would be best to move; gently he gathered Frodo up and took him back into his own smial, bemusedly contemplating yet another Baggins' stubbornness—it would have been easier on his own tired anatomy had Frodo just stayed put. Frodo murmured several times—once when they first moved, the second when Merimac rolled him carefully into bed—each time Merimac laid a kiss and a murmur of his own against Frodo's cheek. He covered Frodo up then straightened, looking about the room.

It had become, he suddenly realised, so completely different from Frodo's shared dormer at the Hall. Books lay in seemingly-unsteady ziggurats upon whatever flat surface was available; a small table held a writing desk, ink, and a paper-filled, green folio that had to be the one Frodo had spoken of with such odd tenderness. There was a pile of laundry in a basket at the bed's end—well, somewhat in the basket, anyway—and several cups on a table that hadn't yet been cleared away. Things were strewn about—personal things.

There was no sense of so much locked away, protected, kept safe from whatever peril might lie in wait. It was not kept barren in its neatness.

It was, in fact, a normal tween lad's room.

His eyes fell upon the large window at the far end. Treading softly over to it, he noted that it, unlike just about every other window in Bag End, was not open to the abnormally-fair weather. It was, in fact, latched. And the curtains had been closed, before Merimac's own hand had drawn them aside.

Shards of dying sunlight met his eyes as for the first time he focused past the window—a glasshouse, by wind and water! No wonder Bilbo had out-of-season produce on his table, if he had such a fine thing in his garden…

Merimac's pleased smile sobered. For long moments he contemplated the little world just past the firmly-latched window. He angled his head to take in Frodo, still slumbering in his narrow bed.

Abruptly he left the little smial, covering from east to west end with quick, long strides. Bilbo's study door was open; Merimac walked several paces in, halted, didn't wait for Bilbo to turn from his hunched-over seat at his desk or acknowledge him.

"It happened in the garden, didn't it?"

Bilbo, pen in hand, stilled and looked sideways at him. Merimac waited, peering back. Then Bilbo nodded and turned back to his work.