Evening was generally when the Hall parties really started to wind up tight. All the kitchen duty over with, all the tables cleared and the little food that remained put on a long table to snack over at leisure, all the dishes soaking in large tubs to be done in shifts for the next few hours—all of the residents of Brandy Hall including the workers could let loose and play. The sun was only now beginning to descend; it was at least an hour from sunset, however several of the taller lads scuttled about the courtyard and surrounding green, lighting the lamps before it got too dim. Those bobbed gently in the breeze, almost in time to the music that was spreading blithely through the darkening trees.

Bilbo had disappeared, along with a few other hobbits who were no doubt in the farthest paddock busily getting fireworks prepared for later. The middle of the courtyard had been cleared of tables—all the younger hobbits had been put to work with that—and now Frodo stood beside Merry in the midst of a large and assorted semi-circle of hobbits, watching. Beating out a fast and complicated beat to the music with hands, tossing curls and feet, a large group of married couples were in the midst of dancing the Bracelet.

There weren’t many hobbits who couldn’t dance, and then it was generally due to some infirmity that disallowed it as opposed to ignorance. Most of the Buckland denizens had been dancing since they were tiny bairns, and even if they didn’t have a particular knack it didn’t matter—all that was required was lively participation. There were specialty dances—like the present one for attached couples, or the reel that had already been done in Merry’s honor and one of many for the children. There were males’ dances and females’ dances, adult and tweener dances, complicating courting and line dances where potential partners were sized up and flirted with, and a pandemonium of just plain free-for-alls where it was often hard to find room on the dance floor to move because everyone was eager to join in.

Whether it was the amount of mead he’d imbibed, or the sun and wind coloring his cheeks, or the overwhelming internal rush of all the joyful activity, Frodo was having yet another untoward revelation as he stood watching the dancers. He’d ceased clapping although next to him Merry was gleefully counting out beats with his palms. Frodo had been watching Paladin and Eglantine dance with the oddest fascination curling in his gut, and hadn’t truthfully been aware of much else until the complicated steps had called for a separation of partners. Eglantine had moved from her husband’s grasp and linked arms with another female, who tossed her fair curls and twirled with Eglantine to an outer ring. The two of them were stunningly graceful and laughing and lovely, flipping their skirts playfully to the males who’d made an inner circle, hopping on gaily-light feet back and forth. The lady dancing with Eglantine was lit with happy radiance and, undeniably as Frodo’s eyes were drawn to Eglantine, he found himself looking almost as much at her partner—until he realized who it was.

It was Esmeralda.

Frodo’s eyes flickered from side to side, then back toward his two female cousins, then down to his toes. His cheeks heated to scalding and he wanted to writhe with embarrassment, glad that no one else had seen him gawking so.

The music changed and he glanced back up; the couples had merged together again and he found himself looking curiously for his aunt once more. She was dancing with Saradoc, her laughter ringing out through the music. His uncle was laughing, too, light on his feet as any boy. Saradoc was in that moment startlingly handsome and vibrant in the fading light, fair as his young son who waited beside Frodo with a song on his lips and a rhythm upon his palms, his eyes all alight and his face flushed with pleasure. Frodo found himself staring first at Merry, then at his uncle as fixedly as he’d stared as the females bare moments before. Saradoc flashed a wide smile and whirled his wife into the air, squiring her as gallantly through the steps as if they had been married a mere season instead of long years.

As the dance came to an end with the requisite kiss, Merry squealed happily. He laid his head along his older cousin’s arm, nearly bouncing with energy, and Frodo jumped at the touch, shook his head then refocused on his young cousin.

"Do you think we’ll get to dance next?" Merry asked eagerly. "Do you?"

Laughter bubbling upwards and thankfully coating the odd, tempting slick of disquiet rumbling beneath his breastbone, Frodo ruffled the bright curls. "Maybe."

The music swelled into another fast-paced strain, and Merry groaned loudly. "Aw, it’s just another grown-up dance!"

"It’s the Kiss or Slap!" Frodo cried and, as he guessed, Merry cheered up immediately. This dance was always loads of fun—trying to guess who might get kissed in the end by their partners, or who might get the token slap. Sometimes things got a bit out of hand and that was even more enjoyable.

A shout went up from the other end of the dance floor and the lasses and lads assembling themselves on the green gave mirthful way before a very comely freckle-faced lass who was obviously leading the next round. Her partner not only kept up with her quite admirably, but also did so while balancing—and occasionally drinking from—a half-filled mug of ale. An enormous round of clapping started, keeping time for the dancers, but it seemed more were laughing and watching the leaders than following them in the dancing.

"Oh, brilliant!" Merry laughed. "Frodo, it’s Uncle Mac—he’s dancing with Rill’s mum!!!"

Frodo let out a squeak as he saw this was indeed true.

"This is really going to be good!" Merry crowed a bit bloodthirstily, all but dancing in place.

"Hoy, Merimac!" someone from the sidelines sang out, "this is what got you in trouble the last time, you rotter!"

Merimac grinned, but kept up the complicated steps, one hand balancing his ale, the other above his head and linking him side-by-side to Berylla. She was the one who answered with a toss of her head and a bold smile.

"The ale, or the dancing?"

Everyone roared. Across and to Frodo’s right, Saradoc and Esmeralda stood next to her brother and Eglantine. They were all laughing; his aunt was leaning back against her husband and his arms were wrapped across her breast.

Frodo wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his guardians this relaxed, or having this much fun. He hadn’t thought they ever had fun.

"And to what do we owe this honor?" Saradoc bellowed out to his brother. "’Tisn’t the Spring Planting, you know!"

"Last chance, brother mine!" Merimac shouted back.

"Hers? More likely yours!"

Berylla was nearly stumbling, she was giggling so hard. Frodo was holding his already-tender sides. Next to him Merry was chortling just as hard. The musicians gamely tried to make themselves louder than the hollering and laughter. It was not easy.

The dance wound itself up faster. Feet were flying, but amazingly Merimac’s ale was not. The dancers separated, wound in and about each other, changed partners for long moments. The teasing died down, but only until the original partners lined up again. The next series of steps were a bit more intimate, but no less quick, involving a few suggestive bumps and tosses.

"Aye, and what does the Brockhouse lad have to say about that, then?" a dancer called.

"I’m not married off yet!" Berylla replied in mock indignation. Her betrothed, a round swartly-handsome hobbit who himself held a precariously balanced mug of ale, was also doubled up with laughter.

The music changed and the dance, sweetly short, came to a rousing finish with the male partners on their knees, awaiting the verdict.

Did they dance adequately? Charm readily? Step clumsily on their partner’s feet?

Everyone held their breath, watching Berylla and Merimac with keen anticipation. She held her pose for a few grinning moments, spinning the moment out.

"Ah," she said. "You tempt me, sir."

He gave her a lopsided grin. "I can just imagine."

"But nay." She gave him a light slap on the cheek with her fingers. A shout went up for this untoward turn of events.

Frodo half choked, half-laughed. From what he’d heard, she’d kissed him last time… which had led to more dancing, more ale and a ‘planting ritual’ that had left Berylla pregnant with Rill.

Merry groaned out loud. "That wasn’t a slap!" he complained. Frodo grinned, remembering that when he’d been fourteen, a slap was much more fun than any slobbery old kiss.

But then Berylla bent over and kissed her son’s father on the forehead. "’Tis such a pity," she lamented, loudly enough for all to hear. "You make such pretty bairns—and you’re no’ so bad at the preliminaries!"

Everyone laughed, including Merimac, who bowed very low before her. The drama spun out a bit longer with the other couples, but the main one had played itself out and the laughter wound down slightly as the music spun itself into another set. Merimac hopped to his feet and drained his ale, clipping his mug to his belt and getting ready for the next dance.

"Ohhhh!" Merry huffed. "A tweeners’ dance, now! It’s supposed to be my party and we’re never going to get a chance to dance…"

"Why aren’t you out there, Frodo?" Pippin’s voice piped up, and a small hand tugged at Frodo’s waistcoat. "You’re old enough, aren’t you?"

Pippin’s father was attached to the child’s other hand. He dipped his head to Frodo and smiled, carrying a half-pint of mead and still flushed from his own stint in the circle. "I saw you earlier out with the little ones—but my boy’s right. Why aren’t you dancing now, lad?"

"Um…" Frodo voiced, shooting a glance at Merry, who had stilled with his grip tightening upon his older cousin’s arm. The sudden possibility and realization—his own as well as Merry’s—made Frodo strangely discomfited.

"Don’t tell me you’ve not danced in a coupling dance yet?" Paladin asked teasingly.

Frodo hesitated further, then shook his head, flushing a bit. It was true, he hadn’t yet danced in a coupling dance; he’d previously been on the cusp of being too immature to join in. There were those younger than he in the dancing circle, true—but chronological age meant little when the main unspoken requirement was to be at least a year out of puberty. And he’d not really been that until the past few months.

"Dada’s right!" Pippin exclaimed. "You should be dancing, Frodo!"

Pippin’s insistence was heartening, Paladin’s smile all too warming; both positives engendering a sudden giddy exhilaration that blanketed away Merry’s obvious uncertainty. Frodo was further flustered as Paladin, still smiling, dropped his son’s hand then reached out and took Frodo’s arm. Merry was smoothly loosed from his own grip, a bit wide-eyed as Frodo gave him a perplexed glance at the seeming Tookish conspiracy—for Pippin giggled and lost no opportunity to grab onto Merry once he was separated from Frodo. Paladin escorted him, rather grandly, over to the dancing ring.

"Are you.." Frodo stammered, the words tangling up on his tongue, "are y-you asking me for a dance?"

Paladin laughed. "Not this round—I’ve long since made myself ineligible for the tweener dances, if you take my meaning." He winked at Frodo, snugged his arm tighter and furthered, as if conferring a great secret, "But as we say in Tuckborough, there’s luck to be had in helping a lad to his first try. That goes for dancing as well as anything!"

Frodo chuckled; he couldn’t help it. Paladin’s familiar manner—whether prompted by the mead upon his breath or no—was infectious, his easy tolerance startlingly wonderful.

And it was true. He should be out there now; not dancing with the bairns, not waiting for some undisclosed time when his body would catch up with his years, not perpetually mandated to lurk outside the boundaries. He was old enough, more than so, and about time! He could be as those others, reaching for new things and new happenstance; in fact, he was being urged to do so.

So what if he was still a bit tipsy?—he wasn’t as much as Pippin’s father seemed, surely. And he absolutely loved to dance.

"Go on, lad," Paladin urged, releasing his arm and giving him a small push toward the dancers. "You’ll miss the best parts."

This particular set had complicated steps guaranteed to satisfy even the most busy of tweens, and the wild, almost unpatterned thread of it basically meant that partners would change, furiously quick, and there was no telling how or with whom you would end up. It was called a coupling dance, for while it was common happenstance that mostly tweenagers joined one, there were in truth all ages of unmarried hobbits there. As Frodo joined the mayhem he saw Merimac flash by, saw Girry partnered up momentarily with one of his friends’ sisters. Passing several more adults he knew, Frodo linked arms with Jim and was whirled about, both of them laughing.

And wonder of wonders, Aster was there as well. Her thick curls had been released from the bondage of braid and kitchen maid’s kerchief, and he could actually see for the first time that they were the color of ripe wheat just before the scythe claimed it, hanging fetchingly to her round hips. She wore a red bodice laced over pale blue blouse and skirts, and Frodo realized that she generally had something red about her, even if it was her kerchief, as if she had to have that small bit of color to offset the drab hues he’d always seen her wear until tonight. Her eyes sparkled with surprise and good humor as she sauntered past him, then the music swept her away.

Maybe, just maybe, if things lined up right he might get a chance to dance with her…

Two large hands landed quite familiarly on him, waist and shoulder. From somewhere deep in his chest panic flared at this; Frodo lurched away with a gasp, the impulse ruling and startling him both.

"Hoy!" A well-known voice spoke in his ear and Merimac pulled him close, moved him sideways as prescribed by the musical change. "You’re a mite jumpy, lad—is this your first dance with the big hobbits, then?"

Frodo regained his composure with a huge gulp. For moments he’d thought… well, he’d not thought it was Merimac who’d grabbed him, to be sure. Calling himself several uncomplimentary names under his breath, Frodo made sure to relax into his older cousin’s grip, letting himself be ‘led’ into the next chain of steps. He stumbled once as he did so; Merimac caught him. Frodo recovered quite quickly, eased into the rhythm of the dancing as his cousin laughed behind him. Keyed-up nerves didn’t ease as quickly, however; his partner was friend and not foe but the closeness was still disturbing. Only this time the disturbance wasn’t unpleasant, not at all. Frodo relaxed a bit more noticeably into Merimac’s hold.

It was actually rather nice, this.

"Well," Merimac teased in his ear as the next music cue sounded—and passed. "Are you going to take your turn at leading, or are you just going to go to sleep in my arms, silly lad?"

Cheeks heating, Frodo straightened up and did as bidden. Merimac was a warm, pleasurable mix of energy, whisky, salt and sun, and was agreeably reactive within the circle of his arms, following him without hesitation about the green. Then the music changed, and pairs changed. His next partner was a girl even younger than himself, extremely nervous at what was obviously her own first turn at the coupling dance. Frodo had to practically run to keep up with her. This made her giggle and he chuckled in return, and when she turned about and let him take his turn leading her through the steps, she smelled of roses and was soft in his arms as a comfortable feather bed. It was rather a startling change from Merimac’s solid strength.

He didn’t have a lot of chance to ponder such; the music changed again and whirled the pairs apart. A colorful grapevine of weaving in and out with hands clapping time, feet slapping on the earth, skirts flipping playfully, heads tossing mischievously, then again the random chances and pairings. Four partners, five… seven, eight…

At the tenth Frodo came to a dead halt. Lotho’s broad back was there before him, arms held out. When no partner moved in on him Lotho turned curiously, then dropped his arms and kept staring at him with a peculiar expectancy. Every mannerly sensibility that Frodo possessed told him to just step up, not make a scene, and get on with it. It was only a dance; it meant nothing. But he remembered what he’d felt as that young girl had held him, as Merimac had held him… and he also well remembered the feel of Lotho’s hands upon him that morning in the bathhouse—what that had awakened in him. The remembrances seemed all at once horrifically interconnected and riven apart. Warm laughter and tipsy teasing, sun and sweat, compared to chill, dripping water and shattered breath, groping hands and blood on his tongue...

The possibility of re-connecting today’s response with the snakes’ nest of sensation that Lotho engendered in him was repellant. Every instinct within Frodo crawled from the thought of it, like blind worms from brilliant sunlight. He couldn’t reach out and partner Lotho—he literally could not do it.

About them the dance kept going, gaily untouched, and slowly the bark-brown eyes went from an odd expectancy to flattened malevolence. They stood there, swathed and stilled, in unwilling thrall of attraction and ruination.

The set changed. Lotho was pulled away by a tall, pretty girl who tickled his ear and changed his focus. Frodo could suddenly breathe again, could move once more and grin, albeit half-heartedly, at his next partner—an older lass who cuddled teasingly close to him and giggled good-heartedly at his resulting awkwardness.

By the fourteenth set he was laughing again, and on the fifteenth Frodo came up behind a figure in red bodice and blue shirtwaist. She held out her hands, he paused for a moment, almost as stilled as he’d been with Lotho. Aster peeked curiously at his hesitation; Frodo shook himself, put hands to her hip and shoulder and led her off.

She leaned into him willingly, followed where he led. Her hair tickled his nose, flying across his cheeks, and her feet were light and quick. When she turned to him, her slender, hard hands stole about his waist and shoulder, and her breath brushed his ear, and he shivered as a result, his knees bobbling.

"Up you go, now!" she laughed. "I think you’ve been a bit too long at the mead, young master!"

It was over all too soon. The music worked itself up to a cacophony of speedy beats, and then blared a finale.

Whoops and shouts went up; breathless calls and clapping for the musicians rose. Frodo realized, looking about, that the sun was failing and roseate dusk had settled into the grounds. The lanterns were no longer unnecessary additions to the roses and lilacs and indigos of sunset. The music, rising once more, echoed through the darkening green.

Merry came running up to him and grabbed his hands, yanking him eagerly and rather demandingly back into another dance—this one for the hobbit youth, and Merry’s attitude saying ‘about time!’ By the time he’d squired his cousin through a round of Skip, they both were laughing and giddy with restored good humour, but Frodo was also more than aware that all the food and drink sloshing about in his belly was making a trip to the privies quite necessary. He gave excuse to Merry, who smirked sympathetically as Frodo made a quick exit from the green, detouring through the crowd.

The little sheds closer to the food and dancing were queued something fierce; instead Frodo made a rather indirect line to the furthest out—one hidden in the gathering shadows amongst the stand of trees that stood behind the males’ bathhouse. Sure enough it was deserted, no one either wanting to bother with going so far or, in many cases, the visitors not even knowing of its existence. With a small grin at routing the crowds, he slipped in.

Once finished, he unlatched the door and stepped out. Both feet hadn’t even landed on the grass before he was grabbed, whirled, muscled over and slammed face front against the outside wall of the privy so hard that he grunted.

"I warned you." Lotho’s voice, against his left ear. Lotho’s breath heating his neck. Lotho’s uncompromising grip holding his arm behind his back and his head against the wood, and Lotho’s large frame pinning him quite effectively from shoulders to heels.

"Let… go…!" Frodo tried to struggle to no avail—his adversary merely twisted his arm tighter.

"I warned you to stay away from him, didn’t I?"

At first Frodo was bewildered as to what he was referring to, then abruptly he knew.

Cousin Bilbo. And not just for a few moments—he’d been there for several hours at least, laughing and having too much fun to think of the consequences… no more than he’d thought of them when he had come out here alone.

"I didn’t… I…"

Broad fingers gnarled in Frodo’s hair; he yipped before he could throttle the reaction.

"I told you, remember? I told you, and you didn’t listen. I don’t have to leave marks on you that show. Or on your little kitchen wench." Lotho’s fingers tightened, and then he yanked Frodo’s head back and slammed it forward into the hard wood so viciously that Frodo saw stars. "You were more than willing to dance with her, weren’t you?"

"I…"

"What should I do to you, now?" Almost a singsong, the low voice at his ear. Its offhand quietude was more menacing than any shout. "What should I do to her?"

"Please…" he whispered against the wood, feeling sick.

"What?"

Frodo hadn’t thought it possible for Lotho to get any closer than he was, but he did, leaning against him and all but crushing the air from his chest. "Please don’t…"

"Are you begging me?" It was soft and tinged with satisfaction. "Are you finally begging?"

"If you want!" Frodo husked out. "Just please, don’t hurt her…"

Lotho let up on him ever so slightly. Frodo warily tried to catch a glimpse of his face out of the corner of his eye, but could see nothing. The older lad was silent for a long moment; Frodo could feel breath quicken upon his neck and he clenched his teeth.

"You’ve broken the bargain you made. Why should I do nothing?"

"Why are you so against me being around cousin Bilbo? Ow!" This as Lotho twisted hard fingers in his hair and yanked on his arm.

"I have my reasons. If you keep pushing with this, I will ensure you regret it, do you hear me?"

As if he didn’t already…

Lotho was silent for long moments. He was so close Frodo could feel his heart throbbing against his backbone; mind whirling, Frodo frantically tried to figure out the best way he could get out of the uncompromising grip. His forehead throbbed painfully where it had been rammed into the hard wood. The privy’s smell was sharp in his nostrils, and it was abominably quiet, only occasional shouts and laughter and music lifting above the new-made evening. And all Frodo’s stupefied brain could conjure was one desperate question: Why?

The steady heartbeat against his spine had quickened. Lotho ventured, almost conversationally, "You really don’t want me to hurt her, do you?"

"No!"

"Then I guess you have a decision to make."

"Decision?"

"And it’s yours. It’s totally up to you. Sound fair?"

Frodo swallowed hard, wondering what in any version of torment ever imagined would bring such glutted satisfaction into Lotho’s voice.

"Your choice. The scullery slut. Or you."

"You pound on me, or you pound on her? That’s no choice!" Frodo spat against the wood. "Beat me bloody, then—for I’ll never agree that you hurt her!"

"You’re not taking my meaning." Lotho leaned forward once more, save this time there was much more intent and purpose to the frame that molded against his, unmistakable suggestion in the way he angled his hips against Frodo’s tailbone. "I told you once already that we had some unfinished business, didn’t I?"

This time all the air rushed from his lungs with no physical provocation and his knees went weak. It took every ounce of will Frodo had simply to keep them straight; the rough wood abraded his cheek as he slid against it. He was well and truly trapped this time; unable to fight back pinned as he was, and he couldn’t even suck in enough breath to cry for help… if anyone would help him. They all probably thought he had chosen to be here, just as Uncle Rory did—just another tweenie lark between two likely lads. Only somehow this had gone beyond any lark or paired-up playmating he had ever heard about, and it made absolutely no sense that Lotho would want him for this when it was so obvious how much Lotho despised him…

With a shudder, he hunched against the wood.

As if Lotho had been waiting for just that, he twisted Frodo away from the privy wall and about to face him. In the process Frodo was released save for one wrist and a hand on his shirt; he took the offered chance and lunged sideways, wrenching away from the punishing grip and lashing out at Lotho with his tingling left arm. Lotho let out a surprised yelp as the hard swing connected with his chin; Frodo ducked and ran.

But a hissed-out query stopped him mid-flight, not eight strides away. "That’s your choice, then? Her?"

"No." Frodo took a shaky breath and turned very slowly to face the older tween. "No. There is no choice here."

Lotho walked over to him, also slowly. "Now is that fair? You can say no. I’ve certainly given you the option, just like I said." He stopped not an inch away from him, looking down at him. "Despite you not doing what you said you would."

"I’ll stay away from Bilbo from now on," Frodo protested, standing his ground with a rather abject resolution. "I won’t go near him again, I swear it!"

"Not good enough. What makes you think I’d believe you? I know what you’re about, you pretty little bastard, and you’ve done enough damage for the day."

At the pointed epithet, Frodo’s eyes narrowed, glaring mute resentment. "What are you talking about--?"

"Shut up," Lotho snarled at him, grabbing the lapels of his waistcoat and yanking him close. "Make your choice, and make it now."

Frodo glared at him silently, colder than he’d thought it was possible to be. "You’ll leave her be?" he asked quietly. "You won’t bother her again?"

The older lad shrugged, with a pretend nonchalance that didn’t reach his eyes. They seethed even in the darkness, with an intensity that made Frodo’s stomach clench. "If I have you, what would I want her for?"

Taking a deep breath, Frodo lifted his chin and stared flatly into those smouldering eyes. "Where? When?"

"Here." Lotho clenched his fists in his shirt this time, pulling it askew. Buttons gave as he used it to yank Frodo over against one of the trees. "Now."

Frodo stumbled against the trunk, turned around and set his back to it, reached over and pulled his shirt and open waistcoat back over his shoulder. Lotho laughed.

"Why bother?" He put a hand on each side of his cousin’s dark head, angled forward until their noses were almost touching. His face was invisible, shadowed in the backlight of the dying sun. "Why, Frodo." He lifted two fingers, traced them along Frodo’s cheek. "You don’t seem too happy with your decision."

"I didn’t think my happiness was necessary to you," he gritted out, jerking his face away from those clinging fingers.

A shrug. Lotho ran his hand down Frodo’s throat and to his chest. It lingered at torn-away upper buttons, started to unfasten the rest. The recoil was instinctive; Frodo couldn’t stop it, but the tree at his back did, holding him firmly against the older lad. Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard and tried not to count each button as it was pulled open. Lotho’s body heat made him shiver; it seemed to sap every inch of warmth from his own frame.

"You’re trembling. Are you afraid?"

Frodo didn’t think he could have answered had he even been forced to it. He was petrified. All the buttons were undone—Lotho’s hands were warm against his own chilled flesh, but they might have been ice for all the positive reaction they gained. It was one spot of relief amidst nerve-shorn dread… this time he was not responding.

"Not that it matters. It just might make things a bit more… interesting. Not quite as ready to go today as you were in the bathhouse, are you?"

Pinned against the tree, rough bark scouring his backbone even through cloth, Frodo refused to unscrew his eyelids from their shut position. His heart was pounding madly, his lungs so emptied it made him dizzy, his brain feverishly trying to vindicate every singular touch and reaction and recoil.

Frodo was unbroached but not stupid; he’d overheard enough talk between the older lads to know what was going to happen even if he’d never participated in any of it. Save that they had spoken of being tumbled like it was a highly-anticipated event of need and pleasure, and this… This was impossible. This couldn’t really be happening this way. But somehow it was, and of the things Frodo would no doubt experience in the next few moments, he had no illusions that it would have anything to do with pleasure—at least from his perspective. No doubt Lotho would get whatever it was he wanted from it.

If only he could just shut it all away tightly enough, maybe it would be over and done with, and Lotho would finally leave him alone, and…

Maybe his mind was rationalizing, but his body wasn’t. Lotho shoved a knee between his own, hands gripping at the waist of his breeches, and Frodo gave an instinctive jerk of avoidance. He ruthlessly subdued the reaction, dug fingertips into the tree until his flesh started to fray, and clenched his teeth. Waited.

Lotho went still, knuckles pressed to either side of his navel, unmoving. Presently he ventured, "You never have, have you?"

Eyes opening at this, Frodo saw Lotho staring at him with open amusement. His head was cocked, his face flushed. "You’ve really never done this. Not even with your little baby friend. You really haven’t." Lotho raised one hand and placed it beneath his chin, splaying his fingers along his throat. "I’m your first, then. This is an honor, sweet cousin."

Frodo said nothing.

"Don’t worry. You’ll like it. Everybody does."

Through a trick of roseate, slatted sunlight Frodo could suddenly see his own eyes, pale and shiningly vacant, reflected in Lotho’s dark ones. "With you?" he said quietly, venomously. "I don’t think so."

The brown face twitched, went ugly. Then Lotho smiled, and the layers behind that smile laid Frodo empty past any hope of pretense or rationalization. Fingers twitched against his belly, ran along the inside of his waistband, and Frodo cowered back hard into the tree bark, a small whimper escaping him as Lotho leaned into him, unfastening his breeches.

"Frodo!"

The call made Frodo jerk again, this time with recognition and respite… then anxiety. Merry?

No.

A hand rose up to his throat, ramming his head back into the tree trunk. "Don’t answer," Lotho hissed.

Like you think I would? Let him see this?

"Where are you?" Merry’s voice was closer.

"Frodo!" A second voice, deeper and also familiar. Merimac. They weren’t very far away. This time a small sound did work its way up from his throat; Lotho shoved his hand harder against his windpipe and Frodo gagged.

"I saw him come this way, Uncle Mac." Merry’s voice again. "I saw Lotho following him."

Oh, Merry… A strange, wistful sense of relief surged rather strongly through him, to be replaced in the next moment by mortification. Merry hopefully would not think anything of Lotho’s telling arrangement of them against the tree, but certainly Merimac would know beyond a doubt what it meant.

Eyes darting back over his shoulder, Lotho looked worried. Even in the midst of fury and fright and humiliation, Frodo noted this with fierce satisfaction.

Merimac came about the deserted privy with Merry close in tow, saw them, stopped. His eyebrows arced up into his bang; he grabbed his nephew and started to spin him about and shove him in the opposite direction, then halted. His eyes narrowed, locked with Frodo’s own, and his entire bodily stance shifted, changed. He took a step forward. "Frodo?"

Lotho gave a guttural, angry noise; his hands clenched against Frodo and his eyes shifted, darkened. He raised them to met Frodo’s for a split second, provoked and furious, then he shoved fiercely away and took off, escaping behind the bathhouse.

Frodo was still held in the remembrance of that thwarted gaze, almost unaware of Lotho’s departure save that he seemed unable to hold himself up once the unwanted support was missing. He staggered, rapidly and painfully becoming aware that he was all but undone and undressed, and it was not only Merimac staring at him with a gaze he couldn’t fathom, but Merry as well…

Merimac strode quickly over to him. Merry followed, much slower. Merimac reached out and latched his palms about Frodo’s cheekbones and temples, held him upright as if he were some newborn brought into the world head-first. Frodo wobbled forward, shaking with such hard immediacy that he could barely stand. He lurched into Merimac with hands that flailed wildly then clutched at the older hobbit’s shirt for purchase. Merimac held his skull tighter, leaned close. His first question was not one Frodo expected.

"Did you consent to this?

"I…" Words choked him suddenly; how could he answer that particular query? What was the honest answer?

Merimac frowned perplexedly at his reaction then tried again. "Frodo. Answer me. Did you want him?"

Still unable to answer, instead Frodo’s eyes met the grey ones and clung. Whatever inchoate and indescribable emotions were banked behind them must have been indeed obvious, for Merimac’s mouth twisted sideways. "That’s what I thought."

Brows knitting fiercely, chest heaving, Frodo couldn’t hold the direct gaze; he retreated and tried to turn away, self-consciously pulling the halves of his shirt together and attempting to reconnect the buttons. His fingers were trembling, useless, and his eyes abruptly filled. Suddenly there were hands over his own, and broad, callused fingers easily shoving his aside, moving to re-button his shirt with deft skill. Merimac’s face was intent and strangely calm. He finished fastening Frodo’s shirt, tucked it in and refastened his breeches for him, then took Frodo’s face once more between his hands and gave him a brief kiss, pushing him back and peering at him.

Merry was still obdurately silent, watching them, his eyes darkly unreadable in the fading light. Neither did Merimac break his scrutiny of Frodo, even when he spoke to his young nephew.

"Merry, stay here with Frodo. Both of you, stay here. I need to go get Sara and Esme."

"No!" The wail burst from Frodo’s chest.

His older cousin’s jaw clenched and his hands slid down to clamp at Frodo’s shoulders. "Lad…"

"Mac, please…"

"I don’t have any choice here, Frodo, and you know it. They have to be told about this."

"Why don’t you want them to know?" Merry queried, quite softly. Frodo shot him a distressed glance, swallowed, lowered his head. Merimac shook him gently, but his words were directed once again to his young nephew.

"Merry, that’s enough. I think Frodo has his reasons and I think they might have to do with you, so don’t treat him as the villain, here. Frodo…" Merimac’s gaze bored into him, so suddenly and inexplicably a safe harbor that he almost seized from it. With a small groan Frodo twisted away, was conscious of Merimac watching him, hands still empty and outstretched.

"Frodo… Curse it all. Look, I have to go. This needs seeing to, now. Stay here, both of you."

He quickly retreated, disappearing into the quickening twilight. Frodo closed his eyes, shoved the hair back from his face, crossed his arms about his ribcage and refused to look at Merry.

"Did you want him?"

The question hit him like a blow. Frodo turned, quivering. Merry’s eyes were narrowed, something deep-rooted in them that Frodo had tried so hard to not supply or give cause to, and Frodo had no answer for it. He put clenched fists to his forehead; breath escalating, he just stood there, feeling dizzily as if everything had cornered down into a small, silent shell of an existence he no longer recognized.

"Frodo!" It was sharp, almost shrill, a demand. "Did you?"

"No!"

There was a short silence after the agitated denial; the tension was all but palpable.

"Then Uncle Mac’s right," Merry said, his voice strangely resolute even as it tremored. "Mum and Da have to know, Frodo. Lotho can’t do things like this."

Once again, fast and hard, his world heaved. Frodo let out a small moan, immediately realizing in the meaning of his cousin’s words exactly what hadn’t happened. Which meant…

He lurched forward, panicked strength flooding through him, and grabbed Merry by the shoulders. "Have you seen her, Merry?"

His cousin blinked. "Have I what?"

"Aster! Have you seen her? Ohh…" he looked about, then clutched tightly again. "Merry, you have to help me find her. You have to!"

"What are you talking about?" Merry’s hands clasped his arms, fingers digging. "You’re not making any sense."

"Aster. She’s in red. Come on, Merry, we have to--!"

"Why?" Merry demanded, grabbing both his shoulders. "Mac said to stay here. We have to stay here!"

Frodo felt an irrational surge of panic, started to shrug his cousin off, then was nailed by Merry’s insistent gaze and realized that if he was to expect help, he needed to explain. Quickly.

"Lotho thinks I like Aster…"

"Well," Merry’s nose wrinkled, "you do like her."

"No! I mean he thinks… I mean… oh, it doesn’t matter!" Frodo gripped Merry’s wrists. "I don’t have time to explain, can’t you see? Lotho threatened to hurt Aster if I didn’t… because he… if I didn’t…"

"He threatened one of the kitchen girls, too?" Merry queried in disbelief. "He can’t do that! Mum won’t stand for that." Merry clutched at his cousin harder. "Frodo, why didn’t you tell someone? Why didn’t you tell someone about any of this?"

"Merry. I don’t have time for this! I have to go find her. Help me, please?"

The lad took a deep breath, backed off. "All right. I’ll try."

"You take the paddocks. I’ll take the courtyard."

They ran.

* * * * * *