"Who is that?"

Rory squinted across the grounds. "Who’s what?"

"You blind beggar," Bilbo teased. "There. That lad holding up the oak. He looks familiar…"

Rory squinted across the grounds to the appointed tree, saw a slight, dark-haired lad settled against it, chewing on a thumbnail with one foot propped on the trunk behind him. He snorted. "Now who’s going blind? There’s so many Bagginses about Brandy Hall so’s you don’t remember your own cousin? That’s my sister’s boy, you decrepit old pillock!"

"Primula’s son?" Bilbo queried with soft immediacy. "That’s Frodo?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Music swirled about them, a sprightly, impromptu jig. Rare was the party in which several hobbits didn’t bring their musical instruments; this one was no exception. Already a space had been cleared in preparation for later dancing; if people weren’t at the tables or at the ale casks, they were in the midst of the musicale. Late summer flowers floated in water barrels and garlanded the long rows of tables; lanterns were beribboned, either hung from long ropes that snaked from tree to tree, or staked down, waiting for sunset. An absolutely enormous cake decorated the main table, and Marina stood guard, tapping her hard, hairy foot and glaring at any hobbit that snuck too close. She’d not spent a day’s work merely to have it pillaged by greedy children—or adults, for that matter. Bilbo already was sporting a bruise on one knuckle from her pewter ladle.

It wasn’t a huge gathering, but it had swollen to twice its invited list as word had leaked out, and thusly the party had spilled from the courtyard’s confines and into the adjoining paddocks. The noise and merriment echoed against the Hall and back out over the revelers. It was a fact that the Master of Brandy Hall set a fine table and knew how to throw a party, even if that party was a child’s birthday. The adults were guaranteed as much fun and feasting as the younger hobbits. And no one had been turned away—the Brandybuck was that generous. The sun was shining—not a hint of rain to drive them indoors or under a tent—and the temperature was forgiving as well, for a sunny afternoon in August.

Bilbo squinted through the throng, still scrutinizing the dark-haired lad. Belatedly he realized that this was the same one that he’d seen skulking about the dining hall several days previous—except that the boy was much more smartly and fully attired this time even if he still rather gave the impression of molding effortlessly into the woodwork. As Bilbo watched, young Meriadoc broke away from a gaggle of youngsters he’d been passing assorted mathoms to and descended with a crow of delight on his newly-arrived cousin, taking his arm and dragging him over to the main table. Frodo laughed and followed—as if he had a choice, with Merry’s firm grip. "Goodness," Bilbo muttered. "Even the smile. No wonder he’s familiar. You know, Rory, that lad’s the absolute image of my ever-so-great-grandmother, rest her. Old Balbo’s mother, Dora?"

"Quaint old name. Familiar, too. Dora… wait, wasn’t Drogo’s sister named Dora?"

"Indeed she was. Named after the old lady herself."

"The first Dora…" Rory ruminated. "A Took, wasn’t she?"

"Baggins on the distaff side, but yes. Little faery of a hobbit—d’you remember her?"

Rory shook his head.

"Well, then, not many do." Bilbo raised his eyebrows as little Peregrin Took came running over and leapt on Frodo’s back. The older lad merely twisted and grabbed the child, pulling him downward to hold his head in the crook of his arm while he continued whatever he’d been saying to Merry. Peregrin wriggled, obviously outdone by his predicament, and Bilbo chuckled at Frodo’s seemingly blasé attitude. "How old is the boy, Rory? Fourteen? Fifteen?"

Rory harrumphed. "He’s nearly a tweenager."

Bilbo started, was quiet for a long moment, then, "It’s been that long, has it?"

"Aye."

They fell silent. Bilbo watched as Merry handed Frodo a flat package. With a small grin, the dark-haired lad released Peregrin and took it, opened it. The pale face twitched and flushed rather strikingly as he did so.

"Oh, my dear. It’s like seeing old Gamma again, Rory. I can’t believe it. Let’s see… she would have been Drogo’s thrice great grandmother too. Funny how those things jump generations, eh? Even as an old dame she had an elvish look to her—slender, all doe-eyed and fair. Which can be useful for a female, no doubt, but I’ll imagine that poor lad catches all kinds of grief for it."

"You could say that." Rory ruminated for a moment. "P’rhaps you need to tell young Frodo about his ever-so-great grandmother. I’ll warrant he’d be quite interested indeed."

Bilbo shot a glance at him, aware that his Brandybuck compatriot was keeping close more than he was letting on. Ever since he’d relinquished control of the Hall to his son, old Rory had been getting more and more introverted, passively acquainted with not much other than his own thoughts and often unwilling to share them. Bilbo started to speak, but something in Rory’s eyes as he watched his sister’s son halted him. Instead Bilbo reached forward, smacked one bony knee. "I’m going to get another half! You?"

"Sure, sure."

* * * * * *

"Merry!" Frodo ran covetous fingers over the thin book. It was old, but gleamed with a luster that suggested it had been carefully and recently oiled and tended to. "Wherever did you find this?"

"I found it in the study, and Mum said I was welcome to gift it to you."

"It’s about Ancalagon… He was the last dragon to plague the Shire, did you know that?" Frodo smiled. "I’ll wager you remembered your mum saying I’d walk through Ancalagon’s breath and not notice if I had my nose stuck in a book…"

Merry chuckled. "Well, it did occur to me when I found the book. And I remember you answering that you would not!"

"And then she said, ‘Oh, so you’d notice that your toes were on fire, then?’"

"And you answered that you’d certainly notice the dragon!"

They both collapsed into giggles. Pippin, who had escaped Frodo’s grip and had his attention diverted by the huge birthday cake that was being settled on the main table, demanded, "What’s so funny?"

Merry gave Frodo a sideways look, and Frodo started laughing again. Pippin decided that enough was enough, for he began tugging at his eldest cousin’s dark green waistcoat. "C’mon. Since you’re here now you can dance with me."

"Maybe Frodo doesn’t want to dance with you, Pippin," Merry said with all the lofty superiority of his newly advanced age. "He might want to dance with some girl, or something."

"Oh, right," Frodo retorted acidly, secreting the old book safely into an inner pocket of his waistcoat. "They’re lining the table three deep here. I can barely see you across the mass of skirts and laces. You, on the other hand…" he jerked his head over towards where several younger lasses were giggling. One was obviously making eyes at Merry.

Merry flushed and totally lost his previous composure, quickly sinking back into the mire of pre-adolescence by muttering, "Don’ like girls."

"Well, they seem to like you!!" Frodo teased and reached out, giving a careful tug to the lapels of Merry’s own brightly hued, carefully buttoned waistcoat. "’Aye, the Master’s son’s growin’ so tall and fetching, en’t he?’" he mimicked in a soft, breathless falsetto. Pippin giggled; Frodo grinned down at the little hobbit

Merry’s ears were getting pink. "Aww, Frodo…"

"Must be that new waistcoat your mother so hates—they can see you coming for miles in it, you know…"

"I like yellow! Better than those boring old blues and browns and tatty old beiges—and that green!…"

"Hey!" Pippin protested, for he happened to be wearing green as well—albeit a lighter shade that just about matched his bright eyes.

Merry didn’t pause haranguing his older cousin, "…that you’re always in. You just don’t have any clue about style, do you?"

"Well, I know enough to realize that if I wore that yellow I’d look like a daffodil in dire need of watering." Frodo still fussily inspected the new waistcoat, dusting imaginary dirt from it. "Maybe you’ll find some girl named Daffodil and she’ll dance with you because she matches your waistcoat…"

"I don’t want to dance with any girl!" Merry grimaced and slapped at Frodo’s hands. "Leave off, will you?"

Frodo desisted, still grinning. His younger cousin’s ears were now scarlet.

"How about dancing with your uncle then?"

Merry’s eyes went wide and he whirled, then launched himself at the bearer of the baritone voice. "Mac!"

There was an audible grunt from the newcomer as Merry landed smack in the middle of his chest. Frodo laughed as the hobbit—a rangy and broad-shouldered fellow with an impossible length of sun-streaked brown hair tied at his nape and a face made noticeable by large grey eyes and a nose that crooked slightly off the true as if it had been altered several times rather forcibly—grimaced and shifted his clinging nephew’s considerable length of frame to one side. Upon accomplishing this, Merimac Brandybuck smiled and turned towards the two remaining lads.

"And how are you, Frodo?" he asked about Merry’s gleeful demonstration of uncle adoration, holding out a hand then, as Frodo grasped it, pulling him about and wrapping him into a strong, one-armed embrace. "You’ve grown, both of you!"

"You’ve been gone so long, that’s why!" Merry informed him stolidly, planting a huge kiss on one sun-browned cheek and wriggling down. He didn’t, however, pull free from his uncle’s arm; Merimac held onto both the boys and turned grey-blue eyes onto the remaining and smallest one.

"I have to go where the wind and water takes me, lad, you know that. Who’s this fine young hobbit?"

Pippin stood up as tall as he could and stated, "I’m Peregrin Took, don't you remember me?"

Merimac blinked.  "You, my old Pal’s boy? My, but you've done some growing while I was away."

Pippin puffed out his chest.

"I was expecting a barely-weaned bairn tagging after his Mum's skirts at Smials, and here I find a fine young hobbit visiting the River.  The next Thain, eh?"

Merry snorted.  "Hardly. He's nothing but the Pipsqueak."

"Hey!" Pippin protested indignantly.

"Merry…" Frodo and Merimac both warned at the same time, then met each other’s gaze and grinned. Pippin stuck out his chin at the show of solidarity behind him.

Merimac grabbed a handful of Frodo’s hair, giving it a light tug, then captured his nephew once more, also by his curls. "I meant to get in two days ago, but one of my steersmen got sick. Then the wind died and the current with it. We started rowing. It went downhill from there." He leaned a bit dramatically on the two lads and they staggered, giggling. "Feel pity for your old uncle. But I’m here, and even had time for a decent bath! I do miss the bathhouses, you know," he continued a bit wistfully. "Pouring coldwater buckets over one’s head on the prow is not my idea of a true bath."

"If you’d visit more often…" Merry started with mock fierceness.

"Oh, spare me, young’un!" Saradoc’s younger brother shifted beneath the shoulders of his blue frock coat a bit irritably. "You sound more and more like your mum! Just rejoice in my presence and find me a drink, eh?"

"You promised a dance, first," Merry reminded him pointedly.

"No drink, no dance for the birthday lad," was the firm rejoinder. "Hoy… you’re wearing that waistcoat I sent you! Good show!" Merry grinned, ducked from under his uncle’s arm and ran for the ale kegs. Merimac put fingers to his mouth and whistled piercingly, halting Merry before he got five meters. The lad turned questioningly. Merimac unhooked the pewter mug from his belt, flipped it towards his nephew; Merry caught it nimbly then took off again.

"Tell me, cousin," Frodo ventured, looking after Merry as he vanished towards the kegs, "did you get Merry that color of waistcoat on purpose?"

"On purpose?" A look of mock injury twisted the wry expression further. "However do you mean? Whyever should I do something like that?"

Frodo looked sideways at him, a smile twitching at his lips. Merimac winked at him, then drew him closer. "And how is cousin Frodo, then?" He patted him on one cheek. "You look hard and fit. A bit pale… you’ve been bent over the books lately, haven’t you?" Frodo shrugged, a self-conscious smile playing at his lips. "Mm-hmm. Thought so. You read entirely too much. But…" his eyes slid to meet Frodo’s own, and he grinned a bit lopsidedly, an expression much like Merry’s, "we’re made as we’re made."

Frodo smiled wider; Merimac cuddled him rather absently for a moment longer, then with his free hand poked him in the ribs. "You’re too thin, lad… I know, I know… but you are. When are you going to come work on the river with me, eh? I like wiry lads—they’re tougher than most! Endurance, you see."

"I’ll come work with you, cousin Merimac!" Pippin volunteered. "I’m wiry!"

"And that you are, master Peregrin." Arm still about Frodo, Merimac started toward the ale casks. Pippin fell into step beside him, grasping his free hand unhesitatingly. "You could be fine company for my little Berilac—I think he’s right in between you and the Merry-lad, age-wise. Next time he visits me perhaps you should as well, eh?"

"Isn’t he coming?" Frodo asked.

"Oh, I’m sure Esme invited Rill and his mum both… haven’t seen them yet, though."

Merry came jogging up, mindful of the nearly full mug he held. He gave Pippin a grimace, seeing that his uncle’s free arm had been co-opted. Frodo’s lips quirked; he shifted out from under Merimac’s other arm, gave him a smile then held out a hand to the little Took.

"I seem to recall," he said lightly, "that you wanted to dance? Let Merry talk to his Uncle Mac and let’s see how well you were paying attention to the dancing steps old Fiddler showed you last week."

* * * * * *

"Rorimac Brandybuck! And Bilbo Baggins! Now if that isn’t a sight for these eyes!"

Bilbo had already brought Rory his drink and settled his own on the small table they’d appropriated; turning, he grinned and playfully aped a wide Tuckborough burr. "And if it’s nae Himself—and his lav’ly braide!"

Paladin Took raised his eyebrows and smiled; the expression turned his rather serious, narrowly handsome face into boyish charm and made his sea-green eyes dance. He was, like many of his kin, not a hobbit of particular height or undue broadness of frame; however he wore the honorific with the same casual, imposing grace that he wore his expensive, wine-colored frock coat. It spoke volumes to not only to his but also his family’s legacy of position and landholding. "For such an adventurer as yourself, you’re sure keeping to that hole of yours these past years. Probably a good thing, if that atrocious excuse for an accent is your only cover!"

"And a nice hole it is, Paladin!" his wife chided, then shook her finger playfully at Bilbo and gave him a hug. "You always were a rogue in hobbit-skin, Mister Baggins! Calling a settled older matron as myself a bride!"

"Ah, but you look the part—why not call it as it falls?" Bilbo pushed her back, still holding her hands, and gave an appreciative chuckle. "Gay and golden-haired, round and soft as the wild rose. Ah, but I appreciate a lovely female who knows how to dress to advantage—you outshine the younger lasses by far, Mistress Took!"

"Ah, sir, you do take my breath away with your compliments!" she told him, hazel eyes glinting teasingly.

"Now then, sir, have the grace not to so openly flirt with my wife!" Paladin cut in with pretend annoyance. Bilbo winked at Eglantine, who winked back as he took the Took’s hand then bowed formally over it.

"My apologies, my lord…"

"Eglantine is right, you’re a proper rogue, you are. ‘My lord’…" was the snorted reply; Paladin shook his dark head, retrieved his hand and held it out to Rory, who took it with a curmudgeonly grin.

"Never mind this badger," the old Brandybuck growled. "He’s always looking for trouble at a party; you’d think he’d never left his tweenage years. It’s been too long, Paladin!"

"Surely too long, Rory!"

"Bilbo is right, Eglantine, you get more lovely every year. How are the old Smials keeping for both of you?"

"Quite well, sir. The Hall looks lovely."

"It does, Rory," Paladin concurred.

"Aye, well, your sister sees to that!" Rory said in satisfaction.

"You’ve not seen her, have you?" Paladin asked, looking over the crowd. "I thought I glimpsed her when we rode in, but since then I’ve lost track of her…"

"Probably in the kitchens making sure it’s all perfect, knowing Esmeralda."

"Quite," Paladin said with a chuckle.

"I’m glad you could both come—I know it’s a busy time of year, what with the start of harvesting and those ponies you insist on keeping."

"The first harvest was put up several weeks back. Got another one coming soon. Late this year in the Westfarthing…"

"East, too."

"Mmm. But with luck and a few more weeks the take will be showing a vast improvement over last years’. And then," Paladin smiled fondly, "I’ve a lovely crop of three-year-olds to break in."

Rory snorted. "You should never keep anything that eats while you sleep. ‘Tisn’t efficient, son."

"Perhaps, but you should see them in the pastures, first thing," the Thain said, holding one hand out as if to sketch a picture for the old hobbit. "All misted in the morning grass, so calm and peaceful. Or to watch them running over the dales… I’d say my money was well spent, the satisfaction I get from just watching my ponies, let alone riding them!"

Bilbo chuckled. "Now Rory, you’ve got him started and you know it!"

Rory snorted. "Well, I just don’t see any reason for training a cavalry. No one’s invaded our borders in years—and they’re not about to start now!"

"Aye, but you think preparation ever hurt anything? Tisn’t like I’ve some mounted force of a hundred men… and the small Shirriff’s patrol are glad to get my ponies, them being so few with such miles to cover…"

"All right, now," Eglantine said, taking her husband’s arm and angling her head against it. "This is a child’s party, not a political debate. And speaking of children, have you seen your son?"

"Nay," Paladin admitted, turning away from the discussion and eyeing the throng of hobbitry.

"Here," Bilbo smoothly inserted, "why don’t you have a seat here, visit with the old hobbit." Rory harrumphed; Bilbo winked at him and continued, "I’ll go and fetch us a few more drinks and take a look for the little lad. Last time I saw him he was dancing with one of his cousins."

Paladin smiled; Eglantine also, albeit with a glance heavenward. "I’m giving fair warning," she told the three men, "if this discussion ends up being all borders and guard-crossings, I shall be going to find a sewing circle!"

"But love," Paladin said a bit distractedly, "you hate sewing…"

"I think she hates politics worse, your Lordship," Bilbo teased, then ducked the good-natured glare he received and went to go fetch a few more drinks.

* * * * * *

"Can I have some mead, too?"

"No!" This from not only Frodo, but also Saradoc, who was within earshot, directing the settling of a cask of cider. Pippin frowned at the dual remonstrance and Frodo met his uncle’s eyes. They both shared a quick rueful grin over the child’s head, then his uncle turned back to his business.

"But you’re having some, Frodo…"

"And that has to do with what?" Frodo queried, steering Pippin over to the cider casks. "Mead’s too strong for you, Pip. Give it a few more years. Say ten or so."

"Can I at least have a taste?"

Frodo rolled his eyes then decided better this than have to ride herd over him—for he knew that a ‘no’ was as good as a invitation to the little Took some days. He handed the half-filled mug to him. "You won’t like it, anyway. I didn’t when I was your age."

"Then why do you drink it now… yee-ick!" Pippin spat out the small amount he had on his tongue—thankfully not back into the mug—and handed it back to Frodo. "That’s nasty, that is!"

"Told you, didn’t I?"

"Why are grown hobbits doing such nasty things?" the little boy wondered, happy now to fill his mug with cider to wash away the mead’s taste. "’Tis like smoking. I like to smell it, mind, but when me and Brandin and Laurel tried it…" he broke off, giving Frodo a concerned look.

"It was dreadful, wasn’t it?" Frodo finished. "It was the first time I tried it, too."

"You did, Frodo?" Pippin was agog.

"Well, yes," he answered, a little perturbed that his cousin seemed to find this incomprehensible.

"You do seem to get in a bit of trouble, that’s true," Pippin continued, and Frodo found this piquing as well, then gave up trying to figure it out. Some days his reactions were as inexplicable, even to himself, as Pippin’s abrupt turns and twists of venue. "But you’re almost old enough to be smoking now, aren’t you, so why…?"

"Ah! There you lads are!"

The two turned to see their cousin Bilbo striding over, capably balancing several mugs in his hands, a broad smile lighting his face. Frodo started to smile back—the expression was that charmingly contagious—instead he remembered what Lotho had said and stared worriedly at the elder Baggins.

Surely Lotho hadn’t meant if Bilbo approached him—that couldn’t be construed as his fault. Could it? Would it?

Damn it.

"I’ve been looking for you in particular, Peregrin, but I’m glad to see your cousin as well. You’re Frodo, aren’t you?" Bilbo kept smiling. Frodo was struck by how ‘un-Baggins-like’ the old hobbit was upon close inspection. He was well placed and filled out, but the hands delicately balancing the mugs were not very large, nor were his brocade-clad shoulders. His height was even less than Frodo’s own, and his eyes were a very light blue, holding streaks of amber when the sun hit them just right.

Of course, according to talk Bilbo was half-Took from his mother, which explained a lot—particularly when standing next to Pippin. They all but had the same brilliant glint in their gaze.

Those blue-amber eyes met his, startlingly direct. "You and I keep missing each other, lad, and as you’re one of my closest relatives it’s time we met properly, don’t you think? I’m Bilbo Baggins."

"I… I know, sir…"

"Mumma! Dada!" Pippin squealed, then grabbed Frodo’s hand. "Excuse us please, cousin Bilbo, but I want Frodo to see my parents and… c’mon, Frodo!"

The little boy yanked at his arm, nearly causing him to spill his drink. Frodo met Bilbo’s eyes apologetically; Bilbo merely grinned and lifted the mugs he held in a type of salute.

"Go on, then. I’ll see you shortly."

His stomach churning with both relief and regret, Frodo followed an adamant Pippin. The little boy ran through the party, ducking and dodging yet still somehow not running them into anyone or letting go of his older cousin’s hand until they arrived where Pippin had noticed his parents’ presence. Rory was there, comfortable in his ever-present sling-chair. Merimac was next to his father, a sturdy hobbitchild seated in his lap. Frodo would have recognized Berilac by freckle count alone had not his obvious attachment to his father given him away. Berilac gave Frodo a small, shy grin of recognition; Frodo reached out and ruffled his red-gold curls with a return smile—it had been over a year since Rill had visited, and if Frodo remembered correctly he was only a year or so older than Pippin, but he was thoughtful and fun-loving and had been a good fortnight’s addition to their company.

Pippin had no notice for anyone save the two standing hobbits. He dropped Frodo’s hand and launched himself at the closest one, a dark-haired male that stood next to Rory, wearing the Took’s colors of claret and silver. For Paladin was called the Took, for it was he that the Shirefolk saw in the Thain’s duties, not paralyzed Ferumbras who was now the Shire’s Thain only by title.

"Peregrin!" Pippin’s father grabbed his son up, swung him in a wide arc that sent Pippin’s feet flying and made him shriek joyfully. Then the child wrapped both arms and legs about his father with a grip that Frodo well and rather wistfully recognized, having been the recipient of it several times himself. "Ooof!" said Father, who then furthered in an accent that proclaimed him even more firmly as belonging to Pippin, "Lad, you’ll be the death of me yet! Greet your mum and let me regain my dignity in front of the old Brandybuck, here." Pippin was duly passed to the lady standing next to him—and lady she was. She also wore the Took’s signet hue, however it was in a softer shade, more reminiscent of pollen-dusted roses than wine, with nutmeg-colored curls that fell halfway down her back and all but blended with her son’s as she took him from her husband and cuddled him close. The longing tug upon Frodo’s sensibilities that the heartfelt reunion caused rather melted into something different as he gaped at Pippin’s mother. She was beautiful.

Pippin buried his face in his mother’s neck and sighed. "Mumma, you smell good. I’m so glad you’re here."

"We’ve missed you, little one."

"Oh, I’ve missed you both so…" he said into her hair, then wriggled out of her embrace and down to the ground. "But it hasn’t been too bad, you know, because I’ve made such brilliant friends… and this is one of them. This is Frodo—you remember me telling you about him in my letters, don’t you?"

Paladin drubbed fondly the little hobbit’s head, then held out a hand, smiling broadly. "Indeed we do. Not often do I get missives from my son—the wonder that he’s sat still long enough to write them makes them all the more a treasure. ‘Tis a pleasure to see you again, Frodo Baggins. I’m your… oh, dear, I can’t place it now… shall we just say somewhat-removed cousin Paladin?"

"Oh!" Pippin seemed disappointed. "You know him?"

"The pleasure is mine," Frodo answered. Paladin Took’s handclasp was firm and steady in his own, and he smiled just like his son, bright and openly friendly, without a hint of reticence. "Again, sir?"

Paladin answered both his son’s and Frodo’s query. "Sure, but you probably don’t remember, lad—you were just a wee bairn when you came to Whitwell with your mother and father. They were good people, Frodo. Your father was a fine gentlehobbit… knew his ponies, he did, and what he didn’t know about sheep wasn’t worth knowing. This is my wife Eglantine."

"So this is the storyteller." Pippin’s mother turned a warm, brilliant gaze upon him as he looked to her and hesitated, ingrained manners temporarily overawed. "Our little lad says you’ve got to come back home with him when winter comes, because no one can spin as sweet a tale as Frodo." Instead of taking his hand, she put her fingers under his chin and peered into his eyes for a moment, then drew him into an embrace.

He was so taken aback that for seconds he just stood there, nearly dropping his drink. Then she put her hand to the back of his head and firmly laid his cheek against her shoulder. Frodo wrapped his free arm gingerly about her waist, closing his eyes. Her bright hair smelled like violets and new-mown hay and he gave a strange little shudder, suddenly feeling as if he could have groaned out loud with the inexplicable tangle of sweet contentment and disturbed longing and sudden, bittersweet memory that filled him. Faint memories of what he’d once had and what Pippin so gaily took for granted did battle with a new and disturbingly abrupt awareness of how pleasantly her soft frame lined up against his; for wild seconds he wondered what exactly it was he did want. A quiver from his spine and forward into his belly gave no answer but plenty of reaction, and Frodo retreated, embarrassed and feeling as if he were one of the Tuckborough ponies overfaced by a too-high fence.

Eglantine just looked at him, her brows quirking in an expression that had nothing to do with puzzlement but everything, somehow, to do with an innate understanding of his sudden confusion. She smiled reassuringly and touched cool fingers to his cheek.

"No fear," she told him quietly. "You’ve grown into a fine young hobbit, Frodo. Your mother would surely be proud of you."

He looked down, breath tight in his chest, heart hammering suddenly, wholly confused at her seeming acceptance of his mixed gamut of feelings. His eyes fell on the mug of mead he still somehow held; he brought it upwards and took a quick gulp of it.

A glib voice made him jump. "So you’ve bewitched another victim to your side, m’lady?" Frodo turned, cheeks hot, to watch Bilbo parcel a drink to both the Took and his wife. He smiled sideways at Frodo. "She’s conquered hearts from here to the West Towers, lad. Don’t feel that you’re alone in finding Eglantine Took abjectly fascinating."

"Or that I’m alone in finding you incorrigible, Bilbo Baggins!" the lady in question directed to him, then gave Frodo another smile and turned to take her drink. "Never mind him, lad—he’s forgotten what it’s like to be young, it’s been so long since he was!"

Frodo felt embarrassment ebb and mirth start to take its place as Bilbo gave a protesting snort.

Meanwhile Pippin had noted the newcomer to the circle and was homing in on him. "Who are you?" he asked of the child firmly planted in Merimac’s lap.

"Peregrin," Paladin told his son, giving Merimac a wink, "don’t you remember your cousin Berilac Brandybuck? He came to visit us several years ago."

"Hullo, Berilac," Pippin said cheerily. "’Tis nice to meet you again. I’m sorry I forgot you, but that’s been a frightfully long time ago."

"Hullo, Peregrin."

"Oh, you can call me Pippin," was the firm rejoinder. "That’s what my friends call me."

"My friends call me Rill, Pippin," was the answer and Berilac gave forth a sunny smile. Frodo grinned. Pippin’s obvious charm had laid claim to yet another—and now he knew where it had come from, Frodo thought to himself as he shot a surreptitious glance at Eglantine and her husband.

"Mumma, Dada, let’s go get Merry now," Pippin insisted, taking hold of their free hands. "He’s my best friend, next to Frodo of course, and you have to see him, don’t you know?"

"If you like, son," Paladin told him.

"But you know, dear," Eglantine said firmly, "Merry would most likely rather enjoy his party than talk to grown-ups."

"Oh, but it’s fine. I know! Anyway, we can come back here, because if Frodo’s here Merry will want to be, too."

Paladin looked queryingly to his wife as their son tugged impatiently, and she shrugged, looking about her then dimpling. "Ah," she said, "it seems I’m outnumbered here anyway. I’ll go with Pippin, dear, and you male-folk can talk ponies, policing and politics as you wish."

"You’re knowing me too well, love." Paladin grinned, leaned forward and placed a kiss on Pippin’s curls and then brushed his fingertips lightly against Eglantine’s cheek. Frodo watched the entire exchange with a bit of fascination; Paladin directed his next words not only to his mate, but their companions. "I’m thanking the stars for a properly understanding wife, gentlehobbits!"

"You remember that." Her smile widened to include the little one still curled in Merimac’s lap. "Perhaps you’d like to come with us, Rill? We’ll go find your cousin Merry."

The boy looked up at his father a bit eagerly; Merimac gave easy consent. "Go on, lad. I’ll catch up with you later."

"Come on, Rill!" Pippin said impatiently, tugging at his mother’s hand then grabbing Berilac’s as the boy came over to them. Eglantine flashed them all a smile and followed the two children who ran ahead, hand in hand. Frodo watched her go, still a bit bemused, then came back to reality as Bilbo gave him a nudge and a wink. Frodo blinked, then lowered his head, cheeks flushing once more.

"I’d better go, too," he muttered, starting to turn away, but found himself neatly blocked by Bilbo’s firm hand on his shoulder.

"Are you ducking me, then?" A smile accompanied the words.

"Oh, no sir! I just…"

"Come over here, then, sit with the grown-ups for a change. Humor an old hobbit and at least finish your drink with us before you go baby-sit your little cousins or, even better, find some charming young partner to dance with!"

Frodo felt well and neatly snared. There was no way he could refuse this without appearing horribly rude. Neither did he wish to refuse, not really. There was something in Bilbo’s face that was as compelling as Eglantine Took’s charmed beauty or riveting as Paladin Took’s diffident elegance. And…

Bilbo knew what mountains were like. He’d shared the road with dwarves, elves, and a wizard. The book Merry had given him hung heavily in his pocket—Bilbo really had been close enough to feel the heat of a dragon’s breath on his toes. Ancalagon the Black had supposedly been a small brush fire compared to the conflagration that had been known as Smaug…

Excitement quickening his heart and hollowing his belly, Frodo let himself be led toward where Rory was seated, already in some sort of vehement discussion with his youngest son that had Merimac’s eyes narrowed and his chin a bit set. Paladin was leaning on the back of Merimac’s chair, his gaze lingering upon the younger of the two Brandybucks, a concerned mien within it that spoke of great fondness. Frodo wondered if it was something in the air or what, for he was by some means noticing things about the grown hobbits he’d never noticed before. Like the way Paladin’s mouth tightened slightly and he shot a cocked eyebrow at Bilbo in a fashion that suggested the present discussion was neither exactly news, nor the most welcome of subjects. Frodo understood why as he sat down in the chair Bilbo graciously offered to him. This subject was one even he had heard before—and he never paid much attention to Hall gossip.

Until lately. He hunched slightly in his chair, hoping that if he were very, very still perhaps the subject wouldn’t turn to himself.

"…should have married that girl. Now she’s going to marry another, and you can’t blame her for that, can you?"

"I can’t and I don’t. I’m glad Berylla’s getting married, Father. How many times do I have to say it? If I’d married her… well, all that would have done was make us both miserable, her with no true husband and me on the river or the sea most days of the year—"

"Or in some young sailor’s bed!"

"Father!" Merimac glanced over at the youngest member of their small gathering, his brows twisting anxiously.

"Oh, Frodo’s old enough to hear what you’re up to. He’s come into his own, believe me."

Frodo wanted to writhe at the unintentional pointedness of Rory’s words. So much for hoping of disregard.

"I just hope he shows better judgment than his older cousin and figures out how to grow up and follow his duty by the Hall when the time comes!"

"Leave Frodo out of this, Father—he has all the time in the world to decide his own fate, and he doesn’t need you butting in any more than I do!" Merimac retorted severely, giving Frodo an apologetic look. "As to duty, I’ve already done my duty by the Hall!"

"And what’s to come of it? That beautiful boy—your son, my grandson—who could stand in line to the Hall as well? He’s to be adopted by some other, now? You to no longer provide for him as is your duty and your right?"

"Rill is going to be fostered here as necessary, I told you. It’s been agreed to by everyone, including the Hall Master." It was quite pointed. "He stays a Brandybuck, so you’ve no cause for complaints there. And I’ll continue to provide for my son as I’ve always done."

Frodo glanced from Rory’s choler, to Merimac’s darkly twitching expression, then to Paladin as he laid a firm, steadying hand upon Merimac’s shoulder. Bilbo’s features alone were carefully expressionless.

"You should have married her and provided for your son that way! Who’s to say that the lass wouldn’t have made a sympathetic wife? She’s of good family; from the moment she tripped you at that Harvest festival she knew you preferred the lads. You could have done what many already have; come to some mutual understanding about your passions yet still fulfilled your place as you ought!"

Merimac lurched forward in his chair, shrugging away from Paladin. "You’d have me living a lie the entire time?"

"Oh, bloody hell, Merimac! You’re such a cursed romantic! You’re still living lovesick tweenaged dreams, and you’ve never managed to take on the understanding that those things aren’t necessarily what marriage is about…!" Rory was turning a decided shade of purple; his eyes were beginning to flutter.

Frodo’s brows twisted concernedly; he looked at Merimac, then Paladin who was rather pointedly studying his well-manicured hands, then towards Bilbo who was no longer passive.

"Rory!" Eyes gleaming, Bilbo leaned forward and grabbed his old friend’s knee. "Leave your son be! He’s been of age for years now and he’s a grown hobbit! If you snap at him like this when he visits, no wonder he stays away!"

Frodo was sure that Rory would snarl at Bilbo next, was astonished when instead his old Uncle blinked, took in a shaky breath, then reached out a trembling hand and covered Bilbo’s where it was still cupping his knee.

"Rory," Bilbo told him softly, "Merimac doesn’t need to have you harping at him over how he chooses to live. If he’s happy and he’s given his due to the Hall with that lovely child of his, why do you care with whom he shares his bed? We’ll be what we’ll be, old son."

Bilbo’s neat paraphrasement of what Merimac had said to him not an hour previous rather startled Frodo, but the sudden tenderness that came into Rory’s eyes as he looked over to Bilbo was even more startling, as was his next words. "Why didn’t you marry Prim? Then we would have really been brothers."

"She wouldn’t have me," Bilbo stated a bit brusquely, then went on firmly but gently, his fingers lacing tightly into his old friend’s. "Rory, you and Paladin here were both quite fortunate in your wives." Bilbo shot a meaningful look over to Paladin, whose face had softened in agreement. "Not everyone can find their boyhood passions in a marriage partner, you know. And not everyone should. Look at me—I’m quite content to go along as I am."

"I am looking at you—and you’re no sterling example of what a normal hobbit should be," Rory growled then, muttering to himself, desisted. "Both of you, my youngest son and my oldest friend, dead set on going against the grain."

"We’ll need more that go against the grain. Change is coming, old son," Bilbo stated quietly, loosing his hand and sitting back in his chair once more. "Change is here."

"He’s right, Rory," Paladin inserted quietly. Merimac had sat back in his chair and the Took had laid comforting fingers atop his friend’s sun-streaked curls. "You can feel it, even in the Shire. The very land beneath our feet is shifting with the wind. And it’s blowing from Buckland to the western border. We canna’ stop it; we can only be going with it."

"The Shire has been here forever!" Rory said, thumping his fist against his thigh.

"We haven’t been, though," Bilbo ventured. "Rory, my dear, there are a lot of things older than our kind on this earth."

"You and your elves!" Rory snorted. One side of Bilbo’s mouth drew back, as if in a tic, but nothing else on his face stirred save his eyes. They brightened, hardened.

"Elves have been seen fording the Brandywine," Merimac put in. Frodo’s eyes widened and he peered at Merimac with renewed interest. "Mostly during the dusk hours, or at night. I was up for the midnight watch and I saw them. High elves, at that."

Bilbo alone seemed unsurprised by this; he nodded to himself but said nothing.

Paladin gave a last absent caress to Merimac’s skull then nodded, crossing his arms. "There’s been talk of seeing small bands of the Graceful Ones passing to the West," he agreed. "I’ve not seen it myself, but I’m not doubting the hobbits who brought me the news."

"Pal, you’re quite right to keep training your ponies and your watch," Merimac said quietly, his clear eyes darting up to meet the ones so like to Pippin’s. "Where the elves are leaving, the Big People will come in. And the Big People won’t stop at that—they’re too acquisitive. Some of them already eye the Shire’s plenty. Those Bree hobbitfolk are too friendly with outsiders by halves; in consequence that area’s overrun with the tall ones. And more and more I see men on our own Brandywine, and not just doing their business and leaving."

"Yes," Bilbo put in quietly. "The dwarves who brought me the fireworks for this party said that they’d seen more and more Big Folk near the northern borders."

"Dwarves!" Rory expostulated. "Since when do dwarves think to help hobbits, other than sell us the occasional big mirror or bit of fancy forge work?"

"They think to help me, since I helped them claim their kingdom back!" Bilbo said a bit irritably. "Rory, what’s gotten into you?—you sound like the folks in Hobbiton! Just lock the doors and put our heads down the privies, and nothing can happen in the Shire, save us all!"

"I want nothing here that will change our home!" Rory stated softly, fists clenching on the chair. "Bilbo, you might not hold the love in your heart that you used to for our lands, but—"

"Rory, there is much to love in the Shire. I’ve never said that there wasn’t. There’s just more than the Shire, and I well know it because I’ve been there! I’ve walked mountains and forests and gotten lost in the caverns that riddle the mountains… and the more we think that the Shire is the only place on earth, the happier we might be but also the more vulnerable we might be!"

The old Brandybuck fell silent, chewing at his lip, eyes clouding. Frodo watched, a bit concerned as Merimac narrowly glanced at his father then shook his head at Bilbo ever so slightly. Bilbo took a breath, nodded then sat back in his chair, letting it go. Frodo wondered if his adventuresome cousin had forgotten Rory’s uncertain mental state. He then wondered what it must be like to watch someone—someone you’d certainly loved for a long time, considering the comfortable interchanges of affection the older hobbits kept displaying—and watch that someone deteriorate while you stayed reasonably whole, and very aware of what was happening right before your eyes…

Frodo felt a sudden stab of pity—not only for Rory, but also for Bilbo.

"And they love a bit of home cooking, those dwarves!" Paladin grinned and took the chair between Frodo and Merimac, deliberately lightening the mood. "I remember the time you brought those twins ‘round with that lot of fine knives for sale, Bilbo. Could those hairy beggars keep up with even my kinfolk at table!"

Rory snorted with unwilling laughter at this. "Didn’t think anyone could out eat Ferumbras! How is the old hobbit, anyway?"

"As well as can be expected."

"Is he letting you hold the Thainship in truth as well as deed, or is he still thinking he can rule the Shire from his bed?"

"More like Lalia’s ruling the Shire from her bed!" Merimac growled.

Bilbo chortled at this; Paladin demurred.

Merimac continued. "Ferumbras would have deeded Thainship over to you after his accident as he ought if not for that old bitch carping at him."

"Peace, my friend," Paladin said easily. "I’m happy enough where things stand now." Merimac subsided with a shrug as Paladin continued. "The Thain is no better, but he does well enough. My Pimpernel has taken to helping care for him. She’s the knack for it. The old wortwife’s all set to ‘prentice her to the nursing."

"Hm." Rory’s eyes were beginning to go a bit blank; Frodo recognized the signs of mental wandering. "And how’s little Pervinca, then? And your lively young Pearl?" Rory asked. "I was sure she’d be coming—she’s always been one to set a party on its heels."

The Took’s pleasant face gave a tiny twist, smoothed itself out with some effort. This time it was Merimac’s turn to reach over and rest a light hand on his shoulder. "Pearl is certainly lively," Paladin answered, giving Merimac a sideways thankful glance. "But no, she’s not coming; she’s been helping Nell nurse her grandmother and the Thain. And ‘Vinca’s staying in Long Cleve with her mother’s sister."

Frodo wondered if conversation died so swiftly when someone in some other farthing asked the query, ‘and how’s that young Frodo, then?’. He felt an unwitting kinship with Pearl Took in result… and found himself wondering if they even perhaps shared cause. Her rather overly self-indulgent reputation certainly preceded her; perhaps she would have advice about gaining a tougher hide and not caring what people said. Particularly if you were somehow and seemingly doomed to difference.

"Can I top your drinks, cousins?" It was Saradoc walking over; there was a bit of wistful envy on his face that Frodo found startling. Plainly his uncle would much rather be enjoying the male-talk than playing host.

Frodo hunched lower in his chair, half-afraid that when his uncle’s eyes fell upon him that he’d be ordered back to the children’s sections or some such equivalent; when Saradoc merely made notice of him then said nothing Frodo glanced upward a bit puzzledly. Then he noticed two others looking at him, taking note of his reaction with their own brands of perplexity: Merimac and Bilbo.

"None for me, but I’d better be looking for your wife at any rate," Paladin said, rising a bit regretfully. "And mine. I’ve not done my duty or paid my respects properly to either of you, Saradoc Brandybuck, and for that I’m apologizing. The conversation has just consumed me, I’m afraid." He sketched a short bow to Rory, Bilbo, Merimac, and to Frodo’s surprise, Frodo himself as well. "I’ll return as I’m able, gentlehobbits."

"I’ll head back with you," Saradoc nodded, then offered again, "Any orders?"

"We’re fine, son," Rory stated after querying his companions with a quick glance. "You go on, do the pretty!"

Saradoc gestured to Paladin, and the two walked away.

"Ah, but did I get down on my knees the day lovely Esme gave birth to our Merry-lad!" Merimac said with a knowing smirk. "The Mastership settles much better upon Brother!"

"And his wife," Rory said pointedly.

Bilbo chuckled. "I should think that dear Esme also got down on her knees the moment she knew she was breeding, with the thought of that river-rat Merimac so close to her seat of power!!"

Merimac let out a howl of laughter. Rory too found the comment amusing, for he chortled into his ale cup. Frodo tried to hide his own mirth behind his hand, failed miserably. Merimac winked at him and Rory settled rheumy eyes on him.

"I’ve missed you in the library, boy," he said disagreeably.

"I’m sorry, Old Uncle. Jim was sick and I had extra duty in the barns…"

"Brother has you working in the barns, Frodo?" Merimac seemed a bit startled.

Frodo shrugged. "It’s all right. I can do it."

"No wonder you’re so fit, then, if he’s got you working with the navvies."

"Once a snobby Brandybuck, always a snobby Brandybuck," Bilbo chided. "As if you don’t work on that boat like a commoner."

"My dear!" Merimac put one hand to his heart dramatically, "I own the boat. Of course I work on it! It’s not the same!"

"I don’t mind," Frodo insisted. "Why should I? And I’m clearing out the library as well."

"Hm," Rory said. "I know you and my grandson were on the outs for a while, there. Everything better, now?"

"Yes, sir."

"That boy loves you to distraction, you know. You mind that and be good to him."

Frodo smiled. "Yes, sir. I will."

"Rory, you’re blathering again!" Bilbo remonstrated. "D’you think he wants to sit and hear an old hobbit pass gas out of his mouth all day?"

Frodo shot Bilbo a startled look, then saw the teasing glint in his eyes, in the curve of his lip. And then saw how Rory responded, how his vacant look began to refocus.

"I suppose you think he’d rather listen to your version of wind!" Rory countered spiritedly.

"Dragons and treasure are more entertaining to a young soul than someone going on until you want to puke about how you should love your cousin!" Bilbo snorted, then said to Frodo in a whisper loud enough to be heard on the other side of the party, "Take my advice, my boy, and be careful which of your cousins you trust. Relatives can be even less kindly than strangers."

Merimac snorted into his ale.

"Oh, I think Frodo knows that quite well already," Rory said, a bit cryptically, and took a draw from his own half. "He really should watch out for you, you old badger."

Looking from one to the other in amazement and not a little bit of disbelief at their garrulous antics, Frodo suddenly chuckled. The other hobbits turned to him and he sobered abruptly.

"Well?" Rory demanded. Merimac was shaking his head, still smiling into his drink.

Bilbo met his eyes and grinned.

* * * * * *

Frodo felt rather sick.

He wasn’t sure if it was too much mead—he’d had his mug refilled twice now—or too much sun—despite the fact that the trees arching over them provided adequate shade—or just the fact he had spent most of the afternoon laughing so hard that tears still stained his cheeks and his stomach was trembling almost painfully.

Sick, yes. But Frodo didn’t want it to ever, ever stop. Pippin thought he could tell a story! Frodo Baggins was a rank amateur compared to Bilbo Baggins. Frodo had never before enjoyed hearing stories told like this before—he now realized that it wasn’t from any lack within himself, it was because he’d never heard a true storyteller until now. Bilbo had Merimac doubled up in his seat, he even had old taciturn Rory shouting with laughter—several times surrounding hobbits had turned to them, disturbed by the unholy shrieking emanating from their corner, and a small crowd had gathered about, curious then also entertained. Merry and Pippin—no longer companioned by Berilac who had since vanished with another group of young lads bent on catching minnows—had started over earlier only to be firmly waylaid by Esmeralda. She’d given Bilbo a disapproving stare and glanced concernedly at Frodo.

Bilbo had merely laid a finger alongside his nose and denigrated himself merrily, "Ah, I’m corrupting the children, now! Do you feel corrupted, lad?" To which Frodo had of course shaken his head furiously, and Bilbo had grunted in satisfaction and went on to tell a wildly improbable and quite racy tale about a troll mistaking a huge, petrified tree for his rather-sluggish wife.

These were not necessarily stories fit for bairns, no. But they were dashedly funny.

Meanwhile the ‘children’ were most unhappy. Merry’s face was fierce as a storm cloud because his beloved cousin was elsewhere having entirely too much fun without him—and that his mother would not let him join in because he was too little, of all things. Pippin had abandoned both the minnow expedition and his parents’ company in order to desperately try and cheer Merry up—without much success.

"That old coot has to always be the center of attention wherever he goes!" Esme growled at her husband.

"Yes, he does," was the implacable reply. "But Esme—when was the last time you heard Frodo laugh like that?"

She peered sideways over to where Bilbo must have just said something else terribly witty. Rory was chortling into his beer. The surrounding group of hobbits was also laughing fit to kill. Frodo was literally convulsed with giggles, falling back in his chair and holding his stomach.

"A long time," she said slowly, frowning, "Now that you mention it."

"Well." Saradoc looked about. At the far end of the table, Eglantine was directing several servants with heavily laden platters and Paladin was directing a group of hobbits with the skewers of roasted meats. Saradoc furthered, "We’re all but ready, here. Let’s call mealtime. Merry’s going to mutiny soon if we don’t, and Frodo might be having the time of his life, but he looks as if he’s going to be ill. I think Bilbo’s fed him one too many mugs of mead to go with too little food and too many wild stories."

"Well, that figures!" Esme sniffed, but the disparaging expression melted away as Frodo’s laughter rang out again. "It figures even more that lot would get on, doesn’t it?" she muttered, but there was less sarcasm in the words than she could have used. "That Frodo would find some connection with Bilbo and your brother… and both of them black sheep in a herd of white woolseys, no more fit to ride herd over an impressionable lad than Pal’s ponies!"

"Ring the bell, wife." Saradoc raised his voice to the two dejected small beings not too far away. "Son, are you ready to eat?"

"Yes!" came the chorus from both Merry and Pippin.

* * * * * *

The supper call broke up all the small gathered groups—not just the one centered about Bilbo—and everyone came gladly to the tables. Massive roasts and fresh bread were plentiful, and thankfully early vegetables were now as well. The kitchen hobbits, their party finery temporarily covered up by large aprons, bore foodstuffs and necessities from the kitchen in a steady, well-organized line.

Pippin and Berilac, accompanied by two other little lads who bore the look of having gone fishing for minnows with their teeth, had descended upon Frodo as he was seating himself for dinner—Bilbo, Rory and Merimac had gone to sit at the Master’s table with Pippin’s parents, Sara, Esme and the singular young guest of honor. Merry looked that he would much rather be seated with his cousins, but was bearing up with the food that had been placed before him—all his favorites.

Frodo listened with barely half an ear to the younger boys’ chatter; his mind was still filled with wargs and dragons, magical fire and gleaming swords, mailed men taller than starlight battling monsters from the deeps. The children’s subjects seemed tame as tame despite their long foray into the promise of cake and fireworks. Even the rumor that one lad put forth—that Marina had some iced cream cooling in the thickly-strawed blocks of the ice house—failed to budge Frodo from his self-inflicted reverie. He barely touched his plate.

Dinner was a huge success. The massive cake was cut and passed about. Merry was toasted and accoladed and hugged; when he finally was able to grab his own plate of cake, he pleaded for escape from the main table. His mother and father cheerily gave it to him, busy in conversation with their contemporaries, and he scooted for his cousins, hailing Frodo from across the grounds.

Frodo looked up from his own slice of cake and smiled at him. "So how does it feel?"

"Feels like I was never going to eat this cake!" Merry said exasperatedly, sitting across from Frodo and next to Pippin, who gave him an icing-smeared grin. He recognized two of Pippin’s contemporaries—and relatives of his—Brandin and Kim were deep in earnest boy-type natter with cousin Berilac.

"Better tuck in!" Pippin advised. "It’s very good cake, don’t you know?"

Merry stared at the little boy for a moment, then snickered and picked up his fork and started in on his cake. "Oh," he sighed in contentment after a taste. "Marina does make the best afters, doesn’t she?"

"Blackberry pie with soured cream," Frodo put in his vote.

"Jam roly-poly!" was Merry’s next addition.

"Cake!" Pippin said about a mouthful of such.

"Walnut spice cookies," Merry said wistfully.

Frodo didn’t continue this, mashing the last few bites of cake on his plate with a bemused smirk on his face.

"Cousin Frodo’s been very quiet since dinner!" Pippin proclaimed. "I think he’s been drinking too much."

Cousin Frodo did look a bit squiffed, Merry thought, peering at him. The pale cheeks were flushed and the hand that held the fork seemed slightly unsteady. "Are you all right?" Merry asked. "Mum said that cousin Bilbo was giving you too much to drink."

"Oh, it’s not the mead…" the blue eyes were quite disfocused—yet somehow still alert, bright with an expression Merry couldn’t recall seeing before. "Well, I think I did have a little bit more than I’m used to, but that’s not it. Oh, Merry, he had the most wonderful tales!"

Merry stared blankly at him.

"And Frodo’s going to tell them all to us!" Pippin informed around another large mouthful of dessert. His comment seemed to snap Frodo back to the present.

"Well, some of them anyway," was the light amendment, a dimple betraying some secretive mirth. "Pippin… is Merry going to have to cut up your bites for you or what? Stop gobbling!"

"I’m not cutting your food for you, Pipsqueak, so do what Frodo says!" Merry added.

"Hey! You can’t call me Pipsqueak, too! It’s not fair!"

Merry met Frodo’s eyes and grinned. The older boy smiled back.

"Pipsqueak! Pipsqueak!" Kim sallied from the table’s end and Pippin shot up from his seat as though propelled by a slingshot. Utensils went flying, Kim went sailing with Pippin attached to his midsection, and for seconds it seemed as if there was going to be murder done. It took the combined efforts of Frodo, Merry, Berilac and Brandin to pry the little ones apart, but it was Frodo’s threat that stilled both the combatants.

"The main table’s watching—do you want a hiding for brawling in the Hall?" Sure enough, all their guardians were looking their way, and the surrounding tables were also interested.

Pippin shook his head violently, but protested beneath Frodo’s firm hand, "He can’t call me Pipsqueak!"

"Say you’re sorry, Kim," threatened Merry.

Kim hesitated; Merry shook him and he shrugged. "’M sorry, Pippin. I didn’t mean to make you that mad. I was just teasing."

Pippin scowled. Frodo’s grip tightened and he winced. "Ohhh… all right."

"Clasp hands and have done with it," Merry insisted.

The two boys did as bidden and Frodo released Pippin. "Why don’t you younger lads go get some more cake?"

This was met with round enthusiasm, save from Pippin who clung to Frodo’s side like a limpet. The unfortunate Kim, as well as Berilac and Brandin, ran to the food trestles.

"Pippin," Merry said disparagingly, "your temper’s going to get the best of you one of these days."

"I don’t think so," the little lad airily declined as he sat himself back at his place. "If you let it go, it goes away. If you don’t let it go, it just growls in your stomach like one of those dragons Frodo’s always telling us about."

Merry frowned. The peculiar thing was, however nonsensical the statement sounded coming from Pippin’s mouth, it almost made sense.

Frodo was already at his seat, taking a bite of his cake, but it seemed like he wasn’t very interested in it. Not really. Merry took up his own unfinished slice and took a healthy bite. "Did old cousin Bilbo have some whoppers, then?"

"A few." Frodo smiled into mid-air. "Merry, you won’t believe the best of it.  Bilbo invited me to come and visit him."

This statement, offered with such a soft delight, hit Merry like a kick to the stomach. He halted mid-bite, looking stricken. "You’re not going, are you?"

Frodo seemed about to reply, then the blue eyes rose to meet his cousin’s. He swallowed audibly then looked down. "I don’t know if your mum and dad’ll let me, anyway," he muttered.

"Well, you have to come visit me first," Pippin said. "I asked Mumma and Dada and they said they’d be happy to have you come, both of you. Maybe for the winter or spring. I can let you ride my pony… or maybe Dada can find something for us all to ride together, and…"

"You have your own pony?" Merry asked incredulously.

"Sure and I do!" Pippin’s chest swelled with importance. "Our old groom, Ralph, says I’m the likeliest race rider he’s seen in a long time! Tuckborough ponies are the best in the Shire!"

"Well, you know that colt in the barns? He’s to be mine," Merry boasted, aware that he was stretching the truth just a bit—the colt hadn’t yet been given to him, true, but surely it was only a matter of time.

Pippin seemed suitably impressed. "Oh, he’s a terrific colt, that one! He’ll be a fine, strong fellow! You’re lucky, Merry!"

The unabashedly positive and non-competitive nature of Pippin’s answer threw him for moments, made him feel just a twinge of guilt for trying to be so impressive. Merry bit his lip and looked up toward the main table, hoping for another piece of cake and sighed, gustily thankful. There was plenty left. He rose.

"Do either of you want any more?"

Frodo shook his head rather absently; Pippin nodded and Merry grabbed up his plate. "All right, then. I’ll be directly back."

He strode quickly over to the table and cut two large slices, thought about it a moment then went ahead and cut a third one. He wasn’t sure Frodo had even been paying attention when he’d asked him—and it was very good cake.

"How’s the pudding, young master?" Marina asked him cheerily; he grinned broadly at her and held up his three slices in demonstration of how much he appreciated it, was warmed by the cook’s smile.

Frodo was still staring off into space; Pippin was talking a mile a minute and not even aware of being unheeded, he was so busy spinning his yarn. Merry put the plates down; Pippin gave a gasp, grabbed his plate and rattled on. Merry sat down, glancing about with a sigh, then realized he wasn’t the only one eyeing Frodo.

Lotho. Again. Merry’s mouth twisted sideways and he glared at Lotho where he sat with a rather sizeable group of other lads his age. A lot of horseplay was emanating from that table—not that that was unusual for a group of tweeners, Merry thought disgustedly. Tweeners acted worse than the little kids sometimes—he sure wasn’t going to act like that when he reached his tween years! But Lotho wasn’t joining in the horseplay, which was also unusual, nor did he even begin to notice Merry’s glare. He was eating, his broad face even more sullen than normal, his dark eyes intently fastened upon the back of Frodo’s head. Merry started to give his cousin a kick under the table to let him know, warn him…

He stopped mid-motion, rather arrested by Frodo’s expression. His cousin often would get a similar air when he was in the middle of a really good book, or when he would sit out on one of the supporting branches of the treehouse. Usually he was just dreaming up something, which when he’d come ‘back to here’ as Merry was always teasing him, he’d then share. It might be a story he’d read, or even one he’d made up in his head; usually fantastic, often rough, but always entertaining.

Merry suddenly had no wish to break the reverie. It seemed like a nice place, wherever Frodo was. He was smiling.

"I don’t think Frodo’s going to eat that last piece of cake, Merry. He’s off again."

A chuckle rose in his throat. "Yes, Pippin, I guess he is."

"Can I have it?"

He turned to Pippin, brows drawing together incredulously. "Where are you going to possibly stuff a third piece of cake?"

"Oh, I have a hollow leg," Pippin informed him with all due seriousness. "Our cook told me so."

Merry laughed out loud. Frodo jumped, looked at him curiously, which made Merry laugh harder. Pippin started giggling as well. Pretty soon all three boys were chuckling, although Frodo started a bit late, not exactly sure what it was he was laughing about.

Pippin suddenly fastened onto Merry’s left side and gave him a huge hug. "Happy birthday, Merry!"

He hesitated, a bit taken aback. However Pippin didn’t loosen his embrace one bit, and the wiry little frame nestled against his ribcage quite comfortably. Merry hugged him back, angling his head against the child’s.

Across the table Frodo had his chin on his hands, smiling at them both. "Happy birthday, big boy," he said, very softly.

* * * * * *