Bilbo Baggins arrived at the inner courtyard of Brandy Hall on a stout, sorrel pony, dressed much finer than a fifty mile journey would normally stand for, a bundle of odd-shaped proportions athwart the pony’s left buttock and a saddle-trunk opposite it. He managed with his mere appearance to create all the fuss and to-do he could muster—particularly once it was rumoured that the odd-shaped pack carried a small allotment of fireworks sent by none other than Gandalf himself!

"You’d think he was Thain," Esmeralda muttered to her husband then, as Bilbo turned to her, mustered up her best company smile and went forward to greet him. Saradoc was right after her, slapping his cousin on the back and nearly sending him flying. Bilbo straightened, tugged fussily at his waistcoat then grinned.

"And how are all the Brandybucks? Heard it’s going to be a late-but-great harvest to put up this year!"

"Should rival the ’75 if nothing untoward happens," Saradoc admitted. "But I’m not harvesting before time, mind. When it’s in, we’ll know."

"And where’s the birthday lad, then?"

"Merry!" his father bellowed.

"Here, Da." The lad shouldered his way to the front of the gathering with a little trepidation. It gave way to a huge grin as Bilbo came forward and instead of hugging him like a baby, gave him a hearty handclasp as if he were a grown hobbit.

"Let me be the first to wish you happy birthday, then! You’ve gotten to be quite the big Brandybuck, haven’t you, Meriadoc? You’ll be looking your old dad Scatter in the eye before you reach your ‘tweens if you aren’t careful."

Merry’s grin, though it seemed impossible, broadened threefold at this.

"Do you really have fireworks, cousin Bilbo?" Another voice piped up, accompanied by a tug upon the tawny brocade of his coat. Bilbo twisted about to view a rather-diminutive and well-dressed hobbit child whose smile was almost as big as he was. The gaggle of children, aged seven to seventeen, surrounding the little tyke gave an almost collective gasp of anticipation, which echoed against the Hall behind them.

"Pippin!" Merry remonstrated.

"Oh, it’s all right… Pippin, did he say?" Bilbo bent down slightly. "You don’t sound like all these river-folk, lad. Are you a visitor too?"

"My brother’s youngest, Bilbo," Esmeralda introduced. "This is Peregrin Took. Peregrin, this is your cousin Bilbo—who may be Baggins by name, but also happens to be half Took."

Bilbo darted her a sly smile.

"Oh, truly? That’s brilliant, that is!" Pippin chimed and cut right back to the chase. "Do you, then, cousin? Have fireworks?"

Esme put a quelling hand on the child’s shoulder but Bilbo merely laughed. "That’s for me to know and you to be surprised," he told the boy, placing his index finger along his nose and closing one eyes meaningfully.

"Bilbo! You great pillock!"

"Rory!" Bilbo turned delightedly and ran, lightly as a boy, up to his old friend as he limped from the main entrance and onto the wide steps there. The two embraced mightily. "It’s been too long, old son!"

"Far too long! You’ve got to stop holing up in that bloody cavern and visit a proper dwelling more often!"

"He calls Bag-End a cavern!" Bilbo appealed to the audience that had gathered. "A cavern, I ask you! Saradoc, can someone see to my pony and bags? I have to set your father straight about a few things again, I see. He’s getting absent-minded in his dotage!"

"Dotage!" puffed Rory in mock fury. "You’re older than I and you know it. ‘Tisn’t decent, to be so hale at your advanced years!"

"It’s living in my damp, drafty cavern!" Bilbo retorted. "And judicious intake of Old Winyards… really, Rory, you’ve got to stop imbibing that common brew you produce!"

This pointed remark produced another round of ireful sputterings, ending with Rorimac giving Bilbo a poke with his walking stick. Bilbo, with an agility that suggested he was indeed thirty years younger instead of older, evaded it and giggled like a boy. His old comrade snorted.

"You know just where to rise me, you old badger. Help me up these cursed stairs and come have a drink—a decent drink, mind you! None of that southern swill."

"Saradoc, if you would…?" With an artless wave towards his pony, Bilbo escorted Rory into the Hall. The other adult hobbits also began to disperse—however the youngsters were not so inclined, not with the promise of possibly seeing something special.

"Jim!" the Master bellowed.

"And we’d best get the children back from the pony, if he’s really got fireworks in there—Peregrin, get away from that bag!" Esme shot out and the little boy backed away and put his hands immediately behind his back as if no such thought had ever entered his head. The other children had stayed a respectful distance; however on the other side of the fat pony Merry stuck out his tongue at Pippin. He was where his mother couldn’t see him, one hand working busily away at the bag’s fastenings. Pippin returned the favor by sticking his own tongue out and not betraying a wink of reaction as Saradoc loomed up behind his son.

"Meriadoc!"

The lad jumped, lost his grip on the bag and laces; Saradoc barely leaned forward in time to stop the contents from spilling out, but not before they had betrayed themselves as all along suspected: slender and fat cylinders, fuses, cones and sticks in a myriad of bright hues, with an acrid, sharp tang that tickled the nose and coated the throat.

"Ooooo!" Pippin crooned blissfully.

"All of you, get back!" Esmeralda ordered. "You’ll sure enough see them when the time’s right and not one moment before."

Jim came running up. "I’m sorry, Master—was in the middle of helping Dan with doctoring a heifer—what can I do for you then, sir?"

"Take Mister Baggins’ pony. I’ll deal with this," Saradoc suited action to words, unstrapping the cache of fireworks from its place and sidling it carefully over his shoulder, "but please see that the rest of the luggage is sent to the Old Master’s quarters."

"Aye, Master." Jim touched his forelock then grasped the sorrel’s rein, giving it a pat then leading it off.

"I had thought about putting him at River Run or Crickhollow," Esme quietly told her husband, "but they’re both already filled so your father’s guest suite is the best place. I don’t deny it’d be better to have that old troublemaker where we can keep an eye on him."

Saradoc chuckled. "Aye, there is that, isn’t there? Ah, Dad would rather have him close anyway—they’re such old cronies. He, Bilbo and Drogo used to play gentlehobbit’s poker until all hours—they finally let a youngster like me in once I got well married and settled." He tapped his wife’s cheek rather playfully. "Speaking of Bagginses, where’s Frodo? Thought it would be a good gesture to re-introduce him to his infamous cousin—I’m not sure he was old enough to remember the last time they did meet."

"Well, it won’t hurt him to wait for that, will it?" Esmeralda said sourly. "No doubt he’s off wandering again. Once he’s done in the barns and the library, he vanishes."

"Well, at least he’s made an appearance at dusk every evening, which was more than he was doing," Saradoc shrugged. "And now that he and Merry have made it up, he’ll stay a bit closer, I warrant."

"Or Merry a bit farther," Esmeralda retorted, then raised her voice, "Merry?" She located her son a short distance away from the rest of the children gathered, engaged in a lively discussion with Pippin that sounded halfway argumentative in tone. "Merry!"

He broke away and looked towards her. "Yes, Mum?"

"Have you seen Frodo?"

Merry looked sideways at Pippin. "He… went fishing. Remember, Da? For the table—I was to go meet him until…"

"Until I heard we had company, yes," his father answered. "I remember now. But aren’t you glad you waited? Got to see the old coot close up and personal—as well as his fireworks."

"But he’ll be here for a while, and the morning’s half gone."

"All right, then. Fly!" Saradoc turned to his wife, shouldering the fireworks bundle. The rest of the gathered children, seeing that no goodies were imminent, began to disperse. Merry and Pippin immediately began wrangling again, this time over where Merry had indeed meant to not tell Pippin he and Frodo were going fishing. It ended with a sharp negation from Merry; Pippin stamped his foot and stormed away. Merry watched him go, frowning, then shrugged it off and ran in the opposite direction.

Husband and wife watched this with some amusement. "Now those two," Esmeralda opined with a chuckle, "are a bit of nice, normal trouble aren’t they?"

Saradoc grinned. "If they ever figure out exactly why they keep grousing at each other, they might actually have a bit of fun." He put an arm about his wife, who returned the embrace.

"Well," she said quietly. "Shall we go and get the ‘old coot’ settled?"

* * * * * *

"What a mess of trout, young masters!" Marina plumped her hands on her hips and eyed the two osier creels, bending over as Merry tipped them to display the filled interiors for her approval. "You’ve surely done a good morning’s work—and it’ll be fine to add fish to the table for supper tonight."

Merry and Frodo grinned at each other. About them assorted bangings of metal, clinks of crockery, and voices raised in question or assertive in answer proclaimed the large kitchen’s normal state of affairs. Eight other hobbits, male and female, were busy at various tasks, all directed towards preparing the second communal meal of the day. Despite the open ends and the nice breeze coming through, the area was heating up from the large ovens placed at the end of the separated cookhouse. Marina saw Merry looking longingly at a bowl of cabbage sprouts, passed it to him with an indulgent smile, gave Frodo a stern look when he was about to decline.

"I know these aren’t your favorite, but they’re good for you. Take some." As he did so, grimacing, she beamed approvingly at him and continued, "You’re looking thinner, and that’s not good, there’s not enough meat on your bones as it is, lad—have you been eating properly?"

"Yes, Marina." He shot his cousin a sideways, tolerant glance at the common complaint the matron always seemed to voice—for some reason, it didn’t seem to grate so at him when Marina pestered him about his state of build. Occasionally annoying, yes, but not offensive. She meant well, at least.

"Just see that you do. Maybe I need to see what I’ve got in the stores with your name on it, eh?" She patted his cheek and he gave her a quizzical half-smile, once again shooting a glance at Merry, who smirked self-importantly as Marina continued, "I should send you two for the fishing from now on—you’re a sight more lucky with the rod that those Goodbody twins ever have been… Aster!"

"Yes, ma’m?" A faded crimson-kerchiefed head peered out from the pantry door.

"Set to and get these cleaned out, lass."

"We can do it," Frodo suddenly protested and Merry looked at him as if he were crazy—even once Frodo surreptitiously passed him the uneaten sprouts.

"Nay, master Frodo, you be letting us take care of our job, now."

Aster came over, wiping her hands on her faded apron and gave the two boys a quick smile. "And how are you today, master Meriadoc, master Frodo?" She bent over to grab the two creels, found Frodo’s grip already claiming one.

"At least let me help you."

"There’s surely no need," Aster replied and started to heft the second creel.

Merry watched, puzzled, eyes going from one to the other and then to Marina, whose face was a mixture of amusement and chagrin. Aster also gave Frodo a rather confused look, shot it over towards Marina, who shrugged tolerantly. The younger lass slowly released the creel.

"You’re serious, aren’t you?"

"Why not? It’ll get done quicker if two…three," Frodo added quickly, "are cleaning, right?"

"Suit y’rself, then."

"Oh, no, Frodo!" Merry protested, "I do not want to spend the next hour gutting smelly old fish!"

"Then don’t," Frodo told him over his shoulder, lifting the second fish-laden osier.

"But… But… Ohhhh!" Merry sputtered, watching in amazement as Frodo strode off in Aster’s wake.

"Aye, and your cousin’s finally growing up, isn’t he, dear?" Marina said with an indulgent chuckle. "I think he rather fancies young Aster. Sure, he’s a bit young to be running seriously with a lass, but he’s not about to be placing too much importance on her like, is he? They can have a nice lark, ‘tennyrate."

Merry muttered something highly uncomplimentary beneath his breath; the matron gave another smirk. "Well, lad, soon enough you’ll understand… here, have a bun." Marina’s favorite method of consolation was doling out choice comestibles—witness her broad and comfortable girth—a comfort that Merry never failed to respond to.

Neither did he this time. Taking the proffered bun, he nevertheless gave Marina a thoroughly disgusted glance. She did not share in his chagrin; indeed she ruffled his hair with a broad smile. It was the last straw. Merry turned on his heel and stomped off.

Marina crossed her arms, watching him retreat, then replaced her grin with a stern look as she turned back to the rest of her kitchen staff, who were all agog. "All right, then—back to your work! We’ve lunch in an hour and there’s over an hour’s work yet to be done!"

Situated just off the back door of the cookhouse was a small shed built for just the purpose of quartering the meat for the Brandy Hall tables. Already several sides of meat hung up high within it, sectioned and ready for roasting. There was a hum of flies, attracted by the fresh meat, but a sweet bait placed in a corner to deter them from the foodstuffs mostly and thankfully occupied them. Aster slung her load onto a small table set beside a very large and thick wooden block, held out her hand for Frodo’s and did the same with it.

"Pretty smelly work, this." She drew a finely honed knife from an assortment at the block’s end and held it out. "You’re sure?"

He frowned at the knife, then looked at her face and saw the teasing glint there. "Yes. If you give me a proper gutting knife."

"Ah. So you do know a bit about this business." She grinned openly this time, stuck the unsuitable knife back into the block, gestured to the assortment. "Choose your weapon, sir."

He did so. "Did the other boys never clean the fish they’d caught?"

"Well, aye. But they weren’t…" she trailed off.

"Weren’t the Master’s family," he finished a bit sourly, grabbing up a trout and whacking its head off.

She was quiet for a moment. "Well… aye."

"Well," Frodo said, concentrating firmly on not separating his own flesh from fingers as he neatly worked away at the fish carcass, "my dad always said that you should never ask someone to do a job you can by rights do for yourself."

"Your dad was the one that drowned on the river, wasn’t he? With your mum?"

The serrated edge jerked, slipped. Blood welled and he gave a quick hiss, dropping the knife and snatching at his hand.

"Oh…" Aster reached over, shoved his uninjured hand aside then grabbed his cut hand. Frodo winced a bit at the fierceness of her grip but was unable to pull it loose—somehow she’d all but immobilized it—and she told him, "Be still! If you’ve cut a thick vein…" She came around, pulled his hand over to hers, and peered at it closely. "Over to the faucet, then, let’s see what we’ve got."

She directed him over to the pump behind the quartering shed and pumped several gushes of water over his hand, peered even closer at it, then nodded and let loose her grip. Frodo grimaced as circulation flowed into his hand once more; blood gushed rather freely out of the cut, but thankfully didn’t spurt outwards. The cut wasn’t that deep, just painful. And foolish.

"Keep pumping water on it," Aster directed him. "Scrub hard with some soap and get those fish guts out of it. I’ll go find something to wrap it up with."

Frodo watched her disappear into the kitchen and pumped water over his hand, then took up the ball of soap stuck on a small spike next to the pump handle and started to lave his hand with it. It stung, yes, but no moreso than his pride. "Oh, sure, I know how to clean fish," he muttered savagely. It seemed to be his lot to go through life looking like a total ass…

Aster returned in short order, a bulging something wrapped in her apron. She jerked her head toward a simple wooden bench only paces away. "Let’s settle you there for the while."

Squeezing the spot that she had and slowing the bleeding to his hand, Frodo followed her wordlessly. "Sit down, now," she told him, opening her gathered-up apron. From it she took batting, a small brown jar and a discolored, if clean, cloth wrap and set them on the bench next to him. "I didn’t tell ‘em inside," was her next remark. "I imagined you didn’t want the whole kitchen in an uproar when it en’t that big a deal. Give us your hand, young master."

Brows quirking, he obeyed.

"No bones, no blood spurting, so least said the better." She swabbed the cut clean and knelt down in front of him. "Hand me that jar, will you?"

He did so. "You’ve done this before?"

"Well, aye. You wouldn’t be believing the number of cuts you get in a kitchen." Aster blew a bit of fuzz back from her eyes and grinned at him. "Too many knives."

She had a very pretty smile. Frodo sat rather bemused by it as she inspected the cut, pronounced it clean and, digging her fingers into the jar, smeared reddish-brown salve over his hand. Attending to her work thus, her next words were preoccupied and quiet.

"I’m sorry, master Frodo."

"Sorry? What?"

Her brows were drawn together, her eyes focused on his hand. "I’m sorry about your parents."

He tensed, looking sideways at her, wondering what she was going to say. If she said anything, anything at all like what he thought she would…

"You must miss them," she continued, dabbing at the blood still seeping from the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. "I know I’d miss my mum and dad if they were gone."

And she fell silent. Frodo stared at her scarved head—was that it? Nothing more to comment on? Or to speculate about? Slowly he relaxed as she matter-of-factly kept tending to his hand.

"Now. This settles you gutting any more fish today. You’re not. Ah-ah," Aster cut him off as he started to protest, "if you get this infected with river slime, ‘twill be a problem, not just a messy cut." Winding batting about it, she then tied it off firmly. "And don’t be taking this off ‘til later, mind."

"Yes, ma’m," he said, rather amusedly.

Aster peered up at him uncertainly, then saw the look on his face and chuckled. "Get away! You think just because you’re wounded you can tease me?"

He grinned rather self-consciously and stood, then held out his good hand. "Yes, ma’m. Are you going to let me help you up now, since you helped me?"

She dimpled, took his hand, and let him help her rise. Once she’d done so, her pleasant expression congealed a bit—she wasn’t looking at him, but slightly behind and over his shoulder. Frodo half-turned, then stiffened as he saw who was there.

"This is the last place I’d expect to find you." Lotho was leaning up against the butchering shed, passively venomous. "Sneaking off behind the shed… with a lass, at that." He pulled upright from his leaning position and walked over, his tone, his stance, everything a subtle but unmistakable insult. "I was beginning to wonder if you had it in you."

"I didn’t…" Frodo protested, flushing; he shot a look at Aster, realized he was still gripping her hand. He released her, watching her eyes darting from him to Lotho uncertainly. "She didn’t…"

"Didn’t she?" He directed his next words to Aster, who was frowning slightly, "He’s a bit young for the lasses, you know. Don’t think the Master would be pleased at you dallying with his nephew, though I have to admit that I’m not surprised at his lowborn tastes." Reaching out a hand, he took hold of the kitchen maid’s chin and tilted her face as if judging livestock. She gave him a direct look, then simply backed away. Frodo watched this, bewildered and angry, and when Lotho stepped toward her again, the younger lad put himself in front of her.

"No, master Frodo!" she hissed at him, then spoke clearly. "Please, young masters. There’s no need for any of this. I’ll just go. Begging your pardon, but I’ve work to do and all, and I’d best be getting to it."

"Aster…" Frodo turned to her. But she seemed abruptly far removed from the smiling girl who’d so capably wrapped his hand, precariously balanced as she now was between action and the easiest way out from under—for both of them, he belatedly realized. Shaking her head in quick negation of him doing anything further, she swiftly turned and disappeared about the corner into the shed.

Unfortunately, in his concern with Aster, Frodo had broken the first rule he’d ever learned with Lotho—not to blithely turn his back on him. Suddenly there was a huge hand at his nape and his right arm was twisted up behind him and he was on his knees, face against the dirt.

"Let… let go of me!" Frodo struggled, however the larger boy had him well and truly pinned—all his wriggling got him was his face rammed into the soil.

"She is rather fetching—in a rough sort of way," Lotho admitted softly into Frodo’s ear. "And here I thought that you were so choosy. It’s a fairly wide gap from the forests to the gutters—but then, a common sort like her, they’re only good for the one thing."

"That’s not true!" Frodo angrily tried to kick out; Lotho tightened his grip, wrenching his arm brutally upward. A cry wrenched itself from Frodo’s chest; Lotho ground his nose deeper into the dirt and Frodo choked as dust went up his nose and down his throat.

"How interesting. I think you rather like that horny-handed little kitchen slut. That makes things very easy, doesn’t it?" He curled along his back insolently. "Listen very closely, now. If you don’t want me taking special notice of your newest playmate, you’d best do exactly as I say."

"She’s not my playmate… ow!" Frodo winced as Lotho’s grip tightened.

"Playmate or no, we’ll have our say about her later. For now we’ll keep it simple. Stay away from cousin Bilbo."

"What?" Of all the directives possible in the entirety of Lotho’s vengeful brain, this one made absolutely no sense.

"You heard me. Stay away from him."

"Why?" Frodo gritted out. "I don’t even know him, I… oh!" Lotho tightened his grip and pain shot up into Frodo’s shoulder; he gagged as dirt sucked more deeply into his throat.

"Just do it, d’you hear me?" Lotho growled. "I’m sure you’re aware that the marks I can give her don’t necessarily have to show. And she’s nothing. No one will care. Or even believe her."

"I’ll believe her!"

"And who’ll believe you?" was the soft, acid rejoinder. "Auntie and Uncle Brandybuck? You’ve queered them past belief just by the way you act and you know it. Old crazy Rory? He already thinks you and I have a tweenie game playing itself out. Your little Merry-lad, who’s too smart for his age and too young to really get it? You won’t tell him anyway, I’ll warrant, because you’re afraid I’ll owe him a bigger grudge than I already do."

"Grudge?" Frodo coughed; his world was spinning, and he wasn’t sure if it was from lack of air or from what Lotho’s words could imply.

"Meriadoc could be quite the way to insure your good behavior, couldn’t he?"

"You wouldn’t… dare!" Frodo managed to spit out, despite the fact that he was getting dizzy from lack of good air.

Lotho was silent for long seconds, then Frodo felt him shrug. "Unfortunately, you’re right. Your little cousin is the worst tattletale on the Hall grounds, unless you’re counting the Took baby-boy, and he’s the Master’s son to boot. I’m not stupid."

"Really?" Frodo husked out. Had he been thinking clearly he never would have said such a thing in his very precarious position—and he swiftly regretted it. Lotho twisted his arm so tightly that he gave a small yelp, then shoved one knee between Frodo’s and pulled him upwards. Frodo gasped in fresh air, sagged a bit woozily as it went straight to his head.

"I’m not so stupid I can’t see what’s right before my eyes," Lotho hissed in Frodo’s ear. "As to belief—you believe this. One way or another, I’ll get what I want. From you, or from anyone. And you won’t tell anyone, because you know that no one will believe you."

Frodo slowly became aware that he was on his knees and listing back against his tormentor. He tried to lurch forward and away to no avail. "And they’ll believe you?"

"What a choice they’ll have," Lotho murmured against his shoulder. "Who to believe? The upstanding lad who has a family and knows who his father is, or the surly little orphaned bastard who isn’t even in this world half the time?"

"I’m not…!!"

"Aren’t you? Come on."

Frodo closed his eyes. His ears were singing—he wasn’t sure whether it was from the sudden intake of air, or because his arm felt like it was ready to snap, or because of Lotho’s words. But it was the latter which took the fight from him. "All right," he whispered.

"What?"

"I said, all right! I’ll do what you want. I’ll stay away from Bilbo."

He was released. Falling forward onto his hands and knees, Frodo winced as his wrenched arm nearly gave and sent him tumbling back to the dirt. Leaning heavily on his good arm, Frodo clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes against the tears crowding there, clutched at his madly throbbing arm and glanced back.

True to form, Lotho was already gone. For being so big, he could move as quickly and lightly as a ferret.

Spitting dirt and wiping at his mouth, Frodo collapsed onto his rear end, holding his arm tightly against his torso, curling up and putting his forehead to his knees. He hoped Aster was long gone—that at least that was one facet of humiliation he didn’t have to face. He sat there a few moments, trying to clear his head—his ears were still humming, pulse pounding all the way to their pointed tips—feeling as if he would burst if he so much as moved.

He sat there, trembling, for long moments. Once he’d regained some semblance of control, Frodo rolled to his feet, tottering a bit as blood rushed to his extremities. Then, once he could walk normally, he wiped his dirty face on his shirt and slowly headed away.

Aster watched him go. She’d seen—she’d not heard, but she’d witnessed the small struggle. She also was cognizant enough in a house full of brothers not to interfere. Had it gone much farther, though, she would have broken that rule and ran for help.

She’d heard about that Lotho from the other servants. He was a piece of work; all too practiced at making the pretty with the gentry. Butter wouldn’t melt in that one’s mouth when it suited him, but he wasn’t too subtle about taking his pleasures—whatever they were at the moment—with those who couldn’t protest too much. She’d better stay in the kitchen and out of sight for the while. Perhaps then she wouldn’t be getting master Frodo into any more trouble. He was a nice little lad—deserved better than to get mauled by his bigger cousin. Not that she could do anything about it. Aster was firmly aware of what power she did—and didn’t—wield.

But the fish she cleaned and gutted that afternoon bore a certain sneering face for her in imagination.

* * * * * *

It was much later. The sun was setting over the common and Frodo, having spent much of the afternoon avoiding Merry and Pippin both—for surely they’d see that something was wrong by just looking into his face—and had just recently finished supper. People were still milling about the dining hall behind him; Frodo had noticed that his illustrious and infamous Baggins cousin was holding court just outside. Despite any threats or admonitions handed down to him earlier, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. While they were fishing Merry had expanded mightily about the fireworks but hadn’t noticed nearly enough to satisfy any queries about the fireworks-bearer.

His right arm hurt abominably. Frodo rubbed absently at it, heaped silent invective upon Lotho Sackville-Baggins and leaned on his opposite side against the doorway leading into the common, getting a surreptitious look at the hobbit about whom so much gossip and legend centered.

So this was mad cousin Bilbo.

It didn’t seem quite possible that this was the same hobbit hero of the Adventure and the Dragon’s Gold—Frodo had frankly been expecting a warrior nigh unto the legendary Bullroarer Took and the reality was proving vastly disappointing. Bilbo Baggins was a sturdy, charmingly-handsome hobbit not any taller than himself—the most distinguishing thing about him was that he seemed rather youthful for all he was supposedly the respectable and venerable age of ninety-eight. Seated comfortably next to Bilbo was serious proof of that; Uncle Rory was a good twelve years younger, but he looked thirty years older. A small group of younger hobbits had gravitated to the legendary newcomer in their midst, and there was a peripheral group of elders, curious despite themselves.

"That’s him, all right," a female voice said from not several feet to his right; Frodo peered around the earth-and-wood entry and saw several of the female kitchen help gathered in the kitchen door there. They were obviously interested in the newest Baggins as well. He ducked back into concealment just as one threw a glance his way.

"I’ve heard he’s filthy rich," said another one of the girls.

"Is he close related to master Frodo, then, being a Baggins himself?" This was Aster’s voice; instead of having his usual reaction to people talking about him, one corner of Frodo’s mouth lifted into a slight smile.

"Aye, I s’pose so," someone else admitted. "He’s very nice-looking, isn’t he?"

"Got a pretty grin on him, that he does."

"Hmph!" said another voice, older. Marina. "It’ll take every ounce of his gold to gild him—I’ve heard the stories, mind you, and they’re not fit for decent folks! Consorting with elves and dwarves and the like. Traveling with a sword strapped to his pony. Running off on adventures—I ask you? Filthy rich says it all. What’s this world coming to when a scoundrel like that has tons of money and decent hard-working folks that stays where they belong have naught!"

Frodo rolled his eyes—Marina was on another of her tirades again—and tuned the rest of the conversation out, intently studying the back of his cousin’s curly, steel-grey head and noting that Lotho was also in the small group about Bilbo. The older boy saw Frodo and scowled more nastily than even usual at him. Frodo ducked back out of sight, a quite irrational fear twisting at his insides.

"I said, what are you snarling at, lad?" Bilbo’s voice rose plainly. Frodo peered back about the corner just as the old hobbit twisted on the bench and focused his gaze upon the entryway. With another quick oath, this at his bad timing, Frodo ducked back into the dining hall. "Who was that?" the voice followed him about the corner of the door.

"No one," Lotho hastily assured. Frodo swallowed his unwelcome reaction and muttered an oath beneath his breath.

"No one that you were making ugly faces at. You’re more and more like your mother, lad."

Frodo’s eyes widened at this last hit and he chuckled despite himself. He’d never even seen Lotho’s mother, but if sarcasm was any clue, cousin Bilbo had and been mightily unimpressed. He peered about the doorframe, saw Lotho standing red-faced and had the sudden, quite irrational urge to just burst through the doorway and go over to introduce himself. He suppressed it, knowing that while the defiance might be worth any pain Lotho would dish out to him personally, there was someone else now quite unintentionally in the equation: Aster.

Anyway, Cousin Bilbo had so many relatives about him, one more would likely be quite unremarkable. And for some sudden, unfathomable reason and for perhaps the first time in his young life, Frodo didn’t want to be regarded as unremarkable.

* * * * * *

Thank whatever powers there might be, each morning was new. Each sunrise was fresh. And when the day promised as bright and rosy as today, it was easier to shuck off whatever cares tied you too closely to the ground.

He put his toes on the edge of the treehouse platform. Below him the water beckoned, midnight-deep and running silent. The breeze picked up, and he closed his eyes for moment, giving a delicious shiver as it lifted his hair and wafted against his bare skin. Then he opened his eyes, looked about and, lifting his arms, leapt out into the wind.

One... two... and the water took his fall, a sharp, briskly-cool envelope of darkness that pulled him within, down, and then thrust him back upwards towards the light.

Frodo broke the surface of the river, slung the hair out of his eyes and laughed out loud. He sent an arc of water shooting upward at the treehouse where it hung, meters above. His companion, sitting on the graveled bank with his furry toes in the water, was not so amused.

"You give me the willies when you do that!" Merry complained. "I’m just glad no one can see you doing it! Mum and Da would murder you slowly!"

Frodo splashed out, still laughing. "Merry, it’s wonderful! Really. It’s like..." he flung his arms outward, "it’s like flying!"

Merry jutted his jaw rather obstinately and gave his cousin a severe frown. "From someone who didn’t even want to swim several years ago, you’re ready enough to go in now! I’m just glad the water’s as deep here as it is, or you’d be knocking your head on the bottom, diving in like that!"

"You should try it," Frodo told him earnestly. "Really, you should."

"Not today, thanks," answered the younger boy wryly. "Aren’t you hungry yet?" he furthered, a bit wistfully. "And I’m getting a little cool; the sun’s not very high yet and our clothes are still up the tree, you know."

"Meriadoc Brandybuck, the walking appetite. If you’re not chewing on something every hour of the day, your teeth get lonely, I think!"

"No," Merry said, decisively plaintive, "my stomach gets lonely. Can’t you hear it?" As if on cue, his belly gave a loud rumble. Frodo laughed again and waded out, grabbing a towel from the tree branch they’d hung several on; the wind brushed against him insistently and his torso prickled with chill.

"It is a bit cool, isn’t it?" he ventured, toweling off. "I think the wind’s changed. When are you expected back?"

"Not until supper, same as you." Merry stood up, shaking off his wet feet and brushing the sand from his posterior.

"Good. We’ve still the whole day, then."

"I see you managed to ditch your shadow pretty easily, too."

"My..." Frodo hung the towel about his neck and started reaming out his waterlogged ears with it. "Oh. The Pipsqueak. You know, I wonder if he’s been involved with the little ones or something; I was really having to be clever to evade him week before last, but he’s not been hanging on me so much this past week. I’m not sure he’s my shadow lately, anyway. Should I owe you a grudge for that, Merry-lad?"

"Me?"

"Well, I think the enchantment of Frodo has worn off—except at story time. You’re Pippin’s newest play toy, it seems. Of course you two spend most of your time together arguing…"

"We don’t spend that much time together! He’s obnoxious!" Merry retorted a bit hotly. "And you can’t talk—you’re mooning over that scullery maid!"

"I am not!"

"You are! Every time you see her your ears turn pink…"

"They do not!"

"Just like they’re doing now!" Merry pointed out.

Frodo rather fiercely and self-consciously rubbed his ears with the towel. "I thought you were hungry."

"That’s right, change the subject. Well, I think it’s disgusting," the younger lad informed him rather righteously. "Like some collie chasing the sheep with his tongue hanging out!"

Frodo raised his brows, then chuckled and shook his head. "Merry, I’m not chasing anything. All right?"

Merry gave him a rather peevish look, then snatched up his towel and walked over to the trunk of the giant riverside tree, grabbing the rope and shinnying the first six feet. Frodo watched him ascend then smiled slightly, realizing how far he’d come. When they’d first employed this idea to use a rope for the lower climb—better to hide the haven from prying eyes—Merry had not been so bold. He now scaled the tree with familiar fearlessness.

Frodo followed, grasped the rope and hauled away.

* * * * * *

Over the past months the tree platform had truly turned into a haven; a lovely, peaceful place that was theirs alone in any weather. Now that the tarpaulin roof hung securely above their heads, they could even escape here during the rain. The small cave they had originally taken refuge in sat unused, and all of Merry’s original reticence at the idea of an aboveground shelter had all but disappeared.

"Frodo," Merry ventured about a mouthful of cold pasty as they redonned their clothing, "what did you do to your hand?"

Frodo was working at his own shirt-buttons—unlike his cousin he’d decided to get fully clad before feeding his face. He frowned, looking at the slice on the heel of his palm—the water had filled it, whitened it and made it more noticeably swollen. "I cut it when I was gutting fish."

"Like any girl’s worth getting cut over!" was the muffled opinion through several folds of cloth, then Merry finished pulling the shirt overhead and settled it upon his shoulders, grabbing up his snack and wolfing another bite. "Like anything she’d do for you would be worth gutting a bunch of smelly old fish!"

Frodo raised his eyebrows, glancing curiously at his cousin.

"Da says it all the time, Frodo. The only reason a young lad does a disagreeable job for a young lass is because he’s hoping for a reward."

Shifting still-damp shoulders against worn fabric, Frodo tucked his own shirt in and reached towards the sizeable basket of provender they’d packed, pulling out a pasty for himself. His eyes once again cut over towards Merry a bit disgustedly. "And what, o most sagest of Meriadocs, might this reward consist of?"

"Oh, Frodo!" Merry expostulated. "I might be younger than you, but I’m not stupid! I know some things, you know."

Taking a rather fierce and sizeable bite of his pasty, Frodo said, "Do you?"

"I do. I listen to what the older hobbits say. And the other lads. They aren’t even half as close-mouthed as you are."

"Maybe the other lads have more to say about it."

"Meaning you don’t have anything to say because you never have?" Merry persisted. "Or because you just won’t tell me?"

Frodo joltingly swallowed the last bite of his pasty. From the roiling of his stomach, he was going to be very sorry that he’d eaten it. He didn’t want to discuss this, not now. Particularly not now. "Merry, what does this have to do with anything?"

"Well, you never say anything to me about it, and I’m supposed to be your best friend!"

"Remember that list of things I told you weren’t appropriate for us to share?"

Merry glowered. "So you can share them with that Aster, or with some other, but not with me, and one lark will lead to the next until I’ll hear about—hear about, mind you, because you won’t tell me anything!—about you taking her or some other lass or lad into the hayloft or the vineyards like all the rest of those stupid tweeners!"

"Merry," Frodo said quietly, "I nearly am a tweener."

This halted Merry, full stop. He peered at Frodo from beneath his bang, his eyes dark, a peculiar and active awareness sparking behind them. Frodo peered back deliberately, knowing that if he gave beneath this he might continue, give far too much.

Merry dropped his gaze, indigo midnight obscured by even darker lashes. He took a slow, almost calculative bite of his pasty and changed the subject with even more seeming consideration. "You know, I think someone’s trying to follow us here."

Frodo followed along, cautiously. "Why do you say that?"

"I don’t know," was the quiet answer. Merry raised his eyes once more and the midnight deeps were gone as quick as they’d arisen. "It’s just… a feeling I get, I guess. Like we’re being watched."

The thought that someone could be following them gave Frodo a chill that flung his mind further from Merry’s too mature twists of thoughtful venue.

"Who do you think it might be?" the younger lad continued, shaking his damp curls like a wet canine.

"I don’t know, Merry." He could only think of one person who would bother, and tried to reasonably warm the further chill that thought gave him. This treehouse was the only bastion he had left... "Maybe it’s Pippin. It always irritates him when we ditch him."

"Maybe it’s Lotho." Merry looked sideways at him; Frodo tried to hold the gaze again, but this time he couldn’t. Instead he closed his eyes again quite tightly, uncomfortable beneath the weight of his own thoughts, let alone the addition of Merry’s. Silence reigned for a few moments; Frodo finally opened his eyes again, found his cousin still watching him. He frowned.

Merry’s gaze was the one that flickered uncomfortably sideways this time. "I’ve been keeping an eye on him, Frodo."

"What?" Apprehension runneled through him once more—this time, directed outwards.

"Yes. He watches you a lot. I told him—"

"You told him? Told him what?" Apprehension became active fear. "Merry, stay away from him."

"I don’t like the way he looks at you, Frodo. There’s something not right in it."

"Stay away from him!"

"But Frodo—"

"Leave it, Merry!" Frodo reached out, grabbed the front of his shirt and shook it. "Do as I say, do you hear me?!"

Merry’s eyes were sprung wide; he stared at Frodo’s face, then down at the fingers gripped tightly in his shirt. Frodo let out a shaky breath, looked down at his hand, slowly released it. He turned away, went to the other side of the little flet and dropped to his rear on the flooring, angling his head back against the hard wood and trying to find calmer speech.

"Just… leave it," he finally said. "Lotho is my problem, all right? Mine. You can’t help with this."

Merry remained silent for long moments. Then tentatively, "But Frodo, Grandda Rory said…" he trailed off again as Frodo narrowed his eyes, turning to him.

"What did he say?"

Merry was uncomfortably silent for a few moments, and Frodo could see that he was trying to decide what to voice. "What did Uncle Rory tell you?" Frodo asked pointedly. "More, what did you tell him?"

Perhaps Merry had an innate ability to discern things not readily visible, and perhaps he was learning how to use that ability to his advantage; however he was still not yet fourteen and hadn’t learned at all well to prevaricate around his older cousin. "I… didn’t tell him anything important, Frodo."

"But."

"I didn’t!"

Frodo looked at him searchingly.

"I swear I didn’t, Frodo. Nothing about what… what you said." Merry looked down; there was an uncomfortable silence, then he hurried through the next statement. "I asked him about your mum and dad. I thought he would know. I mean, your mum was his sister, and I think he was really close to your dad. But he said that no one really knows what happened…" Still silence. Frodo kept staring at him. "Grandda thinks Drogo’s your real dad."

"Thinks? Or knows?"

"What’s the difference?"

"Oh, Merry! One is real. The other is just something you want to believe!" Frodo retorted. "And you know that Old Uncle’s not always… he’s…" he trailed off, vastly uncomfortable with stating any of it.

"Sometimes he is. But he’s still smart. He still knows things when he can." The younger lad stuck out his chin. "He knows that Lotho’s trouble, which is more than most of the grownups know. He said that you should stay away from him."

Frodo looked away, out through the tree branches and across the river bottom.

"You do stay away from him, don’t you?"

He wanted to answer. Possibly more than anything he’d ever wanted before, Frodo had the urgent immediacy to tell Merry all of it and leave nothing out and attempt to wrangle some sort of understanding from it. This would answer all Merry’s too-innocent questions, salve any hurt feelings—yet it would also open too many other feelings and queries, most of them truthfully unfit for his younger cousin’s well-being.

Humiliation stifled the desire to confess before it had even raised into possibility, protective awareness put paid to it and buried it.

"Don’t you?" Merry demanded, brows quirking, the strange light once again rising in his eyes.

"Yes!" There was, Frodo realized sinkingly and not for the first time, no one that he could speak of this to. Merry was silent beside him, then tried again.

"Frodo, you really should go and talk to Grandda. I know he’s not always… well… you know. In this world half the time. But…"

Not even Rory. Particularly not Rory, who might try to understand but already had a twisted version of Lotho’s truths inserted into an unfortunately addled brain.

"Merry." Frodo put both hands to his face, scrubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes. "Listen. I don’t want to talk about this right now, all right? I just want to… to be here, today."

Silence descended again, this time drawing itself out almost past bearing. Then footsteps, light and quick across the platform, and Frodo abruptly had fully several stone of tall hobbitlad in his lap, wrapping long arms about his neck.

"I’m sorry, Frodo. I’m really sorry." There was no doubt that Merry meant it; his face was stricken with contrition. "I won’t mention it again unless you want to, all right? Just don’t be angry with me again. It was wretched, you know, when we were angry with each other."

"It was," Frodo agreed softly.

Merry gave him a quick kiss, then burrowed his head into Frodo’s shoulder. Frodo tried to find some way to make himself comfortable, or to at least rest his arms somewhere that he could prop himself up a bit more easily, but failed and half-growled, "You’re really are getting too big to sit in my lap, you."

The bright head raised, and a grin that was decidedly up to no good lit Merry’s face. "Am I? All right, then…"

Frodo gave a yelp as Merry twisted, grabbed him about the shoulders and rolled him over. Arms and legs went flying as the two grappled then Merry sat up and yanked his cousin over into his own lap. Frodo looked up from where he was held rather firmly on his back and against Merry’s thighs; Merry bent over him with the mischievous grin still plastered upon his face.

"Is that better?" he asked sweetly.

"Meriadoc," Frodo said, very sternly, "let me up."

Meriadoc was obviously not impressed, either by the strict tone or the threat within it. He simply grinned wider. "Make me."

Frodo closed his eyes in seeming resignation. Silently counted ten. Declared war.

Merry went over backwards, his feet flying into the air. He countered by smacking those feet firmly back onto the floor and shoving upwards. This time Frodo went over sideways, banging into the admittedly rickety table. Breakfast went flying. Merry shrieked with outrage that dissolved into laughter as Frodo twisted about with startling speed, pinned then commenced to tickle him. He went limp on his back with giggles as Frodo straddled him.

"No! Ow… ! Stop… oh! Frodo! Ow! No fair!"

Frodo ceased, leaning on Merry’s chest with both hands. "All right, then. Who’s the great big Brandybuck now, eh?"

Merry tried to frown, but was convulsed with giggles and not at all convincing. Instead he grabbed both Frodo’s wrists and tried to flip him forward over his head. It worked—halfway.

"Hoy!"

"Get off me!"

"Don’t you even think about…"

They rolled on the floor, growling and giggling and it wasn’t until the food became actively in danger of being squashed past eating that they ceased wrestling. Still convulsed with giggles, Merry, half atop Frodo, reached out and grabbed a mushroom that had rolled from its sack, started to toss it down then grinned and dropped it into Frodo’s open mouth.

Frodo coughed and sat up. "Are you trying to feed me or choke me?"

"Just being polite!" Merry protested in mock injured tones. "I see it’s not stopping you from eating it!" He sat up, brushing at his shirtfront—somehow a bit of soft cheese had squished itself into the fabric.

Frodo rolled to a half-crouch and started to rescue the scattered comestibles. Merry made an effort to help, but ended up snacking more than gathering; Frodo gave an exasperated snort and shoved him aside and finished picking up the rest of it by himself. Except the soft cheese. It was well and truly flattened—and bore not only lint from Merry’s shirt, but definite imprints of less-than-clean wooden boards as well as a heel print.

"Frodo?"

"What, Merry-dear?"

"I’m not a baby any more," Merry said importantly. "I’m going to be fourteen in two days."

Frodo slid his eyes up to meet his cousin’s. "I know."

Merry grinned even broader, if that were possible. He was fairly trembling with anticipation. "It’s going to be a swell party, don’t you think?"

Frodo reached out and ruffled the tawny curls. "If you’re the guest of honor, how could it be otherwise?"

* * * * * *