This time Frodo saw them returning before he heard them: two dim silhouettes pacing steadily up the Hill, limned by starlight. Then the sound of their voices wafted upward, and Frodo shinnied down from the window where he had been seated.

He was still on edge with adrenaline and excitement from his own little adventure concerning the gardener's lad and a well-aimed turnkey. He had thought to crawl into bed and attempt sleep anyway, but the memory of his riffled covers and the things laid there made him uneasy. He had thought to read his mother's book, even going so far as to unlock his trunk with the key residing as ever about his neck, but he was unsure about fooling with the old book before it had dried.

And he now thought to go out and meet his older cousins, but the sight of his face in the small washstand mirror—pale, heavy-lidded and all too revealing that something had happened during their absence—made him rethink facing either of them.

Frodo uneasily contemplated his bed then, as the green door opened, dove for it, yanked the covers over himself and pretended to be asleep.

His bed smelled the same, felt the same. Giving a grateful breath, Frodo burrowed down into the feather tick. Air displaced down the hallway with a small 'whoosh' as the front door was securely shut. A question from Bilbo, sharp into the stillness—his name. A murmur from Merimac. The slow tread of feet against the wooden floor, and the sound of breathing at his door. He hadn't shut it.

"Lad?" A soft query—Bilbo again.

More footsteps. Frodo forced his breathing to remain steady, regular—which was quite difficult as fingers touched his nape, stroked his hair. He knew that touch, and the thrill of recognition hummed all the way down to his toes.

"He's asleep," Merimac murmured, resting his hand against Frodo's temple.

"I didn't think he'd sleep while we were gone," Bilbo whispered.

"Mm." Merimac was obviously unwilling to wake Frodo; Frodo marvelled again at how those large, callused hands could be so gentle and delicate—and the deep voice so soft. "Has he not been sleeping well?"

"I think he has. But we weren't here, and…" a pause in the whisper during which Frodo could all but see Bilbo shrug.

"And?"

"Merimac, I think that lad is far too jumpy about being left alone."

"Is he?" Frodo was worried at the curious way Merimac said it. "I'd say that he likes his solitude all too much." Another gentle, familiar stroke to his temple that drew up every nerve ending in his body. "Bilbo, have you linens for the bed in the study?"

"Well, yes. But. Well…" Bilbo cleared his throat.

A chuckle, and the air from it wafting over Frodo's ear. "Well, what, old hobbit?"

Genteel hesitation. "I rather thought…."

"Not likely." The hand absented itself and Merimac's voice moved away. Frodo had to fight the impulse to sit up, call him back. "He's not best pleased with me right now, in case you've not noticed."

"Tweener sulks."

"Be that as it may, I…" The voice trailed off, down into the hallway, and Frodo, try though he might to hear words amidst the soft sounds of the two male voices, could distinguish no further conversation. He turned over, squinted his eyes towards the door. Merimac's voice floated through, "…so 'jumpy', as you put it, then I'll take this little smial—study, you say? Fine, then, it's closer…." and faded away again.

Frodo peered through the dark. His own smial's candles had been extinguished, no doubt by Bilbo, but the hallway flickered with shafts of light as his elders moved about, settling in. He watched through the shield of his lowered lashes until there was no more sound, no more movement and, finally, no more light save a steady glow from the little airtight stove in the spare room. In his study.

His study. The words rolled like fine spirits on his tongue as he mouthed them silently. His. Study.

Burrowing further into the coverlets, wrapping limbs about linen, Frodo gave a delicious shiver as the words sluiced through him. It was so powerful, this feeling, and it flooded his very soul with longing—with belonging. It had its own power akin to Merimac's rousing touch—it scattered rational thought; it opened a profound ache down within him that was exhilarating and frightening all at once.

Frightening? No.

Ah, but yes.

For it begged the question:

Was this yet another darkling pool that would swallow him up? Another deceptive reflection of silence and darkness that would take him down and never let him return to the surface?

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Frodo vaulted upright, threw the covers from him and sat in the dark, panicked and panting.

Study or no, smial or no, this wasn't working. He couldn't stay here. Miserable and stifled he might feel at Brandy Hall, but at least the misery gave him something outward to react to, at least the misunderstanding was familiar. Those demons he knew, and knew how to thwart. He'd had Merry to take care of, and the promise of Merimac to take the edge off thwarted needs, and Pippin to spin stories for, and Esmeralda and Saradoc to remind him what barriers were for, and physical labours to exhaust him into dreamless sleep. But this…

He couldn't bear it. Everything was too deep; too lulling and bracing and invasive and… here.

And it wouldn’t stay. Nothing ever did. How long before Bag End became another place where he was not welcome or wanted?—particularly with Lotho about. Frodo knew beyond a doubt that Lotho was eager to make him pay, and pay in full, for that humiliating and forcible ejection from the Hall. Yet Lotho didn't even have to raise a hand toward Frodo, not this time—all Lotho had to do was open his mouth, inject speculation like venom into passers-by.

Frodo's face twitched, twisted, and his fists clenched in the coverlets as animosity, cold and clear as ice, scored through him. For long moments he fairly vibrated with the wish to pay Lotho back for all he had done, and to circumvent all Lotho would no doubt do, now that he had the perfect opportunity. For the first time Frodo felt that he had the power to do so: given by Merimac, knowledge and control.

And even more, for the first in a long while, he felt that he had something at his back with which to stand: Bag End, and its master.

But the price?

Even Merimac was beginning to see. The price was too chancy. And too high.

Frodo closed his eyes; he could all but witness it. It might be obvious that Bilbo did not care for his Sackville-Baggins cousins, but he had even less reason to care for Frodo's well-being. Especially since Frodo was no Baggins at all. So would Saradoc's warning prove truth, for no doubt Bilbo, so prickly-proud and stubborn about the name and heritage of Baggins, would not tolerate a pretender in the smial that his father Bungo had burrowed with such style and care.

Frodo lurched up from the bed and stood there bare-legged in his nightshirt, swaying a bit uncertainly. He had no say in anything, no power to do or to be. Bag End was no shelter. This room was no shelter. There was no shelter. None.

Except…

Frodo staggered through the dark in near-panic; he crossed the hall and almost bolted into the study before he could think. Just before he stepped over the threshold he halted, regained control of his being by digging his fingers into the hard wood of the doorsill. His burned hand protested; he fled into the pain, gritting his teeth, clutching at what composure he could scavenge. And wondered how the scene before him could be so peaceful when all he felt was turmoil.

Merimac was obviously asleep in his borrowed bed; he faced the wall, the only visible part of him one bare, broad shoulder and a dusky head pressed deep into the pillow. The covers moved, shifting with each breath that Merimac took. Hands dropping from the door frame, Frodo crept into the room. A bare length away, something within him mordantly refused to take another step, held his breath so that it thumped within his chest. Just standing there, watching his cousin sleep, Frodo was possessed of more than several cravings. One was to simply crawl beneath the covers and spoon tight to that bare back, listen to the deep, slumbering breaths and gain what comfort he could. Another was to curl up atop that sleeping form, lay his head against Mac's chest and just sob until there were no tears left. But that was entirely too dangerous, so yet more tempting was to tangle his hands in that pillow-scattered hair, wake and straddle his cousin's body, drown himself in opened arms and warm, willing flesh…

"Are you just going to stand there all night, glaring holes in my backbone?"

Frodo started. Merimac shifted, twisted upwards in the bed and about to face him. His face was all but shadowed, but the coverlet slid down about his hips and Frodo swallowed hard at the sudden expanse of bare skin. His cousin sat silent for long moments; Frodo thought he could detect uncertainty in the cant to his frame. He shivered and nearly turned away in retreat, then a low voice echoed dully against the still-bare walls of the little study.

"I thought you were asleep, love."

Frodo hesitated, nodded, then shrugged—he didn't trust his voice.

Merimac studied him for further moments, eyes gleaming in the dark. Then he voiced another soft tremor into the stillness, "Well. Sleep is not finding me easily. I've gotten all too used to my own cradle on the water, rocking me to sleep like some fussy bairn."

"I…" Frodo meant to say something, anything, but his voice betrayed him. His voice, the uneasiness, and the quiet, and the tight knot just below his breastbone—all of it choking his breath. Merimac fell quiet again, his eyes dimming. Silence fell again, tactile and alive in the little smial; nothing but the sound of his own breathing, quick and shallow, and the firelight playing over the darkened walls and his own hands, and Merimac's hair.

Frodo wasn't sure how he got over to the bed. But somehow he was there, the bedstead squeaking as he alighted on it and crawled into his cousin's lap. He settled his knees against well-muscled flanks, and buried his face into Merimac's neck.

"Here," Merimac said into his curls, wrapping one arm about him. "Here, now…"

The words, full of tenderness and comfort, grated in a strange mixture of pleasure and pain; Frodo frantically stoppered them with his mouth. Merimac's lips softened beneath his but did not answer or return desperation; instead he folded Frodo back against his shoulder and gentled him, rocked him through the kiss. When he finished, Frodo was trembling and looking up at him; Merimac returned his gaze with a tenderness that set some forlorn, lovely ache within Frodo's chest. Broad fingers caressed Frodo's temple, brushing dark curls back.

"How's your hand, love?"

"It still hurts. A little. I…" he raised his blistered palm, peered at it and thought of how he'd broken those tiny blisters. "Mac, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Moist breath between his brows, and a kiss so light it almost wasn't there. "I know you didn't. It's been a rough fortnight for you, eh? Which is why I'm thinking that right now you need a good cuddle more than you need to be tupped through the mattress."

The warmth of it all inexplicably made Frodo shiver, and a smile quirked at his lips as he raised them to Merimac's throat. "I'd… like you to tup me through the mattress."

"Mm. I keep telling you," Merimac's voice, slowly considering, vibrated against Frodo's mouth, the gentle pressure of his fingers not easing in Frodo's hair, "that you need to slow down a bit, else you're going to just explode here in my arms."

"I…" Frodo's eyes flickered down self-consciously. Explode was very probably accurate—how could a fortnight seem like forever, when he'd spent an entire lifetime before that without? "It's just… I like it."

"Of course you do. But don't you like this?" Merimac held him closer, if that was possible, and there was a heated, buzzing feeling that accompanied the close embrace. Gentle touches, and strong arms wrapped about him, and comfort, and once more the lulling ache, which now seemed to penetrate to his bones.

"Yes." It was a whisper.

"Then, later," was the firm insistence, accompanied by lips in his hair and fingers lightly massaging his nape. Merimac leaned back against the headboard and Frodo snuggled down, wrapping himself about his cousin's broad body and wondering how it was possible that the sweet ache in his chest was overpowering the very insistent tug in his groin. This despite the hands trailing up and down his spine, the thin linen of his nightshirt one more caress, and despite Frodo rubbing his toes against the thick fur on Mac's ankles and nuzzling his cheek in Mac's throat. Contentment sank heavily into him, thick as honey and soporific as a sea-borne cradle of breath and pulse and sound.

Finally, Frodo slept.

* * * * * *

He woke screaming.

Screaming, muffled and choked and shrill, and there was a hard hand against his skull, keeping his face buried in linen and flesh, and he couldn't breathe but somehow he sucked in enough air to just keep screaming, because even if he was suffocating he wouldn't go down quietly… never again…

"Frodo?"

"Frodo!" Fingers hard and fast in his curls, yanking his head back and away from strangling closeness; air flooding over his cheeks and into his lungs, fabric yanked away and a hard, neck-wrenching shake breaking the tight band in his chest. He reached out, felt skin beneath his fingertips, felt cloth tangling about his waist, fought both, choked out, "N…no… please… don't…"

"Frodo!!!"

Frodo opened his eyes and the scream building up in his chest castrated itself into a small whimper as with sight and touch, reality asserted itself. No icy mirrored solidity to keep him under, no sweet, cloying cloth to take him away from all of it… reality was the small wood-shored smial, the scent of embers and earth and the feel of Merimac's hands upon him, clutching his face. Crouched next to Frodo, Merimac was half-dressed and dishevelled, grey eyes sprung with a depth of active fear Frodo had never before witnessed in them. His cousin's lips were moving, and for moments Frodo couldn't hear anything, his own ears still ringing with the force of his cries.

"…are you all…?"

"Merimac? I heard Frodo and he's not in…" Bilbo stopped in the doorway.

Frodo jerked beneath him, froze with his eyes wide upon the door. Without word or excuse Merimac reached down, pulled the covers up over where Frodo's nightshirt had rucked up and bared his haunches. Still shaking, Frodo hunched down further against the bed, effectively stilled by a new, quite irrational fear—Bilbo's reaction.

"…his room," Bilbo finished a bit distractedly. Frodo could feel those amber-blue eyes burrowing into him, even from several lengths away. He tried frantically to not meet them, but almost against his will he found himself looking up, and he knew that there was not only wariness in his gaze, but a sudden and obdurate anger.

This wasn't going to be taken from him, too. No.

Bilbo's eyes widened as Frodo met his gaze. There was some discomfort in them. Concern, very palpable. But no indignation. No threat. No angry disbelief such as Esme had met him with that time she'd found him in the Hall stairwell with Merimac.

Frodo lowered his gaze, his breathing unsteady not only beneath the effects of nightmare, but from that absolute attention in Bilbo's eyes, one which would not allow anything to undermine it.

"I think he must have had a nightmare," Merimac said softly.

"I should think so," Bilbo answered with a sudden shake of his head. He strode in, crossed his arms and looked down at Frodo, who couldn't decide if he wanted to raise his chin and meet that serious gaze or just turn his face into Merimac's chest and hang there.

He'd never done this. He'd never woken like this, racked and stretched so far it had found terrified voice. And the stuff of the nightmare…

Pain lanced sideways through his skull and he wobbled.

"Whoop—easy, lad!" Merimac said in his ear, and stole an arm about him, shoring him up. Bilbo was suddenly at the bedside as well, placing a hand beneath his chin and tilting his face up to meet his own.

"That must have been some nightmare, boy," he said, and it was as if soft, unrelenting fingers were riffling through his mind. Merimac was here, and reality, but Bilbo was something far past that… Bilbo was possibility, and promise, and as Frodo stared at him, still panting, he could feel something within, reaching up and out.

Choking, he was choking in it, and with violent suddenness Frodo wrenched back and away.

"Frodo!" Merimac said, startled.

Pulling the coverlets up to his chest, Frodo set his back to the headboard and the wall and glared at them both, shaking all over. Something twitched in Bilbo's lined face, and something further dimmed in Bilbo's clear eyes, and the outstretched hand closed in on itself, drew back. The old hobbit gazed at Frodo thoughtfully, and when Merimac thought to start forward, protest, it was Bilbo's hand stayed him.

Frodo curled tighter against the headboard, chin tucked into his chest, eyes fastening to Bilbo, relief and resentment and hope and abject terror all coiling within his breast.

"Stay here with him, Mac," Bilbo said softly. "I'm going to get him something to drink."

Frodo watched his retreat, dropped his gaze, closed his watering eyes. A touch on his forehead made him start; he opened his eyes once more to see Merimac still peering at him.

"Bilbo's right. That must have been some nightmare, love," he said, pushing the damp, sweated locks back from Frodo's eyes. Then, with a pensive, curious lilt to his words, "I sometimes wonder how you even breathe in that little world of yours."

Frodo stared at him.

"What I'm wondering more, though," continued Merimac, "is whether you really want to be here or not."

"Mac…" he protested a bit rustily.

"Oh, come here," his cousin said fiercely, and Frodo did so, allowing himself to be wrapped in scent and touch and firm reality, once again bound with fine, tensile comfort.

Neither did Merimac let him go as Bilbo returned, but he did release him slightly. Frodo found himself once more in control; able to simply face Bilbo, not face off against some imaginary power and threat that reflected outward from behind his own eyes.

The old hobbit carried a large tumbler, and a cloth wrapped about two substantial hunks of bread and cheese, and Frodo smiled slightly, wondering if food was Bilbo's answer to everything.

"Here, Frodo," Bilbo told him, "drink this first. It'll clear the cobwebs from your head nicely."

Frodo sat up, took the cup and ventured a sip. A mixture of fruit, flowers and pepper danced on his tongue, pleasantly warming all the way down his gullet as he swallowed.

"Hoy," Merimac protested, peering into the tumbler and taking a sniff, "perhaps I should have a nightmare or three if it means the old hobbit will start serving me Old Winyards."

"As if you don't carry enough on board that boat of yours, RiverMaster," Bilbo chided mildly. "None for you, now. This is Frodo's." He smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Drink up, lad."

Eyes darting from one to the other of his companions, Frodo did so, and also managed to worry down the snack. The cheese was sharp on his tongue, the bread and wine settling his uneasy stomach. He realised as he chewed that it wasn't yet morning; there was nothing but darkness in the hallway past his foster guardian, and Bilbo had obviously been asleep. The well-groomed, rather fussy appearance that Frodo had invariably seen was absent; Bilbo's wiry grey hair stuck up in varying directions, his face was scrunched as if he'd slept hard into his pillow and his robe was tied askew—even his foot fur was mussed sideways.

"I'm sorry to wake everyone," Frodo said, muted.

"No worries, lad," Bilbo said briskly, getting up. "Still time, I'll warrant, for a few more hours before the sun rises. And I'm going to take it. I would advise you to do the same," he added a bit sternly, peering at both Merimac and Frodo.

"A capital suggestion. I slept a bit myself," Merimac said, rubbing his palm against Frodo's spine. He furthered, purposefully teasing, "You're so old, you've forgotten what comfort can be had in hearing someone breathe next to you."

"That there is," Bilbo said wryly, "but I'm not so old that I forget the teind to be paid to have that comfort on a regular basis is not always so comfortable."

Mac chuckled, also wryly. "Aye, you have me there."

Frodo watched the byplay bewilderedly, sipping from the cup. Bilbo's eyes met his and he lowered his gaze self-consciously.

"Get some sleep, lad," Bilbo said softly, then padded out, yawning.

Frodo finished his repast. "Maybe I should go back to my own bed," he ventured softly, peering at his cousin. Merimac's face twitched, and for moments Frodo was terribly conflicted. He felt raw from being caught in the depths of such nightmare. Images flickered through his mind like heat lightning—Merry's reflection, ice, himself lost, sinking in the soft-sweet strangling of linen and darkness—then it all wisped away. He shivered, suddenly chill, and took a long, halting breath. Whatever it had been, it was gone and he was glad of it… but there was another, deeper compulsion that drew him nigh.

He didn't want to be alone. There was comfort, pure and simple, in hearing breath against your cheek, in wrapping yourself up in sense and warmth, with no thought for tomorrow or yesterday, just here, and now.

Frodo ducked his head into Merimac's chest, and wrapped his arms tightly about him, and squeezed his eyes shut against the power of it all.

"Frodo." It was a whisper in his hair.

"I miss him," he whispered back.

A pause, with no doubt Merimac taken aback by the speed of Frodo's changing thoughts. Somehow he caught up with them, however, for he finally answered, "I know you do. He misses you, too."

"I think he's too angry with me to miss me," Frodo said, a bit miserably. He thought of ice, and distance, and how he'd bit by bit shored up those walls in fear of… what? Hurting Merry. Somehow. "Mac… I had to leave him. I had to."

"I know you did. I'm just glad you finally understand that you had to." A kiss, soft as down on Frodo's temple. "Merry's just a bairn, still. You said it yourself, remember? All he knows is that he hurts. He'll forgive you." A wry chuckle. "I'm not so sure he'll quickly forgive me, though."

"Forgive you?"

"For being in his way."

"Mac… no." Frodo twisted in his arms. "He doesn't know. There's no way he could—"

"Eh, but our young master Brandybuck is rather the sharp one," Merimac said quietly, then reached out and traced a thumb along Frodo's temple. "He likely kens little else, but he does know that I was a port in a storm for you. And one day he'll understand why I will continue to be, if you should need me."

Misery swamped Frodo, but it was strangely welcome, based from outward pain. He all but wanted to lose himself in it—quieting, and normal. "I don't know if he'll ever understand. I don't know that I understand."

"Well, that's the way of things. You don't have to wrest understanding from everything, Frodo."

"Why not?"

Merimac was silent; Frodo raised his head, saw the furrow of untoward thought on his cousin's brow. "You ask the damnedest questions, lad."

"I don't want answers, Mac," he said softly. "I just want to know why."

"Well, pity me when I can't see the difference, will you?" was the rueful reply.

There was a difference. But Frodo couldn't verbalise it to himself, let alone his companion. Only that he didn't want this or that, right or wrong, darkness or light. He wanted to walk the line between. In safety. Somehow.

"Go to sleep, Frodo," said Merimac finally, cuddling him close.

Frodo tucked his chin and forced his body to comply. But his mind took wing, uncertain of sleep, unwilling to ease back into the possibility of connection to whatever stalked the night, waiting.

He wondered if Merry also slept but lightly and warily. Probably not. He no longer had an older cousin about to drag him thus and downward.

* * * * * *

Merry stood, hunched over his window, waiting for the sun.

He had gotten all too used existing on very little sleep during that fortnight of mischief with Frodo. His mind might have relegated that to just another vacuum of experience, hollowed out by what had come after, but still his body wanted it, craved it, woke him in hope of it.

His days were filled, sure enough; the vintage in full swing and no time to do anything save work hard wherever he was told. It was a blessing, truly, because it meant during the days he could just do, and not think, and be so tired that when his head hit the pillow he fell almost immediately into slumber. It was the same deep sleep that had always given him surcease as a bairn and, Merry knew with the sudden flashes of maturity that took him all unaware and stark, that same exhausted sleep would no doubt accompany every autumn and harvest time for the rest of his life.

But he woke early every time, sated with sleep and emptied of exhaustion, rested and aware, and spent the pre-dawn silent and brooding, sometimes warming cider on his little stove and staring into the dark. Sometimes he'd wake to find Pippin there, and no manner of threats or black looks would dissuade the little Took, who stuck close to him like barnacle on rock. For somehow Pippin knew, even when Merry wanted not to, that Merry's protests were truly empty.

This morning Pippin was absent, and in some fashion Merry felt it, another pale twinge, a shadow where there should be light.

Frodo had always dwelt in the shadows, warm and vital. Brilliant as forge-fire, but still elusive as the reflection of full moonlight upon the trees. All the things Frodo had spoken of to him, yet he hadn't told Merry the most important things. The precious things.

And the one sharing Frodo deemed to allow, he'd given—and not to Merry himself, but to Merimac.

Uncle Mac was wrong. He was nothing like Lotho. He would never make Frodo do something he didn't want, would never push him into a situation where he felt so trapped he couldn't move…

Lying. Hiding. The orchard wall, Frodo and Pippin still damp from the Brandywine, Merry's own clothes drying upon him from his panicked flight back to the Hall. The delight at seeing Pippin alive, then all of it twisting within himself—twisting within Frodo. The heavy smell of ripening fruit, the tense hum of defiance morphing into first despair, then raw terror…

All those hidden things that Frodo had never wanted to share, bursting forth yet still misted and obscured, like fireworks on a cloudy night.

The worst of it was that Merry hadn't seen it coming. He should have seen it. He should have known.

Merry stood hunched in his window until the sun began to rise, slatting orange fingerlings into his dry and burning eyes.

When Frodo came back from Hobbiton, he was not going to hide from Merry so easily. Not again. Never again.

* * * * * *

Dawn crept through gold-grey haze, rays of new sunlight cutting uneven shafts through the mists settling into the low-lying edges of Hobbiton. It made for a decidedly odd trip up the Hill; wet vapour swirled about his toes, describing tiny swirls that wafted up nearly to his chin. Samwise took a long draught of the moist air, feeling the sweet, wet kiss of it all the way to the bottom of his lungs. It was one of his favourite parts of early autumn rising. The warming of the earth, the reclaiming of it from the vastness of night, the last vestiges of awakening before the winter-sleep. The rousing of his neighbours, the beginning sounds of daily business lifting up in small murmurs from the village—the sleepy stirring of the only life he knew or cared to know.

The Gaffer was better this morning, but Daisy had put her foot down and declared that should their father want to attend the Tithing, he was to do nothing else until then. Since the Gaffer felt that it was not just his pleasure but his duty to attend Tithing Day, he'd growled reluctant agreement. And thusly Sam was carrying the long-handled brass again this morning, snuffing the lanterns leading up the Hill path.

His jaw ached fiercely from his encounter with the Brandybuck lad's own brass turnkey, but the bruise was milder than he'd hoped—most likely from his older sister's applications of cool compress and comfrey salve. The Gaffer had been under the influence of a sleeping draught and unaware; Daisy had fussed in his place, as much as telling Sam he was a silly lad and deserved what he'd gotten, and for pity's sake not to bring it up to their da, he didn't need to be after such things in his state, anyway. Sam had agreed, even if Daisy's harangue was longer and more irritating than his father's would have been. At least the other two girls had been out and about—Marigold at a friend's and May taking clean laundry to her customers. The Gaffer would have just given him a clout or the rough edge of his tongue and had done with it, vastly preferable to his sister's carrying on. Just like a lass!

The mists cleared abruptly as he took the last turn up towards Bag End, and Sam looked down at himself and chuckled. From the knees down he was still swathed in vapour, but the sun beamed down on his skull and pleasantly warmed his shoulders. Stretching beneath it with fierce glee, he then snuffed the last lantern that lay directly across from the green door. Sam frowned—the paint on that door was starting to fade in spots, and that would never do. Best to get it repainted before the weather turned too damp and chill; probably rechink it as well. In fact, best to think on rechinking all of Bag End as well as Number Three. There was a definite leak in the front hall of Sam's home, and one window in the Bag End kitchen buzzed with the slightest bit of wind—neither would hold well through a hard winter, which Tom Cotton's father was gloomily predicting. Another smile touched Sam's lips as he contemplated the door and windows. Perhaps that could be his tithing gift to the Squire. Usually one of the Rumble boys was hired to weatherproof the smial, but Sam was more than old and capable enough now to do it, and that also made him want to gift his own thanks to mister Bilbo, not be beneath his father's bestowment yet again this year.

And the Rumble brothers were quite busy—they'd taken their considerable handy talents further afield as of late, and were quite in demand for repairing, thatching, and bunging. They'd not begrudge the loss of the job.

The green door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered hobbit emerged, one hand wrapped about a mug of something which steamed and the other hand raking brown, rather-too-long and rather-too-straight hair back from eyes that squinted into the sun. There was a calculation about that gaze, as if it were used to measuring sunrise as a means to some end. But weather-wise mien or no, this was no mere farmer but an obvious gentlehobbit, even if he was dressed more oddly than any gentlehobbit Samwise had ever seen. For one thing he wore a long, elaborately-knotted rope belt about his waist, much like Sam's rope-making cousins—but the embroidered crimson shirt tucked into that belt and the thick-corded dark breeches cinched by it were entirely too quality for a mere rope walker. Those fine sleeves were rolled up, and on one muscled, brown forearm spiralled a dark mark that seemed too regular to be a birthing mark; Sam blinked and realised it was a picture drawn there. More oddity—glints of copper caught sunlight at his breast and on one ear, and yet another glint of jewellery banded one of the broad fingers about the earthenware mug.

The stranger leaned against the lintel of Bag End, angled his neck to one side then the other. He took a large gulp of his drink, gave a pensive sigh, then spotted Sam. A moment's hesitation clouded the clear eyes, then a genial smile stretched further the generous mouth, and the gentlehobbit made as if to speak.

At that moment the Master of Bag End chose to appear, looking fresh and chipper as sunrise, combed from his head to his toes and resplendent in royal blue wool, gold waistcoat and snowy linen. "Merimac, I've…" he began, then trailed off with a wide smile, seeing his gardener's son standing in the middle of the road and looking, Sam felt completely sure, like a total ninnyhammer.

"Sam, my lad! You're snuffing the lights this morning… oh, dear. I hope that doesn't mean your father's still down with the lumbago, is he?"

"Oh, no, sir," Sam answered, responding obediently as Bilbo motioned him over to the periphery wall. "He's much better, he is. It's only that Daisy told him to stay in bed this morning, you see, if he's to enjoy himself at the Tithing."

"It's a fine day for the Tithing, and finer still that the Gaffer will be presiding over his home brew!" Bilbo chuckled, his eyes twinkling.

"Mm." From behind Bilbo the strange gentlehobbit spoke, and all the while he kept eyeing Sam with a directness that made the lad inexplicably squirmy—nice folk didn't lock into your gaze so… at least, not the way he'd been brought up. "I'm thinking you might have some rain before sunset, eh? Best to get your ceremonies done early and have that mill-floor cleared out for the dancing later."

"You think so?" Bilbo cocked his head. "I mean… oh, forgive me," he interrupted himself impatiently. "Where are my manners? Merimac, meet my gardener Hamfast Gamgee's son, Samwise. Sam, this is my cousin Merimac Brandybuck. He's Frodo's first cousin and full brother to the Master of Brandy Hall."

"And moreso captain of the fair galley Gillyflower, berthed on the Brandywine," added the cousin rather vehemently. Sam gawked. Not only the Master's brother, but a sailor? He'd heard of sailors before, but he'd never actually met one! Another smile tugging at his sun-lined face, Bilbo's cousin dipped a graceful half-bow, and Sam found his tongue, politely touching his knuckle to his forelock.

"Pleased to meet you, sir."

"And I you, laddie. The gardener's son, eh? What say you, then, to the weather?"

It seemed a serious question, no matter the light gestures and lighter manner of the questioner. Samwise frowned, then peered all about, taking in the horizon. "Well, sir," he began, "I don't see naught but the blue sky and the mists. We usually don't have the ground giving us such fog 'less it's to be a fine, sunny day."

The Master's brother laughed. "Ah, but then you're not quite old or scarred enough to have the true tell-tale. The weather shall change, later to be sure, but it will. I can feel it in my bones."

"Huh!" Bilbo snorted. "Finish your tea, then, old sea-bones, and let me speak to my lad here before we begin breakfast." He turned from his cousin, who leaned against the lintel and continued his study of the horizon. "How's the field this morning, Sam—have you been down there yet?"

"Not yet, sir," Sam answered honestly. "But I went over it last night with Tom Cotton and his da and Sandyman, and it's dry enough. Those big tinker wagons en't sinking, 'tennyrate, and that's as good a give-away as most."

"Excellent! Now," Bilbo gestured him even closer, dug into his pocket, grabbed up one of Sam's hands and deposited some coinage there, "if you would spread a little of this across that jackanape Sandyman's palm and tell him to hire a few of those gipsy lads to help him clear some room on the threshing floor, just in case 'old bones' here is right about the weather…?" Sam nodded and Bilbo grinned, tapping a finger alongside his nose. "Break your fast, mind. There's no need for any errand to be done before breakfast."

"Yessir." From behind Bilbo, Sam saw the Brandybuck lad emerge. He was barely dressed, dishevelled and wearing a robe that was just that much too long for him. It hung off one shoulder and doubled over the mussed fur of his toes. He looked less than half-awake and more than thoroughly grumpy, if truth were known. The sleep-laden blue eyes cut over to Sam, widened, then mister Bilbo's sailor cousin murmured something which reclaimed Frodo's attention. The dark head turned from Sam, who started to look away himself then was curiously drawn to watch as the older hobbit ran the back of his hand down Frodo's cheek. The gesture, but even more the intense, soft gleam of response in Frodo's eyes, made Sam's stomach knot peculiarly. Frodo leaned close as the sailor said something else to him then, a smile ghosting about his lips, Frodo nodded, ducked his head and retreated. He shot a frowning, curious glance in Sam's direction before he disappeared into the smial.

The other Brandybuck watched Frodo retreat, then seemed to notice that he was being observed. He turned his gaze fully onto Samwise, his brows arching in what looked like amusement.

"…Sam? Are you listening?"

"Oh, sir, yes I am!" he blurted out, the tips of his ears burning like fire as he purposefully turned his gaze back to his master. "Begging your pardon, but I just didn't hear you properly."

Bilbo was peering at him rather patiently; he too seemed amused. Sam frowned, wondering what was so blasted funny and wishing that, whatever it was, the Squire would tell him.

Not that it was probably any of his business, anyway. Sam grimaced to himself; he would get above himself, sure as leaves would fall. But his eyes were paying no attention to his self-admonishment; of themselves they crept back to Bag End's doorway. That riverhobbit was still looking at him, sure enough, and he seemed to be taking some sort of curious and indulgent interest in Sam's even more curious discomfort.

"Never you mind, lad." Bilbo's voice drew him back, thankfully, to what he should be occupied with—the Squire's wishes. "Just go on and get a proper breakfast and see to your da." When Sam started to protest, Bilbo waved his hands. "Shoo! Off with you, boy!"

Sam shooed. His cheeks pinked as he heard the sailor's laughter rise up behind him, following him down the path. Of course, there was no proof the hobbit was laughing at him, yet still…

Just another of Bilbo's queer visitors, that Buckland riverhobbit, dressed outlandish as any tinker and bold as brass to boot for not being amongst his own kind. Of course he'd be all comfortable with touching his cousin despite Sam being sure that anyone who'd touch that Brandybuck so would bring back a hand full of prickles for his trouble. And then there was that Brandybuck… that Frodo Baggins with his storm-deep eyes that no matter sleepiness still bored holes though Sam, somehow…

Sam touched his tender jaw, then quickened his pace. Gaffer was right. Those river-folk were mad as bucks in rut, the lot of them.

* * * * * *

The first thing Frodo noticed was that he was being stared at.

Not that he hadn't expected it. Before they'd even left Bag End, Bilbo had warned him several times: once as they were sitting about the table eating breakfast, once as he helped wash the dishes, and yet another time as Bilbo had pointedly fastened Frodo's shirt two buttons higher than he preferred. While doing so, Bilbo had given a piercing sidelong glance at Merimac—whose shirt was unfastened much more than Frodo's was!—then had gone on to approve Frodo's choice of wine-and-amber patterned waistcoat, fawn shirt and dark brown breeks, saying that if nothing else, Esme had certainly provided him with an appropriate wardrobe for his stay.

The second thing Frodo noticed was that his own reaction to the stares was changing.

When he had first entered the meadow, which was filled with warm sun and fresh-mown green, riotous with hobbits and a-flung with colourful ribbons and food-laden tables, Frodo had wished himself invisible. One step behind Bilbo and minus Merimac, who had left them at the main road to go and post a missive about some business or other, Frodo had simply followed Bilbo. The old hobbit had cut a swath through the party akin to the prow of a ship. He was all charming smiles and hearty greeting, coaxing pleasantries even from the most reticent. Frodo, imagining what was behind all those inquisitive glances directed his way and recalling what that Gaffer-gardener had said about his breeding and his upbringing, felt his chin jut out a bit rebelliously with each introduction. By the time they had worked halfway through the gathering, Frodo was meeting those furtive, curious glances with a half-lidded, sideways directness of gaze. It felt like sheer victory each time eyes dropped—and drop they did.

The third thing he noticed was the proliferation of colourful carts, gaily festooned with decorations and wares. A large string of broken-coloured ponies grazed, hobbled and picketed nigh to the caravans, strong teeth tearing at the rich grass and hoofs sinking into the moist ground. Many of the carts were recognisable as ones Frodo had seen from time to time at the Hall—at the solstice and equinox festivals, usually—and he grinned eagerly. There were treasures galore to be found on those carts, if one had the patience to look. The Hobbiton folk were also lured by the promise of new things; they perused the offered goods with a humorous mix of chariness and glee. Most were spruced up and fancied into their best, but still tame when held in contrast to the gipsy assortment of bright and often mismatching habiliments. Frodo saw one of the tinker lasses sporting glittering coins braided into an unbrushed riot of red curls; she saw him looking and winked with a toss of those coins, making him blush.

The caravans were settled on the banks of a narrow, silver thread of light and froth that wound past the mill, turned its wheel and ran, rather swiftly, into a copse of trees to the east. Breath emptying from his chest, Frodo blinked as the sun reflected off a swell, the resultant shard of light arcing into his eyes. He started to feel a bit dizzy, realised that he had forgotten to breathe…

"Frodo?" Bilbo nudged him a bit firmly, forcing air back into his lungs and reality back into his consciousness. "Lad, pay attention!"

Frodo blinked again, focused on his cousin, whose reproving look was accompanied by a hint of concern. "I'm sorry?"

"I said," Bilbo repeated with obvious patience, "heed me, lad. The good dame approaching is your father's sister, your Aunt Dora. And the lad and wee lass with her are your cousins Griffo and Angelica." Bilbo turned his head slightly away from the relatives and gave Frodo a small wink. Frodo frowned, then abruptly understood that wink as Aunt Dora descended.

"Bilbo! Cousin!" she cried, and all but threw herself into Bilbo's embrace. Bilbo stood his ground quite admirably—Dora was at least a good two stones heavier than he and several fingers in height taller. She was a handsome dame, with her only odd feature a slight squint that offset one dark eye—however the word 'matronly' might have been invented just for her.

"How are you, dear cousin?" Bilbo said warmly. "Please to meet your nephew, Frodo Baggins. Frodo, this is your father's sister, Dora Baggins, and her foster wards." Frodo dipped a quick bow to his aunt, then to the two youngsters beside her. "Angelica Baggins, and Griffo Boffin."

"My, my," cooed Aunt Dora, and Frodo was hugged, bussed on both cheeks and had his hair ruffled before he could even breathe. "My Drogo's boy… and you haven't changed a bit, lad."

This was not encouraging, considering how Frodo was fairly certain this aunt hadn't seen him since he was ten.

"Hullo, Frodo!" said the massive lad next to her, grabbing Frodo's hands and pumping them so hard he felt as if his arms would wrench from their sockets. But Griffo kept at it, and his brown eyes were so earnest that it was more than obvious it wasn't purposeful. "Aunt Dora's right, you’ve not changed much. You're still small… but you know, you used to trout me one when we were little. I never figured out how you did it."

"Um," Frodo said. "Pleased to meet you. Again."

Angelica stared up at him, one finger in her mouth, seemingly stricken mute. She didn't look to be even Pippin's age.

"Greet your cousin, darling," Dora coaxed.

Angelica was having none of it. She leaned into Aunt Dora's skirts, attempting to use the voluminous brocade for camouflage.

Frodo knew just how she felt. Retrieving his arm from Griffo, he knelt down, cocked his head and gave the little girl a smile. "I don't bite," he said seriously. "Not bairns, anyway. Just bread."

Huge amber eyes peered at him over Dora's skirt, then crinkled.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, cousin," Frodo said, still earnestly, and held out his hand. Her face still half buried in Dora's skirts, one tiny hand crept forward, touched his, then retreated. But her eyes still betrayed a smile.

Frodo stood back up, smiling, then was surprised to find Bilbo staring at him, a quite puzzled expression on his lined face. For moments Frodo wondered if he'd made some unforgivable blunder then Bilbo grinned at him, obviously pleased.

"There doesn't seem to be much Baggins to you, my boy," Aunt Dora twitted on, reaching out to lay a plump hand on his shoulders; Frodo stiffened as much from the pressure of that as her words, "but your father would be so proud of you!" She grabbed a handkerchief from her sleeve, pressed it to eyes that were, Frodo was surprised to see, honestly watering. "Bless him, my brother was a good hobbit. We all warned him about marrying across the River."

Frodo went even more rigid. Dora might be thoughtless but she was well-meaning, for she noticed his reaction and immediately tried to make amends.

"Oh, lad, your mother was beautiful, so lively and bright. But she took Drogo so far away, and you, too. You living so far away from your kin, that just isn't right. Those Brandybucks have no business keeping you from us."

His mouth tried to form a reply and miserably failed. Between being unintentionally kicked and quite purposefully kissed, Frodo was beginning to feel decidedly unwell.

"Will you sit by us at luncheon?" Griffo asked eagerly. "There are so many things we could talk about."

"Ah," Bilbo intercepted as Frodo once again tried to think of something polite and responsive to say, "I'm afraid he's already spoken for—he's promised my other visitor his company for the meal. Another time, Griffo, another time."

Several more moments of effusive speech, then the three moved away, captured by another group of relatives. Angelica kept craning her neck to peer back at Frodo, her eyes still crinkled.

"I think you might have won that fair maiden's heart today, lad!" Bilbo chuckled.

The teasing statement unknotted the latticework of tension just below his ribcage. Frodo shrugged. "The only lasses that like me are usually her age," he said a bit sourly. "Or younger." Then, as Bilbo obviously started to rally a reply, he quickly said, "They really mean it, don't they?" Frodo inclined his head towards where Dora and Griffo greeted the next group of hobbits with equal abandon.

"I'm afraid so," Bilbo smirked. "I don't wonder if over-eagerness is as wearying as malice… and oh, save us all!" he suddenly groaned. "Speaking of malice, boy, throw your shoulders back and bare your teeth. Here come our favourite cousins."

Lobelia could also part a crowd, but it was in totally alien fashion to the way Bilbo did so. One got the impression that by sheer force of personality she moved hobbits from her path, with those hobbits left smarting and wondering what gale-force wind had blown them aside. Frodo had the very distinct wish to run for a smattering of seconds, but once again his reactions twisted startlingly within him. The kindly sting of Aunt Dora's presence faded very quickly once he saw Lotho. The tween was trailing after his parents, hands in his pockets and a swagger that suggested he was of the Chosen.

"Bilbo, I do hope that you're going to set up a proper pavilion for family!" Lobelia announced. As usual, she was dressed to the hilt, and her husband and son both looked as though they had been spit-shined and polished. Her eyes raked rather contemptuously over an adjoining group of workinghobbits, also in their best—although their best was nothing compared to hers. Frodo saw the gardener's son among them, laughing in a small clutch of lads that looked to be his age or older; as if he felt eyes upon him, young Samwise looked about, discerned Frodo's notice. He gave a small dip of his head and a shy smile, which Frodo instinctively returned, then turned away, his expression broadening happily as the leader of their group slapped him affectionately on the shoulder.

Something Frodo hadn't even known he possessed lurched within him at the sight of the young hobbit surrounded by all his friends. He was so obviously at home, relaxed and well-liked and… accepted.

In the midst of this, Frodo became aware of another pair of eyes fastened to him; he frowned, then turned to see that Lotho was peering at him, eyes half-lowered. And what Frodo felt in return of that insolent gaze was not the expected tremor of fear.

It was anger.

Frodo lifted his chin, set his teeth and met those bark-brown eyes levelly. A strange satisfaction filled him when he saw disbelief kindle in them.

"My dear cousins," Bilbo was greeting the Sackville-Bagginses with effusive cordiality. Frodo noticed that behind his back he had one fist tightly clenched. "I've managed to bribe Sandyman to clear out a nice space for all of us on the threshing floor for the dancing later, but it's such a glorious day and the trees still so full in leaf that I never thought we should need any tents!" He grinned at Otho. "And your wife has, as usual, brought her parasol."

Otho glowered, but as his normal expression was sour, hardly anyone noticed.

Lotho shifted quite casually, moving over to stand within arm's reach of Frodo. Anger or not, it was everything Frodo could do to not take a step back, and worse, Lotho was aware of it. A smile touched the corners of the older lad's mouth, then just as quickly congealed.

Before Frodo could ponder this, a broad, familiar hand laid itself on his shoulder, and a very welcome voice spoke from just behind him. "I see I've gotten here just in time."

If Frodo thought that he himself stood out amongst all the farmers, Merimac did even more. He was dressed more akin to a tinker than to any of the Hobbiton folk, to be sure; his motions decidedly sweeping as he laid a hand to his breast and gave a small, albeit mocking, bow in greeting. Frodo had not particularly noticed his cousin's attitude or manner of dress before, being quite used to it, but it gave him new perspective upon the people about him. It told him why, compared to Hobbiton, Brandy Hall might be indeed thought forward and odd.

Any such revelations lost themselves beneath the moment. Otho and Lobelia looked as if they'd smelled something unpleasant, however Lotho's face held active trepidation. The uneasy quiver in Frodo's own belly stilled, rounding itself into sullen satisfaction at his adversary's uncertainty. Any remaining unease in Frodo dispersed even further as the knowledge filled him that Merimac was, literally, at his back.

"Lobelia, Otho," Bilbo said, "may I present my cousin Merimac Brandy—"

"I know exactly who that… that riverhobbit is!" Lobelia snapped.

Frodo looked curiously sidelong at Merimac, whose brows had twisted with amused chagrin.

"Ah, yes," he said lightly, but his next words proved the venom beneath. "We've met before, dear Bilbo. You see, I was the one who informed mistress Lobelia of her only bairn's unfortunate tendency of unbuttoning his trousers and forcing the contents without being asked."

Lotho turned crimson and swelled up like a mad toad, taking a step forward. Frodo took in a harsh breath—Lotho was almost as large as Merimac—but Merimac straightened behind him, drawling, "I don't think you need to make another move, lad, unless you relish more of what you got before."

"If you lay another hand on my son, you'll have me to answer to!" Lobelia stalked over to stand between them. She was barely Frodo's height, but she brandished her parasol like a sword. Frodo felt Merimac's fingers tighten on his nape at Lobelia's next words. "You might be the Master of Buckland's own brother, but in Hobbiton you're just another outsider, as much as your little orphaned river brat of a cousin here, and he's nothing but a—"

Frodo stiffened, waiting for it and not quite sure what he would do if she really did say what she surely was going to.

"Enough!" Bilbo's voice cut through their ire. "No one wants a scene, Lobelia, not on Tithing day." His head jerked to where several surrounding groups of hobbits had paused in their activities, sensing something untoward. Frodo saw the gardener's son still among them; he also saw the look of barely hidden animosity that Samwise bestowed upon Lotho.

Frodo's eyes widened, wondering what had passed to put such a black look on such a pleasant face, then Sam seemed to heed his notice, for the grey-gold eyes widened as well then dropped, animosity flickering away into a flush of embarrassment.

Lobelia wasn't about to back down one whit, although she did lower her voice. "Then I suggest that you choose your guests more carefully, Bilbo Baggins, and not invite such as will give insult."

"I personally would love to employ your suggestion, Lobelia," Bilbo said, with a sweetly pointed smile. "Alas!—it remains that Tithing is open to all, no matter how we might wish it otherwise."

Otho growled something beneath his breath. Lotho was still glaring at Frodo. Frodo was swiftly grasping the advantages of having Merimac at his heels; he leaned into his older cousin and glared right back.

"Now, if you will excuse us?" Bilbo furthered politely. "I've other guests to welcome, and matters to see to, insurance that the Tithing is pleasant." He paused, then added, "For everyone."

Lobelia eyed them narrowly, then turned on one heel and strode off. Otho grabbed his son's sleeve and curtly ordered him to follow. Lotho gave Frodo one last, indecipherable look then obeyed.

Frodo gave a shudder, as if a chill had settled on his shoulders and bitten deep. Merimac's fingers tangled at his nape.

"Are you all right?" Merimac murmured to him. Bilbo was peering at him as well. The dual scrutiny was discomfiting, and he dropped his eyes to his toes. "Frodo?" Merimac persisted.

"I'm fine!" he retorted defensively.

"I do wonder Otho doesn't just give that dame a good spanking," Bilbo said wryly, and the tension of the moment visibly shattered. Frodo cut his eyes sideways at Bilbo, who winked at him.

"I don't—the old harridan might have balls enough for her entire household," Merimac said with a fond drub at Frodo's curls, "but if I were Otho, I'd be afraid she might need an extra set and start eyeing mine!!"

Frodo chuckled. Merimac grinned at him, then angled his arms over his head, gave an elaborate stretch.

"My, Bilbo, but I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed the bucolic air of Hobbiton."

* * * * * *

Lotho was still watching him.

It wasn't obvious, and it wasn't in a fashion that anyone but Frodo would have probably noticed, but notice it he did.

He also observed that Merimac didn't stray very far from his side. Bilbo did, quite often, but somehow Frodo knew Bilbo's presence and awareness was upon him even when the old hobbit was across the field from him. Frodo was unsure of it, unused to it. Not that it was a bad feeling, exactly—somehow it seemed quite the comfort, considering the other, more vengeful eyes upon him. In fact it was a matter of constant amazement, the skill with which his uncle managed to not only keep an eye on Frodo himself, but work and charm the crowd—that, and the vast and sheer enjoyment he seemed to take in both.

At least being occupied with Bilbo was making Frodo less aware of the other hobbits who were also staring at him.

At very least, the food looked to be very, very good. It wasn't too long before Frodo had left Merimac wrangling with some male farmhobbit—someone interested in a shipment on the river, from the talk—and joined the line up at the tables. This was not the formal Tithing meal, which was due for later, but filling snacks that would be available most of the day. Filling a generously sized plate, Frodo eyed a particularly toothsome bit of spice cake and reached for it only to knock into another hand en route to that same piece. He tensed, rather expecting Lotho—only Lotho had that kind of supposedly-accidental timing—and was angry with himself for the ingrained reaction. Seconds later he was so surprised to find himself mistaken that he smiled full bore.

The gardener lad snatched his hand immediately away from the cake and flushed. "I'm sorry, master Frodo. I wasn't looking properly where I was reaching."

From behind Samwise a skinny young lass with carroty-red hair and a set of freckles to outdo Berilac—which Frodo had thought impossible—peered from about his shoulder. Her eyes were round and silver-brown, and she stared at Frodo with abject fascination. "You're that Brandybuck, en't you?' she breathed.

"Marigold, hush yer gab!" Samwise hissed at her then said to Frodo, "Please, sir. Go ahead. I'll wait my turn."

Frodo glanced at young Marigold, whose mouth had quieted but still hung open and who at his glance flushed even more red into her gilt-kissed cheeks. Almost unwillingly, Frodo's attention was drawn back to her brother. Samwise was almost painfully clean, clad in a slightly ill-fitted but well-made short jacket, along with clean vest and breeks. His well-scrubbed face held a large purplish splotch along his jaw, and Frodo felt a substantial pink of conscience, knowing how it had come to be there.

"It's all right," he insisted to the younger lad. "Go ahead."

"Nay, sir, after you. You were reaching first."

"Honestly, if you want that piece, I don't mind."

"It wouldn't be fitting, was I to—"

"Will one of you make the first move before we all starve to death?" Bilbo complained good-naturedly from behind them, making both of the lads jump self-consciously. When no motion was forthcoming, Bilbo reached out with a sigh and put cake on Frodo's, then Sam's, and then on Marigold's plate as well as his own, just for good measure.

"Thank you, sir," Sam bobbed his head and retreated, but not before shooting another shy glance at Frodo.

"Wait, Sam-lad. I've been remiss. Frodo, this way." Bilbo grabbed his arm; Frodo balanced his plate and followed—as if he'd a choice in the matter. "If I'm not mistaken, Sam, I see that your family, the Rumbles and the Cottons are all gathered at one table, and I've quite neglected to properly introduce Frodo to all of you from the Row."

Another sidelong glance at Frodo, then Sam nodded and led the way over towards a very large table. A very, very large table, filled with a group of hobbits old and young, all laughing and chattering and eating quite merrily.

Marigold was still staring at Frodo, her plate in both hands and her small form staying glued to her brother's stride, which was purposeful and rolling-quick and strong. Bilbo's gardener—the Gaffer, Frodo remembered—hailed Sam then went quiet, puffing at the pipe in his mouth. As if on cue, the other hobbits also hushed their loud mirth, turning towards Bilbo and, plainly, Frodo. They were staring. Not… exactly.

His feet becoming strangely heavy, Frodo dragged back in Bilbo's grip.

"They won't bite, lad," Bilbo said softly, gripping his arm tighter and urging him forward. "They're just curious, mind, and they've heard more than a bit about you."

"More than a bit?" Frodo muttered.

"Don't tell me you've lived at Brandy Hall and remain ignorant about the power of gossip unchecked."

Bilbo's statement halted him, full stop. Bilbo was yanked back; he turned an incredulous look on Frodo, who felt as if the weight of the sky had suddenly fallen on his head.

Gossip. Oh, yes. He knew what that was. Lotho's proximity, Merimac's presence, even Bilbo's cheering effluence dimmed beneath the weight of all those presences. Frodo was practically paralysed.

Bilbo gave his arm a slight, ineffectual tug. "Frodo…" he murmured, obviously taken aback. "They're staring. Come on, boy."

"They're staring anyway," Frodo said shakily. "Don't make me do this. Please."

Bilbo's eyes were puzzled; he loosened his grip and quit trying to propel Frodo forward, but he didn't let go. He peered at Frodo for a few moments; that gaze and the combined curious glances and muted tongues of seemingly all the workinghobbits in Hobbiton nearly flayed Frodo to bone with panic. For seconds he nearly bolted and ran, then Bilbo stepped closer to him, spoke.

"You really don't want to be here, do you?" The question was so soft Frodo almost didn't hear it; nevertheless it broke his odd panic with an almost audible snap. Frodo blinked at the disappointment flickering in Bilbo's gaze.

"I… I…" Frodo swallowed hard. "It's not that… it's…"

Bilbo was silent for seconds that seemed like hours. Behind him, several of the hobbits about that huge table had started whispering to each other. Then Bilbo, with a upward arch of his eyebrows that suggested sudden understanding—which was impossible because Frodo didn't understand himself, how could Bilbo?—leaned even closer and murmured, "Frodo, they don't know you. You're gentry and one of those 'wild' Bucklanders and, more's the point, you're their Squire's nephew. What makes you think that you can possibly be more uneasy than they are?"

"Or," Bilbo continued, still quietly but now with a sting to it, "are you going to just turn tail and run from these good plain folk and those insufferable Sackville-Bagginses? Hm?" Bilbo's eyes were literally flashing.

Frodo stiffened, meet Bilbo's gaze.

"Well, lad? Which is it? Are you going to run off again? Or are you going to paste a smile on and show them what you're made of? Are you a Baggins or aren't you?"

The last statement was painful and absorbing, all at once. Perhaps to contemplate it was a lie, but Bilbo's righteous indignation and demand filled him. It was as if strength and pride literally flowed from Bilbo's fingertips up into Frodo's arm and into his chest, filling it full to bursting. It might not be true, but Bilbo believed it.

Bilbo believed him.

Frodo took in a deep breath, lifted his chin.

Bilbo's mouth lifted in a tiny smirk, he nodded then gripped Frodo's arm close. "So, lad. Shall we face the dragons together?"

Scarcely knowing what he was doing or why he did it, only that it was inevitable and necessary, Frodo went with him.

All those gazes—some young and wide with a mixture of hope and awe, some old and sunken permanently from years of squinting against sun and wind—all of them were still drawn to him, and Frodo had the sudden thought that he would sooner face down dragons than this. And abruptly understood Bilbo's very obvious trepidation when he'd realised what relatives were banging at his green door two days previous.

Frodo's internal mirth at the thought was slight, but put a sparkle into his eyes and a curve to his lip. Had he but known it, that expression made several of the mothers present sit up and take firm, territorial notice of their offspring as Bilbo introduced the too-thin, peculiarly appealing, and supposedly-troublesome cousin of his from Buckland.

The Gaffer also kept a narrowed eye on his own children. Daisy and May were coyly comfortable and a bit flirtatious, each in turn and as expected in the presence of fresh game; Marigold was openly gaping at the Brandybuck lad, as if his oddness made him all the more fascinating, and Samwise…

The eldest Gamgee watched his youngest son pretend to not stare at the Brandybuck lad, and felt discomfort steal into his belly. Samwise finally did give the young master a surreptitious glance, and it was one that Hamfast had never seen grace his son's face before: a strange, fond willingness, a wish, a purposeful asking to tender that the lad had inherited directly from his mother, rest her.

The Gaffer sat back in his chair, puffing at his pipe thoughtfully. This meant trouble, this did.