Night had well and truly fallen. In the courtyard there was naught to be seen but a thick gathering of color and motion: fabric swirling, hands clapping, feet stamping, breezes lifting the hanging brilliance of the lanterns, hornpipe and guitars and bodhran rising into the clear darkness.

Frodo halted in the midst of it, panting. Aster had seemingly vanished. She was not among the dancers. She was not on the sidelines watching, and the several people there that he asked shook their heads. She had to be somewhere close. She’d just been dancing.

He spent frantic moments checking the kitchens. The food trestles. The small, landscaped alcove, where several couples enjoying the evening gave him a complaining glance when he almost trod on them, not watching where he was going. Muttering apologies, Frodo fled the little alcove and darted back into the main courtyard, then spied her. She was over by the wooden ale kegs, filling a small mug hanging by a thong from her belt. "Aster!"

She turned in surprise as he hailed her, smiled as he skidded to a stop next to her. "Hello, master Frodo! Are you enjoying your cousin’s party, then? It was nice to see you join the dancing—you’ve quite the turn of step on you for such a young lad."

Frodo just stood there in front of her for a few moments, getting his breath back, and she started to frown—no doubt he looked quite disturbed and disheveled. Other hobbits were starting to look at him even more askance than Aster was; Frodo grabbed her by the arm and pulled her over to a slightly more dark and secluded spot beside several emptied ale kegs, several meters away from the crowd at the full ones.

"Master Frodo!" she protested, staring at his hand upon her arm. "What are you doing?"

He let go. "I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be rude. It’s only…"

Her eyebrows had disappeared under her fuzzy bang. She looked rather like she was about to lecture him, probably on the propriety—or lack thereof—of dragging girls aside in public places. Frodo forestalled it by speaking urgently. "Just don’t go anywhere alone tonight, all right?"

"Master Frodo, what is this about, now?" One hand plumped itself on her hip.

"If nothing else, stay with your brothers. Please?"

"What are you talking about…?"

A large hand sidled in between them and grasped Aster’s arm. "Since you’re not doing anything important, why don’t we have a dance?"

Frodo turned and snarled, "No!"

Lotho stared impassively at him. "I don’t think it’s yours to say now, is it? You made your choice."

"No. I… I made nothing, I didn’t…" Frodo stammered, then demanded furiously, "How did you find us?"

"You’re too easy, you know that?" The older lad curled his lip. "All I had to do was find you again, y’fool. Which wasn’t hard, the way you were tearing about."

Aster’s eyes darted from one to the other warily. Frodo could see her hesitate then saw Lotho’s grip tighten even further on her arm. "Come on," he told her. She frowned minutely, then gave a shrug and started to follow.

"Aster!" Frodo protested, but she gave a tiny shake of her head.

"It’s just a dance," she told him quietly. "Not worth making trouble over."

"You don’t understand!" he protested, then grabbed her other hand.

She stared at him puzzledly. Behind her, Lotho had turned with seemingly endless patience; however his eyes met Frodo’s, and the look in them was so viciously hindered and malignant that it made Frodo a bit dizzy. He gripped Aster’s hand tighter and peered directly at her.

"Don’t go. Please."

She stared at him; her eyes went from him to Lotho, then back. Whatever warning he was desperately trying to communicate to her must have penetrated, for she blinked, gripped his hand tightly in return and turned to Lotho, dipping in a small curtsey.

"I’m grateful for the honor, young master, but I’m thinking I’ve already a partner for this next dance… ah!" She winced slightly, releasing Frodo’s hand as Lotho’s grip on her arm tightened further.

"You’re right," the tweenager said bluntly, "you do. Let’s go."

Before he even had a chance to think, Frodo had moved forward and his hand had shot out, grabbing Lotho’s offending wrist in nearly the same grip that Aster had used to immobilize his own hand when he’d cut it. But his hands were stronger than even a kitchen maid’s from all the stableyard work he did; Lotho’s knees buckled for two full seconds and he loosed Aster’s arm. He had no choice. His hand wouldn’t work.

Aster ducked sideways and out of reach, rubbing her arm. Lotho tried to yank his hand back, couldn’t, and stared with disbelief as Frodo just stood there, holding his forearm with smoldering, white-hot eyes.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t holding both of Lotho’s arms. Aster saw the blow coming before Frodo did, and gave a muffled shriek. Frodo reacted a second too late, but dodged quickly enough so that instead of smashing right into the middle of his face, Lotho’s free fist clipped him on the jaw. It was still enough to send Frodo sprawling; he hit the ground with a grunt, scrabbled in the dirt. Some instinct or rush of air warned him; he twisted just in time to avoid a kick that sped dangerously past his head.

Trying to flex his still-debilitated arm, Lotho kicked at him again. This one landed. Frodo was so stunned from the first blow, let alone the second attempt, that he was sent rolling several feet, unable to even make a sound. Lotho followed him, considered his target, kicked out very deliberately. This time Frodo did cry out as the blow slammed into his solar plexus and knocked him onto his back. His world heaving, he looked up and tried to focus.

He saw Lotho’s face come into view, twisted almost beyond recognition. He saw the large, dark form bend over him, hands reaching for him. Then he saw a red and gold blur attach itself to Lotho’s back with a cry.

"Stop it!" Aster shrieked, pummeling at Lotho’s head and shoulders. "Help!"

Lotho snarled and straightened, reaching behind him and grabbing her hair. He yanked her small frame off as though she was some gnat, threw her against the emptied kegs, turned back to Frodo and lifted his leg for one more solid kick.

It never reached its target. Frodo saw Aster go flying and it was as if every drop of blood had been pumped from his veins, leaving nothing but immediate, furied, frigid purpose. He twisted with amazing speed. His hands shot out, grabbed Lotho by the ankle just before the aimed kick landed, and with one vicious wrench Frodo forced the momentum of the kick back into itself.

Lotho fell like a stone, the breath knocking out of him in a great, solid huff. Two more seconds and Frodo was atop him, still silent, still cold, his hands wrapped about Lotho’s thick neck with the same sinewy strength that had paralyzed his arm. Lotho’s face flamed with anger; he tried to throw Frodo off him but didn’t have the breath or thusly the power to do so. As Lotho realized this, his dark eyes widened. Something profound and unspoken within Frodo sensed the sudden change. His eyes blazed with knowledge of his opponent’s weakness; his fingers ground down tighter.

"Master Frodo!" He could hear Aster—she was all right then, good—but he could hear nothing else but his own retching breaths and his hammering heartbeat and the satisfying, uncannily pleasant sound of Lotho heaving and choking. "Frodo!" Aster shrieked.

Lotho was turning purple, his eyes bugging out, trying to bat at him with only one good arm. Everything Frodo had ever endured at the older boy’s hands transferred to his own—every slur, every gutter curse, every painful blow and humiliating touch he’d bent his head beneath—and more, how he’d been coerced against that tree and what it would have meant. All of it, narrowing down to this tiny moment and this finite, crimson space; repressed reaction surged forward, gleefully loosed itself. His lip curled and his fingers cranked harder…

"Frodo!" Hands grabbed his shoulders; he shrugged them off with a snarl, refusing to let loose, then he was grabbed again. "Frodo!" This time the hands were bigger, stronger, lifting and shaking him like a dog shaking a rat, breaking his intent and will and purpose. He was yanked off Lotho and pulled backwards. Still half-airborne he struggled, trying to evade his captor, but a pair of thickly-muscled arms wrapped about him, immobilizing him, and a voice penetrated the crimson haze of pain and confusion and fury to become slowly familiar, stilling him.

"Frodo!" The deep voice was nearly shouting in his ear—how could he not have heard it before? But once he quieted, the voice also quieted and the restricting grip relaxed slightly. "What’s gotten into you? Settle down, lad."

Frodo staggered against the sturdy, powerful frame, gasping and shaking as if he’d run miles. Lotho was still on the ground staring up at him and wheezing; Esme was crouched by him. A rather sizeable group had gathered about. Frodo suddenly realized who was holding him and tensed, however Saradoc did not release him. Indeed he gripped even tighter and Frodo had to forcibly stop himself from the instinctive, incomprehensible wish to pull away. He looked about instead and saw Merry. The youth’s expression was slack with shock and thankfully wiped of the disturbing perception of earlier. Merimac stood just behind him, frowning. Frodo’s gaze then fell upon Bilbo, who was standing off to one side with a peculiar, narrowed look to his face. There was something intensely disturbing and too canny about the way the old hobbit was studying him, as if he was contemplating not only the disturbance, but also Frodo’s part within it.

Frodo dropped his gaze with a shudder, not sure that he wanted to understand what had just happened, much less have someone else asserting some sort of familiarity with it.

"Now what’s this all about?" Saradoc demanded. "Both of you know the rules. And Frodo…" he trailed off and shook the younger lad. "You were too serious about this brawl by halves, boy. It’s one thing to tussle, quite another to go for blood. What possessed you?"

"Mac told you and Merry to stay put," Esmeralda inserted. "We tried to find you where you were supposed to be, instead I found Merry wandering the paddocks with some incomprehensible story about Lotho and a servant girl. Then, this…" She trailed off, eyeing Frodo uncertainly, and the raw trepidation in her gaze absolutely extinguished whatever remaining aggression Frodo had. He tried to angle out from beneath Saradoc’s grip, was held fast.

"Isn’t it more important why the brawl happened than what came of it?" Merimac inserted with soft ire. "What started it?"

Frodo tried once more to squirm from beneath Saradoc’s tight grip. Lotho tried to speak, couldn’t, shot Frodo a vicious look that nevertheless had been forcibly drained of some of its poison.

Esmeralda saw it. "Frodo?" she queried softly

"I… I…"

"’Twas master Lotho started it, mistress Esmeralda." Aster’s clear voice sounded from behind him; she stepped forward and Frodo’s knees nearly gave way—this time, again, from relief at seeing she was all right. All eyes turned to her and she blanched slightly, went silent, but didn’t lower her head. Esmeralda started to speak.

"She’s right." This from another surprising source. Bilbo was still wearing an intent, musing look, and his voice was quite purposeful and serious. "I saw it myself. I was over by the full casks and saw the entire thing." He turned to Aster and Frodo saw him give her a small, supportive grin, as if he was aware at how overfaced she was by the knowledge that she wasn’t necessarily in the company of her own class here. "Go on, lass. Tell them."

"Well," she started again gingerly, to Esmeralda in particular, "I’m not meaning to cause no harm, Mistress, but master Lotho, he comes up to me and wants me to dance with him. Now, I was just going to go ahead, but master Frodo seemed to think master Lotho was looking for trouble, so he tells me not to go with him. So I didn’t. And then… well, master Lotho didn’t seem to think that a ‘no’ was good enough. He wasn’t willing to let me have my own choice, if you take my meaning clearly, and master Frodo made him let go of me, and that’s when master Lotho knocked him down."

Esmeralda turned a steely gaze upon Lotho.

"Kept kicking him once he was down, too," Bilbo inserted a bit bluntly.

"He choked me!" Lotho finally found raspy voice. "He tried to kill me, the little bastard!"

Frodo lurched angrily forward at the last accusation; taken by surprise, Saradoc nearly lost hold of him and grabbed him just in time, yanking him back. Esmeralda snatched at Lotho’s ear and he yelped.

"If I hear that word out of your mouth again," she threatened in the sudden quiet, "I’ll have Master take you behind the woodshed. Do you understand me?"

Breathing in hard gasps, Frodo stared at her defense as if she’d grown two heads.

"The lass tried to help Frodo," Bilbo inserted.

"He threw her against the casks!" Frodo blurted out. "I thought he’d hurt her!"

"Lotho’s done nothing but stalk Frodo for the past months!" Merry spoke up.

"Be quiet, Merry!" Frodo hissed at him.

"Has he, then?" Saradoc queried of his son, who looked at Frodo in sudden concern. "Merry?"

"Da…" Merry looked down, conflicted, and Frodo answered for him resignedly, unwilling to spill it all in front of several dozens of curious onlookers.

"It’s not been anything important. Just… things."

Merimac started to speak then, eyes darting about, shook his head and also remained silent. Esmeralda watched them both. "Well. It seems that ‘things’ have progressed into something important," she said tersely, then ordered Lotho, "You. Get up. Go to your rooms and stay there."

"But Mistress Esmeralda…"

"I will not have my workers abused," she cut him off coldly. "I will not tolerate this kind of vicious behavior. Do as I say, Lotho."

Frodo watched with a huge sense of relief as Saradoc gestured for two of the older lads—Aster’s brother Jim, for one, he noted with glee—to come forward and insure that Lotho followed instructions. To Frodo’s further satisfaction, Merimac joined the two, leaning over and almost negligently picking up Lotho by the scruff of the neck to propel him away. It was easy, considering his older cousin’s easygoing mien, to forget that once he had been seen to dispatch four drunken riverhobbits from the Hall gates with absolutely no need for assistance.

"All right!" Saradoc stated, "excitement’s over. How about some music, eh?"

Muttering various comments from satisfied to amazed, the crowd started to disperse. Frodo closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the onlookers thinned and music slowly started to wind up once more. Then he stiffened against Saradoc’s grip—somehow his uncle was still holding onto him—as he looked up to find Esmeralda in front of him.

Saradoc voiced a sigh and let go. His aunt looked at him, saying nothing for a few moments. Then with a slight grimace, she grabbed a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at his lip with it. It came away bloodied; he touched a curious finger to his mouth and winced. "Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

He peered at her from underneath quirked brows.

"Frodo," Saradoc rumbled, "answer her, lad. Are you all right?"

Frodo nodded, then asked a bit hesitantly, "Do I have to leave, too?"

Esme gave him a funny look. "Whyever for?"

"Well, I…"

"Don’t be ridiculous. You were defending yourself—and your friend," Saradoc interjected. "Of course you can stay."

Esmeralda was quiet, dabbing at his lip again with the handkerchief; suddenly Frodo was intensely aware that Aster was still there, watching his aunt wipe his face like a child. He wriggled sideways; his uncle laughed shortly and took Esme’s arm, leading her away.

"Come on." He grabbed Merry on his pass. "You, too, Meriadoc."

Merry protested, but it did him little good. He was pulled away, still protesting.

Bilbo was the only one still remaining save for Frodo and Aster. He crossed his arms and peered at Frodo. "I think I owe you a drink, lad."

"Sir?"

"I always swore that the person who one way or another put paid to that young snot Lotho, I’d treat to a half of whatever he would like."

Only a stride away, Aster giggled. A grin threatened to cover Frodo’s face; he grimaced as it pulled at his torn lip, covered it with a hand, ended up chuckling.

"So, I owe you a drink." He came over and put an arm across his cousin’s shoulders. "But first, I think you owe this charming young lass a dance, eh?"

Frodo’s eyes widened and he looked sideways at Aster. She returned his look, said softly to Bilbo, "Now I thank you for the compliment and all, sir, but that wouldn’t be fair proper for him to be owing me anything…"

"Fair? Or proper?" Bilbo retorted genially. "I would say that it’d be very proper for young Frodo here to ask you for a dance—and it would scarcely be fair for you to refuse him, since he’s just defended your honor, lass."

Frodo’s cheeks went scarlet. Aster’s eyes widened and she suddenly giggled. "Well, sir, you do have a good point there. Master Frodo?"

He felt as if he must look like a beached fish, his jaw was hanging open in a silent, rather-stupid gape and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Bilbo leaned over, closed his mouth with a finger beneath the chin then smacked him genially on the back. "Well, boy? Step up to the counter and do something, would you?"

Taking a deep breath, Frodo turned to Aster. "Do you want to dance, then?"

"Oh!" Bilbo tutted. "Awkward, awkward—haven’t they taught you anything about how to treat a lady here, boy?"

Aster laughed again. "Well, sir, I’m not exactly a lady, so that invitation sounds fine by me!" She held out her hand and, emboldened, Frodo took it.

"Come on," he said.

Bilbo watched them run over to join the dancers, grinning like a madman.

* * * * * *

"Ohhhh," Pippin groaned, "I miss all the fun!"

His eyes still heavy with sleep, his hair sticking up at odd angles where he’d been in blissfully unaware slumber upon his mother’s lap, now the little hobbit sat on the edge of the table with Merry on the bench beside him. The grownups were all gathered at the other end having some kind of intense discussion; the two lads were echoing it, had they but known.

"You should have seen it, Pip! It was a t’rific row! And Mum says that Dad’s to take Lotho back home tomorrow—she doesn’t want him on the Hall grounds one more day, not with him threatening the staff and being after Frodo! I told her how mean Lotho had been to Frodo, and how he kept following him, and then Uncle Mac told them all about what he’d seen with Frodo and Lotho, that Lotho was all set to…" Merry trailed off, aware suddenly that he didn’t need to take this conversation any farther with the child, and with startling immediacy realized what he was doing. He was preventing… protecting… his younger cousin from going places that the little lad wasn’t ready for yet.

Just what he’d been so angry with Frodo for doing. It spun his perceptions, already topsy-turvy, like a whirligig toy.

Pippin was oblivious to such. "I’ll bet Auntie Esme was mad. I know she doesn’t like Frodo much, but…"

"That’s not true!" Merry protested, a bit breathless from his interior cogitations.

"Oh, but Merry, it is!" Pippin protested quite innocently. "They are really not very comfortable around each other, you know? I don’t mean that she doesn’t love him, because he’s family, but they don’t like each other very much, I’m thinking."

Merry started to reply hotly, found he couldn’t, fell silent. Pippin watched him, his head cocking to one side curiously and his eyes dimming, then said carefully, "But don’t you think that shows that she does love him, even if she doesn’t like him? That she’d take up for him as she did?"

Shooting forth a quelling glare, Merry found in the middle of Pippin’s reply that it had turned into a puzzled glance instead. He was suddenly unsure what places his tiny cousin was unready for, in lieu of this startling assessment. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You’re only nine. How do you see these things?"

Pippin frowned. "What things?"

"Like what you just said. You see things and you’re just a baby…"

"Merry Brandybuck, I am not a baby!" Pippin rose to stand on the table, feet planted firmly and arms akimbo.

"Peregrin Took!" came a quick remonstrance from the other end of the table. "Tables are not for standing on!"

"Yes, Mumma!" he said ruefully. Suddenly he grinned at Merry and leapt outward at him.

He landed smack in the middle of Merry’s chest. The older boy fell backwards off the bench and they went rolling down the small incline towards the dancing ground. Over and over they tumbled, a tangle of legs and arms that finally stopped quite near to the group of hobbits capering about the green, and Merry found himself flat on his back with the little Took sitting atop him. "Are you trying to murder me, or what?" he demanded.

"Oh, but wasn’t it fun, Merry?" The green-gold eyes danced at him, Pippin propped his hands on Merry’s chest and grinned. "Wasn’t it?"

Merry didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of agreement, but a grin slipped onto his mouth despite himself. Pippin saw it and giggled; his quick eyes then darted over to the group gaiety just past them.

"Oh, look, Merry! Frodo’s dancing with that kitchen lass!"

Merry’s mouth twisted sideways. "How nice," he said sulkily, unwilling to look more than the first glance. But in spite of such intent his eyes held with fascination.

It was no usual reel, this. It was another coupling dance, true, but not just one for those unattached. All were dancing, now—married and unmarried—and the hornpipe’s rhythm was growing in peculiar, slow syncopation. The males and females parted company; two lines now encircled about the fire that had been set upon the arrival of night in the midst of the dancing green. On the inner strode the females, slower and quieter, their hands linked and their feet making slow, pointed circles in the dust as they strolled. On the outer the males danced with bolder steps, linking hands about the inner circle. The lasses unlinked their hands and, still circling, started to clap a slow, steady beat.

It was the Gather dance. Merry frowned; it was usually only danced at the planting and the harvests—but the last harvest volley had gone without a party because of pouring rain, so perhaps this was a way to make up for it. He glanced at Pippin, who was seated next to him with huge, wondering eyes and a smile upon his lips. Others, too young and old to join in, watched. Some were in silent reverie; others clapped, and still others were humming deep within their throats. The sound of it reached up into the treetops, a wordless heartbeat of melody to accompany the music and the drums and the sound of the females’ clapping, raising in rhythm to keep time with the males’ quickening pace.

Frodo was linked into the males’ dancing, hand-in-hand between Merimac and Paladin; he was flushed with motion and concentration, intently agile in the shadows and firelight. It was the oddest sight; as if all at once he belonged but nevertheless was distinctly singled out by… something. Merry took in an uneased huff of breath. He’d seen this odd, almost spellbound look overtake Frodo when he’d been dancing earlier. With Mac, who’d laughed and swung him through the steps with comfortable ease. With those silly tween lads and lasses who’d smiled and teased Frodo even though they were the same ones that’d not normally even give him a second glance if he was walking down the Hall’s corridors. In the bizarre, silent tableau mid-dance between Frodo and Lotho that had made Merry quiver with furious, wondering resentment. But now…

Now it was different. Frodo was different. He seemed literally set alight; it was dark but he blazed and simmered in the fire’s copper flicker, skin gleaming pale and hair tossing russet-black as he danced. When the line moved about and the two circles finally merged together, when Frodo was brought face to face with that kitchen girl, his eyes were huge as saucers and starry as the clear night sky.  He was tangled and flushed and sweated, yet he quivered all over as if from cold. She simply stood there with all the rest of the lasses, waiting with measured patience. And as Frodo reached for her with a peculiar, controlled hesitancy, Merry’s own gut clenched in a manner he’d never, ever felt before.

* * * * * *

Not just one dance but five had passed, from the Gather dance to the latest one, a reel so fast that they were both still panting breathlessly. Shouts and laughter rose into the night, and the bonfire crackled as more wood was thrown on.

"How old are you?"

"And has no one ever told you that’s not exactly a proper question to ask a lass?"

Frodo looked down, crimsoning, and leaned against the water barrel where they had taken refuge, both a bit giddy and definitely thirsty.

"Oh," Aster’s voice came to him over the surrounding noise, "you’ve not committed a crime, now. I was just teasing you, lad. I’m not that old, you know; I’m twenty-five. Still a silly tweener, thank the stars!"

He glanced sideways at her, answered her grin with one of his own and accepted the water dipper she handed him, draining it in about five swallows and then dipping up another cupful.

"Aye, beer’s a likely thing, but there’s naught like a good draft of clear water." She took the dipper from him and procured herself another few swallows, then hung the dipper back on the barrel’s side. "Can we just sit out a few? I haven’t danced that much in a long time. Need to get my legs back. And try a bit of that wine that I’ve a taste for."

He nodded, followed her as she went over to the wine casks, poured herself a cup large enough to share—his own mug had long since gone missing—and they walked away from the drink barrels and towards the outskirts of the busy grounds. Frodo felt as if somehow he had been released from prison; even the air tasted clean and cool and sweet, like fruit juice runneling down his throat. He gave a sigh and Aster nudged him, smiling, lacing her fingers through his with a grin. Smiling back, he tightened the grip.

"This way," he told her. "I know a grand place."

Still holding to her hand, he threaded through the scattered groups of hobbits, the gathering getting more and more sparse until they were at the edges of the upper paddock, the lights and hum of the party fading behind them the further they went.

"Where are we going?" she queried.

"You’ll see."

The rock was at the northernmost point of the paddock, several meters in diameter, an oddly smooth and flat uprising in the earth resembling the prow of a ship. Several years ago the Master had tried to uproot it, claiming that it took up good grazing land. Frodo had stood watching with Merry and a sizeable group of fascinated hobbit youth as three teams of horses had shuddered and heaved and foamed, as two sets of harness had broken and picks had blunted, then as Saradoc had finally given in and declared that the Shiprock had beaten them. It had earned its own place. It was pale, almost white in the nocturnal half-light, undeniably and heavily victorious in its claim of earth. Frodo was secretly glad that they hadn’t been able to remove it.

Now he led his companion up to it, clambered easily up to the highest point, made a bit of a show of dusting off a space beside him, gestured grandly.

"Aye, you are the gentlehobbit and that’s plain," Aster smiled and tucked up her skirts, nimbly climbing atop the rocky shelf in acceptance of his offer of a clean place to rest her posterior. It was broad, but not very tall, and she seemed comfortable as she settled next to him, offering him a sip from her mug in exchange. He took it, lacing his fingers about the rim and looking up at the sky.

"This is a good place," he said softly. The bowl of night seemed to all but cup them; the clear, cloudless day had fallen into a night simply pocked with stars. "When the moon’s just a sliver and it’s nice and dark, you can see the stars quite well despite the periphery lanterns. I haven’t been here in a while, but I used to come a lot at nights, by myself. It’s one of the few places along here that’s bare enough of trees to see the stars properly. Here and the vineyards."

"I’ve been in the vineyards at night a few times m’self," she answered with a grin, retrieving her cup from him and taking a sip, "’though not to see stars."

"Why were you out there, then?" he asked curiously, and immediately felt the fool when she gave him a sideways glance and a knowing grin.

"Why does anyone go into the vineyards under the night sky?" she teased, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Saving your own grace, of course, it’d seem!"

He smiled self-consciously.

"This is quite good, this is," she said, raising her cup and offering him another taste.

"It’s just the younger wine," he said, matter-of-factly taking another sip.

"Ah, but when you only get it for holidays and such, any cup can be a treat." Frodo gave her a quizzical look; her lips quirked and she continued. "‘Tis a bit grand for my like to be having every day. Expensive stuff, wine."

"Oh." Frodo looked at his toes a bit uncomfortably. He’d rather taken it for granted that the wine on Saradoc’s table had been readily available everywhere.

If Aster was aware of his sudden discomfort, she didn’t let on. "But here or the vineyards, I prefer to be doing something. Sometimes the night sky seems just a bit too big for my liking. Don’t you find it so?"

"Oh, no," he answered softly. ‘We don’t get to see enough of the sky here. I… I seem to remember just a little of when I was really small, how my mum would take me out on the dales in Hobbiton… there were stars to the horizons then, or so it seemed. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be somewhere where there weren’t so many trees and hills. Maybe on top of a mountain. Or on a plain. Just so you could see all the way to the edge of the sky…"

"You’re a strange lad, Frodo Baggins," she said quietly, and he turned with a frown to see her peering at him. But there was no condemnation in her eyes, just a bit of puzzlement and a little hint of a smile. "You expect a serving lass to have wine on her table like gentry, you traverse the vineyards not for a tumble but to find some sort o’ magic in the sky, and you rescue lasses from nasty bullies."

He looked away with a shrug, glad that she only had the half of it.

She was looking sideways at him. "And you knew, didn’t you? You knew somehow that he’d have done me a mischief, could he have caught me enough off m’guard. And don’t think I don’t know that he gave you a bit of a beating before you pinned him. He wasn’t holding back, the evil beggar. You’ve given a wince once or twice during the dancing tonight, and your jaw’s starting to look as though you’ve a wad of apple in your cheek."

"Well," he angled his jaw back and forth a bit, "I think I’m going to be pretty sore tomorrow."

"Hopefully not half as sore as he’ll be!" she vehemently put forth, then softened and offered him her wine mug.

"No, I’ve had more than enough. It’s the one thing I don’t have a very good head for yet. It’ll just put me to sleep."

"So you don’t have wine that often yourself, then." She grinned and he ducked his head with an embarrassed smile. "Master Frodo, I do want you to know that I appreciate what you done for me. He was one of your own kin, but you still held as to what was true."

Frodo gave a tiny shudder, looked across the field. "I don’t want him as any kin of mine, believe me."

"Well, I’d give you a kiss to thank you, but that surely wouldn’t be proper." Her eyes danced at him as her cheeks dimpled.

His breath nearly gagged him. When he could force it past vocal cords, he stammered, "Pr… Proper?"

"Well, you’re…"

"…the Master’s kin," he finished in disgust.

"Well, that, too. I was going to say…" she hesitated. "You were dancing in the coupling dances and all, but I didn’t know if…" Again, she seemed uncertain, then said, "I know you’re not too long out of the childhood; I’ve never seen you in the tweener dances before tonight. How old are you, master Frodo?"

"Almost twenty."

"Get away!"

"I am," he said sourly, suddenly aware that she’d been thinking of him as much younger all this time. "No one else believes it either."

"Well, then. My mistake. That’s surely more’n old enough, you think?"

"Old enough for what?" Frodo asked, his tone a bit surly.

"Old enough to be just a little improper. Just this once." She leaned forward, so close that he could smell the wine sweet upon her breath, and kissed him.

For three too-short, undeniably long seconds, his heart stopped. Then she angled back and peered at him. He gaped at her. "You can kiss back, you know," she teased.

Frodo shivered and flushed to the tips of his pointed ears. He was suddenly certain and more than certain that if she didn’t touch him once more, right here and now, he was going to burst into thousands of pieces. "Do that again. Please."

Aster cocked her head, and smiled. And did it again.

Lips on his, searching and soft. No demands, no unreachable expectations, just a sweetly-indefinite request that sent his ears humming and his breath escaping past his teeth; she took the breath and gave it back and his lips softened against hers and he kissed her back. Put his hands to her face. Felt her arms wrap about him. There was suddenly nothing to the world but her mouth opening his, sounding it so thoroughly it almost felled him on the spot, and her hair tangling in his fingers, and her warm, plump curves pressing against him, and… and…

Ka-BLAM! A sharp report of sound blasted through the clearing and they leapt nearly a foot in the air, clinging to each other. Frodo could feel her heart hammering almost in tandem with his as they both turned, wide-eyed, to see what had possibly happened to create such a huge noise.

Abruptly the sky filled with light, as if a million tiny suns had been hung there, trembling and brilliant, limning them and their rocky outcrop into one silhouette. Frodo grinned with delight.

"It’s the fireworks!" he crowed.

"Fireworks?" Aster was a bit hesitant; Frodo looked up, eyes scanning the skies, ears tuned to another scallop of sound and streamer of sparkling that would clue him as to where the next one might show…

"We’re in a perfect place to see, as well. We’ve the best of seats!"

Aster’s brown eyes were round and anxious, watching the smoky trails and falling embers of the first report. "What if they fall on us?"

"They won’t."

"Oh!" At the next explosion, Aster jerked up next to him, nearly burrowing through the crook of his arm. Frodo wanted to reassure her—but there was also something quite intensely satisfying in the way she was clinging to him. Emboldened, he gathered her a bit closer.

"I won’t let it hurt you, you know," he told her earnestly, frankly relishing the fact that he had the excuse to even say such a thing. Frodo bit his lip against the rather-inane grin that threatened to appear on his face, instead asked, "Have you never seen fireworks?"

She shook her head. "Have you seen them, then… oh!"

Another starburst rent the sky, this one in green and gold and white. The glittering light and impact of sound reverberated through her frame and transferred to him like a shock. Her breath heated his collarbone as she angled tight against him in her trepidation; it made his flesh prickle, pleasant chill. Her hair brushed against his nose and lips, smelling like sunflowers and sweet grass, soft as the feel of elvish leather.

Was this what it was supposed to be like? A culmination of finely-frustrating dance and song, flirting and teasing touches, and then this? Not coerced disturbance, or barely-understood yearnings or dredged-up darkling awareness, no. This made him quiver to his toes, and made his knees bobble with the wanting; it was as thrillingly welcome as Merry’s arms about him, or an impulsive smile from Pippin, or linking hands with Paladin, or dancing cheek-in-hand with Merimac. And all the while, feeling as if in their hold he could stay grounded here, and now, and belong…

It all seemed to fall into place. It didn’t matter what he was or what he could be, all that mattered was this moment, this now and these sensations.

"Oh, yes," he murmured into her hair.

"You have, then?" she queried a bit shakily.

For seconds he was uncertain as to what she was asking him about, his own wishful intent scattering him from anything resembling holding a train of thought outside the feeling of her against him. Then he remembered. Fireworks.

"Yes, I have," he stammered a bit. "Seen fireworks. It’s been a long time, but… look. They aren’t afraid, either." He was almost sorry he’d said anything, for Aster sat up, her eyes following his gesture out over the field where the other hobbits were gathering, some already sitting rapt, or lying back in the grass with their faces gleaming in the brilliant aftermath. There were a few who seemed more scared than awed—and surely, several children were in parents’ laps, uncertain as to whether fireworks were a good thing or not. But when she turned back to him her face had lost some of its fright, and Frodo found himself regaining a fierce enjoyment that gave satisfaction beyond her clutching to him out of trepidation. It was a welcome change to be regarded one on one, with neither the expectant eyes of a child nor the censorious ones of an adult.

"Come on," he furthered, lying back against the rocky ‘prow’ and pillowing his own head against the cradle of his crossed forearms. "Like this. You can see better this way."

Giving him a wry look, Aster followed his example, lying down a bit gingerly beside him, pillowing her head on his shoulder.

The fireworks lingered in the air long after their fire had retreated, wisps of smoke and extinguished glory that drifted away on the breeze, their ghosts lit up with each successive flare. It was almost as fascinating watching the brilliance die as it was to witness its birth. Frodo felt warm from dancing and drink, high on the smell of black powder, replete with the memory of soft lips on his and the possibilities suggested by such. But moreso he felt the simple and present reality of Aster lying beside him, her face all lit up, without and within, by the blazing display. Her hair was tossed up against his shoulder; Frodo turned his face into the glossy mass and rubbed his cheek against it, stole a hand across her waist, then eyed the fireworks with a smile curving his lips.

Aster smiled to herself, kept watching the fireworks. She’d never seen anything quite so scary and beautiful, all at once. And it certainly was lovely to be lying out and enjoying such a treat with as nice a companion as Frodo had turned out to be. Proper? Perhaps not. But it was a party, and things weren’t the same during parties…

It lasted quite a while, the display. There were shooting stars and whistling spirals and great chrysanthemums of glittering light, there were snakes that coiled and hissed in the air, and globes of crackling sound that hung, bobbling then wisping away into nothingness. It was utterly fantastic.

And it was, despite its length, all too short a time to enjoy such a thing. Once it was plain that the fireworks were all gone, there was a collective sigh of disappointment from the audience, one that echoed in Aster’s throat as well. She sat up and turned about to her companion, drawing breath to speak appropriately about the lovely, lovely fireworks, then stopped mid-breath and chuckled.

The dancing, the brawl and the wine had obviously taken its toll. One arm flung up over his head, Frodo was sprawled on the rock, soundly asleep.

Aster propped herself over him, a rueful smile curving her mouth. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she leaned over, brushed the hair out of his eyes and gave him a soft kiss on the temple. Then she sat there, fingers laced gently in his hair as she looked out over the paddocks and commons. The other hobbits were leaving by singles, pairs and families, retreating back to the Hall and their own places, be they assigned for the night or permanent residences. Her own home was no doubt waiting, a smial deep delved in the lower recesses of Buck Hill, her parents and three brothers no doubt still somewhere in the throng of those leaving and her own tiny room and bed warmed to hale her to welcome sleep for the all-too-early morning which would follow.

But she didn’t leave, just sat as if in watch over her companion as the paddock was slowly and surely emptied. A bobbing light came over the grass after some time; she frowned at it, noted that it was in truth a lantern coming her way. At the handle of the lantern was her oldest brother.

"Aster, there you are, I’ve been looking for you…" Jim came walking up, trailed off as she put a finger to her lips. He looked at the sleeping Frodo, chuckled. "If he was falling out during that great banging about, then I doubt my voice is going to put paid to him. Ah, sister dear," he teased, "you’ve gone and put another likely playmate to sleep, have you?"

She wrinkled her nose at him, gave Frodo another fond look. "Bless him, I think the whole evening’s been a bit much for him."

"Rescuing the damsel in distress and all that," Jim smiled. "He’s a bonzer little thing, en’t he? Bit young for you, though."

"'Tis tempting to wait," she dimpled. "And not that long a wait—he’s older than he looks, brother dear. But nay, I fear the little prince rescued naught but a scullery maid."

"Ach, he wouldn’t even think on that. Young Frodo’s not one for caring what level of the burrow you’re born into."

"I’ll bet his uncle and auntie might."

Jim couldn’t argue that. "Well, p’rhaps we should get him a bit closer to home?" He handed her the lantern, leaned over—the rock was about the level of his hips—then took up the gangling body in his arms before Aster could register a protest. "Ah, he’s not budging." Sure enough, Frodo barely stirred. "Weighs naught, ‘tennyrate. I’ll take him, find Master, see where he wants me to stow his foster-lad, here." He gave her a direct look. "You need to get back to the hole. That sod of a Lotho’s locked away in his room, still stinging from master Merimac taking him behind the woodshed and applying a bit of the odd forceful reminder on what’s proper and what en’t. But I’ll sleep better when both you and the lad here are safely tucked in bed."

She smiled, reached out and pulled her brother’s earlobe, then took up the lantern. "You fret too much. I’ll light you to the door, anyway." Dropping from her perch, she brushed at her skirts and walked beside him back over the hobbit-trampled grass.

Jim walked gingerly, as if despite his words he was afraid of disturbing his cargo. "I think they’ll be sending the troublemaker back where he belongs, and I say for the better. Take him back to Hobbiton where his da can lick some sense into him."

"I’m not too sure his sort’s got the sense they were born with. I know master Frodo’ll be glad, though… that wretched tweener’s been bullying the life out of him."

"And outweighs him to boot." Jim gave a chuckle. "I’ll tell you, sister, there’ll be talk in this Hall for some time to come about the young master getting the drop on that wretched sod. It was a lucky shot, true, but he made it count, didn’t he? Sometimes that’s all you need."

They arrived at the well-lit courtyard; there were still some hobbits about, taking care of last minute items before setting off for bed. Aster sighed. "I’m for home, then. Looks as if the party’s over."

"Leave a light burning for me, should the folks all be asleep once I tuck the young master here in, then make my rounds."

"Not too brightly. I’ve work in the morning same as usual."

"En’t we all?"

Aster bent over, kissed Frodo’s forehead one last time. "’Night, little prince. My thanks for the rescue. And the kiss."

He slept on, oblivious.

* * * * * *

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