Early Summer

The Buckland road was broad and straighter than most of its kind, bordered by orchards to one side, hillocks of blossoming vineyards on another and occasionally, if the wind was right, the muttered coursings of the river several furlongs to the west. A sturdy grey pony ambled along the wide path rather self-sufficiently, every now and then flicking insects with a silver-black tail and occasionally catching such on the traces of the trap hitched behind it. On the hard wooden bench of the small conveyance, bracing themselves unconsciously against the ruts in the heavily traversed road, sat two hobbits.

The driver had quite a burly and prosperous look: well-fed and accoutered, a middle-aged gentlehobbit of some means with crimson linen jacket opened to reveal a waistcoat of ivory brocade buttoned over an expansive chest. His wavy coif shone gilt and silver in the dappled sunlight, his face was tanned to the color of new honey, and a look of wry, sternly-reined-in humor played about the lines of his face, quirking in the set to his mouth and diving deeply into light blue eyes. His companion was as presentably-dressed; however there the resemblance ended. It was a youth who sat on the passenger’s side of the board, with a shock of dark hair that glinted russet in the sunlight—instead of lying in demurely tamed waves along his temples it curled rather wildly about his ears and past his collar. The lad also possessed blue eyes, however they were rather startlingly so, too large within the confines of his pale, sparsely-freckled face; his lower lip carried by accident or design a decided pout, and summer-weight finery did nothing to pad out or conceal a peculiar slightness of build which made him appear quite young and unfinished next to his more properly-proportioned companion.

"And the timing is very important." The driver gestured to the east, his hand splaying midair and almost protectively over the well-tended vineyards. "We’ll begin thinning and spraying any day now, any day... boy? Boy, are you listening to me?"

"Hmm?" The lad’s head inclined toward him slightly but the eyes were dreamily distant, looking out over the landscape. His attention seemed to be nowhere in the vicinity of the pony, conveyance or fellow traveler—or upon what was being said.

Nor was this the first time. The elder hobbit grimly pursed his mouth, squinting phlegmatically at the youth seated next to him. Then he shook his head, adjusted the reins threaded through his broad left palm, and gave it up.

Which was fine by the boy. He’d quite frankly tuned out from the moment they’d left the vineyards and alighted onto the trap to head back home. He’d been dimly aware of a baritone rumbling that occasionally penetrated his little bemused fog, and that it entailed indecipherable instruction of some and varied sort. Mostly, however, he’d been relieved to escape the strangely-sickening closeness of the distillery and vintner’s yard, more than happy to lose himself in the summer day, and particularly he’d been cognizant of the book sitting heavily in the jacket pocket lying on the seat beside him. He wasn’t quite brave enough to just dig it out. But it was tempting. He was more than well aware of his uncle’s aggrieved air and he had tried—honestly, he had—to pay heed, but none of the lecture made any sense.

So, as was his wont when faced with indecipherable moments, he turned to other things. Despite his aunt being often at him about never paying attention to what was going on about him, he could if he wanted to. This day was worth attending to. The sun warmed his dark head and radiated delectably through the soft, loose fabric of his shirt. The breeze lifted his hair, brought him tantalizing whiffs of waist-high grass, flowering apple tree and grapevine, the heated smell of the pony’s glossy hide as he angled willingly into the traces of the cart. The youth didn’t often ride so far and in such state; it was an experience to be treasured.

Unfortunately, the experience was almost over. A smaller road appeared on the west side of the Buckland, bordered by trees—no orderly orchard this, but a wild growth of oak and hemlock, bracken fern and rowan—angling upwards with the terrain. They took the westerly cart-path, the trap bouncing into the ruts and grass swishing along its underside. Not too much farther along, then an encouraging cluck to the pony as it began to lean into the traces; the little gelding trotted up the rather steep incline and then, well used to his routine, dropped to a walk as the hill crested and they rounded the thick stand of bush at the top. The river was abruptly and clearly audible, its rush carrying up to them even over the pace of the pony or the wooden-spoked rumble of the wheels. The older hobbit put down the cart’s drag for the descent and the trees opened up about them to reveal a huge grassy roofline, complete with chimneys and vents, that ran level with them on both sides of the road for a few paces, then grew in height behind as they continued down and gained the hill bottom then made a sharp right curve just before the wide banks of the Brandywine. The burrow spanned before them, carved directly into Buck Hill about twenty meters upward of the river bank. It was enormous—at least a furlong merely along its main facade, the front wall buttressed with wood and brick and stone. Literally hundreds of real, glass-paned oval windows glittered in the sun.

Brandy Hall.

The hobbitlad’s eyes flickered up and over it then lowered, turning inward once more. He took up his jacket from where he’d laid it on the seat beside him, pulled the dove grey herringbone over his arms and settled it onto his shoulders, patted the right pocket to insure his reading material was still safe, then settled back against the corner of the bench, furry toes tapping impatiently at the floorboards.

They turned onto a stone-paved drive, which all but disappeared into a tunnel burrowed through the cliff face. Cool darkness surrounded the trap; the pony’s rhythmic, metal-shod walk echoed through the cavern, straining a little at the small upward grade, then a circle of light at the end and they re-entered the brilliant sunlight into the vast courtyard of the Hall. A natural depression in Buck Hill, it had been hollowed and leveled and now was half cobbles, half grass, bordered by the Hall proper and the surrounding hillocks. Within the earth-walled confines, hobbits were busy at their varied tasks: a dame hanging out washing to dry in the summer sun with two chubby toddlers at her feet, a tweenaged lass droving geese with her apron folded over their feed, a gaggle of rose-cheeked hobbit children running and calling to each other in the summer sun, several vendors in colorful booths doing a brisk trade along the east cliffside perimeter. Expectant, welcoming faces turned to greet the arrivals; hearty smile flashing time and time again, the driver steered his conveyance towards the round stable block and came to a halt. A freckle-faced hobbitlad appeared as if by magic at the pony’s head, taking hold of the bridle as his master draped the rein into the floorboards of his conveyance and stood, turning to the small group that was gathering just outside the Hall’s main courtyard exit.

An imposing hobbit female, fair hair pulled tightly back from her triangular face, stepped from the small crowd that was gathering about the trap. Her expectant smile was warm and hopeful as she turned hazel eyes first to the boy, then her husband who dismounted with a squeal of cart springs.

Saradoc Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland and of Brandy Hall, glanced briefly at his wife and shook his head, just a tiny negation. Esmeralda’s smile faded and she sighed, her gaze going back to the slight youth as he also dismounted the trap. Her features were a strong mix of dismay and frustration, which smoothed itself into determined pleasantness as the boy’s gaze met hers.

"So how was your tour of the ‘stillers hall, lad?"

"Just fine, Aunt," he said, dropping his eyes, but not before they had sparked with a strange mixture of meekness, diffidence and something that was rather indefinable yet bordered on insolence.

"Frodo!"

The dark-haired boy’s inward-turned expression lit and brightened considerably. He whirled about with a huge smile. "Merry!"

The source of his joy was a gangly boy with a thatch of chaff-colored hair and eyes that sparkled indigo as the fathoms of the river behind them. Meriadoc ran up, gave his father a gleeful twist of his generous mouth, then pounced on his slighter cousin in a near-toppling display that suggested he was not quite yet aware of his own strength. "Frodo, you missed it! That big mare—you know the one ballooning like she was going to pop? Well she did! Early this morning right after you left!"

"Ohhhh, I was afraid I’d miss it!"

"C’mon, come see! The foal’s got legs a half-meter long, I swear!"

"Meriadoc..." Esmeralda started to protest, but Saradoc interrupted her as their son dragged his older cousin off toward the barns.

"Let them go. We need to talk. Privately."

* * * * * *

"He didn’t even begin to comprehend half of it, Esme. If he’d even tried to pay attention..."

"Pay attention? The lad’s been walking with his nose in the clouds since he first came here." Esmeralda’s voice had not quite lost its Tuckborough lilt, only slightly flattened by years of marriage to her husband and his Hall, but it faltered suddenly, leveled even more. "It was understandable enough, then..."

Her husband went over to the other side of the wide, wooden desk and crossed his arms with a sigh. It was dark and cozy and small, his wife’s study, its only entrance a small round opening into their bedroom suite, its only lighting that of several etched-glass lamps. The walls were covered with tapestries and shelves, the shelves were filled with registers in various stages of age and use, and a well-shielded drying lamp was constantly lit to guard against the damp.

"It was understandable when he lost his parents," Esmeralda continued softly, idly thumbing through the huge register that she had been poring over before he’d arrived. "But lately…" The tip tilted eyes that were her most visible gift to her son narrowed, seeming to scan the neat, black-ink figures that lined the pages with great precision, but in truth not seeing them, "Lately it’s just been getting worse."

"It’s a difficult age, and him not hitting the change until last year hasn’t helped, but…" Saradoc shrugged and continued, his deep voice reverberating in the tiny room. "I thought that maybe this might be the answer. Granted, his parents didn’t leave him poor—he’s a house and a comfortable-enough income waiting for him when he comes of age—but there’s no denying an honest trade would do him good, particularly now. He’s getting to the time that he needs to start coming into society. I thought he could have some stake in the orchards and the vineyards… instead he gets sick."

"Sick?" Esme looked alarmed.

"Well, not badly. But by the time we’d gone halfway through the vats, he was pale as a sheet and shaking. And when I asked him what was wrong… well, you know how he is. He wouldn’t admit to anything."

She still looked worried.

"Oh, ten minutes later and some fresh air and he was fine. There’s nothing frail about that boy, Esme, stop fussing—he works as ably as someone twice his weight in the fields during harvest." He shrugged. "This was just some strange happenstance, I guess. But it rather firmly put paid to this. With all the sitting and reading he does, I thought it might work. You have to be a bit of a thinker to work the vats and the stills..." He shook his head, brows twisting in frustration. "I suppose it wasn’t a good idea. Frodo spends too much time in his own head as it is."

"To no good purpose, either. I’m beginning to think he’s just dumb."

"Esme..."

"I don’t mean... it’s not..." Esmeralda sighed and snapped the ledger shut. "Well, what do you suggest? He may look small enough to be our Merry’s age, but Frodo will be a tweenager come September and if he’s not in trouble, he’s causing it. Every trade he’s laid his hand to he’s managed to fumble, somehow—this is just the latest in a long list."

"You could put him back into the library. It needs a good going over."

She plumped her hands on her hips, frustrated. "Sure, and the one time I did send him there I came back in later that evening to find him in the middle of a huge stack of books, looking through one of them! He’d gotten practically nothing done and his excuse? That he’d just taken that book up to glance through it, and ‘it was so wonderful that I just couldn’t put it down, Aunt Esme!’ Then he just… looked at me like he always does…"

"Esme. It’s plain unnatural the way you let that boy get to you," Saradoc chided. "He runs shy of me at times, but…"

"He doesn’t look at you the way he does at me!"

Wisely, her husband let the matter rest. But his wife couldn’t.

"Saradoc, we can’t just let him moon about all day—he just seems to be getting more difficult and strange, and…" the words seemed to stick in her throat; she shook her head, kept going, "And he’ll end up haring about where he doesn’t belong just like…"

"Just like his mother?" Saradoc ventured softly.

"I was going to say just like that old nutter Bilbo," she retorted sharply. "He needs to be occupied with something, Saradoc. We need to keep him busy and you know it. Anyway, there’s too much work to be done to have him sit idle..."

"He likes the animals well enough. Put him to work in the barns."

"A Brandybuck, working in a sty? And Primula turning over in her grave..."

"Primula likely wouldn’t have given a good damn and you know it. She was never exactly one to heed where her proper place was."

Esmeralda looked down, her lips thinning.

"I always thought our little cousin a bit more like his dad, anyway." Saradoc frowned as his wife caught her breath a bit sharply, if she were about to say something. When she remained silent he continued, a bit implacably, "Drogo used to take him on the downs a lot. Frodo was minding sheep and whistling the collies when he was a wee lad—he’d do fine in the barns, Esme. His mind can fly away with the birds, but a shovel’s a shovel. If he gets stepped on or kicked a time or two it might get his attention. Perhaps he can also spend some time in the library. When we were driving back from the cellars, about the only time he did heed me was when I mentioned that plagued library. And Dad wouldn’t mind company in there of an afternoon, that’s for sure."

She nodded resignedly.

"Esme…" He came over, laid his hands on her shoulders.

"I just hope you’re right, love," she finally ventured, a bit stiffly. "I hope he’s like Drogo."

* * * * * *

The round barn was set into the southeast hill, hollowed out and shored by rock and beam, sweet-smelling with hay and straw, muted light coming in from several overhead skylights cut into the roof and dimmed further by a loft that ran around the curved sides several meters above the floor. The front and side doorways were opened to the summer breeze, yet it still had the pleasant homey feel of a cavern, motes dancing in the occasional sunbeams that thrust here and there to reflect on the floor. The two hobbitlads escaped from the bustling outside, slowing from a dead run to a fast walk. It was quiet, all but deserted; no sign of the stablehobbits as many of the animals were out to grass or still at use. Two of the work ponies, obviously in on a meal break, turned curiously in their tie stalls then returned to munching their afternoon feed; a newly-freshened milch cow stayed recumbent, merely blinking her large eyes and totally unconcerned about visitors, and the farrowed sow, busily nursing her piglets in a corner hutch, didn’t turn an eye at the boys’ approach.

The foal was several hours old, and its large, midnight-blue eyes stared in limpid curiosity from behind a curly fuzz of dark forelock as the boys pressed themselves against the bars of the large loose box. The straw rustled as it ambled about on black, spidery legs, getting surer of itself with every moment. It seemed fascinated with the hayloft; every now and then it would look upwards. The mare, as well.

"Aw, it’s got your eyes, Merry!" Frodo teased.

"And your hair!" Merry retorted, reaching out to yank at his cousin’s bang. Frodo batted at his wrist then quickly shed himself of his jacket and hung it out of reach of dirt or danger on a harness hook, leaving only his lightweight shirt and trousers. He’d already long since unbuttoned the collar that his aunt had pointedly fastened before he’d left early that morning. Merry, who was clad in much the same fashion—albeit with his collar buttoned at a precise angle despite faded play clothes—grinned lopsided understanding of his caution, then knelt down to a level with the little one and chirruped invitingly.

The foal’s ears were like question marks as it pondered this new curiosity. Only a few hours old, but already it had seen several such invitations by other hobbit children, had been handled by the hostler. It was no longer afraid, but had kenned that such invitations led to good things, and it nodded a whiskery, tiny chin up and down, making several steps toward Merry’s crouched form. It lipped the fingers he stuck through the bars.

"Look at him, then," Frodo breathed, sticking his face as close to the bars as he could.

"He’s a beauty, isn’t he," Merry murmured, tickling the fuzzy nose. The foal sneezed, then left Merry’s fingers and searched the new offering, tongue curling to his upper lip as he attempted to suckle at Frodo’s nose where he had it shoved between the bars. The lad giggled.

Merry chortled as well. "I don’t think he’s gonna find any breakfast there!"

Frodo drew back, itching his nose, still grinning. "I shouldn’t think..."

"Owwwwwhoooooa!" With the shriek, a small form came hurtling down from the hayloft and landed right in the foaling stall. The foal fled, the mare gave a snort and started, grunting at her baby. The cow lurched upward, the sow shrilled and all the ponies whickered as the two hobbitlads stared, wondering if the roof had fallen in.

No, no daylight from above. For a moment there was nothing, then a wriggling mound in the straw erupted. A curly head, about the same color as the straw, broke from cover. "Oooo..."

The mare, seeing that the roof was not falling down, went into protective mode. Her ears flattened and she snorted menacingly at the small being rustling almost directly under her feet. One hoof struck out, missing its target by mere inches.

"Hey, you...!"

"Oh, balls!" Frodo swore. Merry didn’t waste time swearing; he acted. In a flash he was over the rails of the box, hauling the tiny interloper up by the scruff of his neck and all but tossing him over the rails and at his older cousin. Frodo staggered as the small, wriggling bundle of hobbit child hit him smack in the chest. Merry vaulted back over the rails and advanced on the trespasser.

Frodo righted himself and gripped the yellow shirt that the child wore, shaking him a bit even as he steadied him onto very grimy feet. A pair of unrepentant yet familiar green-gold eyes peered upwards at him from beneath a curly, hay-strewn bang, and a reedy voice proclaimed in a decidedly Tuckborough lilt, "Now, that was a bit of fun, wasn’t it?"

"Pippin!" Merry expostulated, crossing his arms firmly. "What exactly were you trying to do?"

"Pippin?" Frodo queried, his hands settling on the truant’s shoulders. "As in Peregrin Took?"

"Are you pretending you don’t know me, Frodo Baggins?" the little boy demanded.

"No, it’s just…" The top of the little boy’s head now was near to level with his chin. "You’ve grown."

In turn, Frodo was given a sharp, appraising glance. "You haven’t," was the honest reply, then, as if to temporize, "much, that is."

Torn between indignation, irritation, and the sudden, perverse desire to chuckle, Frodo shut his mouth tightly over any response and cut his eyes sideways towards Merry. "When did he get here?"

"This morning after breakfast, with the train from Michel Delving."

"And how long’s he staying?" There was a slight edge of despair in Frodo’s voice. Merry lifted his shoulders in the approximation of a shrug.

"Hey, I’m here you know!" Pippin started, then squeaked and fell silent as Frodo’s hand pinched his shoulder.

"That’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?" Frodo told him. "Only since breakfast and already you’re getting into trouble."

"That old mare wouldn’t’ve really hurt me." The sharp little face looked scornful. "Why, at home I scramble about my father’s old stallion and he’s a lot more pony than some broodmatron…"

Frodo rolled his eyes and gave the little boy a push over towards Merry, who grabbed his arm and loomed over him. "Pippin, she thought you were landing from above and after her baby. Of course she might’ve hurt you, y’fool!"

"Well, that’s true," came the quick concurrence. "New mums can be quite dodgy. It’s just as well you and cousin Frodo were here." Then, considering this, "Of course, if you hadn’t been here, then I wouldn’t have been so curious to hear what you were saying that I fell from the loft. I was just minding my own business until you two came along, you know."

Over the nine-year-old’s head, the two older boys exchanged long-suffering looks.

"So really, you can be... assuming some responsibility... for what happened, don’t you think?" Pippin spoke the large words with relish, if a bit of hesitation. "I mean if you hadn’t come in, then I’d still be up there and..."

"Is it time for lunch, yet?" Frodo asked desperately of Merry.

"Lunch?" Pippin sang out. "Great! Can I sit with you two at board? Can I? Please?"

Merry was returning his older cousin’s massively-pained expression. "It’s going to be a long summer, isn’t it?" he asked Frodo wistfully.

* * * * * *

Lunch was bustling and noisy: utensils clanked against pewter plates and cups, voices raised as orders were shouted to the cooking section and parents chided offspring. Dogs ran in between the legs of tables and passersby alike, snatching up choice bits that fell to the rush-strewn floor. Within the enormous refectory there were tables and benches set in angled rows for dining along with a large area set up at one end to dish up meals, and at one end a smaller table was raised and platformed, reserved for the Master and his guests. Every size, age and shape of hobbit imaginable had gathered, and the clamor echoed upwards against the high wooden beams of the ceiling and around the wood and stucco walls.

In short, a normal mid-day meal at Brandy Hall.

Frodo danced hurriedly aside from a large mastiff that snapped at a morsel fallen close to his feet; a boy shoved up against him from behind and Frodo lurched forward, plate flying, falling to his hands and knees.

Pandemonium ensued. Several large dogs leapt for the fallen plate between Frodo’s splayed hands; he gave a short cry and shoved backwards, real fear in his eyes as the dogs growled and made short work of what food he’d put onto his plate. He gained his feet hurriedly and backed, only to run once more against the individual who’d knocked him over in the first place. He was shoved again; this time Frodo was preparedly agile on his feet and whirled about, breathing hard and glaring at an older youth who was twice his width and towered over him by half a head.

"What’s the matter, ‘master Baggins’?" was the taunt. "The big, bad dogs almost eat you alive? Of course, any one of those mutts could make two of you, couldn’t they?"

Frodo’s cheeks flamed. Two other boys, one his own age and the other a full-fledged tweener, sauntered up.

"Aye, but Frodo doesn’t like dogs—remember, Lotho?" one of these said to the instigator. "As I’ve heard it, Maggot’s gave him a bit of a turn one evening and he’s never been the same since."

The surrounding hobbits, mostly younger ones, turned to gawk at the small scene. A watching lad snickered; another made shushing noises.

"Oh, right," was the answer, dripping with sarcasm. "Stealing mushrooms, wasn’t it, Girry? Nothing a real Baggins would have done in the first place, that."

Frodo stiffened. "I shall assume," he said softly, "that your bumping me was an accident."

"Oh, ‘shall you’?" Girry imitated. "Oh, my, aren’t we posh?"

"Shut up, Girry. Actually," Lotho stated, quite charmingly, "I think, ‘cousin’, you were the one that bumped into me, weren’t you?" A brilliant smile made his sallow face quite handsome, yet it didn’t reach his bark-brown eyes, which were flattened and intent. "I suppose you’re still a bit clumsy, since you’re obviously not finished growing and all."

From close at hand Pippin also watched with furrowed brow, chewing on a bit of boiled egg from his well-filled plate. He was silent, looking from Frodo, to the older boys, to Frodo once again.

"I may be smaller than any of you," Frodo said, still quietly, his voice shaking, "but if I need to do anything, I don’t have to bribe dogs to do it for me."

A laugh, this time, from several of the watching hobbits.

Lotho’s eyes narrowed and he started forward; the youngest of his cohorts grabbed his arm.

"Leave it for now, Lotho. You know what’ll happen, you start something in the Hall, particularly during mealtime! Anyway, Master’s looking this way!"

Sure enough, from his place at the main table Saradoc was peering their way with a frown. Merry was seated beside him, looking ruefully towards the small disturbance—one of the times he’d been expected to sit at board with his mother and father and no doubt why the older boys had chosen this moment to make a move. At thirteen, Merry was still young enough that his sense of justice outrode even common sense, and usually wasted no time getting anyone in trouble who broke the rules—particularly if his beloved older cousin was at expense. Lotho spat out an insinuative gutter curse that made Frodo’s cheeks flame even brighter, and the older boys vanished into the small group of surrounding hobbits, who also turned away once action was no longer imminent.

Frodo watched them go, his face twitching. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and resignedly turned to rescue his plate.

Instead he found Pippin holding it out to him, along with the mug he’d spilled. "The dogs have gone, now."

Frodo started to reply defensively, then stopped as he saw no guile in the little hobbit’s face, merely statement of fact. He held out his hand; it was shaking in reaction so he quickly took the utensils. "Thank you."

"I’d be washing them if I were you. They’ve probably got dog slobber all over."

In spite of himself, Frodo smiled. "I think I shall, then." He walked over to the back of the refectory, where it led to the kitchen breezeway; Pippin tagged along, still clutching his own plate and munching now on a carrot.

"Why don’t you like dogs, cousin Frodo?"

"I just don’t like dogs that have teeth bigger than my fingers," Frodo said lightly, putting his plate and cup in a bin for washing and grabbing clean ones from a shelf stacked high with such. His stomach clenched, roiling a bit; hopefully lunch would settle it. As to settling other things—that wasn’t likely, not one bit. His mouth tightened.

"Did farmer Maggot’s dogs really chase you, then?" Pippin’s voice was high and clear—and carried a bit.

"They did," Frodo answered quietly, highly aware that more than a few eyes were still upon them. "Halfway across the Marish."

"Oooo... They’re frightfully big dogs, too, aren’t they? We’ve heard about farmer Maggot’s dogs even in Tuckborough! I would have run, too—and I really like dogs. We’ve dogs at home, you know, but they’re not as big as farmer Maggot’s, and their teeth certainly aren’t as big as..."

"Pippin, would you just..." Frodo rounded on the boy, then relented as the green eyes stared up at him rather winsomely. "Look. Don’t you need to go find your friends, or something?"

"Friends? Aren’t you my friend, cousin Frodo?"

Frodo opened his mouth, shut it, then moved over to the food trestles. They were a bit picked over of choicest bits, but still quite laden. "Of course. But Pippin, I meant your friends your own age. They’re probably looking for you, you know."

"Them? Nay. They’re quite boring, you know," Pippin informed him, tagging along as Frodo began to refill his plate.

"How do you know? You’ve only just got here."

"I’ve a great memory. They’re such babies, cousin Frodo."

"I... see." Frodo looked sideways over the crowd and to the main table, where Merry seemed to be as bored as Pippin claimed the ‘babies’ made him.

Pippin must have followed his gaze. "Why can’t Merry sit with us?"

"Sometimes he has to sit with his mum and dad. Maybe tomorrow he’ll sit with..." Frodo suddenly realized what he was saying and unwillingly choked out, "us."

"Ooo, that’s all right, then!"

* * * * * *

"That Lotho’s always causing trouble!" Merry was all for getting up out of his seat; his mother’s hand grasped the back of his shirt, neatly aborting the gesture before it was even made.

"Boys will be..." Saradoc made sure that the slight tussle got no further, then bent back over his plate.

"If I acted like Lotho bloody Sackville-Baggins, I’d get it in the neck," the youth grumbled.

"Meriadoc!" his mother scolded furiously. "Don’t let me even hear that word in your mouth again!!"

His mouth twisting sideways, Merry grabbed up a meatroll and tore it in half, wishing it was that bully’s neck.

"At any rate, Lotho is not the son of the Hall Master," Esmeralda furthered pointedly. "You are."

Looking bloodthirstily after the swaggering tweenage representative of Hobbiton’s Sackville-Bagginses, Merry could barely believe that braggart even had the same last name as his cousin. Lotho was well-known to have not only the greatest height, but the largest vicious streak amongst the youth of the Hall—both of which he flaunted quite often and proudly, and both of which as of late he’d begun taking out on his younger Baggins relative. Unfortunately he also had a canny streak, and never displayed anything but unwavering respect in the presence of adults; Merry had not missed the fact that Lotho had timed his bullying tactics rather perfectly.

Esmeralda was also looking in that direction; however Merry noted that her eyes were not on Lotho or on Frodo but on Pippin, who was still tagging behind Frodo. Pippin was talking a mile a minute as his older cousin found a seat over in a corner that was less occupied than a table closer to the food trestles; Merry’s mouth lifted in a somewhat sadistic grin of sympathy as Frodo threw a harried glance his way before settling down with his meal, Pippin ensconced firmly at his side.

"I’ll expect that you’ll help look after your cousin Peregrin as well, Merry," she said firmly.

"Ah, Mum..." Merry whined.

Saradoc spoke up. "Your mother’s just telling you plain. Peregrin’s just a little fellow, when all’s said and done, and you’re his closest relative here. That’s puts family obligation on you, like it or not."

"You and he have a lot in common as to your eventual responsibilities to your landholds." Esmeralda swiftly inserted as Merry’s face threatened to grow mutinous. "I want you to be a good example for him. He’s my brother’s only son, which means that he could also be the next Thain."

"Brat-thing Pippin in charge of Tuckborough. That I’d pay good coin to see!" the boy suddenly grinned, chewing on the roll.

"Merry, I’m quite serious."

"I know, Mum," he sighed. "I’m sorry."

"The lad’s quite attached himself to Frodo, it seems," ventured Saradoc.

"Well, it’s a good thing," Esmeralda said. "Driffle Boffin and his brother went back home, and that’s the only space available for little Peregrin right now."

"You’re putting Pippin in with Frodo?" her son protested vehemently. "Mum, have a heart!"

"I have a heart. What I do not have at present is space. Peregrin will be sharing what space I do have with his cousin Frodo." Her bright, amber gaze swept over her son. "Since you seem to enjoy their company so much, perhaps you’d like to tell them?"

"I’m not telling Frodo you’ve put him with the brat-child," Merry muttered.

"Well, saucebox, tell him or no, it’s a fact and I expect you to see that young Peregrin doesn’t get into the same trouble with Frodo Baggins that you tend to!"

"I don’t... Frodo doesn’t..."

"Meriadoc, I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. I’ve heard more cheek from you this summer than ever, and I’m thinking you’d best be watching your tongue or there’ll be some shifting in this Hall, there will be."

Suddenly afraid that his mother might indeed send Frodo away, Merry shut his mouth firmly. Esmeralda peered searchingly at him for a few moments longer, then sniffed, nodded, and rose to refill her empty dish.

"Pippin doesn’t need Frodo’s nose for trouble," Merry groused, once he’d insured his mother was well away and past earshot. "He has his own!"

"What was that, son?" Saradoc asked pointedly.

"Nothing, Da." Merry noted his plate was woefully empty as well, and rose to restock it. "Nothing."

* * * * * *

"Those fribbles really have it in for you, don’t they?"

It was only just past lunchtime, but that hadn’t stopped the two boys from loading up their pockets with nuts. Peregrin had been thankfully waylaid from following them by Esmeralda; Merry and Frodo had quickly escaped through a side door, grabbing a few snacks and pelting out past the exiting diners. They’d run past Lotho and his cohorts in the hallway before the common room; the older boy had shot another colorful comment at Frodo as they’d run, they had ignored it and ducked up the nearest flight of stairs, clearing the stone-laid steps two at a time.

After a quick stop by Frodo’s dormer which allowed him to change from his morning’s habiliments into something a little less damageable and a little more worn—and also enabled him to tuck away the small book that had weighted down his pocket for most of the day into a secretive hollow beneath the mattress of his bunk—the two lads retreated from the Hall. Sprinting through the remaining tunnels, leaving the confines of both courtyard and common, soon they were safely past being followed by anyone. They strolled quite casually northward, past the outer stone perimeter that circumnavigated the apple orchards, the two cousins as different as night and day in appearance, yet soldered together with purpose. Frodo dug into his breeches’ pocket, extracted several nuts and cracked them together in his hands, sharing the meaty spoils within the hard shells. Merry glanced at his companion, who was looking at the grass passing beneath his feet, his dark brows knitted tightly and his cheeks scarlet.

"Don’t they, Frodo?" he reiterated. "Have it in for you?"

"I... guess."

"What is it? Those big boys have just gotten more and more poisonous to you this past month."

"It’s nothing, Merry." He put two more nuts between his hands and clenched; one shot off as if a sling had lobbed it and struck against a tree, then ricocheted off into the woods. Frodo stared at his palms, then looked up at Merry. Merry stared at Frodo, then they both chuckled.

"You couldn’t do that again if you tried!"

Frodo looked indignant. "Well, maybe I could!"

"G’wan, then. Give it a go." Merry stopped and folded his arms, waiting with exaggerated patience as Frodo made a big deal out of taking another pair of nuts from his pocket, palming them and pressing hard, jaw clenched in concentration. There was a loud ‘pop!’, but nothing issued forth from between his fingers. Merry grinned.

"Told you. Well, at least you make a fine nutcracker!"

Beaming widely enough to show the small gap between his front teeth, Frodo opened his palms and held one out to Merry, who snatched up the proffered snack. "I can see it, now. When you’re the Master of all of Buckland, I’ll be your sidekick, protector of the realm and faithful nutcracker!" Laughing, the two boys continued on, their steps seemingly idle and wandering, but their eyes sharply scanning the landmarks—bush and tree, green grass and wildflowers, riverbank and rocks—always checking fore and aft, betraying intent.

"Do you have chore section today, then?" Frodo asked.

"Nah, it’s my off day," Merry chirped. "I’m free. You?"

Frodo shrugged. "Uncle said this morning that he wanted to reassign me somewhere. Today’s free again."

"That what the trip was about?"

"Merry, I’m really not sure what that trip was about. We went through the winery, the brewery and the uppermost vineyards. Your dad kept pointing things out and looking at me as if I was supposed to agree... but I didn’t half the time even follow what he was talking about. I tried to, but it was like he was speaking a different language. He showed me all through the vats and the bottling rooms, everything." Frodo hunched his shoulders, digging hands into his pockets. "And it smelled, Merry. It was so strong..."

"Da sometimes smells of the brewery when he comes home," Merry said helpfully. "Must be all that hops, or the brewing yeast and vinegar. It’s not that bad, Frodo."

"Well, maybe not to you, but it gave me the strangest headache." He hunched further, said rather morosely, "It didn’t seem to make Uncle Sara very happy either."

The younger boy frowned concernedly. His cousin seemed to note this, for he looked sideways, met Merry’s eyes then purposefully brightened.

"Well, I’m sure your dad’s got something nice in store for me, whatever he’s thinking. He did mention the library again—that would be keen." He looked about. "Now, where’d it go?"

Merry was the one to espy what they were looking for—a tiny, barely-pressed path that led to and seemingly halted abruptly at the steep bank. "There it is!"

But the tiny trail did not end, as it first seemed, with the cliffside. The two hobbitlads followed the nearly-invisible trail, sometimes on two feet, sometimes crawling a bit, as it wound down the steep riverbank, circumnavigating tree roots and stones that had, with some youthful help, become a path to a favorite hideaway down on the river’s edge. They reached the bottom almost as one and looked about with content. The little cove was pristine and quiet: water burbled and lapped against a small, pebbled beach, various pieces of driftwood and river wrack lay scattered along the grey rocks, and a small depression in the cliffside rock echoed with the river’s soothing utterances.

Frodo went over to the little cave and peered in, then went down closer to the water. Not several strides beyond an ancient willow stood, closer to the water’s edge by virtue of a sandy ledge of rock and loam that extended from cliff-face to riverbank. Its lower branches trailed through the water with slender green fingers, its massive trunk was as big around as fifteen tweenaged hobbits. Merry watched as Frodo hopped up on the ledge, curling his toes about the gnarled roots and running his hands along the grey bark, looking upwards with a smile. Above them, almost hidden from view by the summer growth of the old tree, a half-finished wooden platform peeked in and out of the branches.

They had spent all the long, rather-cold winter designing the tree hutch, crouched furtively over drawings at nights, Merry scribbling by candlelight and trying to conceptualize on paper exactly what his cousin’s fertile imagination expressed. They had spent all spring sneaking supplies and dragging discarded planks from the wood-joiner’s shop, fitting and cutting and fastening, in sporadic time segments that wouldn’t give away what exactly they were doing. Now in the very beginnings of summer, they had enough of a flooring that they could start contemplating walls and a ceiling.

Frodo gave the tree another gentle pat, then came back over to where Merry had already seated himself. With a huge sigh he lowered himself down, angling back on his elbows and stretching his legs out toward the river. A tributary of the main run, it was deeper and quieter here, the normal rush of current slowed as it poured into and from a large depression in its bottoms. "This is the best spot in the Eastfarthing."

"Mmm-hmm." Merry flopped on his backside, then rolled over onto his stomach, pebbles crunching beneath him. He reached out as Frodo cracked another pair of nuts and handed him one, nibbling the nut pieces then drawing back his arm and lobbing the shells into the river. "Well, it’s pretty obvious what I’m going to end up being when I get old enough. But what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Frodo gave him a sideways glance; he always managed to betray the slightest bit of dubiousness or question by twisting his brows into the most interesting shapes. But Merry knew he could best him there; he proceeded to do so, twisting his entire face about and crossways. It broke Frodo’s scowl; he chuckled and shook his head, tossing his own nutshells into the river.

"So? What do you want to be, Frodo?"

"Taller."

Merry, already having passed his cousin in height despite being six years his junior, grinned. "No, really."

"Really. Taller." Frodo smiled. "At least I’m taller than the Pipsqueak."

"Pipsqueak!" Merry whooped. "That’s brilliant, that is!" The thought of Pippin brought his mind back to what neither of them had waited about to hear and what he didn’t dare tell Frodo yet—that the little Took would be necessarily a part of Frodo’s existence for a while. He started to speak out, then thought better of it.

Frodo was oblivious to Merry’s inner machinations, rolling several more nuts in his palms and listening to the little percussive knocks they made. "Well, he is, isn’t he? Speaking of brilliant, do you have that roof designed yet? Summer’s barely started, but before we know it we’ll need something to shed the rain."

"Well, we’ve got the floor done at least. I’m still not sure about this tree business, Frodo. Even old grandda Rory says that hobbits aren’t meant to be in trees."

"Just insures no one will be finding us there," Frodo insisted. "The elves build in trees, you know."

"No, I didn’t know that. How do you know that?... oh, never mind. The book, right? Your Mum’s old book."

Frodo nodded and sat up, snuffing at the air contentedly.

"Well, we’re not elves—at least I’m not!’ Merry teased. "I sometimes think you’re half elf, with all the reading and studying you do about them."

All the cheerfulness drained from Frodo’s face and he looked down. Merry immediately realized what he’d said, for he shot up and over to Frodo’s side, his gut clenched.

"Oh, no... I didn’t mean it. I forgot that you don’t like it when people say that... I..." the younger boy stammered, crouching next to his cousin. "Frodo, I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t..." he hesitated then rushed on, "Seems like it would be wonderful, to be related to elves! I didn’t mean, it, honest!"

"I know you didn’t, Merry. It’s all right." The younger boy frowned and leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of his friend’s eyes, but Frodo ducked his head lower, resting his forehead on his knees. Merry reached out, put a hesitant hand on the bent head.

"I’m sorry, Frodo. I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just don’t understand, I guess..."

"I hope you never do." The words were so quiet that Merry wondered for seconds if he’d actually heard them. A tremor ran through the older boy; Merry dug his fingers into the dark curls and tightened them.

"Frodo?"

Frodo raised his head; his eyes were suspiciously red-rimmed but he smiled at Merry. "It’s all right, you know. It just reminded me of something that Lotho..." he trailed off uncomfortably.

"Oh." Merry fell miserably silent. "Frodo, d’you want me to talk to my da about that bully being after you and...?"

"No!" It was sharp and suddenly angry. "It’s between me and that pony’s arse of a Lotho, whatever it is, Merry, and you’re not to be worrying about it, all right?"

Merry dropped his hand meekly. "All right."

One side of Frodo’s mouth curled upward; he reached out and tapped Merry’s chin. "C’mon. Tell me what you’ve planned for the roof. You might not understand some things that I do just because I am older than you, but you’re a lot more clever than I, to be able to design a roof in a tree!"

Merry smiled, pleased, then began to elaborate.

* * * * * *

The two boys went their separate ways after supper, Merry to his own room and Frodo looking blissfully forward to a second night alone. The Boffin brothers had left the previous afternoon and he’d already had one unprecedented solo evening in the small cubicle that served as his dormer at Brandy Hall. He didn’t fool himself that it would last long—bunkmates had come and gone as young boys came to visit and learn at the busiest and most successful hobbit steading in the Shire—and his aunt was eminently practical about such things. She tried to never crowd her charges, but no one save Merry had their own room.

Once he’d had a similar circumstance. Before his parents had died, he’d lived with them in a pleasant and spacious—if aboveground—dwelling, well removed from the bustle and crowding of the Hall. Technically he still possessed that old home, although legally he couldn’t hold anything until he reached his majority. Not that he wanted to live there now, anyway…

But once, his family’s thatched cottage had been the only place he’d ever wanted to be, situated on a bluff overlooking the river, well shaded by trees and surrounded by gentle swells of grazing land. Frodo had not only had his own room, but a tiny study as well, where he and his mother had spent long evenings immersed in letters and figures and charts and histories, learning the magic of the written word, counting cabbages, discussing ancient kings.

The plain facts of life in a ‘warren’, as Frodo remembered his father once dismissing the Hall, had come as a dreadful shock when he’d first experienced them. There was very little privacy within the bounds of the great ancestral burrow, and he was treated to very puzzled looks when he wistfully mentioned the wish for his own space to retreat to. The Brandybucks, considered by the other inhabitants of the Shire to be wild and somewhat complicated, had proven to be quite intractable in their own ways. They considered book-learning a worthy enough achievement, but only as far as it could further ambition or means. To read for pleasure, as Frodo all but lived for, frankly puzzled them and why one would seek solitude for such an activity was doubly unfathomable.

It had oddly enough been Esmeralda who had seemed to comprehend his desperate need for his own space and time in the wake of his parents’ accidental deaths, and in that first fortnight had given him the room he still occupied. No one else had wanted it; until he’d come it had been used for storage, a small alcove on the uppermost floor, rather off to itself with a large, unglassed half-circle window that opened directly above the courtyard and the dining hall.

Frodo angled down the maze of hallways and took a southward corridor, unconcerned even when several lamps that were usually kept brilliantly burning proved guttered and dark. They were more for comfort than anything else—most hobbits saw quite adequately in poor light and Frodo was no exception. But he’d never been scared of the dark even as a child and considered lamps as a convenience that merely enabled him more reading and writing in the quiet hours. Turning at the first set of stairs, he started climbing. Upper storeys were another Buckland oddity; he found them rather interesting, actually. It was amazing, the view you could get of the river bend from his top floor window. He didn’t quite understand why no one particularly wanted a window room, or never used the window save for necessary ventilation once they had one. You could open it, stick your head out and see the treetops, feel the breeze to the tips of your ears...

For nearly two years he’d had the alcove to himself. Then more and more people arrived to Brandy Hall, and space became a premium, and he’d ended up with a steady stream of differing roommates that usually understood him as little as he understood them—and most particularly did not perceive how he could climb onto his topmost bunk and all but ignore them even if they were in the same room.

Reaching the top floor, Frodo padded to the end of the south hall, angling into the alcove. As he rounded the corner he could see a light flickering in his room. He frowned—he knew he’d trimmed the wick on his lamp before he’d left, but it was burning brightly, splaying out into the hallway. He’d catch it from his aunt, should she suspect that he was wasting good light when not in his room...

He stopped in the doorway, mouth falling open.

Pippin looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the soft, faded rug in the center of the small cubby, fading twilight fingering past the window shutters, several bags sitting about him and a small, leather-bound book in his lap which was opened to reveal a colorful, illustrated centerpiece. A wide, gamin grin lit up his grubby face. "Frodo! You’re back!"

"Pippin." Frodo leaned against the doorway, his ears burning as if they’d been suddenly and without warning boxed. "You’re... here."

"Isn’t it brilliant? We’re going to be sharing a room!"

He clutched further at the doorframe. "Oh, yes. Brilliant." Then it registered what Pippin held in his hands. "What are you doing with that? Where’d you find that?" Frodo descended upon his small cousin like a fury and snatched the old book from his lap, clutching it to his chest.

Pippin was taken aback for mere seconds, then took a gasping breath and was off in a torrent of burred consonants and diphthongs. "Well, I was going to put my stuff on the top bunk, but when I drew back the covers there was the lump there in the mattress and I dug underneath because I thought it might be something that shouldn’t be there, you know, like a dead mouse or something, and I found that and it’s very lovely, it is! Such a keen book, and the pictures and the writing and... is it yours?"

"You had no business taking it out!" Frodo returned furiously, and something in his tone shut the smaller boy up immediately. "Yes, it’s mine, and you had no business looking at it without asking me! Don’t you have any manners at all?"

The younger hobbit was silent, peering upward with furrowed brow and big eyes, his jaw slack.

"Well, don’t you?" Frodo demanded.

The green eyes were growing huger by the moment. A tiny shard of contrition pricked at Frodo as he glared down at the little lad, who suddenly looked away, hunching his narrow shoulders as if he was expecting a beating.

"I’m sorry, cousin Frodo," he said, voice wavering.

The shard of contrition became a large knife blade stinging the pit of his belly. Frodo sighed. "It’s just... this book is very special to me. I don’t want it damaged."

Pippin canted a remorseful glance upward. "I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I promise I didn’t hurt it—I wouldn’t hurt it. It is special, isn’t it? It’s very beautiful and I didn’t know you’d be minding if I looked through it. I’ve not seen a lot of books about elves, you know. I wish I was an elf."

Tucking his mouth firmly against the sudden rueful wish to smile, Frodo palmed his precious book securely. "Up you go, now. Were you supposed to be putting your things away?"

"Yes. Auntie Esme, she brought me here and told me to get m’self settled, but then I found your book and liked it so much..." As Pippin gained his feet rather swiftly, his bright eyes slanted once more towards Frodo as if gauging how angry he might still be.

"You really liked it?" the older boy asked skeptically, "Can you even read it?"

"Surely I can read!" Pippin protested. "M’ mum taught me!"

Frodo did smile this time. "My mum taught me, too."

"Of course, some of the words are quite huge for such a little book," was the next statement. "And some of them looked to be a different language, like. But I was muddling through. And the pictures, they were so lovely, cousin Frodo."

If he’d planned it, Peregrin couldn’t have found a quicker way to his new bunkmate’s good favor and graces. Frodo wondered for minutes whether it was a planned gambit—he wouldn’t put it past the game little thing—then dismissed the idea. The light shining in Pippin’s eyes as he discussed the book was all too real.

"Where did you get such a book, cousin Frodo? I’ve not seen anything like it, truly I haven’t."

"It was my mother’s."

"Oooo. Did you used to read it together, then? Before she left you?"

He had gotten quite used to speaking of his parents in the past tense, had more than proven himself capable of putting the whole matter behind him. So the sudden memory the little boy’s words somehow engendered in him was totally unexpected, and Frodo felt both betrayed and warmed by the remembrance of the dim presence labeled ‘mother’—all soft voice and fading vision and forgotten comfort—and he stared at the book, not seeing it.

A small hand touched his arm and he started, then met his new roommate’s eyes. There was a strange cognizance to the little boy’s gaze, an odd precociousness of understanding that was not terribly comfortable.

"Yes," Frodo answered a bit briskly, deftly angling out from beneath the child’s touch, "we did read it together. Perhaps sometime you and I should read it as well. But for now..." he frowned in dismay at the scattered belongings on the floor. "If we’re to walk about in here whatsoever you’d best to find a place for this. There are two trunks empty by the wall over there," he pointed, "the other one’s mine. And those shelves," he motioned to an old wooden hutch that had outlived its usefulness in the kitchen and now held on its top three empty spaces, "can be yours. I use the wardrobe for my books so I can lock it..." he bent over, picking up several wads of string and several wooden puzzles, along with other items he wasn’t sure he could put a name to. "Why do you need all this, anyway?"

"It’s mine, and it’s important!" Pippin defended.

"Well, then keep it on your shelves so we don’t trip over it. There’s not a whole lot of room in here, you know."

"I should think." Pippin glanced about at the cubicle rather censoriously and Frodo followed his gaze, seeing it again for the first in a long time. It was not shabby by any means, but no doubt it was not what the child was used to at his home. Frodo had never been to Great Smials that he recalled, but had heard it was even larger than Brandy Hall, and notoriously elegant after a fashion—thusly Pippin, like Merry, as an only son and heir would more than likely have his pick of quarters. The room was no more than sixteen by twenty, but its spare characterlessness was by Frodo’s own choice. He had never been particularly neat, yet he’d learned long ago not to leave anything of great value out—the other boys would just have sport with it, particularly if it held the slightest bit of intrigue. A highly polished mirror of brass hung against above a dark wooden stand which sported a pitcher and washbasin; there were two bedsteads against the far, white-washed wall, one of them a double bunk and the other one which could be used as a couch when not slept in. The old wardrobe Frodo had claimed crouched by the wall closest to the door, its doors firmly locked against intruders with the key on a thong about his neck. Usually his precious book was kept in there as well, when it wasn’t residing beneath the mattress. Clothing presses sat at the narrow ends of the beds. A map of the Shire that was pinned up on the bare wall of the entry; that, a black slate board that had various numbers, figures and characters scribbled upon it, plus a few less valuable books stacked on a trunk, were the only hints of who stayed here.

Frodo now put his book away, locking it carefully in the cabinet, then turned to and helped Pippin make quick work together of putting his things away. The little boy was, in bald contrast to his harem-scarem attitude, actually quite careful of his possessions. Frodo noted this with some amusement as Pippin quite carefully folded his clothes in one press, then stored his toys, a few books and other assorted special items on the shelf. From the growing darkness just outside the window, a bell began to clang.

"Well, that’s the curfew bell, which signals the gates are closing and for us means it’s bedtime. Aunt Esme will be making the rounds in an hour, and she expects us to be abed. You need to wash up, you know."

The little boy grimaced. "Are you going to be saying that to me every night?"

"I hope I don’t have to. But if you get into bed as filthy as you are, Aunt Esme will have your hide for a doormat. What have you been doing all day, anyway?"

"The other hobbits asked me to play in the sand pit with them. And then we decided to start making a river, so we dug a good-sized trench and tried to fill it with water, but it didn’t work, that."

"The sand kept absorbing the water."

"Yes. It did keep... absorbing... that’s a good word, isn’t it?"

Frodo smiled and turned to the bunk, stepping up the ladder a bit and tucking back the bedding his small cousin had disturbed.

"Well, the water wouldn’t hold. And then one of the boys got sick—he’d been eating too many meatrolls, I should think, the way he was hurling all over the place—and I got out of there in case it was catching, but I didn’t have too many meatrolls. I know my limits."

"Somehow I doubt that."

"Well, seven meatrolls is too many for anyone!" Pippin declared. "Even for that big boy who shoved you today. Why’d he shove you, cousin Frodo? He might have been smiling, but I’m thinking he doesn’t like you."

"I’m thinking the feeling is mutual. Go wash, Pipsqueak."

"Hey!"

Frodo turned with exaggerated patience and beheld the nine-year-old, who stood in his dirty yellow shirt and tan breeks, fire in his eyes and arms crossed over his narrow chest. "Yes?"

"I’m ever so much bigger than I was last year, you know!"

"But you’re still smaller than me, so that makes you a Pipsqueak," Frodo said, bluntly reasonable. "Go to the baths, get washed up. You’re too dirty for the basin, and it’s nigh onto bedtime. You do know where the bathhouses are, right?"

"Yes." Pippin sighed dramatically, pouted, then grabbed up clean clothes and went to do as bidden. He left the room, dragging said dirty feet on the wooden floor, then his voice suddenly chirped from just outside the doorway, "Hey!"

Frodo waited, eyebrows raised.

Sure enough, the cinnamon-colored head popped back in. "I just thought. Once I get bigger than you, you can’t call me Pipsqueak any more, can you?"

Frodo chuckled, shaking his head resignedly. "I guess not."

"Good. It’s done, then. When I’m bigger than you, you can’t call me Pipsqueak any more. And I’m bound to be getting bigger than you, cousin Frodo."

"Not if there’s any justice in the world," Frodo muttered, turning back to his bed.

"Eh?"

"Go get washed up! NOW!"

Pippin dodged the growl as if it had been a slap, and fled.

Frodo climbed down and undressed, rinsing his hands and face in the washstand’s bowl then frowning at the grey water left behind—he probably should have gone to the baths as well. Tomorrow, he decided a bit lazily, then perfunctorily finished sponging off, slipped into a thin nightshirt and opened the window, basin in hand. Making sure no one was below, he tossed the dirty water onto the cobbles, replaced the basin on the stand, then returned to the window as if drawn. He leaned against the casing for long moments; there was a soft breeze coming off the bottoms which brushed against him, settling his nightshirt against still-damp skin. The river-run was audible even above the muted racket from the yard below where many of the adult hobbits were still about, visiting, conversing, getting things settled in for the night. There was a hint of moisture in the air that didn’t smell of the river—perhaps it would rain. That would explain the hostler dragging the uncovered carts over the cobbled stones and under cover. He angled the shutters to a half-closed position; just in case it did rain, he didn’t want to get rated again for getting everything all wet because he preferred having the shutters flung wide while he slept.

At least now there wasn’t anyone to whinge about the open window. Not effectively, at any rate.

A movement from the corner of his eye and downward caught his attention; Frodo leaned from the casement and outward slightly and saw, along the curve of the Hall’s walls, another open window on the first floor. There was a small figure clambering up into the round sill, a flash of white as it quickly settled back and nothing remained visible except furry toes and a scrap of nightshirt.

Merry’s room. What was Merry doing up and settling down on his sill as if for a long wait?

"What’s doing, cousin Frodo?"

Turning with a small start from the window, Frodo shot a serious glance at Pippin. He couldn’t have possibly gotten clean in that short amount of time. But perhaps Frodo himself had just lost track, for the child did look considerably less grubby and had donned a unsoiled nightshirt. It was a bit short; an amazing length of sunburned, thankfully-scrubbed legs sprouted beyond the tails. "Are you washed, then?"

"All of me that shows."

The older boy had his suspicions about Pippin’s ears and neck, but he sighed and gave it up, going to the bunk and starting to climb upwards.

"Can I sleep in the top bunk, cousin Frodo?"

"No." He kept climbing.

"Oh, please? I’ve never slept in a bunk bed before, you know. Please? Please?... Please?"

With the ease of long practice, Frodo twisted on the ladder, pushed off sideways and landed on his back, snuggling gratefully into the soft, well-worn sheets. "Go to sleep, Pipsqueak."

The indignity of the nickname stopped the younger boy’s begging. Frodo closed his eyes, smiling. The bed shook; hopefully Pippin was getting into his own bunk. Then he became aware of a presence, a looming something that seemed to be breathing altogether too closely to his shoulder. He opened his eyes to stare into Pippin’s as they peered over the side slats of the upper bunk. One hand clutched the ladder.

"Please?"

"Get... down!"

The eyes and hand ducked and disappeared. But the voice was still there. "Pleeeeese, cousin Frodo?"

"Pippin, if you don’t shut up I shall nail your shirt to the wall and you’ll have to sleep hanging there."

"Well, I’d be closer to the upper bunk that way, wouldn’t I?"

Frodo buried his head in his pillow. Merry was right—it was going to be a very long summer.

* * * * * *

Merry was indeed sitting on his windowsill, enjoying the night but even moreso the soothing sounds of the adults making ready for the evening. Soon, no doubt, the hostler and the other yard workinghobbits would be through with their duties and they’d sit about the cobbled stones, smoking and talking, sometimes singing and sipping tankards of something the children all longed to get a taste of and were perpetually foiled from. Often he sat on the round, wide ledge late into the night, a blanket wrapped about him and his knees tucked up to his chest, listening to the old hobbits spin tales and truth both into wonderful tapestries of deed and daring.

He was clever about it, and silent, and so far his mum and dad hadn’t caught him at it. Sometimes his mother would search his eyes if he’d had a particularly white night, but she would press her lips together likely as not and give him a dose of fish liver oil. He complained, but he took it, for to protest too loudly might give away his nightly tryst with the lower classes.

He heard footsteps padding down the hall and leapt down from the window, stretching his arms high above him until his back popped and his nightshirt tickled the backs of his knees.

"Merry?"

"Yes, Mum?" he answered quietly. A hand curled about the round door of his haven and his mother’s fair head peeked in. She carried a lantern in her other hand, as always; it was routine, this final check with him after she’d made the rounds of the dormers, and it was as soothing and predictable as the hostler’s voice.

"Are you having everything you need for the night?"

"Yes, Mum."

She came in, took his chin in one hand and kissed the top of his head. "Sure you don’t want me to tuck you in?"

He nodded. Funny, how parents seemed to like to do things like tucking in—even though he was way too old for that sort of baby stuff.

"Goodnight, dearest."

"’Night, Mum."

She walked out and closed the door behind her. Merry waited, counted the steps she took down the hall to the Master’s suite of rooms, heard the door open and his father’s voice, answering something she said, then heard the click of their bedroom door closing. A slow, crooked grin spreading across his face, he went to the window and louvered himself up. No need for blankets tonight. It was warm, the gentle summery breeze that teased at his bright hair heavy with the possibility of rain.

He sat silent as a shadow, listening to the lilt of the workingmen’s voices, smiling to himself.