"I'll never keep them all straight," Frodo bemoaned.

Once again at his side, Merimac chuckled.

"There must be a half dozen Gamgees. And the Cottons… I think there's double dozens of them. And then there's the old chicken farmer and his wife and their five grown sons who have that communal farm in Overhill with their cousins and mates and wives and how many children?—I can't remember any of their names now—and the Widow Rumble and her family…"

"Just be grateful Dame Rumble has only the pair of sons and they're not married yet." Merimac's voice was raised above the chug of the mill's paddle wheel only twenty lengths from them; they had just ended another circuit down the tinker's row and stood looking out over the narrow little watercourse that ran behind them. Merimac had draped one arm comfortably across Frodo's shoulders as they walked the soft grass, and with it he gave Frodo a quick, fond squeeze. "More offspring would mean even more names, eh? But Bilbo's right—you have to meet the common folk beholden to his smial."

"I guess so."

"I know so," Merimac emphasised. A small group of hobbit youth, their voices raised in excited exclamation over something, passed behind them. Frodo found his eyes following them; he recognised within the group several of the very Cottons they'd been speaking of. The one daughter—he couldn't remember her name but she had a set of expensive ribbons in her golden hair—eyed him curiously in return and he quickly averted his eyes only to catch glances with the eldest lad—Tom, was it?—who gave him a small, friendly smile. Frodo returned it almost without thinking, was rewarded as another lad also smiled and nodded, then grabbed Tom's arm and started to speak earnestly in his ear.

Frodo worried that they were talking about him for a few agonised moments, then felt better as the two lads merely turned and strode off, paying him no more heed. Beside him, eyes on the water rather distractedly, Merimac continued. "Those people make your uncle's life easier in hundreds of tiny ways—which is only his right by age and holdings—but they deserve that recognition. Those Cottons? They might hold their own land, but they also farm your uncle's, and he's some of the best fields in these parts. Their labour helps keep those fields productive, and they benefit too, with shares in those harvests."

"You sound like a farmer," Frodo said, raising his eyebrows.

Merimac clutched a hand to his breast and gave a dramatic gasp. "You wound me to the quick, lad!" Frodo chuckled and Merimac grinned. "Seriously, though, I was brought up to be a landholder; you don't forget that kind of teaching and some of it adapts well enough to the waterways. Like the Gamgees? I'll warrant they don't just keep your uncle's gardens beautiful—there are many things that keep a ship… sorry, a smial… like your Uncle's running smooth. The Hill seems to hold a fine and fair crew with old Bilbo Baggins to command, and mark me but that Gaffer's a fine coxswain, capable hands to helm. Those fetching daughters of his look deedy, also. As does that handsome young son of his who keeps staring at you as if he's swallowed a firefly."

Frodo frowned curiously, then started as a cacophony of shrieks rose from the shallows nigh to the wheel. He and Merimac both turned to see a quintet of naked brown children splashing at each other in the shallows, others darting and scattering in mock terror at the assault. Three older girls—still dressed in party finery but with skirts rucked and tucked up into their waistbands—were obviously in charge as they waded the wet hobbitbairn periphery.

Merimac laughed. "Well, there's hope for these landshobbits yet, eh?—if they can manage to let their little ones wade in the Water."

The Water?—yes, that was it, Bilbo had called it the Water—was a totally different colour than the firth of Buckland, clear and sparkling green where the sun fell upon it. It looked quite inviting, smaller and less complicated than the Brandywine, and Frodo was surprised when a shiver coursed through him. Merimac gave him a sharp look.

"It's a very calm place, the Water," Frodo said softly, but Merimac's odd look did not change. Frodo settled his gaze upon the hobbitbairns, watching them at play in the sandy shallows—there was true sand here, unlike the rocky pebbles and silt of the Brandywine—and Merimac shifted next to him.

"Come on, lad," he said finally. "Let's walk the caravans again."

Frodo started to protest—they'd been past the wagons more than a few times now—but walking was better than standing and actively watching the people watch them. Frodo had been very glad when Merimac had claimed him from Bilbo's side, but he wasn't sure the option was proving as comfortable as he'd first imagined. Bilbo was the centre of attention and activity, but for the most part it seemed a tolerant and fond attentiveness. On the other hand, Merimac's foreign presence guaranteed peculiar looks; Frodo's newness plus Merimac's bold manner was asking for outright stares.

Merimac slowed as they approached a cheerful group of gesticulating adults, all bent on some mission at one of the gaily-painted gipsy's wagons. Frodo started to speak then realised that it was not the adults, but another large caravan that held his cousin's interest. Again. As they'd meandered up and down the tinker's row, looking at the items for sale and trade, this booth in particular kept capturing Merimac's eye.

Another shiver went through Frodo, and he grimaced slightly, tried to shrug it away. The sensation did not ease to his twitch—it began to feel as if something was actually crawling across his nape. Frodo twisted slightly beneath Merimac's arm and raised his hand to investigate, then he espied the reason for his unease. It was not an insect, or some strange reaction to the Water, or indeed anything physical.

Or, perhaps it was. Lotho was not fifteen lengths away, down the row of caravans, and his gaze smacked against Frodo's sensibilities like a blow. Quite unintentionally Frodo ducked a little harder against Merimac, who gave him an absent caress in response.

Lotho's response, however, was not absent in any fashion. As Merimac touched Frodo, Lotho's fists clenched and his face set into even more cantankerous lines. Frodo peered at his enemy from the safe crook of his cousin's arm and, for the second time that day, realised that another turnabout had occurred.

Lotho was no longer the only one dredging unwelcome reactions.

Frodo kept watching Lotho very closely. Two sets of eyes, bark-brown and sky-blue, narrowed upon each other, an unwilling connection that could have been cut like a skein of thread. Frodo's brain started to whirl with possibility. Not breaking his stare-down with Lotho for even a second's time, Frodo leaned into Merimac with quiet purpose, running one hand up and down his older cousin's linen-clad breast.

At this, Lotho's eyes literally blazed.

A small tongue of satisfaction flicked itself from the inner, obsequious dragon.

"Mac," Frodo softly said as he glowered defiantly at Lotho. Lotho glared back, obviously powerless.

"Mm?" his cousin answered a bit half-heartedly, still intent upon that particular caravan, but Merimac turned his attention closer as Frodo tugged at his shirt. "What is it?"

Frodo tilted his face upwards and kissed him. It was a quick, light touch to his cousin's cheek, and Merimac gave him a pleased grin, ruffled his curls.

"And what," he asked, "did I do to deserve that, my lad?"

Frodo shrugged and pulled him to keep walking. "I just… wanted to."

"Well," his cousin chuckled, "your want is mine, eh? Particularly if it involves such sweet kisses."

A grin tugging at his lips, Frodo angled his gaze back to take in Lotho, whose face was turning a quite unbecoming shade of crimson. Grin fading, Frodo met the older tween's eyes for long, pointed seconds, then turned his back on Lotho just as deliberately.

The next time he looked, Lotho was no longer there. The tiny flick of satisfaction became outright smugness. The dragon all but purred.

Merimac's attention was still upon that caravan. Now that they had actually stopped there, Frodo wondered why. He had seen so many travelling folk at Brandy Hall's gathers and harvests that they had ceased to amaze him, although he was, as always, intrigued and fascinated by their life. He remembered one time, only two years ago, when he'd stowed away in the back of a caravan leaving the Hall. He'd been determined that running off with a pack of gipsies had to be better than staying under his aunt and uncle's roof one more moment; unfortunately the tinker who'd found him so hidden was equally as determined to return him to his uncle. No doubt he'd feared the loss of trade should he abscond with one of the Hall's sons—no matter, as he'd told an insistent Frodo, how much the Hall supposedly 'wouldn't miss him'.

Upon his return, Frodo had felt his disgrace all the more keenly when Uncle Saradoc had smacked him like an errant bairn in the middle of the courtyard and angrily informed him he listened to too many romantic fool's tales.

Merimac's eyes were lit up—Frodo would warrant that Mac wouldn't think his younger cousin's wish to run off with some gipsy prince a foolish one. In fact, Mac was both his own form of gipsy and prince, after a fashion, and Frodo spared himself a small, smiling thought that Mac wouldn't drag him, kicking and howling, back to the Hall should Frodo choose to run off with him…

"What are you smiling about, my dear?" Merimac suddenly tugged at a lock of his hair. "You look like you're contemplating some mischief—dare I hope that it involves me?"

"Well…" Frodo chuckled and shrugged.

"'Well…'" Merimac mimicked in a soft voice amazingly similar to Frodo's own, then tugged at his hair again. "Don't just stand there, come on. There's something here I want a closer look at."

There were, to Frodo's chagrin, no old books or intriguing papers amongst the paraphernalia of wanderer's trade—not that such things were likely to spark Merimac's curiosity at any rate. There were cups, and flatware, several hammers, hoof-nippers and rasps from the smith's trade; indeed a large anvil sat to one side of the table, with more tools. Then Frodo saw it, glittering dully amongst the serviceable spoons and knives and assorted utensils: a curved dagger, sheathed in crimson and gold, with strange figures inscribed upon the sheath and a pommel inlaid with black stone.

"That," Merimac said softly, crossing his arms, "is a lovely bit of blade work, eh?"

It was. Frodo had never seen anything like it.

A older tween lad, nearly of age from the look of him, was leaning against the tinker's cart. He was clad in several multicoloured layers of loose, worn clothing that looked more decorative than functional, and his curly black hair was even longer than Merimac's. He was also startlingly handsome. "You have quite the eye, good sir," he said, with a mellifluous lilt to his accent that Frodo could not place within the Shire. "If you'll pardon my boldness, I've been watching you."

"Have you, then?" Merimac said noncommittally, and nodded toward the dagger, eyebrows raised in query.

"Ai." At this final giveaway of interest, the tinker came forward, his eyes—a green that nearly rivalled Pippin's—lingering on Merimac as his fingers reached for the knife. With a smooth, graceful motion, he unsheathed it and held it out on his palms for display. "You seem a bit different from the folk hereabouts. I'd say, from your gait and bearing, the sea's your home."

Once again it was peculiarly reassuring to Frodo that Mac, not himself, was the one who stood out as being noticed. A pleasant change. And one that Mac seemed quite immured to. How did he manage that, exactly?

Perhaps this was one more thing older cousin could teach younger one.

"When I can," Merimac acknowledged. "I run trade up and down the Brandywine mostly."

A charming smile from the gipsy; he inclined his head and handed the blade to Merimac. "From the southlands, this. A fine blade, with a finer history."

"History is history," Merimac shrugged the claim away and Frodo felt a tug of disappointment—he would have loved to hear this knife's story, particularly if that lad's voice was to tell it. "Is it serviceable?"

"I have nothing here that is not," was the smooth answer, and as Merimac held out his hand for the dagger the tinker released it to him, long fingers making a slight smoothing motion over Merimac's upturned palm.

Frodo frowned, sliding his eyes sideways to Merimac. He found his cousin's mouth quirked in a slight smile as he angled the dagger in his hands. Frodo's eyes returned to the gipsy, whose own smile had turned into something more than politeness. A flicker of light teased at the corner of Frodo's vision, and the tinker's eyes widened. Frodo turned to see his older cousin twirl the blade through his fingers with a lithe skill that suggested he well knew the intricacies of knife-play.

Merimac grinned at his fascination, then at the other lad's—who no matter his guess at Merimac's trade had obviously not expected anyone at a Hobbiton gather to have such dexterity with a knife. He then tested the edge on the ball of his thumb. A thin line of red followed the wake of the coppery blade; with a satisfied grunt Merimac wiped the blade on his breeks, sucked at his thumb then ran his fingers over the pommel. "It's quite lightweight, for all its decoration."

"It has quite an interesting quality—one which should speed your liking of it," the tinker said and extended his hand politely. "With your leave?"

Merimac gave it back. There was a water barrel towards the back of the caravan; with a quick graceful motion the gipsy lad did the strangest thing. He tossed the dagger in.

Frodo frowned up at Merimac, who also had a look on his face that suggested the lad had been smoking too much strong pipeweed. The tinker laughed, a soft, unassuming sound and jerked his head toward the water. "Take a look, sceptical masters."

Frodo, curious beyond any shyness, was the first to step over to the small hogshead, Merimac a mere pace behind. The glitter-golden knife was not lost to sight; it bobbed unevenly, pommel straight up in the air. "It… floats," Frodo said with a sideways grin at his older cousin. Merimac grinned back, and the tinker snatched the blade from the water, began drying it carefully on his sash.

"It carries little rust. Outlandish metal, but strong and purposeful, and with such a one as yourself, who calls the water home, its talent could come in quite handy. Hard to lose a knife that floats better than most people."

Merimac was sorely tempted, Frodo could tell. But hard-nosed trader won out over eager buyer—it was unlikely that anyone else here would care for the knife, and the price might be better negotiated at trade's end than its beginning. Merimac simply gave a polite dip of his brown head. "I shall consider it. My thanks."

"A blade like this," the tinker ran his fingers lightly up and down the dagger's tang and shifted slightly closer to Merimac, "might not be available for long."

Frodo had the sudden and distinct impression that the lad was not just talking about the dagger.

Merimac chuckled. "Nothing stays," he drawled. "If I miss my chance, then I do. 'Tis the way of things, lad."

"I wouldn't have either of us miss this chance," was the soft reply. The tinker raised his eyes to directly meet Merimac's, and Frodo was truly starting to suspect exactly what was being bartered—or what the tinker lad was thinking to barter.

"As you can see," Merimac said, placing a hand at Frodo's nape, "I am already occupied for the festivities."

"I don't mind a tangle now and then," persisted the tinker, his eyes resting on Frodo meaningfully. "He looks rather game."

Frodo's eyes widened and his breath snagged in his throat.

"'Rather game' is an understatement," Merimac said, grinning. "However—"

"Stop propositioning the customers, grandson," came a quavery, feminine voice from inside the caravan. "This is Hobbiton, mind."

"They're river folk," the lad said a bit sullen-like, and Frodo wondered if he should be offended until Merimac laughed and spoke to the voice.

"'Tis true, good dame, we are not from about here. And no fault taken in either case—indeed another day I might be tempted to take your lad up on his fine offer." He snarled his fingers in Frodo's hair affectionately and spoke once again to the green-eyed gipsy. "My cousin here is new to the ways of courting. Some other time."

The tinker lad grinned to show no offence, flipped the dagger into the air and caught it, then bowed. "Then, good sir, I bid you—"

"Wait." The curtain entrance to the caravan tugged and shifted, and a tiny female emerged. She was the oldest and scrawniest hobbit Frodo had ever seen: her white hair, sparse but lengthy, crinkled over her bent shoulders and down to her thick-veined, bejewelled hands; her brown face was wrinkled as a dried plum and framed in silver earrings, silver necklets and torques; even her pale-furred, bony feet bore a raiment of silver chains that tinkled about her ankles pleasantly as she stepped down from the caravan. Her grandson immediately leapt to her side, gave her his arm and began to lead her to a chair beside the caravan's front off wheel.

She shook her head, instead walking slowly up to their two potential customers. First she gave Merimac a fleeting glance and smirk, then turned her ancient eyes—faded, yet green as her grandson's—to Frodo, who stared back at her, entranced.

Merimac bowed low, gave Frodo a nudge with his elbow when Frodo continued to stare. Albeit awkwardly, Frodo dipped a reverence to the old dame, still unable to take his gaze from hers.

The dame smiled with her mouth, but it did not reach her eyes. She extended one bony hand and grasped Frodo's arm. "Come, boy."

She had quite a grip. Frodo almost pulled away, stilled the reaction and threw an uncertain glance over his shoulder towards Merimac. His cousin shrugged; he didn't seem terribly concerned. However, as Frodo turned back to the old gipsy matriarch and met her eyes, he suddenly knew that he saw something within those rheumy orbs that Mac could not.

"Ai," she hissed. "I thought so. Hold your ground, boy—fighting is sometimes necessary and running is sometimes wise, but standing to meet truth is the only way to understand it, and survive."

A small thrill ran through Frodo, and he was uncertain as to how to clarify it. The ancient dame pulled him over to the seat where her grandson had thought to first stow her; throwing another uncertain glance at Merimac, Frodo helped her into the chair. When he thought to step back, she slid her hand down to his wrist, still latched to him, and gestured imperiously. "Sit. I shall scry for you."

The grandson leaned against the caravan behind her, relaxed but nevertheless protective. Frodo sat on the only thing available—the grass. Her chair was not so high-set that it pulled his arm taut; the crone turned over his hand and peered into his eyes, then sighed. She was silent for several moments.

"No doubt you need coin to see properly," Merimac stated; he hadn't moved from his spot and his very pose radiated scepticism.

"Never do I refuse payment," she replied, "and I'm thinking you can spare it, RiverMaster. But you may wait, if you wish, and see what worth you get for your generosity."

Frodo threw his cousin another quick look—how did she know who Merimac was? Merimac raised an eyebrow.

"Don’t get your hopes up, lad. There's many a way she could have found that out and it has naught to do with any Sight."

Surprisingly, the old dame took no umbrage, nodding almost in approval. "Yes, many of my compatriots work in that fashion. I've no need of it… be still, lad!" she directed Frodo, who had squirmed a bit uncomfortably on his seat bones. "Your important cousin there is dubious, but you." Her eyes bored into his. "Ai, you. You know, don't you?"

His hand twitched in her palm, and she had not yet looked at it. Only into his eyes. Frodo shuttered them, looked at the grass. "Know what?"

"Do you think you're the only one?" Suddenly she erupted in a laugh that seemed entirely too big for the frame originating it. "These children, my word!" Her eyes flickered to Merimac. "They think the world revolves about them. That their troubles and pleasures visit them only. Ai, RiverMaster?"

There was a hint of rich mirth in Merimac's voice as he answered. "That they do. But don't we all, eh?"

"Mm." The woman opened Frodo's palm, flattened his fingers with a stroke of her own. Her skin was papery and dry against his; Frodo realised that his hands were damp and he shivered as she blew a quick, pursed breath across his palm then trailed those thin, silver-and copper-banded fingers in its wake.

"What do you fear, little hobbit?" she murmured. "You are the clever one. Not many know to be that frightened of the truth. They think they really want to know it—nay, boy. Hold."

Somehow she had read his intent before he was even aware of it and had gripped him just before the impulse to bolt filled him. All the time she kept stroking his palm, running her index finger along the ball of his thumb.

"You spend more time inside your head than without, but still you wish to be a wanderer in body as well as soul. Don't you, little one?" she crooned. "And that wish you shall have, for I see many paths wended, solitary and with friends. Your feet will know the rutted roads and the rocky hills, the crusted glaciers and the soft forests, the planking of sea-craft and the sands of shorelines." Her eyes twinkled at him. "Ai, and that eases you a bit, doesn't it? You like the sound of that. But do you want it even more than…" she trailed off, her face softening.

"Than what?" he said hoarsely.

"Than," she murmured, her face mere finger-lengths from his, "the feel of home?"

He flinched. She bent back over his hand, trailed more waft of breath and tickle of fingertips upon it.

"Home so long in coming, but the finding still in doubt? Son of the lost one, who belongs nowhere and everywhere, knows too much and too little, all at once…"

Frodo squirmed and threw a glance at Merimac, who was eyeing the caravan's wares—and particularly that ornate dagger—with an air of utter boredom. The old crone's eyes followed his; she gave a short bark of laughter and raised her voice to reach past Frodo.

"No doubt your wise tutor, he would have me tell you how long you'll live and how many bairns you'll sire, what colour your bride's eyes will be, and how many lovers you'll have between there and here, ai?"

Merimac turned back to them, chuckling. "That would certainly be safe, eh? You must admit, good dame, that you've said precious little of specifics to the lad."

Precious little specifics. Unless one knew, that was. Frodo swallowed, and the crone turned her eyes to his and smiled, a sly expression that brought him with her into fey and uneasy accord.

"Shall we satisfy your doubting playmate then, little lost one?" Her fingers stroked at Frodo's palm again. "And tell him whether or no you'll have such nightmares, if you come with him to the River as he so hopes?"

Merimac, who had started once again to eye the dagger, jerked about and gave her a narrowed gaze.

She held it. "Or remind him that he must leave you to your destiny, and follow his own… even as he himself once did, long ago, with one to whom he'd sworn oath and heart's life?"

Frodo watched in bewilderment as Merimac stiffened further and his eyebrows drew together in wary, unwilling expectancy.

The old dame gave a satisfied mutter, relented. "And, perhaps, let him know that for all his respect of old Ness' age, she is not quite the foolish old dame he thinks her," she said lightly, once again stroking Frodo's fingertips flat. "As for you, young orphan… You'll return to the river, ai, you must. But as to when, even you cannot know yet. You want it… you fear it… and that fear lives in a place where you refuse sight of."

Frodo's nostrils flared and he took in a huge, uneasy breath.

"Those nightmares. You cannot run from them forever, little one. They are gaining on you, and you know it. You must stand your ground, spit in their eye. Even a lover's touch will not take them from you for much longer unless you do."

Merimac's hands came to rest lightly on Frodo's shoulders and he jumped. He'd been so riveted by the crone's words that he'd not seen or heard his cousin come over to them. "It's too beautiful a day for nightmares." Merimac said pointedly, his own obvious unease at her canniness making him less than mannerly. The grandson grinned and started picking at his fingernails with a tiny knife cadged from his belt; his grandmother huffed irritably but Frodo was grateful of the interruption, considering what old Ness had been saying.

"Yes, then. As you wish, RiverMaster. We'll see what pleasantries we can conjure up. And you, boy? What do you want to know?"

For moments Frodo didn't know what to say, didn't know what would be safe to ask.

"Children," Merimac said, his fingers runneling up through Frodo's hair, soothing as warm milk. "Lots of little dark-haired, blue-eyed Brandybucks chasing about the Hall, making me go spare, no doubt."

In spite of himself Frodo smiled at the picture this presented. "Maybe I shan't marry."

Merimac chuckled. "Maybe you shall. Ask her."

Frodo met the crone's eyes; for long seconds he was almost undone by the need to ask other, more complex things. She smiled, nodding as if she knew what he truly wanted; with a sharp breath he forced the simpler query to his lips. "Shall I? Marry?"

He knew the answer. How could he marry, much less beget anything, when he was so uncertain of what lay in his blood, coiled like tiny drakes and hoarding untold secrets?

Her teeth flashing in a crooked smile, old Ness kept fingering Frodo's palm, kept peering into his wide eyes. "So simple a question, and…" she halted, then frowned and said, softly, "and not so simple to answer. For… for you'll take no maid to wife, but still you'll possess and hold a love that would draw the stars to dance in your eyes and make all dream of fancy pale and stern. It will sustain you, feed you when all else fails, upon… upon…" Her voice lowered and her grip softened; if Frodo had any remaining impulse to pull away it had vanished beneath utter fascination. "A great journey… nay, several. One to the fires of the east, and one to the waters of the west. Fire and water…" she gave a shake of her head, her eyes gone cloudy. "Fire…"

Frodo stared at her, wondering if this was how his own expression seemed when he went… away. And that more than anything else made him sure that she was not lying.

She was not lying. And if she wasn't, then she would find out…

The tinker lad leaned forward curiously

"You are alone now, but it has made you strong. And when you face that strength and claim it as yours, you need not be alone again, not until the end of all things... for to that end will loneliness be your choice, and your bane…"

Frodo tried to pull away. Her eyes were all but black, merely a thin ring of colour about them, and her fingers no longer soft upon his hand, but harsh, nails biting into his wrist. Her voice, oddly enough, had gone soft, almost unintelligible save to his own ears.

"You'll sire no heirs to your family's name, but offspring of your blood and tears will nonetheless be your legacy, and the children of your heart's life shall evermore remember you and call you blessed—!"

Suddenly a broad hand came down on theirs, on the old crone's and Frodo's both, gripping tightly and wresting them apart. Another set of hands, slender-fingered and also beringed, laid upon those. Merimac's voice, and the tinker lad's, pulling seer and seen apart, and Frodo lurched back against his cousin's chest with a small gasp, watching as old Ness closed her eyes and wilted into her grandson's arms. He touched her cheek and said her name. Her chest rose and fell in one huge sigh; she opened her eyes and stared at Frodo with several emotions that he could not, did he wish to, name.

"Frodo," Merimac was looking at his wrists where the fortune teller's nails had scraped, "are you all right?"

He nodded, breathing in small pants, watching Ness watch him.

"We'd better go. No doubt your uncle is looking for you by now." Merimac held out a hand to the old dame; she ignored it, still peering at Frodo with a curious, wary expression that Frodo couldn't meet. It was her grandson who stood and extended his own hand, palm up, and his eyes lit up when he saw the tender of the coin given him.

"My thanks to you, gentlehobbits."

"Take care of her," Merimac said bluntly. "It is not an easy thing to bear."

"I bear it as I must." Old Ness, albeit with the help of her grandson, stood and straightened. She then reached down and lifted Frodo's downturned face.

"She loved you, little master," the crone told him. "Doubt the sunrise before you doubt that she loved you. Few people have been loved as you have—or as you will be."

Frodo stared after her, taking small, shallow breaths as she was helped into the caravan and the curtains closed behind them both.

"Let's go, Frodo," Merimac said quietly.

Oddly enough, Frodo was not as shaky as he thought he would be; he gained his feet with an ease quite at odds with the whirling in his mind. Rather meekly he followed Merimac from the caravans, twining an arm about his elder cousin's waist in an instinctual seeking of comfort. Merimac in return gave him a quick, hard hug that remained as a light embrace about his shoulders. They walked in silence for some time, walking the remainder of the caravans yet truly paying no attention to any of them.

"Did you hear what she said, Mac?"

"Yes, and understood none of it. Pay it no mind, lad."

"But," Frodo gave him a sidelong glance, "what she said to you—about what happened long ago—it surprised you."

Merimac hesitated, obviously caught out, then shrugged and kept on. "That was something she could have found out on her travels."

"But, Mac, you said that it was not an easy thing to bear," Frodo persisted. "So you must think she spoke the truth, that she can see the future."

"I think she has the look to her of one who sees too much, yes," Merimac said cautiously. "But Frodo, everything she said was so couched in riddles, and so vague. Did you understand a word of it? Tell me, honestly."

Frodo walked quietly at his cousin's side for moments, then murmured, "There were a few things she said that—"

"That what?"

"That… rang true."

"And again, my dear, all of it couched in terms that tightened as she watched you. She might see too much, but that also means that she can see how you react, and plan her story about that."

"You gave her a goodly coin for what she said!" Frodo protested.

"Because she gave what she promised. Whether I believe she makes sense or no, she is quite good at the show, eh?"

Frodo frowned thoughtfully.

"Value for value, the Brandybuck motto!" Merimac teased him, then sobered. "Listen to me. That old dame saw… oh, I don’t know, but she saw something in you. Maybe some of that awareness that sings in your eyes. So she played to it, and you responded, and you got your fortune told.. End of story." He snugged Frodo close. "You can't live your life wondering what might be about the bend. You might not even reach the bend, eh?"

"But—" The old dame said that 'she' loved me. She said not to doubt it…

"Whup. Look here, lad, you might have just found treasure."

Frodo was frowning thoughtfully; he blinked at the sudden diversion, then saw where Mac was pointing. A dusty, motley trio of books sat on a corner of a caravan step. He paced forward, looked down at them rather dubiously.

It was nice of Merimac to at least point them out, but they'd been so neglected they probably would fall apart if he picked them up. Frodo always had this odd feeling when he saw books like this—it wasn't as if there were enough of them anyway, and to see them left to languish and deteriorate was strangely depressing.

"Frodo, do you have money with you?" Merimac wondered from behind him.

Nodding, Frodo peered down at the ruined books with sadness.

"Well, you're set, then, should you want to barter for them. As for myself, I'm going to be rid of some excess drink and then fill my tankard once again while you go through this, eh? Come find me whenever you're ready."

Watching his cousin stride off towards the woods, Frodo gave a shake of his head to the hopeful tinker and turned from the caravan. Yes, he had money, but not to spend on worthless things… Wait. He smiled to himself suddenly, skipped into a short run.

The green-eyed tinker lad was still there, leaning up against the caravan and smoking a long, slender-bowled pipe. The dagger was also there. Old Ness, however, was nowhere in sight and as Frodo wrangled price with the tinker and they settled on a reasonable compromise he wondered further about what she had said and how.

"Are you buying this to keep me from bartering your playmate for it?" the tinker lad said with an understanding smirk about his pipe.

"No," Frodo said, frankly and not a little curiously. "I'm buying it because he wants it and my birthday is coming up in another several weeks. Why else?"

The smirk grew into a full blown smile. "He was right. You are new to the courting, aren't you?"

Frodo blushed and held out the requested copper coinage. The tinker flipped the coin into a pouch tucked into his sash, then handed over the dagger with a small flourish. "Well, he looks quite able to advise you as to that. But I'll give you a bit of free advice on other matters." The lad leaned closer; his pipe smoke wreathed about Frodo's head, a sweet and pungent leaf that Frodo had never before smelled. "My grandmother is no sham; she truly has the gift. The blood of the Old Took himself runs in her veins," he added self-importantly then, when Frodo seemed unimpressed, shrugged. "Well. If she gives any warning, however small, I would take it."

"Will… will she be all right?"

"She will," was the assurance, then another shrug as he took a deep, satisfied drag of his pipe. "Rest will help. It happens, sometimes." A charming smile. "Soft roads beneath your feet, little riverhobbit. When you're ready to share that strapping playmate of yours, let me know, ai?"

Frodo coloured again, cursed his fair complexion, tucked the knife in his vest and departed.

* * * * * *

"Sam!"

The voice was a bit shrill, suggesting Daisy had reached the end of her rope. Sam gave a little huff of aggrieved breath and gave his compatriots Tom and Jolly Cotton, as well as the Widow Rumble's youngest lad Jeb, a scowl and a roll of his eyes.

"Aye, and you'd best heed her!" Jolly groaned in sympathy. "When Rosie gets that tone in her voice—and she en't even old enough to be prattling and bossing like Ma—it always means somethin's gone awry that'll backfire on us!"

Young or old, lasses were just too much work. Although Rose was, to him, as fine a company as her brothers—there wasn't a minnow that could escape her quick fingers, or a squirrel that could evade her throwing arm—Sam still could understand Jolly's grievance. It was plain fact that, the older lasses got, the bossier they got.

Sam kept grumbling to himself as he trudged from his pack of friends and over to where the food preparations had been nestled into a small grove of trees right beside the Water. Good smells were starting to waft from the open fires. Several carcasses were spitted and seasoned, slowly roasting for the evening's meal—mutton, pork, even a side of beef. Grumbles subsided from his lips to be replaced by those from his belly as he snuffed the air with a contented smile. Mister Bilbo always set a fine table, whether he was feeding a small party in his fancy dining room, or all of Hobbiton here to Tithe.

"Samwise!" his oldest sister hollered from amidst a gaggle of females, "I en't got all day, quit your lollygagging and come on!"

Sam quickly obeyed, just in time to hear the old lady Rumble chortle. She was seated in a rocker next to the other females, several sheaves of wheat and barley in her lap, her fingers busily plaiting at the yellow straws.

"Lads!" She looked up and gave a gap-toothed grin. "They're all stomachs and balls—you feed one, th' other's bound to be distracted for the while." Sam flushed bright red; but as the old dame shifted her work to one hand and dug into her pocket and pulled out a cloth bundle, he quickly forgave the blunt comment. Widow Rumble made the best sweetmeats in the Westfarthing. "Here, lad, take the edge off—you're no use to us if you faint dead away from the hunger."

He took the offered handful, grateful for it and the fact that the Widow's rather well-spiced comment also took the edge off Daisy's impatience, for she and May both laughed out loud. The Widow took her plaiting work back up with a soft, whistled tune, grinning and shaking her head. Lily Cotton was also standing with Sam's sisters, looking with some dismay into a twelve-quart crock that had, from its wet sides, just been pulled from the cooling shallows of the Water. Sam took a bite of soft peppermint sweet and, at his sister's direction, peered down in the half-filled crock. The contents should have been buttermilk, but resembled clear syrup with curds floating to the top. The smell was even more informative—it hadn't just separated, but truly gone off.

The Cottons' mother held a ladle in one hand, but nevertheless she gave Sam a soft smile and ruffled his hair with her free hand as he came over. It plagued him mightily that she kept doing things like that even when his voice was starting to break and signal he was nigh to approaching his change, but Lily was so good-tempered it was difficult to say her nay. She had eyes like cornflowers and her hair, gone quite silver, framed a round, sweet face. Her sons, of course, said that her pretty smile hid a fearsome temper and a right arm that could whale the strongest of them hard enough to sting even through winter-weight cords.

"Sammie," Daisy was saying with her hands on hips, "the Squire likes his buttermilk, you know, and this is just plain awful. The Widow says that her stock's all sent to Bywater, but that the Squire took the last bit himself. So I'm thinking since you're in and out of Bag End more than any of us you can get yourself up there right quick and bring the good crock back."

May, from behind Daisy's field of vision, stuck her tongue out at him. She still hadn't forgiven him for comparing her yeast rolls to old cow turds last night. Well, they had been, and twice as hard. Fine thing to come home to after a hard day's work!

Not twenty lengths down the Water from them, the mill's riverwheel chugged, a rhythmic, pleasant sound of water and wood. Sam looked at the rancid buttermilk, and chewed, and shrugged. "Aye, if you need me to."

"Do you need help from my boys, lad?" Lily asked.

"No ma'am, I can get a crock on my own," he said, smarting just a little at yet another hint that he was the baby Gamgee boy and most likely always would be to Lily.

May smirked at him.

Sam stuck the remainder of his treats into a free pocket, and retreated gratefully up the Hill.

* * * * * *

Frodo scooted up the Hill and into the front door of Bag End in record time, wanting to get his treasure under wraps before Merimac spotted it. He trotted quickly to his room and straight for the dresser, pulling the dagger from where he'd tucked it into the waistband of his breeks. He started to perfunctorily stuff it between his two nightshirts in the second drawer, but a ray of sun from the open skylight caught the sheath's decoration, threw sparks across the ceiling. With a sigh of delight, Frodo wriggled the dagger once more. Gold and red lights danced across the room like fireworks. Turning, he pulled the dagger from its sheath with a soft 'snick', and sent a long band of light arcing across the ceiling and over to his bed…

The bed. He sucked in a harsh breath, then lurched forward and halted just at the edge of it.

He'd made it. He knew that he had, for Bilbo had censured him that guests might be in and out of Bag End later that evening, and unless Frodo wanted the odd busybody to be speculating on the neatness of That Young Brandybuck, he'd best have his own little smial at least presentable.

But the coverlets were thrown back, and mussed as if someone had lain in them, and more disturbing, one of his books lay, spread out like a chicken for the plucking and gutting. It was a small book, and he knew ten kinds of fear before he saw that it was not his mother's book. But it looked enough like, and upon it sat the seashell that Merimac had given him.

It was broken in several pieces.

Taking up the shell, a small, distressed noise uttered itself from his throat and Frodo drew it to his breast. The small book had a rent in its pages, and once again he realised how like that particular book looked to his cherished heirloom…

Sudden, illogical panic swept him. Frodo dropped the ruined shell on the bed, snaking the key lanyard over his head with one hand while he dropped to his knees, reached beneath the bed and yanked the stowed trunk forward.

Realising that he was holding his breath only after several failed attempts to fit the key into the lock, he forced himself to take a calming breath. Such attention also steadied his trembling fingers, and the key slipped in. He flung open the trunk lid, then took another deep breath—this one in relief.

The cloth bundle was still there, tightly wrapped and in the very place he'd left it. He started to take it up, then leaned his forehead against the bed and chastised himself for an unreasonable fool. Of course it was there, and he didn't need to give into any more panicky worry. There was only the one key about his neck, and it never away from him—well, actually, he remembered once, but only that once since he'd come here—and the Gamgee lad the intruder upon that night.

Somehow he couldn't see the gardener's lad caring about his things enough to bother with them like this.

Frodo carefully locked the trunk and shoved it back under the bed, threading the key about his neck once more. His eyes moved upward to the small assortment of oddities on his bed, and he stood slowly.

Why and how had this happened? Had Bilbo perhaps broken it, or someone come in, knocked it from the washstand where he normally kept it? That must be it, only…

It seemed so deliberate somehow. All the pieces of the shell carefully gathered atop the book, the bed mussed when he hadn't left it so…

Frodo closed his eyes.

The dragon purred, soft and sinuous as cornsilk.

His hands clenched on the dagger and sheath. "I didn't… do this. I wouldn't… break that shell. I would remember."

And to that he had no answer.

* * * * * *

Sam tapped lightly on the door from ingrained politeness, then walked in. "Hullo? Is anyone here?"

"Who is it?" A quick, sharp retort from the east end of the smial. Sam jumped; he hadn't been expecting anyone, but he easily recognised the voice and the rather-posh accent accompanying it.

It seemed this was getting to be a habit. Hopefully the Brandybuck lad wasn't armed this time.

Sam padded back that way, albeit cautiously, and came to a stop at the little smial's door, still cautiously.

"I said who…?" The Squire's nephew stood rigidly, facing the narrow bed that abutted one wall, two shiny objects in his hands. Sam looked again and saw that Frodo held a fancy dagger in one hand and its sheath in the other. It was enough to give Sam pause, considering the last time he'd practiced such stealth in Bag End he'd gotten whacked for his pains. The Brandybuck lad's face was pale, and his voice trailed off upon seeing who it was. "Oh. It's you. Did…?" Again, he trailed off, his expression sobering in response to the look on Sam's face. He looked down at the knife in his hand, then at Sam, and gave a short chuckle.

"I'm sorry. It seems that every time you come across me in this smial I'm wielding a weapon." He sheathed the dagger. "It's a present. For my cousin Merimac. For my birthday… please don't tell him."

"I'd not do anything like that," Sam said awkwardly. "'Twouldn't be my place."

The dark brows quirked, then Frodo walked quietly over and, opening the second drawer of his dresser, put the dagger inside and beneath a wad of clothes. Sam noted that the older lad's bed was rumpled, and there were a few items placed out on the sheet as if for display. Curiosity—for which his dad was always giving him a clip on the ear—niggled at Sam, and he inched forward, seeing that there was a book lying there, open, with something lying on it as well…

"Do you need me for something?" the Brandybuck lad abruptly questioned. "Did Uncle Bilbo send you to find me?"

"Nay, sir," Sam said, retreating a few steps and placing similar straits on his wonder at what master Frodo was doing up here during a party, with a book and a knife and a very uneasy look to him. "I was sent up here to the cellars—"

"Did you move these things?" Frodo suddenly demanded, pointing to the bed.

The tone of his voice made Sam defensive. "No, sir! I just got here, that I did, and I've no call to—"

"I didn't mean it" As quickly as the arrogance had come it was gone, and apology that seemed very genuine lit Frodo's features. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to accuse you of anything. It's just…"

"You didn't move those things, then?" Sam abruptly asked.

A funny, sharp look came over the pale face; for moments those eyes went even larger, if that were even possible, and Frodo's nostrils flared. Then he answered with a shrug. "It's not important. I'm not worried. I must have… forgotten, that's all. Forgotten that I moved them."

The answer was too pat, and puzzlement filled Sam even amidst concern. "Master Frodo," he said earnestly, "what with all these tinkers about and all, if you think something's gone missing—"

"No. Nothing's missing. It's just…" The slender shoulders twitched beneath blue herringbone and chaff-coloured linen, then went stiff as a plough-stilt. Chin lifting and mouth settling firm, the Brandybuck lad turned away. "Never mind."

Well, and if that wasn't a dismissal, then nothing was. Sam accepted it, but not without a pause. "Well. Aye, young master. I'll just go and get that buttermilk for mister Bilbo, then."

Frodo's gaze returned to his just before he turned, and Sam was riven stock still by the odd, constrained light that flared behind the blue eyes. With some effort he turned away, leaving Frodo solitary in the little sky-lit smial.

The rest of Bag End was mercifully unlit, but nevertheless Sam felt as if some strange witch-light kindled against his nape as he escaped into the cellar. It made no sense, how that scrawny bit of Brandybuck moon-madness could so scrape his nerves raw. Sam hunched his shoulders and looked for the proper crock in the dim sanctuary of the cellars, fascination and resistance rankling within him.

If only… if only he didn't feel as if there was somehow something in the older lad that hinted at…

At what?

Finding the proper crock, Sam sniffed it to make sure that this buttermilk was fresh, then sunk the dipper in and took a half-cup for himself, knowing that mister Bilbo wouldn't mind—particularly since he was the one lugging it. Unlike many of his ilk and kin, mister Bilbo highly believed in honest recompense for honest giving.

Was the Brandybuck lad anything like Bilbo? Or was he more like Bilbo's kin? Sam wasn't sure, only…

Only that Sam kept seeing, beneath that arrogance and pride, a big lad helping dig in the dirt, listening with a soft smile to a faunt's wild claims of toads and wizards and missing hobbits. Or the little orphan bairn of Sam's own imagination, blue eyes awash with tears and reflecting the sight of drowned parents being laid out on a river bank. Or the way those same eyes that bored holes in Sam would soften in obvious affection for that strange old riverhobbit cousin…

That last made him uncomfortable, for reasons he wasn't sure he understood. But there were plenty of reasons for discomfort that he did understand. Those too-big eyes of that Brandybuck were deceptively mild—they'd harden to mirrors all too easily as well. Like just now. Or when mister Bilbo, with his soft heart, would try to elicit any warmth of response. For then, sympathy or no, Sam would feel his own heart chill and harden as well.

It was a foolish whim, wanting to get close to that lad. It was like trying to save a fox kit from starving without its mam. You couldn't tame something as was wild.

There were no sounds from above, no tread, light or heavy, to suggest that the Brandybuck lad had even moved from the spot where Samwise had left him. Sam finished his buttermilk, took another bite of the Widow's sweetmeats and savoured the mix of melting sweet and thick-sour drink on his tongue, then hefted the cool, damp crock and started back upstairs.

He couldn't resist taking a peek back towards the east-most smial. The older lad had already left. Sam wondered again if all those rumours floating about the Hill were true and the Squire's young nephew was somehow part elf. It was said that elves moved even more lightly than hobbits. Another strange feeling of delight filled him, covering resentment with a clandestine wonder.

For if it was true, then how wonderful it would be…

Sam exited Bag End and closed the door firmly behind him. He was halfway down the Hill before he abruptly remembered the large figure in the Bag End gardens only two nights ago. He stopped. On pretense of shifting his load, he knelt in the dusty road with his hands on the wooden top of the crock, and peered back up the Hill. Instead of elves and fey forbidden foolishness, now Samwise contemplated prowlers and bounders and gipsies—and the things upon master Frodo's bed that had been out of their places.

With a grimace, Sam picked up the crock, steadied it and kept going. No doubt there would be a proper time to tell mister Bilbo about the stranger in their garden. Mayhap his Gaffer was right and he was thinking too much on fool f'r-alls and fancy, not paying attention to common sense when it danced the springle-ring right before him. Perhaps he was even being too fanciful thinking on some gipsy being bold enough to step foot into the Squire's haven. There hadn't been much in the way of highway robbery in Hobbiton in years, unless one counted mistress Lobelia's tendency to nick the odd piece of mister Bilbo's silver.

He was, once again, sticking his nose in where it didn't belong. It was probably all nothing, anyway. More than likely it had been that riverhobbit cousin, out for a night stroll.

Nevertheless, Sam determined that he was to keep an extra sharp eye on Bag End for a couple of days. At least until those tinkers left.

* * * * * *

Music had begun when Frodo returned to the Tithing; he nabbed a snack on the way across the green and espied Merimac talking to the same hobbit he'd been speaking with earlier, this time accompanied by another, also a farmer by the look of him. Looking about, he saw Bilbo holding court on a long bench, a small clutch of youngsters pie-eyed and riveted while several adults pretended not to listen. Another, larger gathering of hobbits were clustered about the roasting pits, talking and laughing and tending to the spits, which smelled heavenly. Several small groups of hobbit youth, males and females divided into their own little core groups, were clustered here and there, animated with laughter and raw energy. He approached one—lads, mostly younger than himself—noted that they paused in their activity as he did so, watching him a bit furtively. Hunching his shoulders, Frodo hastened his pace, heard them start up their conversation as he passed, albeit more muted. Another lot, this one of about five lasses, gave forth into giggles as he went by.

He avoided coming too closely to any of the others.

One in particular, a very small and well-dressed group, had Lotho in its midst. Those dark eyes thoroughly scoped Frodo as he turned away, escaping over to where Merimac was just finishing up his conversation with the two farmers. With a cheery grin, Merimac hailed him then excused himself with a short bow. "Enough business for now, eh? This lad's uncle would rather we sought pleasure on his Tithing Day, I'm thinking!"

The two male hobbits bowed in return pleasantly enough, but Frodo caught the funny frown the farmer gave them as they walked away. "Did you say something he didn't want to hear?" Frodo asked quietly.

"Why?" his cousin asked, then shot a surreptitious look back at the peculiar expression and snorted. "Ah. I see. Nay, I said nothing—it's what I'm doing that is probably chafing him. Or, should I say, who I'm with."

Frodo craned his neck and looked back at the farmer, who was shaking his head and talking to his companion. A tiny thrill of unease went through him, enlarged by Merimac's choice of words—'who' he was with—then was promptly soothed as Merimac continued, "Probably wondering why I'm not siring my own lads as opposed to tumbling them. Hobbiton!" Another snort, and Frodo relaxed further, realising exactly what Merimac had meant. "Give me the Eastfarthing any day, or Tuckborough where it's considered good fortune for an older cousin to guide a lass or lad to their first try."

"They're like Uncle Rory, then."

Merimac turned to eye him, then laughed out loud. "I'll give you this, Frodo Baggins, you don't miss much, do you?"

"Uncle Rory's opinions are rather hard to miss," Frodo said truthfully, then, "But no one approves of me, either, so perhaps we fit rather well together."

Merimac let out another yelp of laughter, and drew Frodo close. "You are a caution, lad."

Frodo smiled a bit shyly and hugged his cousin back, and from the corner of his eye saw Lotho standing stock-still amidst his tween companions. Sobering, Frodo snuggled closer to Merimac, cutting his eyes over towards Lotho.

The older lad's eyes were once more flattened with ill humour. He didn't seem to be listening very well to what his right-hand companion, a light-framed tween with a shock of fiery hair, was earnestly telling him. Once again the reaction—and Frodo's ability to cause it—intrigued and, more, satisfied. Mouth twitching again, this time rather wickedly, Frodo slid his eyes from Lotho to Merimac, his hand idling near his cousin's shirt collar. "Mac," he said softly.

His cousin was still chuckling, albeit quietly. "Yes?"

"Kiss me."

"So you're wanting to give the farmer more reason to give me his trade but watch me carefully about his tweenaged sons?" Merimac teased, then leaned over and rubbed the side of his nose against Frodo's cheek. "You are just too quick for your own—!"

Frodo wrapped his hands tighter in Merimac's shirt and pulled him firmly into a kiss. The farmer's trade or no, Merimac was obviously not adverse to the idea; his mouth gave willingly beneath Frodo's. It started briefly, but after a tactile moment involving lips and not a little tongue, once Frodo was there he was more than happy to prolong the experience. Merimac's compliance was heady in the extreme—as was, somehow, the knowledge that Lotho was watching every move they made. His adversary's gaze smouldered over him; Frodo could feel it as surely as he could feel Mac's hand trail up his back to twine into the curls at his nape. Eyes upon him, hands and lips upon him; the helpless tension from the afternoon breaking inside him, melting into something quite powerful, and manageable… and exciting.

Frodo broke from the caress with a small gasp. A fleeting look insured that Lotho was indeed still watching them, then Frodo bent forward eagerly and trailed a line of kisses from Merimac's nape to the upswept line of his ear. He paused, glanced at Lotho again, was rewarded by an imbroglio of varied and violent emotions fairly colouring the older lad's face. Merimac's other hand stroked at his throat and Frodo quivered, struck with the sudden, sweet intensity of control.

"Frodo, my darling," Merimac purred in his ear. "What are you doing?"

Frodo blinked.

"Never mind," Merimac said, still quietly. "I know what you're doing."

Suddenly, there was a hard hand on the small of Frodo's back, then one on his collar, and it was not to return the hopeful caress he'd given. No, he was being twisted about, then propelled forward quite speedily.

"Mac?"

No answer, just a brief grin thrown his way, and him stumbling along the grass, past several clutches of curious hobbits. Merimac greeted them quite cheerfully, not once breaking stride or letting loose of Frodo's collar. Quickly and inexorably they made their way across the grass, and then Frodo saw where they were heading and he wriggled, tried to back out of his cousin's grip.

"Oh, no. Mac. You can't."

"Oh, can't I?" Their pace quickened, and Frodo literally tried to dig his heels into the sod, but he might as well have tried to stop a wagon racing downhill.

"Mac."

It gleamed before them like a silvery beacon, and Merimac ran the last steps to the bank, gave a final heave.

"Mac!!" Frodo literally saw his furry heels arc over his head before he hit the water with a huge splash.

He surfaced, gasping and spluttering, somewhere in the middle of the Water, and the first thing that came to his ears was the sound of Merimac. Laughing.

Miserable sod.

Slinging the hair from his eyes, Frodo trod water and looked up at the bank, still blowing. "You…" he gasped, "You…"

"No, you," Merimac told him from the bank, his arms crossed firmly and his eyebrows raised. "You. Needed to. Cool off."

Frodo started swimming for the bank. "I can't believe you—"

"You're playing a dangerous game, lad," his cousin said, quite serious.

"What are you talking about?" Frodo demanded.

"You know perfectly well what I mean. There's a place and time for such things, and snogging me in front of that young Sackville-Baggins is not either."

"But Mac," Frodo got a gout of water in his mouth, spat it out with a cough but kept treading water and protesting. "All I'm doing is having fun with you. Is that so wrong?"

Merimac rolled his eyes. "And you as subtle as a cat in heat. Are you even using that clever brain of yours at the moment, eh?"

"But Mac—"

"Or has the prodigious itch in your breeks waylaid any reason you would normally have?"

"But Mac—"

"Stop whining 'but Mac'! You keep this up and all you'll do is get that young snot mad. And I promise you he's not one you want to do that with."

An abrupt crescendo of shouts rose from behind Merimac, and several groups of hobbits came charging up to the small ledge overlooking the river. Frodo wanted to just sink to the bottom there and then—most of them looked at bit wild-eyed, and in fact one female actually marched up and brandished a broom at Merimac, who threw up his hands with a yelp.

"What is it? Bloody damn, lass, put away that—!"

Frodo dipped into the water, came up swimming for the shore

"The lad's swimming!" someone cried out.

"Of course he's swimming—do you think I'd've thrown him in if he couldn’t swim?" Merimac shot back.

"That part of the Water is too deep for any hobbit to be in!" another voice chimed in indignantly. The hypersensitivity Frodo had to such remarks lost itself beneath the knowledge that they were indignant about himself—and the very real entertainment value of watching Merimac back a step closer to the small ledge in sincere trepidation. Frodo chuckled, got a mouthful of water and spat it out. That lass was still threatening Merimac with the broom, and serve the beggar right!

"It's all right, honestly!" Bilbo's earnest protest rose over the crowd, echoing into the banks, Frodo halted and trod water, angling his foot downwards to find bottom and having no luck, then eyeing up and down the bank. It wasn't going to be easy to get out of this spot.

"Remember, good folks," Bilbo came into view above; he was giving Merimac a gaze that would cut diamond. "These are my Buckland cousins; they are well used to the water, living on it as they do."

Never let it be said that Merimac didn't take a chance when offered. "I'll just get him out, shall I?"

"You do that!" said the broom-wielding lass. Bilbo spoke some more words that were lost to Frodo, and Merimac turned away from the crowd—once ascertaining that Bilbo was indeed covering his back—and peered down at his wet cousin.

"Bugger me!" he mouthed, rolling his eyes.

"I thought you didn't think this was the place for such a thing!" Frodo shot back with as much sarcasm as he could manage, treading water as he was.

"Oh-ho!" Merimac exclaimed. "You really are getting too big for your breeks, my lad! I should just leave you there…" he surreptitiously eyed the lass with the broom, "if I weren't fearful for my life, that is."

"Serves you right," Frodo told him. "Tossing me in. I need a hand," he added a bit sullenly, holding one up towards Merimac. "There's no bottom here and no easy way to climb out."

If his cousin hadn't been rattled, surely it never would have worked. But he was, and it did. Wonderfully well. Frodo took the broad hand and, as Merimac started to heft him from the water, yanked downward as hard as he could.

It was Merimac's turn to describe an elaborate parabola in the air just before he hit the surface with a huge splash. He disappeared for a moment, then surfaced, throwing the wet hair out of his eyes. He looked about somewhat wildly, then his gaze found Frodo. His eyes narrowed, gleamed, and a rather-wolfish grin lit his face. "You little—!"

He leapt forward. Frodo shrieked and dove for cover. Watery mayhem ensued.

On the bank, Bilbo came closer to the edge. The gathered clutch of hobbits followed, albeit slowly. They were staring, dumbfounded, at the water and the two hobbits—who, now that Bilbo considered it, resembled otters diving and fetching and teasing. He grinned, then crossed his arms and set himself to watch the entertainment.

"Riverfolk," he explained to those about him with a shrug. "As I said."

"Mister Bilbo," young Samwise had somehow gained his side, and his youngest sister Marigold was also there, her brown eyes gone absolutely huge. "I… I en't never seen anything like that. Ever."

Dora grabbed his arm. "What if they drown?"

"No worries, my dear; I think there's absolutely no danger of that."

Merimac had obviously found some bottom purchase; he was standing with the water only up to his ribs and had grabbed Frodo by the heel and was dragging his cousin towards him, backwards through the water. Frodo was not going for this one bit, and was using every twist, splash and wriggle he could think of to escape his predicament.

"Unnatural, is what it is," came a sour, barely-heard mutter that set Bilbo's teeth on edge. Otho. But worse, there were a few murmurs—quiet, to be sure—of agreement.

Bilbo closed his eyes and shook his head. Then the sound of Frodo's laughter, clear and somewhat water-logged, rose into the air and he smiled again. Still, when all was done and said, best to put a stop to this before the gossip hounds got too set on the scent of it.

"Oh, lads!" he called.

No response. Well, no wonder, Merimac was holding Frodo upside down beneath the water with only his soggy, furry feet showing. Then Merimac gave a lurch and disappeared from view.

The crowd gasped. Bilbo suborned a smirk, walked to the edge and knelt, somewhat stiffly, down. The two surfaced—Frodo somehow had managed to latch his arms about Merimac's neck and looked like he was actively trying to choke his cousin—and Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, only to shut it as they disappeared beneath the surface once more. Three more times he tried to speak; three more times they appeared only to splash back down, writhing and wrestling. Each time the Hobbiton crowd got larger and larger, amazed by the untoward spectacle that was unfolding in their normally untrammelled waterway.

The fourth time, however, Merimac had managed to disentangle Frodo from the various neck-holds the lad had somehow gotten, and heaved him up from the water. One broad arm was over Frodo's chest, both the lad's wrists in that hand, and the other arm crooked about one sopping trouser leg. Frodo was wriggling like a landed trout, and laughing fit to burst.

"Cousin Bilbo!" Merimac's voice boomed through the river bottoms, and he slung the wet hair from dancing eyes. "What would you like me to do with your nephew, good sir?"

Faith, but that riverhobbit was a rascal—bad enough that he was openly gaming his younger cousin in front of all of Hobbiton, he had to start a swimming excursion to boot!

But Frodo was still laughing, and the sound was so sweet to Bilbo's ears that it suddenly seemed well worth whatever social discomfort caused.

Merimac's eyes were upon him, and those dark brows quirked. Bilbo flushed at being caught out, and so swiftly. "Get out of there before you catch your death," he censured cheerily. "A pair of fools, the both of you! "

Merimac righted Frodo, who was still giggling.

"You've cooled off," Bilbo said, quite meaningfully to Merimac in particular, "so now go find a quiet place to dry off."

* * * * * *

They had to swim downstream a ways before they found easy access to land. Merimac was pleased to note that, despite Frodo's shorter reach, he kept up with Merimac very easily. He didn't seem to have any trouble keeping beneath the water for long breaths, either. Contemplating the uses of light-framed young hobbitlads on board ship—despite smarmy jokes, there really were many jobs to suit, and most of them not in the captain's bunk—Merimac chastised himself for allowing fancy to get ahead of him. For while Frodo was certainly welcoming of his cousin's affections, it was growing more uncertain every moment whether or no Frodo would, if given the choice, choose the river-run over Bag End.

The crowd was, by the sound of them, still by the bank. Bilbo's voice could be heard, cheery and determined. Merimac snorted. "By the Mother's paps, that bunch must be hard up for entertainment!"

Frodo giggled as he dragged himself up on the bank, then sobered. "Uncle Bilbo's not happy with us, is he?" There was a wealth of tweener insecurity in the question, and Merimac felt a pang, not just at the insecurity, but what it meant.

"Oh, lad, he's not unhappy." Sloshing out, he held a hand to Frodo and helped him to his feet on the bank. "He just gave me a reminder, which I should have and will heed."

"Reminder?"

"That I can leave Hobbiton any time I choose, but he can't."

Frodo went still. "Perhaps he could. Or would."

Merimac frowned. "Would?"

"He goes on adventures. He leaves Bag End quite often, or so I heard someone say."

Ah. This particular subject, again. One over which the lad did not so jealously and carefully guard his tongue. "Do you really think, Frodo, that the old hobbit would just up and leave you?"

No answer. Frodo turned ever so slightly away. Merimac wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the lad's chin quiver. "What if," Merimac continued, "I said that I truly believe you'd be wrong if you thought that?"

"You're the one," Frodo said very softly, "who says that nothing stays."

Merimac had opened his mouth for a quick sally, instead found himself left with no reply to that. Half-masted blue eyes slid his way, held almost warily. Merimac tried another tack.

"Perhaps not, but attitudes tend to stay long past their welcome. Your uncle was reminding me that Hobbiton is indeed not Buckland, and that if you're to fit in at all during your stay, however long or short it is, then I need to be mindful of it."

"Fit in." The words were said as if tasting an uncertain wine. Frodo knit his brow even tighter; several expressions did battle between those quirked eyebrows and into his eyes. Then, as Merimac started to comment once more, Frodo's face stilled its contortions and the lad said, rather carefully. "Just because we were swimming? Or was it because of… this?"

'This' was a sudden lean forward, another kiss, this one quite fierce. Merimac raised his hands to cup Frodo's jaw, returning the caress for a fleeting instant then pulling back ever so slightly.

"Yes," he answered quietly to both, thumbs stroking at Frodo's lower lip. Then, "Frodo, I meant what I said about Lotho. Don't start that again."

The dark brows drew together again, but this time in obvious pique. "Mac—"

"Don't get all sulky on me again, either. I'm quite serious. You have no business teasing Lotho, and it isn't exactly fair game to tease me to get back at him. There's being in control, and there's abusing it. You know which side of the docks Lotho keeps his favours on and tell me honestly, do you really want to play like he does?"

Having started another protest, by the time Merimac finished his statement Frodo had dipped his head down nearly to his chest. His answer was a bare whisper. "No."

"I didn't think so." Merimac lifted Frodo's face back upward, searching his eyes quite earnestly. What he saw there gave him no comfort—perhaps he shouldn't have said what he had, considering, but how else to make his point?

Frodo looked away, raising a hand to his lips to worry at a thumbnail. Merimac didn't loose him and also remained silent, wondering what was going through the lad's thoughts. When Frodo finally did speak again, the subject was totally unexpected.

"Who was he?"

Merimac blinked. "Who was who?"

"The one that gipsy dame spoke of." Frodo's gaze flickered to his, then dropped again. "The one she said you left, long ago. Even after you'd sworn yourself to him."

Leaving. Again. Merimac's first impulse was to refuse answer—why, he wasn't even sure—instead he tightened his grip in Frodo's shirt, spoke very earnestly. "It was Paladin Took."

Beneath his fingers Frodo's shoulders jerked, tensed. The blue eyes widened, slid slowly to his. "Pippin's father?"

"Yes."

"But…" Frodo started, then trailed off and said, muted, "Then you didn't leave him. He left you, didn't he, for Pippin's mother?"

"I didn't say that."

A bewildered frown gathered on Frodo's brow.

"Lad," Merimac started, revised the words three times before he decided to speak, then elected to say nothing of what he had planned. "He left me, and I left him, but it wasn't that simple. Frodo, sometimes even the greatest and most powerful love you can give, or bear in your heart… sometimes it isn't enough. Some things just aren't meant to be, and some things can't be fixed. Some moments are too lovely to stay, or last." He watched as the clear eyes darkened suddenly, a squall in smooth waters.

"Nothing stays," Frodo whispered.

"Nor should it. You can't hold things in place forever, lad, no matter how much you'd want to. If you don't change, you break. It's not wrong, the changing. It's the way of things." He stroked two light fingers across Frodo's cheek. "You should know that, considering what changes have taken you in the past year."

"Do you hate her?"

"No. I never did. Although I did him, for a short time."

"You loved him, and hated him too." Frodo's eyes had lightened, then darkened once again. "Shouldn't," he said quietly, "you hate what takes something from you? Something that you need?"

Merimac was silent for a moment, trying to decide, in the wake of that unquiet glance, how to answer. Frodo's eyes met his, something quite desperate beneath them.

"Isn't it odd," he asked slowly, "to not hate something… someone… that takes a precious thing from you? Shouldn't you? I mean…" The lad was obviously struggling for words; Merimac was still, leaving him room to do so. "I mean… I hate Lotho." From between gritted teeth the words came, but trembling nonetheless—hatred was obviously not an emotion felt easily or comfortably.

"I'm thinking he deserves your anger," Merimac said quietly.

"So it's normal. Isn't it? To hate something when it hurts you?"

"Maybe so. But lad," Merimac, abruptly feeling as if he were swimming in unfamiliar and treacherous waters, answered the only way he knew to, "I could no more hate Eglantine than hate the river or the sky." Frodo tensed, looked at him uncertainly. "She never took anything from me that was mine, Frodo. There are many ways to love. And room for every one of those ways in a hobbit's heart."

"But you said you hated Paladin," Frodo insisted, "because he did take something from you that was yours."

"I was young, and heart-sore. Those two together are not a recipe for clear thinking."

"I can't. I want to, but I can't."

The words were high-pitched, almost as if bursting from him. Merimac frowned, said carefully, "Can't what, lad?"

"I should, shouldn't I? It took something that was mine, something I needed to have, and I should hate it. But I don't."

It all made sudden, horrific sense. Merimac reached up, smoothed his hand over Frodo's curls, said tentatively, "The River." Merimac could feel the lad trembling, a tight, unsteady thrum that refused to give into shudders.

"Maybe," Frodo said, eyes staring at something Merimac could not see, "it was because they were already… gone. It didn't take anything that I hadn't already lost…"

"Frodo," he said helplessly, drawing the slender body close. For perhaps two seconds Frodo softened against him, gave to him, but within the space of one breath to another Merimac held something which bore no resemblance to malleable flesh. "Frodo," he said again, insistently.

Frodo's eyes had flattened; with a strange ease, he disentangled himself from his older cousin's grip and turned away.

"No." Merimac gritted from between his teeth. "Not this time. Not again." With a few long strides he had caught up to Frodo, grabbed his arm, pulled him about.

Frodo obviously wanted none of it; he tried again to yank away and, when Merimac did not immediately loose him, gave a sharp, painful sound and twisted in his grip, snarling, "Let go of me!"

"No," Merimac's grip tightened and he shook Frodo, hard, when he attempted to fend him off. "I'm not your little cousins that you can distract, I'm not your aunt that you can cow with a glare—"

"No, you're just my playmate and you'll be onto your next lover whenever you choose, and leave me, be done with me! Just like you were done with him—!"

Merimac hadn't meant to strike him, hadn't meant to react so violently to an obvious bait. But it was done, and Frodo was reeling back from the impact, the mark vivid on his pale cheek.

Whatever contrition that claimed Merimac abandoned him as Frodo pinned flat, unrepentant eyes upon him.

"Well," the lad said venomously, "I guess that makes us just about even, then."

"For the slap, yes," Merimac snapped back. "But not for the words. At least, until we are totally clear on exactly who is using whom, here."

Something flared behind Frodo's furious glare, something so abruptly panicked and cornered that it broke Merimac's own anger into tiny, impotent fragments. With a sigh, he reached out and grasped the narrow shoulders, pulling Frodo to face him. Frodo tensed, tried to wriggle free.

"Stop it, Frodo. Look at me."

When Merimac still didn't let go, Frodo gave a noise that was something between a growl and a moan. Pain flashed in Merimac's thigh, sharp and hard, and he gave a pain-filled yowl, let go.

Frodo darted sideways, fled.

Merimac watched him go, clutching the imprint of Frodo's heel upon his thigh and muttering curses. "Why," he finally muttered to himself, "by the multiple paps of the Mother, Merimac Brandybuck, have you not yet learned to just let go? Idiot."