"Well, this is going to be a mischief and no mistake," Sam proclaimed, looking at the outsized desk with some dismay. "But you're sure right, mister Bilbo, there'll be a lot more room in here once it's out. I'm not sure I can lift it by myself, sir, shall I go fetch one of the Cotton lads?"

Bilbo shrugged. "I was thinking that Frodo here could help you with it."

Frodo felt a painful nip at his pride as the gardener's son shot him a concerned look that just as plain as plain said 'that scrawny lad?—not likely, no sir!'

"I'm not sure that would be fitting, and all, mister Bilbo," Sam said quite carefully. "Begging your pardon, but he's your nephew and the Master's as well. It wouldn't take me no time at all to get Tom Cotton, or even one of the Widow's lads."

Bilbo started to speak; Frodo stepped forward quite deliberately and leaned against the end of the desk. "Are you more worried about whose nephew I am?" he asked softly. "Or whether I'm so little and weak that I'll drop the desk on your foot?"

The lad's sepia-grey eyes widened, met his then darted sideways. "I didn't mean naught like that…"

"Of course you didn't, Sam!" Bilbo inserted cheerfully.

Sure he hadn't. Nevertheless, Frodo was determined that he'd drop dead before he'd drop that desk. And, by the self-satisfied smirk that Bilbo gave him, Bilbo knew it. Frodo rolled up his sleeves and eyed Sam.

"Shall we?"

Frodo thought desk-moving would be the end of it, but Bilbo insisted that they might as well get the rooms to Frodo’s exact satisfaction—particularly since young Samwise was here to help with it all. Hesitation was routed beneath the sincere pleasure of having more to arrange as his own than a section of wall and several trunks… two entire holes!

So not only did they move the desk, but they shifted the bed and dresser into better positions. If Bilbo was surprised by Frodo's request to move the full-length mirror out of the bedsmial and into the study he didn't show it, just shrugged agreement. But Bilbo did show surprise as Frodo pulled the trunk out from beneath his bed and opened it—and distinct pleasure was visible in the old hobbit's face as he espied the various books and parchments stacked within. Bilbo's pleasant expression intensified as Frodo drew the large map from his trunk and asked if he might hang it—then trebled into satisfied approval as Frodo explained, a bit self-consciously, how he used the map. Sam also gawked at it for several moments once they got it hung.

Once the bedsmial was somewhat arranged they ended up in the study, where they moved several shelves within and placed the desk over near the little pot-bellied stove, with a faded but fine old rug footing it and a stool also. They went back into the westernmost smial where an assortment of furniture was stored, most of it covered by old dusters; Bilbo pulled the covering off a rocker that he deemed quite suitable for Frodo's use. This time it was easy to let Sam have the carrying of the rocker—it was a one person job and Sam's eyes had kindled with more and more respect as he'd seen that Frodo's light build hadn't hindered him in hobbit-handling anything.

More shifting of furniture ensued in the parlour, but it wasn't long before the chairs and several end tables were set to Bilbo's precise directives. He rocked up and down on his toes, beaming with satisfaction. Frodo leaned on Bilbo's chair-back with a sigh. Across from Frodo, Sam dusted off his hands.

"I should think that's most of it set to rights, then, mister Bilbo."

"Sam, I certainly appreciate your help. You've made quite the difference, both of you."

Sam gave a broad grin. Frodo remembered Bilbo saying that his own smile completely changed his face, but on Sam's it seemed as if it was made to be there—as if smiling were what his face was truly intended to be doing as much as possible. It was a… sunny expression. That was the only description that truly fit. Sam's eyes peeked at him and the grin turned shy, eyes escaping to the window.

The grin fled. "Save us. Mister Bilbo…"

Bilbo's eyes widened as he too turned toward the window. "Oh, no. I should have known this was coming, but…" He turned towards the boys. "Sam. Out the back. Go on home for tea, come back after."

Frodo, busily looking out the window and from his vantage point seeing nothing, was amazed at how quickly Sam vanished from the room.

"Frodo… run a comb through your hair and rinse off your face, wash your hands." The back door opened and shut—it was quiet, but the draft of air that sucked through the kitchen betrayed it even more than sound. Bilbo made a shooing motion with his hands. "Frodo, go on, boy! In the kitchen, quickly!"

Mystified, Frodo did as told. He made quick work of rinsing off, ran damp fingers through his hair, watched in bewilderment as Bilbo fussed with his appearance as well then gave him a level stare as he walked over.

"Button up your shirt properly, lad… there. Better." Bilbo gave his approval while also giving panicked glances toward the front door. "If you give that female a hand she'll take a league, and no sense giving her any more fodder than she's no doubt already gathered…"

"Uncle Bilbo, what…?"

"Bilbo Baggins!!" The open windows made the high-pitched growl all the more obvious; like a ship in full sail a female figure came striding up the walk.

"Oh, I truly didn't think she'd be on the warpath this soon!" Bilbo groaned quietly, then said, "Come on, lad. We shall get it over with, soonest’s best."

"But—" Frodo protested as the old hobbit grabbed his arm and propelled him towards the front door. Whoever would put such a look of abject foreboding into a face that had faced down dragons and trolls?

"Just be pleasant. That's all that's necessary for now," Bilbo told him earnestly as they reached the hallway. From the other side of the emerald door echoed a strong, insistent banging. "I warn you, she won't be, and we can just thank our stars that she's alone today." He loosed Frodo, eyed him and grunted with satisfaction, then threw his shoulders back, took a deep breath, and yanked open the door. "Cousin!" he sang out all too cheerily, striding out into the late morning air. "How nice to see you, Lobelia."

She was dressed to the full potential of her wardrobe, was mistress Lobelia, an ensemble of crimson and brown and purple that made Frodo's eyes nearly water. He followed Bilbo warily out onto the porch and grasped, as did Bilbo, that she was not alone. Two hobbit males flanked her, almost as an honour guard. Frodo took one look at the taller and younger of the two and felt his heart lurch upwards into his throat to gag him.

"Hullo, Frodo," Lotho said. "It has been a while."

Frodo couldn't breathe, much less attempt speech. He felt as if one of the iron-shod cider-press ponies had kicked him full in the stomach.

Lobelia turned and gave her son a quelling look; he subsided, but kept his eyes upon Frodo as he did so. Frodo was aware of the gaze, just as he was aware of Bilbo's sideways glance upon him, but he couldn't react to either. It was as if he had been stricken numb from the nose down.

"How nice to see you as well, Bilbo," the older of the two males said dourly. "I didn't realise that my son and myself had been rendered nonexistent at Bag End."

"Don't be awkward, Otho!" Bilbo retorted with remarkable aplomb. "I simply didn't see either of you walking up the path."

Frodo was able to regain some control over his pole-axed nerves, enough to turn and see the satisfied yet pleasant barb with which his temporary guardian sank that last line.

"Well!" Lobelia sniffed, one set of gloved fingers tapping at the handle of a parasol she had settled into a crack in the walk. "Of course we would come to call once we'd heard of your… visitor." Her eyes, as grey and light as Lotho's were dark, raked Frodo fore and aft and clearly found him lacking. He was too shaken to even attempt his instinctual fire-eyed response to older feminine disapproval.

Lotho. Here. How in all the stars that whirled above had this piece of happenstance fallen his way?

Lobelia interrupted his reverie. "Kindly do your duty, Bilbo, and introduce us to the little boy."

Little boy. Frodo's lip curled, ever so slightly.

"But of course!" Bilbo answered with a flourish, turning to Frodo. His flat, pleasant mask dropped as he met Frodo's eyes, became a well of brief concern that somehow put a trace of solidity back into Frodo's existence, if only for a moment. "Frodo Baggins, these are your cousins, Otho, Lobelia and Lotho Sackville-Baggins." The way he said the last surname with its addition was scathingly different than the way he voiced Frodo's own family name. "Madame, gentlehobbits, please to meet your cousin Frodo." He jerked his head at Frodo, who managed to sketch a faulty bow. However he did not once take his eyes from Lotho.

The two males dipped in the barest of courtesy, as did Lobelia, her eyes still upon Frodo. Between her gaze and Lotho's, he was starting to feel like an insect pinned to a board.

How, how, how had he not known that Lotho was here? Surely someone must have said that the Sackville-Bagginses lived here, surely he must have known? Aunt Esme was right—he didn't pay attention, not nearly enough, and added to that, what memories he did have were somehow fading, bit by stolen bit…

"Aren't you going to invite us in?" Otho demanded.

"I am afraid that's impossible as of now," Bilbo sallied, still charmingly. "I hadn't expected any of you today, or rest assured that I would. Alas, we've been moving furniture and the house isn't fit to be seen." Charming, yes. But Frodo heard the edge beneath it.

Obviously, so did the Sackville-Bagginses. Otho and Lobelia looked as if they'd bitten into sour fruit.

"It was quite naughty of you, Bilbo, to not let us know of our cousin's arrival," sniffed Lobelia. "There are other concerns in Hobbiton besides the ones up Hill."

"I thought it might be best if Frodo had a few days to get adjusted before we toured the relatives," Bilbo responded chattily.

"Well. I cannot say I think much of his looks." Lobelia pointed her parasol at Frodo and poked him in the arm with the wood-doweled end. He jumped, gaped at her bewilderedly; beside him Bilbo frowned. "The lad's a fright. Thin as a rail. Needs a haircut and a decent tailor—I'd think that martinet Esmeralda would at least see to that."

Frodo couldn't believe it, but he was actually feeling as if he should defend Aunt Esme. Words such as 'pot calling the kettle black' leapt to mind at the nomer of 'martinet'.

"Save us, Lobelia, we were moving furniture!" Bilbo snorted. "Surely you don't expect the lad to do that in his best frock coat!"

"Hm. Those Brandybucks haven't the slightest idea of how to properly bring up a child. He looks half wild… which I can't say surprises me. Considering." Her light eyes flattened, and it reminded Frodo so much of a look he had seen countless times in Lotho's eyes that whatever protest he might have made went stark and mute.

"He will do well here at Bag End," Bilbo responded firmly, which made Otho glower angrily. Bilbo continued, "And how are things at your smial, cousins?"

Otho made a disgruntled reply, Lobelia chimed in, but Frodo didn't hear any of it. He was locked to Lotho's presence as the older tween took the several steps toward the small porch where he stood.

"I've heard Hobbiton's quite the place for Brandy Hall exile, these days," Lotho ventured, as pleasantly as if he was discussing the weather.

"What are you doing here?!" Frodo finally found voice; it was merely a whisper, and it took every ounce of will he had not to back away.

"I live here." The full mouth quirked in a smile. "Don't tell me you so soon forgot?"

He had. Somehow. Frodo cast back within his memory and found little there with Lotho's name attached to it—only happenings. Only the party…

Lotho leaned against the wall, perilously close to Frodo. "You'll find that I wander all over. Even in rainstorms. Do you?"

Frodo blinked, uncertain of where the comment was leading. Lotho smiled, cocked his head and ventured further, "So the Hall finally threw you out. Did they catch you sniffing after that low-bred kitchen slut once too often? Or perhaps your baby cousin?"

This last did engender a response. Frodo clenched his fists and advanced a step towards Lotho; the larger lad stiffened, a dangerous and eager light sparking behind his gaze.

"Stop leaning on my brickwork!" Bilbo was suddenly between the two boys, a small, contained fury.

Zeal vanished into innocence with smooth swiftness. Lotho held up his hands, backed away. "I'm sorry, cousin Bilbo. I was merely asking Frodo something."

"Quite a reaction for just a small question," Bilbo said stonily.

"I should say so!" Lobelia inserted sharply and stepped nigh to Frodo. "You'd best keep that temper of yours in check, young hobbit! We don't hold with vicious river-brawls here in Hobbiton!"

"I didn't…" Frodo started, fell silent as Bilbo gave him a quick headshake.

"Didn't what?" she demanded. "I saw you. I'd heard that you were trouble, and it seems to be true. Here in Hobbiton less than a day and already you're raising your fists to your cousin!"

Next to his mother and demure as a bride, Lotho was smiling very prettily.

Lobelia's parasol came up again, the tip poking at Frodo's chest this time. A well-manicured hand came between Frodo and Lobelia, took firm hold of the shellacked dowel and gave it a shove.

"Madame," said Bilbo through his teeth, "kindly do not use my nephew as your umbrella stand."

"Nephew!" she snorted. It was obviously the last straw. "Why, he's barely your first cousin, Bilbo Baggins, and half Brandybuck to boot, and remembering his mother there's no telling what else…!"

Frodo flinched as if he'd been struck, looked down. Scarcely a moment later he was looking up again, compelled to do so by a low, menacingly-pleasant and quite unfamiliar voice.

"Madame." Bilbo had all but shoved the handle of the parasol against Lobelia's breastbone, and was speaking, still quite reasonably and still through gritted teeth. "You forget whom you are speaking of, and to whom. Do not ever use your Southfarthing prudery to disparage my cousin Primula, may she rest. Not in my sight, and not in front of her son. Do you understand me?"

There was silence after the last word. Frodo found himself holding his breath. The three Sackville-Bagginses also seemed stunned. For long moments, Frodo could very easily see the legendary Burglar who had faced down Smaug. There was something in the ancient blue gaze that was unbending and rather dangerous.

And then what Bilbo was doing sunk in. And whom he was doing it for.

Frodo stared at him, struck from even the notice of their present company.

Lobelia was cowed, but she did not back down. She snatched her parasol from Bilbo's grip and glared at him. It was Otho who put a hand on her arm.

"Let's go home," he snapped. "Nothing further to be said."

Lobelia took a deep breath as if to hurl another comment. Her husband's grip noticeably tightened and she closed her mouth. Snapping her fingers nearly under Bilbo's nose, she spun and, as Otho released her, flounced away. After casting a measuring look both upon Lotho, then Frodo, Otho spoke sharply to his son.

Frodo was aware of Lotho's gaze upon him, but he couldn’t take his stunned gaze from Bilbo. Until Lotho quietly spoke. "I'll see you again. Cousin."

Slowly Frodo's eyes slid sideways, met Lotho's. The older lad smiled, then, at another sharp order from his father, Lotho turned and followed his parents down the path. Frodo watched after him, cognizant that he was trembling and scarcely able to reason why. He found his gaze returning to Bilbo, staring at the resolute profile with no slight amount of amazement. The feeling mercifully eclipsed any other surprises of the morning. Bilbo watched the Sackville-Bagginses retreat down the Hill with narrowed eyes; he still had his fists clenched, his feet braced firmly apart, his chin lifted and jutted outward. Not until the trio had vanished over the second rise leading back to Hobbiton did Bilbo relax, ever so slightly, and toss the silver hair back from his forehead with a satisfied grunt.

"You…" Frodo started hoarsely then tried again, "Y-you did that for me, didn’t you?"

"And why else would I endure Lobelia’s sarcasm for the next fortnight?" Bilbo grumbled, turning to his nephew then stopping. Frodo wasn’t terribly sure of his own expression, but it must have been quite telling, for Bilbo’s face, set into hard, angry lines, softened immeasurably. "Of course I did, lad. Whyever wouldn’t I?"

Frodo looked at the brick beneath his toes, uncertain of what to answer.

"I see."

"What do you see?" the lad burst out.

"More than you’re comfortable with, I do think," Bilbo muttered, so softly that Frodo almost didn’t hear. He stood, peering at Frodo for several moments, then took a sharp breath. He ventured, louder, "And what is between you and Lotho that I’ve not seen?"

This was totally unexpected. Frodo shot him a slightly-panicked look. Bilbo considered it, lips tightening.

"Didn't you know he lived here?"

"I…" Frodo shrugged. "I don't know if anyone ever told me. If they did, I didn't…" he hesitated, then finished lamely, "remember."

If he had realised that Lotho was here…

He could still feel Bilbo's gaze penetrating him. "The last time I saw you two, you were tromping his arse into the ground. Or was it Lobelia who has made you curl up like a stickleback caught unawares in a meadow?"

Frodo shook his head in a small, tight negation, his cheeks growing hot, his eyes flickering sideways.

"I'm sorry she said what she did, but there's no stopping her and you'll just have to get a thick hide until you're old enough to sass her back and make your place. I try to avoid her as much as I can and not get up her pipe unless I have to, but…" Hesitation made the firm tone falter slightly. "It's not her, not really. Is it?"

This time Frodo did meet his cousin's gaze; again, it was almost as if he was compelled and again, Bilbo's gaze was unfathomably concerned.

"It was Lotho, wasn't it? There's something there, between you. Perhaps the same something that made you pound him into the dirt."

Frodo stayed silent, unable to look away, snared by the kindness in Bilbo's weathered face.

"Did he just give you one too many taunts? Or beatings? Or push you into a corner once too often? Knowing the way that wretched boy thinks to play…" At this reference, Frodo could not help the spasm of discomfort that played across his face, and Bilbo's blue-gilt eyes narrowed suddenly. "Oh, no. Don’t tell me you and he—"

"We didn’t!" the protest was strangled. "At least I didn't… I mean… not…"

"I… see." Bilbo spoke, quite softly. Frodo bit his lip. It was tempting to back away, but something in him refused to retreat; he met the old hobbit's eyes almost fiercely as Bilbo continued. "Was that what started the fight, then?"

"No. I mean… yes. In a way."

"In a way? He tried to force you, and you fought him?"

"No. Yes. I mean…"

Bilbo was still holding his gaze earnestly; he didn't seem the least taken aback that Frodo couldn't seem to gather a coherent answer. "It was," Frodo finally said, low, "not the first time he'd tried to… I hadn't told anyone…"

"Why not?" Bilbo blurted out, then calmed. "I'm sorry, lad. Go on. What happened at the party?"

"Merry found us, Lotho and I, at the party. Mac was with Merry. It was… was…" Frodo shrugged miserably and this time he did look down. "Mac knew what was happening. He was the only one to see that it wasn’t… consenting."

"The only one…?" Bilbo shook his head. "I'm getting confused, now. I thought you said you told no one."

"I didn’t." Frodo kept looking at the stones of the pathway. "Old Uncle Rory came across us weeks earlier. In the bathhouse."

"Weeks earlier? With Lotho? Did you consent then?"

"No," he answered miserably.

"And Rory did nothing?" Bilbo demanded angrily.

"Uncle Rory, he…" Frodo snuck a glance; Bilbo's blue-gilt eyes were literally blazing, but it wasn't at himself. His voice grew stronger. "He thought I’d… invited it."

"Yet you said nothing to disabuse him of the notion?"

"I… I…" Frodo tucked his chin closer to his chest, realising how foolish it must all seem. How to explain that he couldn’t say anything, that there had been literally no one, until Merimac, that he could say it to? It made no sense now, taken out and explored, but it had been the only sense he’d had then. "I was… It was the first time I’d ever… I’d never done…"

"Oh, Frodo." The fury had gone, replaced itself with a soft voice and even softer eyes.

"I didn’t… know what to do. And Lotho didn't really… I mean, he never… well he didn't… finish it, if you understand what I mean."

"Finished or no, it doesn't matter," Bilbo said fiercely. "That he tried to make you do something you didn't want, that he even started such a thing is what matters, lad."

"I… I know it sounds ridiculous, but I didn’t understand it then, that Lotho looked at me like that, that he… wanted me to…" Frodo could not believe what he was saying beneath the soothing weight of those eyes, could hardly believe that it was all coming out like this. But he could stop it no more than he had been able to hold from telling Merimac. This was different, however. This wasn’t anything like sharing with Mac; this held a different sense of comfort, this was like…

It felt, suddenly and oddly, as if he was talking to his father.

Which was impossible. He had no father, no mother, and he was nothing but an orphan living off his relatives' charity, passed hand to hand like some mathom. Silenced, Frodo started to draw away, but Bilbo's next question, gentle and firm, made him waver.

"Am I the first person you’ve told this to?"

Somehow under Bilbo's understanding, the remembrance of that relief flooded back. How it had felt to confide in someone. To give a trust, however small. To be reassured that he wasn’t somehow wrong in this as well. Then to be shown quite intimately that while his mind might be a stranger, his body didn’t have to be. "Mac… knows," Frodo said softly, his lips quivering.

"Ah," Bilbo said, his gaze shifting with startling quickness from soothing to quite discerning. Frodo felt himself flush to the tips of his ears, and looked down, uncertain why he suddenly felt so awkward and resentful.

Bilbo remained silent for a few more counts, then ventured slowly, "I'm not trying to pry, lad. And neither was I appointed your gaoler, but your guardian. Hobbiton might have a few more reservations than most about what constitutes a proper playmate for a young lad, but I don’t. Who you choose to game with, or how and why—as long as they’re of proper understanding and consent—is your own rightful concern."

"Lotho didn’t seem to think so," was Frodo's sullen retort. "Neither did Aunt Esme."

"Lotho is an arrogant bully," Bilbo said flatly, "and Esmeralda is…" he trailed off, obviously rethinking his words, then continued with the air of someone biting his tongue, "often mistaken in her judgment. She probably thinks you still a bairn, one way or another—females are often like that with their sons."

"She’s not my mother!" Frodo snapped before he thought.

"No, she’s not," Bilbo said very reasonably. "But she’s had the raising of you for eight years, so I think we can forgive her for feeling slightly protective of you."

At those last words, a new wash of resentment flooded through Frodo’s senses so strongly that he almost choked, and had to turn away.

"Hang the Hall right now, anyway," Bilbo continued, some strong emotion of his own colouring the words, "you’re not there, you're here. And while you’re here—don’t take this wrongly, lad, I meant it when I said your choice of playmates is your concern. But while you are here, it is and shall be my concern if someone thinks to deny you that choice. Understand this, Frodo," Bilbo's hand reached out, cupped beneath Frodo’s chin and tilted his face back upward so that they were eye to eye. "If Lotho lays another hand—nay, another finger—on you that you don’t wish laid there, you’re to tell me. Do you hear?"

Holding Bilbo’s gaze, perplexity replacing resentment and ire, Frodo slowly nodded.

"You don’t believe me, do you?"

"I think… I do," Frodo said a bit wonderingly, surprised by this revelation. "It’s just that…" he stopped mid-breath, once again uncertain of how to continue, how to possibly explain, finished lamely, "I didn't think it would matter."

"You didn’t think… it mattered?" Bilbo stammered, obviously flummoxed. "How could you think that I’d assume responsibility for you and not care about what might hurt you?"

His fears sounded ridiculous, put forth in such reasonable terms.

Bilbo put a light hand on his shoulder. "It’s all right, I tell you, Frodo. I'm glad at least Merimac was there to help you. So all this with Lotho came to a head at the party. And the arrival of your cousins stopped it."

Another tight nod. Frodo looked down at the ground, feeling heat and strength come from that simple touch of Bilbo’s palm against his arm. "That’s when he—when Lotho—decided to go after Aster."

"So that’s what was really going on at little Meriadoc’s party. I wondered. It just didn’t make sense, why Lotho would show his hand that way and so obviously, and over a lass that he'd think beneath his notice in the first place. It was you, not Aster, that he was trying…" Bilbo sighed again. "Frodo, no matter the differences between you and your aunt and uncle, did you really think that they would countenance such a thing being forced upon you?"

"I was worried about Merry," Frodo answered quietly, with startling honesty. "What they might think of Merry… and myself. And he’s too… too young. Aunt Esme was already not happy about us spending so much time together, and if she thought I was… well. It more than likely would have been one more dark mark on me, do you see?"

"Yes, I think I do." Bilbo’s face was troubled. "All too well. Frodo, don’t think that I take for granted the gift you’ve given me here."

"Gift?" Frodo peered at him in sheer bewilderment.

"Your confidence." Bilbo squeezed his arm. "Particularly when it seems to be so rarely given."

Startled, Frodo didn’t know what to say.

"And lad, I meant what I said. Whatever it is, no matter how foolish it might seem, you’re to come to me with it." He clapped Frodo’s arm with a suddenly wicked smile. "Anyway, it's more than obvious you’ve better taste than Lotho Sackville-Baggins!"

A snort of agitated laughter escaped Frodo.

"Wellaway, and you do!" Bilbo was propelling him towards the kitchen, still talking. "It seems you had quite a busy several days about that party, if I do say so. Lotho counts for nothing and less than nothing, but there was the little maid, then of course there's our dear cousin Merimac…"

Frodo flushed again—this time not from resentment, but because he was completely unable to suborn the smirk that claimed his mouth.

"Oh, come now, lad. Own up to your choices and be proud of them." He dropped Frodo off at the kitchen table, went over to the cabinets. "I might be old, but I'm not blind and definitely not stupid. Merimac will be good for you. And no doubt very skilled at the kind of play that lads can enjoy."

No doubt. Frodo’s smile widened. Bilbo grinned back and winked, which made Frodo's cheeks heat even further. Such frank speech with someone so much older was both gratifying and overwhelming, expected from other tweens but coming strangely from a hobbit approaching his tenth decade, no matter how youthful he seemed.

Frodo wondered again, wistfully, if it would have been like this with his father.

Still chuckling, Bilbo got out a cutting board and knife and started paring choice bits of bread and cheese. "Particularly considering the entire nasty thing with Lotho. I've known your cousin Merimac since he was a bairn; he might be rowdy but he's a good heart and would sooner cut out his own tongue than hurt you. But tell me this, lad, all things considered…" He stopped slicing, looked at Frodo. "Why did you not go on the river with Merimac? Why did you come here?"

Frodo opened his mouth, shut it, then tried again. "I… I wanted to come here."

"I know that. Your Aunt told me that when she wrote me, and your Uncle also informed me that you'd asked to come here even as he had decided that it would be best to send you here. No doubt for very different reasons than your own." He piled cheese on bread, offered it to Frodo. "A start on tea, eh?"

"Thank you."

"So, why?"

Frodo was mid-bite—he pulled the bread from his mouth, looked down at it, shrugged. He didn't even know how to explain. Why he so loved it here… and feared it, somehow.

Bilbo raised his eyebrows, sighed briefly, sliced more cheese. "Eat. Lad, talking to you is like wooing a wild colt to the bridle. No, not a wild one… more akin to one that's been started before, and started all wrong."

Frodo stopped chewing, gave Bilbo a wary look.

"Eat, I say. You're more like my young gardener lad than you'll ever know," Bilbo mused and, snack in hand, came over and took Frodo's arm again, propelled him once again to the front door. "But entirely different, all at once. Sam's reticence has much to do with who and what he is." Bilbo peered at him with a slight, thoughtful frown. "And I think, somehow, that yours does as well."

It was as if those last few words had sucked all the sound from the room, making a hollow behind his ears. Frodo dragged his feet. Bilbo didn't seem to notice—other than that one grave look he kept walking them both forward, speaking quite brightly.

"As to young Sam. I know it's natural that you should want to get to know him and I approve whole-heartedly. He's in and out here at Bag End all the time, and as I said, I imagine you'll find that you've more in common than not. But I'll warn you straight up that you're going to have some problems wooing his acquaintance."

"Uncle," Frodo protested, "I don't—"

"The lad is very concerned with what he thinks is his proper place—and you have to be careful you don't ask him the moon, because he'd try to get it despite being terrified of the height."

I don't want the moon—I just want… What did he want? Frodo wasn't sure, but having Bilbo making shrewd guesses upon his disposition was not a comfortable part of it—and if Bilbo set Sam on him too, then Frodo had a suspicion that he'd not be able to even breathe. "Uncle Bilbo—"

"When it comes to it, I’m not so sure but that his father hasn’t given the order and all."

"His father… the order?" Frodo hung back more steadily, managed to slow their progress through the parlour. He felt as if he were being drawn towards a wide chasm, with no way of seeing if, when or where he might hit bottom once flung in. "Uncle Bilbo—"

"Well, meaning the Gaffer's no doubt told his son exactly how to behave about That Brandybuck Cousin of Mister Bilbo's." A chuckle. "Hamfast Gamgee's a heart as big as the Shire, but his mind's not so broad, if you get my—"

"Bilbo!" He yanked free, tottered back several steps. His uncle turned to him curiously; Frodo was so abruptly full of so many unnameable emotions that he didn’t flinch in the slightest, neither at his actions nor the name he’d growled out without a proper honorific. Bilbo beheld him for several moments, puzzlement becoming replaced by a slight quirk of lip.

"Well, there’s an honest reaction. One of the first I’ve seen out of you since you arrived."

Frodo stared, trying to comprehend exactly what it was that Bilbo was seeing, and what it was that he himself was feeling other than the trap, somehow, closing.

"Yes. When I push, push back, Frodo. Fight back. You’re very tough, I'm thinking. But you don’t have to retreat so far into yourself just to keep your own little world about you. You can have your world, and a much bigger one if you want, without being so close and wary. Without becoming hard. That's a lonely path, lad—no hobbit can truly be happy that way. You need to reach out. Take a page from my own book."

"I’m not like you!" Frodo shot back tersely.

"I think you are, in certain ways. Ways that matter."

"And I'm not like that gardener lad… that Samwise! Why do you keep bringing him up to me? I don’t even know him."

"Why are you so angry, Frodo?"

Frodo had drawn breath to reply; it hissed out from between his teeth as he kenned that somehow, he was.

"Is it that you don't like Sam? Is it that you don't like me?"

How can you ask that, when I've just told you so much, and I'm not even sure why, because it will end just like everything, just like… "I don't," Frodo said hoarsely, "know you. I don't know him, either."

"Do you know anyone, lad? Have you even let yourself know… really know… anyone?"

"I know Merry. And Pippin. I know Mac."

Bilbo was quiet for a moment. Then, "I think you need a friend, Frodo. Someone with nothing at stake, who'll honestly see you."

"No one sees things as I do. No one sees me—" Frodo truly hadn't meant for the reply to speak itself; he swallowed back the last words and shot a quick, fretful glance at Bilbo.

The lined face was open, and so compassionate it burned the senses. "You really believe that, don't you?" Bilbo spoke gently. "More, I believe you. I can't see that anyone has really seen you for what you are or given you what you really need. Not since before your parents died." Frodo looked away, but Bilbo continued, "And, my dear young hobbit, you won't find it where you've been looking. You won't find what you need in a Hall stuffed to its rafters with hobbits or in well-meaning, unimaginative aunts and stolid uncles. You won't find it in a tiny bairn of a Took who worships you, or a beloved young cousin who’s not quite mature enough to follow where you'll want to lead. You won't find it in that riverboat scoundrel who’ll take care of your body and all the while forget to feed your soul. And," he added slowly, "perhaps you won't even find it in an old hobbit who’s been briefly appointed your foster-guardian."

Frodo kept looking down.

"Although I hope," Bilbo ventured, still quietly, "that I can help you find what you need. I'd like to hope we could become friends."

"I think," Frodo murmured slowly to the floor, "that I should like that..."

The kettle sang into the stillness, shrill and demanding. Salt-silver eyebrows rose, and Bilbo harrumphed. "Tea! And stars above, I need a good cuppa to wash away the taste of soiling my tongue against Lobelia’s thick hide." He jerked his head toward the open door and the afternoon. "Go find us a spot in the garden, lad. I'll make us a pot of tea and we can talk some more. I'd best catch you up to date on the Hobbiton doings. I've no doubt Lobelia shan't be the only one of our relatives to call, out of curiosity and plain cussedness if nothing else."

And when Frodo didn't respond to this, Bilbo added, "Perhaps we could even take out the books in a bit, eh? Start you on some Elvish?"

Frodo looked up eagerly, and Bilbo's eyes were dancing, as if for all the world he'd thrown out that choice bait on purpose and knew exactly what he'd catch when he did.

But this time, Frodo couldn't even feel the slightest bit of resentment at it.

* * * * * *

"I ven athradin i nin o Baranduin."

Frodo frowned, followed where Bilbo's hand was pointing, bit at his lip.

"I ven," was the patient reiteration, and Bilbo's arm swept in visual demonstration from the front of Bag End and down the hill.

"The Hill?" Frodo guessed.

"What's on the Hill?"

"Grass," put in Sam from around a blade of same between his teeth. He was hunched over his own lesson, frowning and sweating, and stiffened as Frodo shot him a glance.

"And?" Bilbo prodded patiently.

"The road?" Frodo suddenly said.

"Good!" Bilbo smiled.

Tea and comestibles had long since been dispensed with, as well as conversation and time in which Bilbo had tried to acquaint Frodo with as much of the Hobbiton doings as possible. He'd stopped the latter when the blue eyes had begun to glaze over. Frodo had obviously not been as interested in social doings as Sam who, having arrived halfway through their picnic already well-fed, had simply gone back to work and surreptitiously kept one ear cocked their way. So occupied, the younger lad had not only finished his assigned chores but completed several extras.

Frodo had found it easier to ignore Sam's presence than Sam had to ignore Frodo's; in fact Bilbo suspected that his new charge was quite adept at ignoring far too much, and the bored sheen in those outsized eyes was probably the last stages of tuning out more information that Frodo really desired. So Bilbo had left Frodo staring blankly out over the garden and grinned at Sam, who was digging at a recalcitrant root a discreet five lengths away. His exit might not have been noticed but his return had been; for in his arms was a pile of texts, and not one but two sets of eyes, hazel and blue, had riveted on him eagerly.

Now they sat comfortably on the sun-dappled greensward beside the little pool, and the keen light that had slowly risen in his young cousin's eyes as he'd studied the finely-scripted rows of simple Elvish text was highly gratifying to Bilbo.

Frodo's heart and mind seemed quite the puzzle—a specialised, complex riddle. And the beginning of unravelling any answer was, obviously, in the written word.

Written words, yes, and those so captivating the lad that he barely responded to Bilbo's praise—just a slight smile, then a rake of slender fingers through tangled dark curls, a wrinkling of the freckled nose, and another frown as Frodo attempted to decipher the sentence before him.

"And then," Bilbo prompted, "at the end of the road?"

"The watershed?"

"Further east."

"The trees?" Frodo raised his index finger to his mouth, chewed absently at it, shifted the book from his folded legs to the grass and steadied it with his toes.

"Look and listen carefully, Frodo. Baranduin."

The blue eyes went wide. "Brandywine!"

Bilbo grinned. "Yes! Many of our words derive from the old tongues. Now. I ven athradin i nin o Baranduin. You have the road… see here, on the page," one finger pointed to the fluted, strangely-delicate script. "And you have the Brandywine. So, what do you think is in between?"

Frodo suddenly noticed that he was biting his thumbnail, grimaced and pulled it from his mouth. "I is 'the'… 'O' is 'of the'… Maybe it's that the road comes to the Brandywine?"

"Ah, but where is 'to the'? Do you see it there?"

"I nin…"

"No, remember, that is not 'to the', but 'the waters'. 'To the' is…"

"Nan… yes, I remember now," Frodo supplied. His hand had risen to his mouth once more, his eyes turning inward broodingly. Over beneath the sparse flowers of the pomegranate Sam scratched his head and spoke.

"Mister Bilbo… begging your pardon, but while master Frodo's thinking could you let me know what this word is, then?

Bilbo grinned to himself. Frodo's rather-vacant preoccupation had disturbed Bilbo the first time or two he'd witnessed it; trust Sam to immediately and instinctually figure out what Frodo was really doing—just thinking hard. Eyes still blank, Frodo's lips were quivering over the sounds of the Elvish phrase; Bilbo motioned Samwise over and peeked at the mystery word. "Surcoat."

Sandy brows drew together in puzzlement. "I was afraid of that. It don't read that way to my eyes, but I thought I'd heard you read it that way more than the once…"

Bilbo patted his arm with sympathy. "Unfortunately, there are a lot of words that sound different than they look."

"Aye, and don't I know it," Sam grumbled, returning to his small bit of shade.

"Goes over?" Frodo took another stab at guessing.

"Warmer, lad. Very close."

"Crosses?" Bilbo beamed, and Frodo chanted, "I ven athradin i nin o Baranduin. The road crosses the waters of the Brandywine!"

The lad's tongue twisted agilely over the syllables, a nigh-to-perfect mimicry of the way he'd heard Bilbo say them. He was going to take to the language like a duck to water. Bilbo reached forward, gave him a friendly clout on the knee.

"Very good indeed, my boy!"

A slow smile, like full moonlight breaking through clouds. "I ven athradin i nin o Baranduin," Frodo repeated, savouring the words like sweet fruit.

"Mister Bilbo," said Sam, aggrieved, "why would anyone wear all these clothes, anyway? And if they did, why write about it so much?"

Bilbo chuckled. "Come on over here, Sam, and show me." He'd put the lad to reading the story he'd told them previously, about the maiden and her suitor and the Mother of the land, and it was obvious that the flowery, over-dramatic style of this particular telling was not Sam's cup of tea.

"Well, sir," Sam ventured as he gathered his text and came over, squatting next to Bilbo in the soft grass, "all I can say is that it must be cold in that country. And that the writer enjoys going on about what people wear!"

Bilbo chuckled again, sneaking a look at Frodo. The older lad was unresponsive; he was absorbed in his own text, running a finger down the unfamiliar letters, his lips still vibrating as if wishing to taste more of the soft Elvish polysyllables.

"Surcoat, chain mail, tunics and undertunics and three pairs of trous, and this… gree-affees?"

"Greaves." Bilbo demonstrated where such were worn. "To protect your legs a-horse."

"He must've been expecting quite a fight, and instead he runs into a lass!" Sam snorted. "I'm not sure but that I wouldn’t take the brawl; dressed up like that there wouldn’t be a lad in Hobbiton who could take me!"

"That's very true, Samwise." Sam was one of the more demure in the pack of Bagshot Row lads, but occasionally had to defend his code of honour with his fists. He was quite respected amongst his set for having a "dem fine arm" despite his youth, and for using it sparingly and fairly.

"But I imagine the lasses like that sort of thing, too," continued Sam with a disgruntled twist of his sunburned nose. "They go for things like fancy clothes."

Bilbo smiled fondly at the lad. Sam himself was also the sort of thing lasses liked, though he was quite innocently unaware of it. There was many a young crofter's offspring who remained quite wistful for the day 'when that handsome Gamgee lad would set to and finish his growin' up'.

"So that story's not quite to your tastes, Samwise?"

"Well, sir, it's just he's a long time getting about to the telling of it, if you take my meaning."

"Nevertheless," said Bilbo, tapping the book, "it's a good thing for you to read, because of the new words you'll come across. But," he continued as Sam's face twisted with slight chagrin, "in small bits only. I've another book for you here…"

"Uncle Bilbo," Frodo said suddenly. "What does melyanna mean?"

Bilbo twisted to take in his cousin, who had one hand still splayed over the text, his body all but bent in half over his crossed legs and his elbows resting on the grass to either side of the book. Frodo angled his gaze to meet Bilbo's. There was a strange query behind the lad's eyes, one deeper than the simple question might imply. Bilbo picked up the new book intended for Sam and handed it to him with a smile. Sam was peering at Frodo with his own puzzled expression, but he took the book with a thankful grin.

"Well," Bilbo said consideringly, "we've talked about how translations can vary, and how the way you speak an Elvish word can change its meaning ever so slightly. But as you say it, 'melyanna'… it can mean 'love-gift'. Or 'dear gift'."

The dark brows twisted almost comically, but it was obvious as Frodo sat up that he was not amused. Bilbo leaned over, peering at the pages of the book. He didn't see the word anywhere on either page.

"Where did you hear that word, Frodo?"

"My…" the lad swallowed hard, then spoke again. "My mother used to call me so."

"Ah."

"That's a lovely name for a mum to call her bairn, master Frodo," Sam said into the stillness.

"It wasn't just her," Frodo murmured.

Sam shifted, as if ready to speak again, awkward and nervous by the sudden pensiveness of his master's nephew. Bilbo held up a hand, stilling him. "Who else, then?" he asked quietly.

Frodo didn't answer that question. He did, however, ask another one. "Then… what does vaninyo mean?"

Bilbo frowned and looked over his shoulder. He didn't see that word in the text, either. "Are those words from your mother's book, lad?"

A moment's hesitation, then Frodo nodded.

"Well, again, translation. There are several possibilities, but the main one that comes to mind is 'son of the lost one'."

Frodo blinked, with a sharp intake of breath.

"Or, more likely now that I think about it, 'little lost boy'. 'The boy that…" Bilbo paused, looking into his young cousin's face, "'that has no home'."

Frodo's cheeks paled, and his eyes slid quickly to the ground. Bilbo frowned, started to speak, was stayed by Frodo gaining his feet.

"I… I have to go to the privy," was his stammered explanation, and he was gone.

Bilbo was too surprised and dismayed to do anything but let him go.

* * * * * *

The sharp odour of urine and lime-salt assailed his nostrils as he bent over the privy trap, braced himself on the wooden backboard, and heaved every bit of his meal into the dark, dank hole.

Frodo wasn't sure how long he was there, only that by the end of it he was trembling, tears were streaming down his face, and his mind was whirling so swiftly that he was dizzy. The only thing that kept him upright was his tight grip on the wood and his knees that, for some reason, refused to buckle.

He straightened shakily, fumbled for the jar of water that resided in almost every Shire privy, and poured a small amount over his hand, cupping and raising it to splash on his face.

The Elves… they had known, somehow. A chance meeting in the Old Forest, seemingly nothing more than that, but it had obviously been more than he'd dreamed. Lirandilë had looked into his mind, heard and seen it, seen it all—must have, for it was she who first called him 'vaninyo'…

But Elladan had seemed to know without having to look.

It wove up behind his eyes, sickness lurching into anger. Frodo suddenly drew back the water jar, took aim at the wooden wall not two feet before him…

Water trickled down his arm from the sideways-held jar, and he froze in place, anger draining from him as suddenly and surely as the water from the jar. Slowly he lowered it, peered at it, panting.

The water sloshed inside glass, betraying the shaking of his hand upon it.

Frodo took a deep, careful breath, clenched his teeth, then slowly and purposefully replaced it on its shelf.

* * * * * *

The gardener's lad was absent when Frodo returned to the garden; the books were cleared away and Bilbo sat in the wicker chair by the pool, smoking a pipe and staring into space.

Frodo crept up, raw and hesitant. He was desperately afraid that he'd unmade whatever friendly progress had been established in Bilbo's smial earlier that day, that his guardian would take him to task, demand to know what was wrong—in short, do what he had every right to. Frodo was a visitor in Bilbo's smial, one foist upon him, at that, and to have an orphaned charity case disrupting his life like this was certainly beyond what was expected of any fosterer no matter intentions.

So he was thrown again, another inexplicable fall amidst already well-trampled confusion when Bilbo blinked and looked up at Frodo's presence as if he'd merely not expected him back so soon, nothing more.

"I'm sorry tea didn't agree with you, lad," he said softly, tapping at his pipe. "I do suspect that pork pie is coming to the end of its usefulness; I feel a bit dodgy myself. What say we retire indoors—you work on your study while I get some paperwork done that I've put off far too long. And then later, if you're up to it, we'll go to the Dragon for refreshment. As promised. Yes?"

It was an out, and an obvious one even in Frodo's compromised state of being, but Frodo gladly took it. "Yes, sir."

Bilbo smiled, but there was still that unnerving awareness behind his eyes. "Go change your shirt, lad." Frodo looked down, noted that it was indeed soiled from his privy ruminations as Bilbo continued, "We'll reconvene in the parlour at sunset."

* * * * * *

Sunset over the Brandywine was always one event that Merimac tended to heed; a time of day where he would stop what he was doing, whatever it was, and watch the red glow of dying light upon water. Even on rainy days he was somehow aware of the shifting of tide and sun and would spend moments looking into the west, heeding time's passing.

This evening was no exception. Merimac wore layered travelling clothes, a worn rucksack was hung over one arm and he was talking in low murmurs to the stablehobbit, young Jim, but still his eyes were upon the rushing river and the glow of sunset, visible through the open courtyard gate.

The day had run away from him more than he'd wished for, but his son was well tucked into bed with a story and a hard hug, the weather promised to be clear and mild, and Merimac had decided his welcome had been overstayed at the Hall for now. Better to just go—anyway, he liked travelling at night.

Jim had accepted his altered departure with n'er a qualm, merely led a suitable mount from its box and proceeded to swiftly tack up. Merimac stayed considerately out of the lad's way until he'd finished—nothing worse than trying to do a hobbit's job for him—then fastened his rucksack and cloak to the saddle's cantle and hung a wallet of food across the pommel. Giving a rolled message to the stablehobbit, along with a few coppers for his trouble in seeing its disposition to his crew, Merimac gave a quick check to the pony's girth and swung up. He didn't ride much—not a lot of call for four-legged beasts on the water—but he had grown up familiar with the saddle, and while he preferred his feet for land-bound transportation, four hooves would take him where he needed to go much faster.

"RiverMaster," Jim stated politely as he too gave the girth one final check, "I've something I was directed to give to you as well." He held up a sealed envelope. On the front of it was Frodo's name, penned in dark sepia with obvious, if somewhat-faulty, care.

Merimac turned toward the Hall's back face and beheld a nightshirted, bare-legged Merry sitting in his window, watching him with jutted chin and glittering eyes. Merimac held up the envelope and nodded, gave his nephew a smile. It was not returned. Heaving a sigh, Merimac tucked the precious envelope in his pocket with all sorts of regrets clawing at his heart.

Riding from the Hall boundaries, he turned the beast's nose north, toward the Brandywine Bridge.

* * * * * *

They hadn't gone to the pub after all.

In fact, after sunset Bilbo had gone into the little study, curious at how quiet it had gotten, merely to find Frodo asleep on the floor, one hand curled across a still-open book at his side.

Gently, quietly, he inched the book from beneath the lax fingers, debated waking the boy to send him to his bed, then shrugged and snatched a coverlet from the narrow corner bed, covering Frodo with it. The boy was curled up, knees to his chest, as if he were cold. In repose he looked frightfully young, face relaxed, dark curls flung upward on the rag-rug. There were smudges on those cheeks, stains of old parchment and ink to match the ones on his fingertips, markers of exploring written pages while he'd worked.

And Frodo had gotten quite a bit of work done, actually. Books lined many of the shelves, properly sorted and organised. The desk had, on its blotter, a fresh inkwell, blank parchment sheets and a clutch of quills, some clipped into points and some not, all bound together with a length of yarn. Interestingly enough, there was nothing on the desk in Frodo's own hand, although there were several rolled-up parchments that looked to be maps, from their size.

Bilbo turned down the lamp and left the lad sleeping in his new sanctuary.

Sleep was not about to take him, though, not yet. Bilbo puttered about the smial, eating a quickly managed but filling meal, then exited the back door, pipe in hand, and mounted the back steps up to the roof.

The night was partially clouded, but stars peeked through the veil of gossamer like lit gems, and Bilbo made his customary full circle, sighing with pleasure at his view.

He wondered if Frodo had managed to see it yet.

He took his time tamping and lighting his pipe, all the while imbibing the visual feast of darkened land and midnight sky. Just as deliberately Bilbo considered the puzzle that lay sleeping in the hollow beneath his feet in a tangle of prickles and temper, soft smiles and wistful hope, wariness and uncertainty.

There was little breeze. The pipeweed smoke curled about his head, wafting slowly upward and snarling in the branches of the roof oak. Bilbo knew that he had been given quite a few pieces of that puzzle today—more than he'd expected, actually. The appearance of the Sackville-Bagginses, not normally a welcome occurrence, had proven unexpectedly fruitful.

But there was also no doubt that he would have to watch the situation with Lotho. That had been the unpleasant news amidst any welcome trust given—while Bilbo knew Lotho was nigh unto ungovernable, he never thought he'd stoop to forcing another to such an extent. Of course, Frodo's detached mien was challenging—Bilbo himself had responded to it, if in a totally different fashion. But this...

Bilbo gritted his teeth, puffed a bit more vehemently on his pipe than necessary. Yes, he would need to keep a weather eye on Lotho, ensure that nothing further transpired in that direction. And Frodo… while it was encouraging that Frodo's confidence had broadened enough to include Bilbo as regards this, he was also dismayed at the lad's unwillingness, at the time, to speak of the incident to anyone who might have helped him.

Yes, Lotho bore watching, but it was more than obvious Bilbo would also have to keep a vigilant eye on Frodo. The lad was entirely too guarded and close, and he was doubly skilled at... lying?  No, not lying--that would have been easier to deal with.  This was not so direct, so devious--in fact Frodo was in some ways quite ingenuous for his age.  Bilbo smoked, and thought, and finally decided that Frodo was no liar, but he was altogether too good at distraction and evasion, and in a fashion that suggested the lad himself wasn't even sure exactly what he was protecting.  A stickleback caught in a meadow--all too apt, the comparison, and even as Bilbo congratulated himself for calling that one properly, he also wondered if he'd truly seen anything of Frodo today other than what Frodo wanted him to see.

But perhaps he had. Just now, with the boy deep in satisfied slumber. And earlier, with the books. And earlier still…

Bilbo had always thought Primula a little too protective of her only son. Considering how much trouble she'd had in getting him, it had made some sense. But particularly just before she had died, the overprotectiveness had become a mania of focus.

It seemed that Frodo had felt it, too. His reaction to Sam's quite innocent story had told more than any ancient lay of love’s gifting.

Love. Gifting.

A cloud of pipeweed exhaust swirled in a small eddy about Bilbo's head, mimicking the process of his thought. The grass was cool against his feet, soothing, reminding of the power of calm insight. His ring lay heavily in his pocket, as if reminding him that gifts could be more than they seemed.

He burrowed one hand into his pocket, closed his fingers about cool metal and stroked lightly. Gift. Dear gift… love gift…

Frodo's mother had called him melyanna, had loved him not wisely but too well. Esmeralda also had tried to hold him all too tightly; Frodo's resentment of that was all too obvious, here and at the Hall. But resentment or no, all the while Frodo had aided his aunt in keeping him a child, running with his younger cousins as if he was afraid what would spring forth when he gained maturity.

As if he'd not wanted to know.

Frodo had, only that morning, believed that Bilbo would send him back over a mere defiance. Yet this evening he had spread himself with painfully-sweet abandon in that study, had fallen blissfully into slumber. Burrowing in.

As if daring any to shift him.

Frodo's uncertain dance with Samwise, as if they were two young stallions in their first mating season, arching their necks and peering challengingly over the fence, asserting right and territory and priority.

As if daring Sam to care, and both lads wary of what might happen if he did.

And the way Frodo touched the books, borrowed or owned. The way he spoke the Elvish. The way he handled his mother's book with a gentle, almost sacred touch.

As if ephemeral things were the only ones he would trust to stay.

Bilbo understood that, at least. For stories would change and words would shift, but they could not be torn from heart or head once they had taken hold so strongly.

Nevertheless, they could hurt, those words.

Bilbo had known, the moment he'd answered, that he shouldn't have. And he'd felt absolutely dreadful when the lad had returned, obviously sick not only physically, but at heart. So he'd pretended to misunderstand—he was a great one to learn from his mistakes. Bilbo was no longer going to push when the boy was so undone and vulnerable, even if he wanted to.

How and where had Frodo come across that particular word?  In either definition, it was painfully apt.

A sudden thought burrowed into his sensibilities as tightly as young Frodo into his smial of books and papers and ink.

And maybe, a small, insinuative voice returned, it would be for all the wrong reasons, if he did.

His fingers clenched in his pocket, and his teeth upon his pipe-stem.