The words, however—long planned, thought out, written out—the words wouldn't come. Somehow they didn't even seem necessary. Merimac had come to know what was going on—not all of it, but enough—and it had changed nothing. Frodo had said what he'd most needed to say—I'm sorry—and it had changed everything.

Spoken words were not needed—unspoken was all. And spoken or unspoken both were not needing to be drowned in the very physicality they shared… this was an unusual and not altogether welcome change. Where passion had flared now rose uncertainty: Merimac's no doubt because of Frodo's physical condition, and Frodo's own…

He wasn't sure. Only that where passion had once lain now tension and anticipation and dread all bided. He wasn't sure.

The days passed all too quickly; soft days of companionship and easy silence and comfortable conversation. True to what he'd promised Frodo, Merimac's attitude towards Bilbo noticeably mellowed. It was definitely under sufferance, the change, but it was there—and it more avidly pointed out Bilbo's antagonism. Frodo wondered if Merimac realised this, decided that he did, and was no doubt getting a blackly humorous chuckle out of the entire thing. It was his cousin all over.

Said humour helped Frodo in what could have been a very sticky position. Not that it was an unfamiliar one; Merry had put him in it all too often.  Bilbo was as territorial as Merry, it seemed.

"How is he?" Frodo asked Merimac that evening.

Bilbo was not with them in the livingsmial—he had gamely endured several games of cards in which Merimac had won not just once, but multiple times. Frodo was quite accustomed to losing but Bilbo, not a good loser at the best of times and just prodded past his limit in this instance, had quit the field for the privacy of his study.

"Merry? He is just fine," Merimac said, fanning out his newest card hand and inspecting it closely. "He's still not sure what to make of me in the Frodo Conundrum, granted—"

"The… what?" Frodo let out a gasping laugh as he exchanged a card for one lying in the pile before him.

"You heard me." Merimac smirked, laid down a card, took up several. "The Merry-lad is as disapproving of me keeping company with you as that little gardener lad of Gamgee's—and even more obvious, which makes sense as he's more at stake, or so he thinks."

"You mean Sam? And Merry, he's just…" Frodo shook his head. "You talk nonsense sometimes, d'you know that?"

"No nonsense here, just keen observation. Young Gamgee has decided that he's your stalwart protector, and Merry just wants to be standing where I am now." His eyes slid up to meet Frodo's. "Even if he doesn't quite fathom why or how. He's young enough to think that he needs waste arrows on my threatening carcass."

Unaccountably, Frodo found his cheeks heating. "Merry doesn't understand. I'm glad he doesn't, not yet. And Sam… I'm not sure what to do about him. He…" He looked at his cards, didn't see them. "He took the blame for me, did you know that? I hit Lotho with a rock—and I wanted to hurt him, believe me—"

"I believe you. I'm glad you wanted to hurt him," Merimac said with his own bitter satisfaction, exchanging another set of cards. "I hope you scarred him decently."

"I… I think I must have. But Sam, he said he was the one who hit Lotho. He did it to… well, I'm not sure why he did it, but he did and I'm not sure I'm glad that he did."

"You don't know why?" Merimac said gently. "Really? Or is it that you just don't want to know why?"

Frodo hesitated. "Maybe," he finally said, low, "a bit of both."

"Well," his cousin answered, after a silent pause that acknowledged Frodo's candour, "I'll warrant—and I could be, as Pal would say, a proper gobshite here—but I'll warrant that yon gardener lad is fascinated and dithered by such as you. He's probably never seen your like his entire life, which is understandable to me utterly, for you're a rare one, Frodo Baggins, and that's the truth."

Frodo flushed harder. "I don't want to be… rare."

"Well, like it or not you are, so face up to it. You're the exciting unknown to such as young master Gamgee, and he's got the yen for such else he'd not be learning to read from your Uncle Bilbo, would he?"

Giving a shrug, Frodo scrutinised his hand.

"And I'd be willing to bet that anyone that lives and breathes gardening as that boy does, then to witness an exotic planting such as yourself, with himself a chance to tend it?" Merimac grinned maddeningly over his hand at Frodo. "I'm surprised he can contain himself."

"Thanks," Frodo said wryly. "It is so nice to know I'm some hothouse flower."

"Nay, I didn't say that. Though no doubt you have been, sick as you were. Nevertheless, I'm thinking he'll be fair surprised the first time you fling that sharp and wordy tongue in his direction."

"I'm not that unreasonable." Frodo flung down a card.

"Oh, no, you've no share of the Brandybuck temper, none at all," Merimac snorted in pretend dismay, then, "You really don't want to put down that card, do you?"

"Yes, I do," Frodo insisted stubbornly; as Merimac swooped down on it with a gesture of triumph, said irritably, "You and Bilbo take this card game matter entirely too seriously."

"Then how are we to blame that you don't take it seriously enough?" Merimac countered. "You should have known I was looking for that card, were you paying attention. I even gave you the baldest of hints."

Frodo couldn't help it. He sulked.

Merimac leaned forward, a strange light in his eyes. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see that bit of Brandybuck temper, even if it's flung at me." It was gentle, and very soft, and melted any last bit of crankiness away.

"You mean that, don't you?" Frodo wondered just as softly.

"I surely do," Merimac returned, and covered Frodo's free hand with his own.

"Then," Frodo hesitated, then bit his lip and met Merimac's gaze rather steadily, "would you stay with me tonight?"

His cousin nearly dropped his card hand, rescued it at the last moment then said his name rather stammeringly.

Frodo's cheeks heated, this time with humiliation. He tried to draw his hand back, said, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…" but the grip on his hand turned iron and he gave a short yip.

"Bloody damn, I'm sorry," Merimac immediately swore and released his hand-grip. "Don't look at me like that—don't look like that. I didn't mean it that way, but Frodo… love, you've been very sick and I'm not sure that it's a capital idea, us lying together at this moment."

"Of course," Frodo whispered, his cheeks still afire, and now with an odd sense of… relief. No, he told himself, and Why?

"However," Merimac was saying, "if it's just a cuddle you want, and someone to keep you warm while you sleep, I'll gladly do that, you must know."

Frodo looked up a bit incredulously, once again met his cousin's gaze and was warmed to marrow by the earnest entreaty there. Relief both strange and familiar washed through him. "You would?"

"I would." Merimac studied his card hand, but did not loose Frodo from his grip, strong and buoying. "And you're not to worry over Merry, either. He misses you dreadfully, but that's only to be expected. Time will mend whatever happens between you two—he loves you and you love him too much for it to be otherwise."

"I hope so."

"I know so." Merimac laid down his hand with an abrupt smirk. "Game."

* * * * * *

Bilbo was ready to scream. Really. It was all too tempting to take a long walk down to his secret tunnel and just let loose—other than they would hear him, no doubt.

He was sure of the source of his ire. He wasn't sure as to which direction it bided, however. Part of him was absolutely furious at the cheek of that bloody Merimac, just waltzing in and expecting to be showered with welcome—and getting that welcome as well, from Frodo. The other part of him was angry that Merimac's presence was unveiling this entire spectrum of emotion within himself—and what that meant.

For the cheeky bastard had been right. It wasn't just Frodo's feelings that concerned him—though they did, and quite right that they should. No, it was his own composure that had suffered the worst blow—that it should matter so much to him where Frodo's affections should go, and how, and why.

He was jealous, pure and simple—fire-green jealous, and for no more reason than Frodo was glad to see someone who could easily take him away, off to that wretched boat where he might get a few things he couldn't get here, but if Merimac really understood the lad, Bilbo would eat his favourite old hat.

The worst of it? They weren't sleeping together. Well, Merimac had last night shared Frodo's bed, but it was rather obvious nothing more than sleeping had occurred—and a good thing, too, Frodo just back from being deathly ill!—and that made the knot twist all the more tight, because while Bilbo had absolutely no urge to shepherd Frodo through the lessonings of physical pleasure, he did begrudge Merimac the boy's companionship and mind…

For the first time, Bilbo understood exactly what Drogo had feared in his relationship with Prim. For the first time, he wondered why Drogo hadn't cold-cocked him with a shovel and buried him in the Bag End gardens some late night, to merely express mild dismay days later at another of Bilbo's 'disappearances'.

It was probably for the best that the Bag End shovels lay in the locked garden shed, not altogether close to hand.

After all, it had become quite the private, special little world that had been built in Bag End during Frodo's convalescence; a small, tight-knit reality of books and quiet talk, of tears and small smiles, of a sense of fellowship and—yes, admit it!—the special headiness of being a much-needed mentor that Bilbo had never realised he would be glad to entertain. Bilbo just flat resented that someone else could, let alone had, intruded into that idyll so born in grief and nurtured in quiet companionship.

Frodo saw it, too. That was the ultimate humiliation, that Frodo's eyes would follow him, perplexed and no doubt a little amused. Bilbo would say something, do something, and seconds later want to trout himself for being so bloody obvious and stupid and… provincial, for the Valar's sake!

Merimac, damn his eyes, was laughing behind that cynical smirk of his. Bilbo knew it.

* * * * * *

"I think we'll go for a walk in the gardens today," Merimac announced at breakfast, ploughing through the comestibles and seeming blithely unaware of exactly what he was suggesting.

Frodo's face went scarlet, then paled—Bilbo saw it because he was watching. What he was unprepared for was Merimac's quick, thoughtful glance towards Frodo's downcast face, and the uncertain quiver of Merimac's own expression.

A second later it was wiped away, as if it had never been. "Your uncle keeps telling me you need more up and about, lad," he said, layering eggs and ham on toast and alternating this with sips of tea and his words.

And this despite the fact he and Bilbo had barely exchanged two serious paragraphs—other than their original heated disagreement—since his arrival.

"Mac…" Frodo said uncertainly, and Bilbo agreed with him.

"Merimac, perhaps today is not the best day to—"

"Nonsense," Merimac said. "The weather's remained too good to last forever; we should take advantage while we can. And Frodo," he aimed this shot with the unerring eye of a master markshobbit, "you know that young gardener has been prodigiously itching to show you his glasshouse. You'd make him quite happy just by showing up, and you know it."

Foul! Bilbo wanted to call, watching Frodo's face flicker with a conflict of emotions that Bilbo couldn't quite classify. But considering what had happened in that garden, which Merimac knew about, and what had come after, which Bilbo could only hope that Merimac didn't know about…

And why should he care whether and how Frodo had shared that information?—only that the intimacy of it had proven hard enough for the lad to share with Bilbo who had witnessed it, let alone with someone who hadn't even been here when Frodo had needed him most.

Bilbo was both dismayed and unsurprised by Frodo's answer.

"I… suppose so," he murmured into his plate.

"Good!" Merimac answered cheerily enough. But as Bilbo met his eyes with a fair measure of contempt and dismay, those grey eyes echoed it back to him, in spades. I don't like this any more than you, they said. Humour me; I have to do this, can't you see?

Bilbo frankly couldn't see why he had to, or why now was the best time and not some time in the distant future, but neither could he just set a stone wall against such earnest pleading. I hope you know what you're doing, he said back, just as silently, and oddly enough Merimac nodded, as if he kenned Bilbo's thought.

"Dress warmly, my dear," he said, finishing off his toast and tea with an air of being done with any discussion. "Your uncle will skin me alive, no doubt, should you take a sniffle from the wind."

I might skin you alive anyway, if you've guessed this one wrong, Bilbo thought.

* * * * * *

"Master Frodo!" Sam was surprised, that was for certain. Why was he so surprised? And why had Frodo even agreed to this, why had he let Merimac…?

"Mister Merimac," Sam greeted hastily and with perfect politeness; the tone would have been funny had Frodo been even thinking of humour. "But I'm fair staggered to see you out here, master Frodo, and that's the truth," Sam finished, a bit uncertainly.

Frodo was more than a little staggered and uncertain himself. He was here. He was here. "Mac," he murmured, clutching tighter the walking stick Bilbo had given him, "I don't feel very well."

Merimac was directly behind him; Frodo could feel the warm reality of his presence even without touching him. "I know. But the fresh air will do you good and look—it's plain fact that boy's been perishing to share his accomplishments with you; the least you can do is oblige him while you're here, eh?"

"You don't understand--"

"I understand better than you think I do, dearest," was the return murmur, and there was something quite sad beneath Merimac's resolute tone that should have warned Frodo. A small, alert something within fussed at him, told him pay attention! in no uncertain terms, but Frodo ignored it, too. Every fibre of his being was focused on simply putting one foot in front of the other, walking steadily towards…

There. It was just a place. Just a plot of earth in a garden that was slowly erasing what had happened. It wasn't so bad. He was just going for a walk in the garden. Walking was not so difficult. He really only used the stick because Bilbo so insisted, and Frodo had to admit—though that admittance came hard—that he was somewhat fearful of falling without it.

"Mac?"

"I'm right behind you, love."

He desperately wanted to reach back, take his cousin's hand. And he just as desperately didn't want to do just that. The conflicting impulses were too aligned and opposed; Frodo came to a halt, soft, green seedlings rising up about his toes.

"Why don't you come over here, master Frodo?" There was a strange desperation in Samwise's voice that raised the hackles on Frodo's neck. He looked back to Merimac, saw him peering at the gardener lad with an odd intensity to his expression.

"Frodo," he said gently, "why don't we go on over there, let him show you that lovely glasshouse?"

Rather relieved to obey, Frodo took a step forward. The change of position made the sun lurch off the glasshouse and into his eyes; squinting, Frodo dropped his gaze to the cool brown and greens of the earth.

It was then he saw it. He stopped stock still, blinked as if he was mistaken. Then slowly, leaning heavily on his stick, he knelt down.

"Frodo?" Merimac said puzzledly.

A button. His. He recognised the small carving, a fluted wine bottle in bone, that the tailors of Buckland used for the Master's family sewing.

Frodo picked it up. It was discoloured, weathered; there were still faint, torn strands of fabric and thread clinging; it was chipped and dusty with earth, spotted with a dark droplet that looked like blood, or mud.

Blood. Or mud.

"Frodo?"

Blood, and mud. On such a little thing, such a tiny, insignificant little thing; it was startling that he'd even seen it, amongst the green grass and the brown-red dirt.

Blood. The taste of it in his mouth as he'd bit Lotho's lip in the Hall bath-house. The taste of his own as Lotho had slapped him so hard his ears had rung.

Mud. How it had slicked his fingers and caked on his bare chest, a rime of entrapment as Lotho had pinned him to ground; how it had sucked up into his mouth and nose, making it all but impossible to breathe.

How he had just… given in, because he wasn't sure where he was or what he was, and there had been another time, another place, when loving, strangling hands had bade him still and he had known he had to obey or else…

"Frodo."

His name was a strange, almost unrecognisable hum from outside himself. Inwardly he only heard a flood-tide of strange voices and thoughts, telling him that he needed to breathe, and now. So he did. Harsh, gasping breaths that gave him little air, made him feel as though he was strangling all over again… he needed air… needed life… needed to say it, mean it, be it:

"No," he muttered.

"Frodo?"

He didn't answer. Wouldn't answer. His entire world was laced with red, pulsing with life and the need for living and the contradictory impulse to lay it down in some bizarre giving/taking, because he was trapped and unsure what else there was to do, because to face it, admit it—that would rise all the demons including the ones he needed most…

Until hands laid themselves on him, large, broad hands insistent and nigh to punishing, and his will twisted itself into one massive defiance. He lurched forward, away from that grasp, fell to his hands and knees in the blood-red dirt. His hand clenched itself about the tiny, mangled button, protecting it. "No," he said again. "No."

"Frodo!" Again, the hands and a body against his, trying to force him, force him to what? He twisted in them, writhed, fell to his back, spine crushing the green—he could smell it, bruised and smothered and the smell was all wrong, somehow, but still…

Not again. Never, never, never again.

"No!" he growled to the dark, broad shape above him, and when it didn't release him, he struck out with every possessed bit of desperation and strength, revolt and loathing. The heel of his left hand connected with something solid. Flesh and darkness gave way. Something thick-warm spattered across his cheek, Sam cried out from behind him and Merimac fell back from Frodo with a sharp grunt of pain…

Merimac. Sam. Merimac. Reality came flooding back, sweeping him under a totally different kind of tide.

"No!" he repeated, but this time it was a wail. "Oh, Mac… oh no…!"

His cousin sat up, holding a hand to his nose. Blood was running freely from between those fingers, and Merimac grimaced, coughed, spat blood. A golden-haired figure came over, waving a handkerchief; Merimac snatched it and when Sam thought to help him with it snapped, "Leave it, I'm fine!" then as Sam recoiled he slumped, held out his other hand in apology. "Oh, lad, I'm all right, never you mind me, I'm sorry, I'm…" he turned from Sam's reassured expression back to Frodo, grey eyes narrowing. "Frodo?"

And all Frodo could do was stammer like a half-wit; he could still feel Merimac's blood tracing down his cheek. "I'm… Oh… Mac. I didn't mean to…"

"Oh, yes you did," Merimac answered ruefully, holding Sam's handkerchief to his face and reaching out again with his other hand, this time for Frodo. "Come here, it's all right."

"It's not all right!" Frodo retorted somewhat hysterically. "I hit you!"

"And you did a damn fine job of it, eh? It's all right, I understand. Come here, love."

"I hit you just like I hit Lotho and I didn't want to hurt you but I hurt him and I wished he were dead then I thought he was and then it all fell away and happened, and—!"

"Calm down, Frodo," Merimac said, a quiet sternness that nipped harshly the burgeoning panic. "Are you all right, boy?" he spoke over Frodo's shoulder and Frodo turned slightly to see Sam had retreated to the side of the glasshouse. "Well, are you?" Merimac insisted and at Sam's quick nod, returned his gaze to Frodo. "Calm down and come here, I said."

"But what if I hit you again? What if I—?"

"I really don't think you will, at least not today—" Merimac tried a smile, but it was a disaster with his teeth all bloody. "I'm all right, I tell you; I've had worse from an altercation shipside, but I would appreciate it if you'd stop dithering and look at my nose to see if I'm about to stop bleeding any time soon."

The resumption of the stern, no-nonsense tone was a final balm to Frodo's frayed nerves. He scooted on wobbly knees through the dirt to his cousin's side and reached out with hands that wouldn't stop shaking; Merimac obligingly took the bloody kerchief from his nose as Frodo put gentle hands to his face. Tears sprang hot in his eyes; there was a lot of blood. He had done this…

"I… did I break it?" It didn't look very well, all splotched blue and pale, still bleeding. Frodo put the cloth back over it, pressing gently.

"If so, it won't be the first time. Maybe you straightened it back out… ow!"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

"Frodo, here now," the last two words were gentle but still firm; with his free hand Merimac cupped Frodo's cheek. "It's all right, I tell you. I knew you'd have some sort of mix up out here even if I underestimated you a bit. And I'm thinking that pretty fair-haired lass you're bound to the fires with will have a job cleaning my shirt. And yours," he furthered motioning to the spattered stains on Frodo's breast.

"Daisy doesn't do the Bag End laundry," Frodo said about a small sniffle. "It's May."

"That hobbit has more daughters than any father should have to keep track of," Merimac said teasingly, and reached his fingers up to dab at Frodo's cheek. "I've marked you, now. What's made in blood ends in blood… Love, you did what you should. I don't blame you, not one whit. For a moment I think you thought I was Lotho—"

"You two are nothing like!"

"I know that. I know you know that. But your instincts?" Merimac shrugged his shoulders. "They are still uncertain, and that's all to the good."

"How can this be good?" Frodo retorted, motioning to Merimac's bloody face.

"Listen. You're young, and your instincts still aren't sure what to trust and what to doubt. And until those instincts steady up, become wise as they will be, then it's good that they remain uncertain about things that can hurt you."

"You wouldn't hurt me."

"But Lotho hurt you. Here. In this place where nothing supposedly could touch you." The last sentence was a bit scornful. "See, even the old hobbit, as aged as he is, has instincts which fail him at times. I rather see yours grow hard and swift—and knowledgeable."

Frodo buried his face into Merimac's neck. "The elves," he said a bit wonderingly, "they mentioned it too. My… instincts."

He felt, but did not see, Merimac start. "The… elves?"

"They were here. They… helped me."

Another start. This time Frodo looked up, saw the bewilderment on his cousin's face. "Oh, Mac… please… don't turn away from me because of it. Everyone has thought… all the rumours… but I heard you say to Bilbo that you knew them, too." The last sentence turned accusatory.

The grey eyes had narrowed. "Then you also heard me say I thought it proper horseshit, didn't you?"

"But if… if… I was…" he trailed off miserably.

"Was or was not, does it matter? Have you been worrying all this time about that?"

"I… I guess I…" he trailed off miserably.

"Frodo, I care for you, and that includes all your busy-headed meanderings whether they were made by an elf or a hobbit or something in-between," Merimac started rather indignantly, then said, softer, "And what did they say, these elf-friends of yours, about your instincts?"

"That they'd saved me, where they couldn't save my mother. Oh, Mac…!" And suddenly the tears came, hard and hot and gasping, and all he could do was hold to his cousin and sob and pound on the broad chest as if Lotho once again held him and he once again helpless to stop what had come from Lotho and even more, what had come after…

"Stop, Frodo. Stop it, you'll get yourself sick again and I'll never forgive myself. Frodo, please. Frodo…" Merimac kept murmuring, and finally Frodo could heed the cautions and regain some sense of control over it all; great tearing sobs subsided to wheezing, phlegmy hiccups and his fists quieted as well, gripping his cousin's shirt so hard the knuckles showed white.

Merimac just rocked him, held him, each fourth motion punctuated by a small, murmured, "Shh. It's all right. Shh, now."

Finally Frodo half-lay, exhausted past bearing, in his cousin's arms and Merimac handed him the blood-stained handkerchief. "Blow your nose."

Properly chastened, Frodo obeyed.

"Listen. Whatever else those elves told you, whatever else upset you so, heed me in this, love: Trust only your own instincts—never to another's unless you truly trust them with your life. And even then they could be wrong, those trusted ones."

"I'd trust you with my life. And that I'd turn my… undeveloped… instincts upon someone that I love…" Frodo broke off, shaking.

"You love me?" Merimac said quickly, softly. "He loves me. By the Mother, he said he loves me." Frodo flushed to the tips of his ears, and Merimac continued, just as gently, "Believe me, I'd take a worse hit than that you gave me to hear such an admittance."

Frodo flushed harder, feeling a proper fool, then was suddenly wrapped in a hard embrace that nearly drove the breath from him. Air was further taken from him as Merimac whispered in his ear, "You've never said it to me, you know. You've given me quite the gift, my dear, and I shan't treat it lightly."

"I know," he said, a bit huskily, and as Merimac released him slightly, twisted in his arms and leaned in, cheek to cheek. "I know," Frodo said again, and kissed him.

He was careful of the savaged and bloodied nose, but any other cares melted away. No pain, and only the slightest tremor of fear—but it wasn't fear of, more fear for, and for what he wasn't sure, only that he bent every bit of his will and strength and fortitude to making that kiss, as if claiming for himself what it meant, and what it was. Then slowly, almost shyly, he retreated from the kiss and laid his forehead against Merimac's.

"By the Mother," Merimac said again, this time more than a bit shakily. "That native talent of yours has improved with abstinence. I'd best bed you soon as you're able, else you might kill me the next time!"

A small laugh shook Frodo's chest, which felt filled and swollen, though with laughter or tears he wasn't sure. And neither did he care. Something pricked his palm and he turned, opened his clenched fist. The button was still in his palm, marking a small, broken circle. Held close to Merimac's chest, he peered at it.

"I know, love," Merimac said against his temple. "I know. But don't let such a tiny thing back you down. And don't," he added, his voice going deep and rough, "don't you ever forget that it did."

Gritting his teeth with anger and frustration and a thousand other equally powerful but inchoate emotions, Frodo closed his fingers on the button. It was powerful, the urge to fling it as far away as he could, never see it or face it again. But there was something even more powerful and more demanding, beating with each throb of his heart. Closing his fingers about the button, Frodo shoved it into his pocket.

Merimac was smiling, a somewhat ruthless expression. "D'you think Bilbo might have any ice in that cellar of his? Or maybe the old hobbit would welcome that you clocked me one, eh?--and leave me to my bruising with a bit of glee?"

Frodo choked out a laugh, ducked his face once more into his cousin's chest.

"Come on. Let's go in, get you warm."

From the half-shut door of the glasshouse where he'd retreated, silent and forgotten, Sam watched them. For some time the two remained there on the chill earth, tangled tight as the knot forming in his stomach and just as indecipherable as to why. Finally it was the riverhobbit who rose, offering a hand down to his still-crouched cousin. Frodo shook his head, then rose, albeit shakily, without assistance.

They left without a backward glance, Frodo walking slowly but with his head held high, and the riverhobbit shut the front door behind them, a firm chuff of air into the afternoon.

Sam stood numbly in the wake of their departure. The glasshouse door was still half-open behind him, and he could all but hear his Gaffer even though he wasn't about: "Boy, are ye mad? Lettin' all that good warmth out—'tisn't spring yet!"

Sam didn't, this time, obey right away. He strode over to the small plot of new green, knelt down and picked up the abandoned walking stick. Running his hand over the smooth carvings—moon, stars—he clutched it to his chest for a moment, tears filling his eyes.

"Are you all right, lad?"

The soft voice made him leap like a startled hare. Sam looked up into the still-bloodied face of the riverhobbit then noticed the hand reaching out to him just as it had to master Frodo, offering assistance. And just as master Frodo had done, Sam refused it by awkwardly clambering to his feet, cheeks heating.

There was a thoughtful and too-aware look in the grey eyes that made Sam even more uncomfortable—as if the old riverhobbit knew too many things, saw too much in the simple cant of his body.

"Frodo's in the cellars with his uncle, looking for a bit of ice, and I realised we'd forgotten you." A small smile. "We didn't mean to, you know."

"I… I'm fine. Sir," Sam stammered.

"You saw all of what happened with Lotho, did you?" came the startling query.

"No!" he burst out before he could think, then decided since he'd said that much he should go ahead and explain the rest. "Nay, sir, not all of it, just the last bits, and…" he trailed off again, his cheeks burning hotter and his eyes searching for anything but the compassion in a gaze belonging to someone he wasn't even sure he liked.

Then the riverhobbit said something even more astonishing. "You're very like to my own son, young master Gamgee. Even the freckles, though Rill has more than you ever thought of possessing."

"You have a son?" Sam once again blurted out, looking up.

"Yes, I do. And I'd hate for him to see anything like what you must have." Another smile. "Go home, boy. Eat some of your sister's delicious cooking and try not to dwell too hard on what's done and over with."

Once again, the riverhobbit turned and padded back to the front door. Once again, it shut with a chuff.

Sam looked down at the walking stick in his hands, then at the earth where it had been. Normally he didn't dwell on things that weren't his to figure on, and he'd been tempted to point that out.

But then he'd never thought to see Frodo out here, with someone beside him, without bringing back the sight of Lotho and Frodo, writhing and twinned like mating snakes in the mud. It had brought it all back: first the embrace, then the struggle, then the blow… but then…

Then things had righted themselves, somehow, because in the end it hadn't been a sick horror that he'd felt. After the blow had not come more blows, or stilled acquiescence to a horror Sam still wasn't sure he quite understood, no. What had come had been another embrace, a kiss that had seemed all desperate and tender all to the once, somehow… but it hadn't felt all oily-wrong, or wicked. Then that riverhobbit hadn't insisted upon helping Frodo up, as Sam knew he himself would've done, but let Frodo do it on his own.

And in their wake the mud was dried and feathered all green; the earth had taken pain and fear and laved them up, borne them away.

It didn't feel so horrible, not any more, that he should walk across this patch and think to let go of what had happened here.

It seemed that master Frodo wasn't the only one who had something to thank that wild old riverhobbit for.

Sam got up, still holding the walking stick. Walking back over to the glasshouse, he propped it up against the front pane and went in, shutting the door firmly behind him and wiping the tears from his cheeks, surveying his little domain.

The roses. Master Frodo had liked the roses when he was so dire ill, liked the scent and feel of them—soft, he'd said, like a bairn's belly. These weren't red, but no longer did they have to stand out in the darkness of a closed room, that much Sam would warrant.

He would put them in the sill of Frodo's window, at least until the warm weather broke, so Frodo would have something fine to look to when he looked out.

A soft, careless tune upon his lips, Sam set to work. He was smiling.

* * * * * *

"Did none of you think what it did to that gardener boy, finding what he did?" Merimac asked Bilbo over supper, after he'd applied ice to his nose and cleaned up—and after an exhausted Frodo had fallen asleep in the chair by the fire.

Bilbo stopped chewing, looked at him. "Sam? But Sam helped Frodo, he wasn't…"

"Affected? I'm beginning to think that too much goes on about this Hill that you don't see, old hobbit," Merimac said, and there was a slight edge to it. "I think you're forgetting he's just a child, and he saw something that no child should have to see."

"You and I don't know that much about children, young hobbit," Bilbo said, "but I do know they are more resilient than we like to think."

"Hobbits are resilient, or so the seafaring Men tell me; it's why they're always ready to hire me on board," Merimac remarked. "Yes, bairns are resilient and yes, we old bachelors might not know that much about children, but I know they can nevertheless be hurt by what they see, and what they feel. You pay heed to that little gardener, Bilbo—he's too big a heart and it needs careful tending."

Bilbo nodded and was quiet for several moments. "And as to Frodo?"

"You pay close heed to him as well," Merimac warned. "Else I'll take him off to Gillyflower and not even leave you a goodbye note."

* * * * * *

Frodo slept all that afternoon, into the night and through half of the next day. He finally woke to Bilbo's hand on his elbow and a delicious smell of warm baking lofting in his nostrils.

"Lad? Frodo, it's time to wake up now. You've slept long eno—Ah," said Bilbo as Frodo opened his eyes to see not only a blurred version of his uncle, but the plate he was holding—sticky buns. Frodo lurched up, still half-asleep, blinking rather owlishly though his nose was twitching with the wonderful smells.

"I brought a tray with tea and milk—the Widow's lame cow calved last night, so milk for the winter is assured, thank goodness," said the old hobbit, then, with a very culpable expression claiming his face, said, "If I bribe you with sticky buns, will you forgive me being such an old fool?"

This brought Frodo to wakefulness, full stop. Bilbo suddenly smiled.

"Get your trousers on, then, and come have a bite. You must be starving."

Frodo tried to gather his thoughts and the coverlets about him. "I… it's…" he cast a glance to the skylight overhead, where afternoon sun was wafting through sparse clouds and the misted glass. "How long was I asleep?"

"Quite a while, my boy," Bilbo said, arranging the small corner table into a pleasant breakfast setting and pouring a cup of tea. "You needed it. You had a… rough day yesterday."

Yesterday, and now it was afternoon, and yesterday had been… Frodo looked down, clenching his fists in the coverlets restively. It was… done. Done, and faced down, and he…

How did he feel? What feeling could he choose?

No longer… adrift, anchorless, numb. What he felt was...

Gratitude. Relief.

"Where is Mac?" he asked just before he realised that wasn't the best question to ask of Bilbo, considering.

But Bilbo seemed undeterred. "He went into town to send a message to his boat. He should be back, soon enough."

"Uncle Bilbo," Frodo said suddenly, "I'm sorry."

A snort, and Bilbo turned from where he was putting a bun on a plate. "And what do you have to be sorry about? I'm the one who's been the right fool… no, I have and you know it! I've behaved very badly to your guest, and I've nothing to say for myself other than I've… well." He let out a little huff of breath. "I've become altogether too accustomed to things the way they were."

Somehow this last admission was like a fresh waft of sunny air. Frodo smiled and swung his legs slowly out of bed. "Me, too," he admitted softly.

Bilbo smiled. "Get your trousers on." Then, as Frodo rose and did so, "Would you… Do you mind if I open the window? I looked earlier, and there's something I think you'd like to see. Only if you want, of course," he hastily added.

Habit almost made him reply in the negative, but that relief washed through him again, bringing in its wake something he'd not entertained in some time.

Curiosity.

Threading his arms through brace-straps, Frodo came forward rather diffidently, wondering. Bilbo unlatched the window, and the small sound echoed in his ears like the tumblers of yet another lock—but it was different, this time. If not welcome, then certainly not unwelcomed…

The windowseat was wide and would comfortably accommodate a slender hobbitlad, the late afternoon sun was set streaming past it; a warm, westerly breeze belied the time of year and, just past the seat in a small box that had been hung there, was a jumble of yellow and crème colour. Roses.

"How did he know?" Frodo said a bit hoarsely, then remembered—Sam had seen what happened yesterday—just as he'd seen what happened before.

There was, strangely, no humiliation in the thought. Again, only relief. Someone knew, and it was a relief.

He reached out and touched the soft petals, the breeze warm on his cheeks.

And today, the light streaming in from the gardens didn't seem so harsh into his cocoon, as if he could actually seat himself in that garlanded window and let his wings, still curled-wet, dry in wind and sun.

* * * * * *

Sam came from about the Hill, having put away his tools in the Bag End shed, and noticed master Frodo's window was open.

He took a few steps closer, saw the curtains waving gently in the breeze, bordered by the flower box—it was fair lovely, and the voices he heard rising from within made it more lovely still. Mister Bilbo was laughing, and he heard an answering chuckle from master Frodo smiling, Sam went over to the glasshouse to check it before departing. As he latched the door, he turned to see Frodo at the window, running his fingers over the roses with a soft smile on his face. Sam was quite unprepared for the wrench in his belly at that—then Frodo looked up, saw him and for long seconds Sam wished the earth would just open up and swallow him; he'd no business spying like that.

But Frodo met his eyes with a little nod of his head, and a broadening of that smile, and Sam felt that perhaps it wasn't a bad thing that he'd noticed what he had. He smiled back.

Bilbo's voice rose from within. Frodo ducked his head, still smiling, and disappeared back into the smial.

Sam started to hum as he walked down the Hill.

"Hoy, it's the gardener's son again. You and I have to stop meeting like this."

Sam stopped humming, considered keeping to his path with merely a polite greeting, but the one who had hailed him was standing in the middle of the path and obviously expecting more than a passing reply. And after… well, after yesterday it would be the height of ill manners not to respond. He stopped. "Good day. Sir."

Frodo's cousin looked, even with a bruised face, altogether too well set and casual, all at once—he wore colours that put Sam in mind of miz Lobelia, save that these were not so harsh on the eye nor were they put together like an ill-sown garden. But still… Sam remembered one of his sisters describing one of the tinker lads as a "rake", and Sam abruptly decided, yesterday's events or no, that was quite the correct name for mister Merimac.

"You look content as a cat in the creamery, boy," the riverhobbit said with a smirk that was not quite respectful. "Is master Frodo up, then, and perhaps saw that lovely bit of potting you did outside his window?"

How did he know that? Sam felt like this one would know what he looked like in his nightshirt, and it wasn't proper, that, not at all. "Yessir," he said, unable to take the satisfaction totally from his voice. "He likes them, sir; he was looking out the window today."

A smile—soft and pleasant, without any of the mockery that seemed to be there normally—lit up the brown face. "Eh," he said, "you've done well. And I hope you're all right, considering yesterday was a bit of a hard one for all of us."

Not that he was about to admit that to a rakish riverhobbit. "I'm fine, sir; I thank you for askin'. Master Frodo's the one as needs care, I'm thinking."

"I see." The riverhobbit shifted to one hip, obviously intending to talk a spell; he crossed his arms and looked at Sam—and that gaze was again, too piercing. Sam looked down. "So you think master Frodo's in need of plenty of care, eh?"

"Aye. Sir. That I do." And you might have been there for him yesterday when all chaos broke loose, but will you be here in another se'nnight? I'm thinking not, for all your airs and graces and fine gestures; there's words for such as you, and they en't polite…

"Do you coddle those plants of yours?"

This took Sam by surprise. "I beg your pardon? Sir?"

"I said, do you coddle your gardens?"

"Well," Sam said slowly, "there's some plants as need coddling. And there's some that would say having a glasshouse is coddling 'em."

"Mm, very true. Let me ask it another way, then. If you've a normal Shire-bred plant—not one of old Bilbo's exotics—do you coddle it?"

"Nay!" was the quick reply. "If you don't let them grow up some on their own, they won't thrive. A good rainstorm'll cut 'em down." He hesitated, then added quickly, "Sir."

"That 'Sir' sticks in your craw every time you voice it, boy," the riverhobbit said with amusement warm and thick in his voice. Sam couldn't even protest, that mark had been hit so accurately. "It's all right. You don't have to approve of me, and I won't pine away or be insulted and report your cheekiness to the Squire if you're honest to yourself and just call me 'mister Merimac'. I'll not begrudge you that.

"But let me give you some advice. You'll look after master Frodo, I'm thinking, even when the old hobbit's got his head in the clouds and not paying any mind. But don't coddle him. You'll do him no service, and he'll resent you for it." Sam's face must have transmitted his disagreement, for the riverhobbit said, firmly, "Trust me on this, boy. Even if you heed naught else I say. Frodo might need a bit of looking after, but he doesn't need coddling, and you've just told me you know the difference."

"You're leaving, en't you?" It was an accusation, try as he might to tender it into something less bold.

"I have a life," was the quiet response, and oddly enough there was a sadness behind those grey eyes. "Frodo may choose it one day, and it would please me more than you can imagine if he did, but I have to return, regardless."

"You can just up and leave him, just like that?"

"Not just like that, but yes, if he chooses to stay here then I shall leave him here. I don't belong here, and perhaps he does. That's not my choice to make, but his." He straightened and started to walk on; once he passed Sam he stopped and turned back. "You can't make people's choices for them, young Gamgee, no more than you can coddle them. Not if you want what's best for them."

And he left, then, Sam once again gaping in his wake like a landed fish as the riverhobbit disappeared up-Hill.

* * * * * *

"Ah!" Merimac laughed. "You sneaky, lovely lad!"

"Do you like it?" Frodo asked—although the answer was obvious as Merimac twirled the gold-coloured knife between his fingers in delight. They were seated on the thick rug in Frodo's room beneath the skylight, which let stray glimmers of sun down about them.

"It's beautiful. And you're beautiful for thinking of it." Merimac leaned forward and gave Frodo a swift, hard kiss. "Happy birthday, then."

Frodo looked down, smiling.

"I imagine that tinker thought you were queering his chance with me, eh?"

This time Frodo chuckled, remembering. "I think he did, yes."

"And I never got to go back and purchase it, with all that happened." Merimac's eyes were alight as he dandled the dagger. "Thank you, love. I did hanker after it. And," he sheathed the dagger, rose and planted another kiss, this upon Frodo's forehead. "I've a little something for you as well. Seems a good time to get it, eh?"

Frodo didn't miss the way his cousin's fingers lingered over the dagger as he'd sheathed it, and felt immense satisfaction. Merimac left the room, rummaged a bit noisily in the study, and just as quickly returned to reseat himself, cross-legged across from Frodo with an odd, wrapped shape in his outstretched left hand.

"Here you go. I did promise, after all."

The moment Frodo put fingers to the object he had a suspicion of what it was, those well-founded as he uncovered a sea shell, spiralled all pink and blue and green, fluted open at one end like a lass' petticoat. "Oh," he said softly. "It's lovely. Nicer than the other, I think."

"I could tell you a tale about how I stole it from a merman's cave, and how he slapped me with his tail for being so cheeky, but," Merimac grinned and shrugged. "You're not a bairn anymore, to believe me so willingly, and the truth is just as good in the telling."

"Oh?"

"And look at your ears prick up, anxious for a tale! Well, I'm not as good as your old uncle at the yarn-spinning, but I'll try. To get this beauty, I had to rescue one of the big fish from its clutches—you've heard me speak of those fish, the ones that play in the bow-waves of the big seafaring ships?"

"You said Men call them porpoises, and that they love play as hobbits love a good meal."

"Aye, they do. In fact I've had one try to hump my hip more than once—and if that isn't a startling occurrence… but this one wasn't up for playing. He was in the shadows, all mournful; even his skin was dull. These fish are big, Frodo, some big as the Old Took standing on his own head, and it took me quite a while to get up my nerve to get close to them, but once I did… well, they liked me better than the Men, because I'm smaller, I s'pose."

It was hard to even imagine a world in which Merimac, who scraped the sky when compared to many hobbits, was small.

"So he comes swimming over, still so slow, and it's as if he's trying to attract my attention, but not for play as those fish often do. It's as if he's asking for my help. And he was. For attached to his rudder of a tail is this long-line. It's digging into the skin, all bloody mess, and things have become attached to its end. One of the things was this," he touched the sea shell, "all tangled in the line."

"Did he die from it?" Frodo felt a hard tremor in his belly—poor fish!

"He would have, I'm thinking. It was all set like it would just get tighter and tighter about his tail with all the things dangling from it. So I took my knife—and this floatable one,"  he brandished it, and the fire-jewels in the hilt winked against the gilt eyes of the black dragon tattooed along Merimac's forearm,  " would have come in handy, because I dropped my heavy one to the bottom several times when the fish would get frightened and lash that tail. So I'd go down to the bottom—often he'd knocked me there anyway—and I'd dig my knife out of the sandy wash only to come up and find him waiting there for me, with those eyes that I swear seemed apologetic. It was like he couldn't help but struggle—he was wild, after all—but he was sorry when he did, after asking me for help."

"I want to see a big fish," Frodo said decisively.

"You will one day, if I've anything to say about it," Merimac agreed. "They aren't like most other fish; they breath air like people, only through a hole at the top of their head, and he was breathing a lot so I knew he was as nervous as I was about the deal. It took a while, with him starting every third try and my hands shaky because I didn't want to hurt him, but I got the rope from about his tail and several souvenirs, including that shell you're holding. The last I saw of him was him leaping into the sky as he swam back towards the deeps."

Frodo eyed his treasure and gave a contented sigh. "It's gorgeous. And I'll always think of the big fish when I look at it, now. And you."

"What more could anyone ask, then? It's a fact I'll think of you whenever I heft this knife."

"Watch this. If the sunlight is right through the skylight…" Frodo leaned forward, took the knife from Merimac and pulled it slightly from its sheath, wriggled it back and forth. Nothing at first, then a small splinter of light caught the jewelled handle and danced sparks across the ceiling. Merimac gave a laugh, suitably delighted.

"Double the treasure! And for now," he gripped the knife hilt, started to push it back into the sheath, "isn't it about time for our walk, cousin-mine?"

Frodo didn't let go; in fact he looked down at where his hand was curled about the sheath, holding it just between himself and Merimac, and raised his eyes to meet grey ones as he, ever so slowly, slid the sheath back onto the dagger. "Do the big fish," he said suddenly, "really try to hump your leg?"

One corner of Merimac's lip turned up with amusement. "That they do," he answered. "They're almost as bad as twenty-year-old hobbitlads."

This time Frodo pulled the sheath back toward him, his hand curling about it quite familiarly. "And what do you do, then?"

"With the fish?" Merimac was actively smirking, now. "Or with the hobbitlad?"

A quick push, and Frodo was only inches from his cousin's bruised and swollen nose, the sheath sinking home upon the blade and his hand firm about both. "If you do anything with the fish, I don't think I want to know," he tried the tease. "I'd rather you show me what you'd do with the lad."

"I think," Merimac's breath brushed Frodo's right cheek, fluttered at his eyelashes, "it would depend on how much time he's going to waste giving my new dagger quite the handjob."

Frodo leaned closer, closed his eyes expectantly.

"And," Merimac said, somewhat less teasingly, "if that lad was the same one who was ill nigh to death, and one his older cousin doesn't want to take chances with."

At this Frodo's eyes flew back open. "Mac—" he began.

One hand cupped his face. "I can't tell you how tempting you are, love," Merimac said quietly, intently. "But I'd rather both of us waited just a while longer."

"I'm tired of waiting!" Frodo retorted. "I'm tired of being weak, tired of everyone treating me like I'm about to break!"

"I know, Frodo, but—"

"But nothing! You don't know!" Rather desperately, Frodo tried a different tack. "Mac, I was so close to dying, and I want to feel alive--"

"Nice try, that," Merimac said rather pointedly.

"Mac!"

"Try another line," his cousin continued mercilessly. "I can't cast that one quite far enough, it's too old and frayed."

Frodo's lip quivered mutinously; for seven wild seconds he considered crying—that would fix Merimac but good, and he knew it.

"And don't you tear up on me—it'll tax every bit of strength I have, but I'll persevere, see if I won't."

"Mac, please. I'm warm, I'm not so wobbly, my chest doesn't hurt any more… and if you don't touch me, right now, I'll have a relapse or something dire, and it shall be all your fault!"

It wasn't working. His cousin looked well set to outwait the stone gryffins that crouched outside the portals of Great Smials.

He tried again, this time no 'lines', no exaggeration. "You took me out in that garden, and you knew what would happen, didn't you?"

Merimac frowned.

"Somehow you figured out what had happened, and you knew why I didn't want to see it, but you made me go because you knew I had to face it. You made me see it through, and when I would have turned away you turned me back. And you let me kiss you then. Because you knew I was… afraid of it. I don't know why but I was, and it's always been you who has taken Lotho out… out of my head, out of my reactions. You set him aside twice now, and upon the third asking are you really going to refuse me?"

"That," his cousin said, white-faced, "is hitting below the belt."

"It's true."

Merimac's head dropped and he whispered, "I know it is. Frodo, I have only ever wanted to do what is best for you. You've been sick—"

"I've been sicker in my mind than ever in my body, don't you see? Everything was all snarled and confused, and from the first time you touched me you've been able to… to put away those snarls."

"Sex doesn't solve everything, my dear."

"I know that now!" Frodo said, realised he was trembling and unsure of exactly why. "But it reminds me of why I'm here, d'you understand? Just to touch someone—just to touch you—reminds me of what is here that's worth staying here for!"

Merimac was obviously staggered; his face had gone from too pale to a strange crimson. "Frodo…"

No more words. He didn't have the words for this, not really, not outside quill and parchment; better to stop talking, stop rationalising, just do. Just as he had the day before, he cupped his fingers about his older cousin's face, leaned in, took the parted lips with his own and claimed them.

Response was faltering, shaky; it was as if 'why nots' were still stubbornly running through Merimac's mind until Frodo leaned against him harder, straddled him. The quick motion almost sent them sprawling on the rug; Merimac rocked forward against Frodo, his arms wrapping about him in a gesture meant to keep them upright but that ended up moulding them closer. There was a hard knot of arousal seating itself against Frodo's thigh and as for himself, well, he was hard enough to rival stone and if Merimac still refused him, he thought it was possible he might sicken from it.

The kiss grew ever desperate; finally Merimac pulled away and Frodo gasped for air, realising he'd forgotten to breathe.

"How is it," Merimac murmured against his shoulder, "that you manage to get your way more often than not?"

"Because you really don't want to say no," was Frodo's reply into his ear. He ran his tongue up the tipped slope of that ear, took the lobe in his teeth, felt Merimac judder beneath him.

"I think it's because there's just enough Took in you that you never play fair," was the low reply.

"What's unfair if it's what we both want?" This accompanied by trailing fingers and kisses across Merimac's nape.

"Oh, bloody damn," breathed his cousin.

"That, too," Frodo agreed. He could feel Merimac's pulse hammering like mad against his lips, felt the blood pounding in his own ears. "Please, just a little, just here, just love me…"

"How is it that I feel as if all the daemons and fair folk are whispering at me, tempting me with my younger cousin's voice?" Merimac said raggedly. "I never asked for this."

"I have," Frodo breathed, "and it's you who gifts it to me, always." He reached down, reached beneath thick fabric to damp, fever-hard flesh, curled his fingers possessively, stroked oh-so gently.

"Bloody damn," Merimac said again. Frodo smiled, if it was a bit quavering, and pushed him back on the rug.

Oh, it had been so long, too long, and once they were supine Frodo was eagerly undoing buttons and belt, running his hands up and down his cousin's bared chest. Merimac was so warm against the chilled tips of Frodo's fingers, and his heart beat like a tight-stretched drum as Frodo dipped his cheek to his cousin's ribs, enthralled by that rhythm echoing faintly against his hands as he slid them downward. "Please," he said. "Please…"

"Please what?" was his cousin's throaty whisper. "Please you?"

And oh, but it was all of that and more, the pleasing and the taking and Frodo didn't care that it couldn't last, because all it took was Merimac's hands upon him, grasping him, pulling him to meet hot-moist breath and even more heated tongue. Frodo was lost from the moment Merimac took him in; he arched and thrust and cried out, fell back and moaned out his lover's name.

"Yes, my dearest?" asked that same lover, and gathered him close.

"I… I couldn't stop…"

"I know," Merimac said seriously.

"And you're altogether," Frodo gasped, "too pleased with yourself."

"I know," Merimac said again, then grinned. "Now—"

"'—we can take our time', yes, I've heard it before," Frodo said a bit tetchily, and Merimac's grin broadened.

"Come here, you."

They both spooned up close on the rug as Frodo sought to catch up with his ragged breathing, then Frodo said, very quietly, "Not too much longer and I'm going to be saying goodbye to you again, aren't I?"

"What choice do we have? You can't be going anywhere, not until you're well, and…" Merimac nuzzled against his temple, continued, "and I think you really want to stay here, at least for now. Don't you?"

Frodo bit his lip. "Right now I know what I want. I want you. I want Bag End, and Bilbo. But I can't have you all to the once, can I?—and then it comes down to not what I want, but what I need. And that," he buried his face in Merimac's neck, "that's all mixed up so horribly…"

"I never meant for you to be mixed up by my coming here," Merimac said slowly. "Perhaps the old hobbit's right, and I've done you no service—"

"No!" Frodo insisted a bit shrilly, then calmed. "Mac, no. If you hadn't come I'd never have known if you really cared… or if I did. I would have been left to wonder forever."

"Well." Merimac kissed the side of his mouth, down his chin. "Wonder no more."

"Let's not talk about it any more," Frodo said suddenly. "Not now. Just please… just love me."

"What do you think I've been doing, my dear?" Merimac said firmly, and just as firmly started to do as requested.

Much later, Frodo lay nestled once against his cousin's warmth and said, a bit forlornly, "When will I see you again?"

"You'll see me again, never you fear," Merimac whispered against his earlobe. "You stay here for as long as you can stand the old hobbit, and never forget you've a home with me whenever you need it or want it. In fact, I'll come next summer, after the Hobbiton Bel-fires, and steal you away for a while, eh? We'll sun and swim and shag all you want."

Frodo smiled and snuggled closer. "Promise?"

"Oh, yes. King's ex, all that. Dragons won't keep me away."

"Dragons very nearly did," Frodo whispered, looking up into the skylight. His cousin shifted.

"Eh?"

"Nothing," Frodo shifted even closer, if that were possible, and closed his eyes.

* * * * * *

Just over a fortnight later Merimac was gone, and Frodo walked Bag End with a shadow behind his eyes he was uncertain of how to quell. He spent hours seated in his window as the weather permitted, looking past the still-blooming roses and away East, and when he went outside to sit in the garden, again when the weather would permit, he would dutifully watch Sam puttering in the glasshouse, and not truly see him, and think of roads, and wind, and escape.

Escape from what?

It made no sense.

Cold weather returned, penning him once more within the warm confines of Bag End. The smial which had sheltered him now seemed too close, almost stifling; in consequence he sat for hours at his writing desk. His pen bled stories of far-off mountains, of deep forests, of a River wild and full of dread, danger and desire…

"Would you take me with you, sometime?" Frodo asked one evening, as a snowy wind blew the shutters to rattling in their catches, and beat the bare vines about the parlour sill, leaving white crescents against the panes.

Bilbo was seated in his comfortable chair by the fire, inking a carefully-drawn map; he was finishing a red-lined sketch of Smaug in the upper corner. Frodo was not writing—unlike his uncle he found it all but impossible to write in the presence of others—instead he was watching the fire, and dreaming.

"Take you with me where, lad?" Bilbo asked a bit absently, dipping his nib into the crimson inkwell and blotting it carefully before laying it to the parchment.

"When you travel," Frodo said softly. "Could I go with you, sometime?"

"I'm not sure," Bilbo replied, still focused on his work, "that you would be permitted to go with me."

Frodo was silent for a few seconds, then said, his voice shaking, "You said once that I was here at Bag End, not at Brandy Hall."

Bilbo glanced up, over his glasses, met Frodo's eyes and silently cursed himself for not thinking about what he'd said. Frodo reminded him of a pup that had been kicked for no reason—except puppies didn't have that glitter of resentment in their gaze.

"You are, my boy, indeed here at Bag End. And I'd like nothing better to take you with me some fine day. But it's not just because of your aunt's or uncle's disapproval that you need to stay here; you're the young laird for this year, and you're supposed to stay farthing-bound, at least until your duty's seen to for the season."

The lad looked down. "Of course. You're right. But it feels as if I've been ill and smial-bound forever. Forever." The last was barely a whisper.

Bilbo looked sharply at his ward, hoping that the flushed cheeks were not the return of fever.

It was—he was just mistaken about what type of fever.

"I want to feel grass on my feet, see the dust of the road settle there." It was as if Frodo tasted the words like wine. "I want to go to the sea, feel the tide on my toes, hear the skuas cry. I want to see mountains… real mountains, and to climb the peak where Smaug came soaring over, like a roar of fire and thunder."

"First," Bilbo said softly, "you have to get truly well."

"Would you?" Frodo insisted. "Take me? Someday?"

Bilbo met the glimmer in the blue eyes with a glint in his own. "Someday, we shall journey together on an adventure such as neither of us has ever seen. That much I can promise you."