In the main parlour of the guest quarters, Paladin warmed milk on the stove, stirring a small measure of whiskey into it as it steamed. His hair was not in its normal, neat crown of waves but curled up at odd angles, the collar to his robe was askew, and the tie to his richly-napped crimson robe was unknotting another finger's width with every movement he made.

The smial was still dark, lit only by a few lamps. Out the round, unshuttered window there wasn't much more light; the sun hadn't yet risen up over the back of Brandy Hall's cliffside palisade. The world outside was still swathed in hues of grey and indigo, remnants of the storm that was blowing away, upriver and to the north.

Paladin kept yawning. Merimac sat, chin propped on one loosely-closed fist, watching his old friend with a fond smirk. "For a landshobbit, you surely have trouble getting up with the chickens."

It was an old tease, grown worn but not stale over the years. "Which is why I employ hobbits who quite enjoy rising before the sun to feed those chickens," was the expected retort. "As for you and Lanna and Pippin and Vinca, up with the dawn? It's positively indecent."

"Well, Peregrin's back to sleep in despite dawn." It was Eglantine, who was herself well combed and put together regardless of the hour, closing the bedroom door behind her. One of the lit lamps was smoking, trailing black wisps up to the curved ceiling; with a frown she went over and adjusted it.

"I didn't mean to wake the bairn," Merimac told her. Eglantine smiled and shrugged.

"He sleeps lightly, but goes back under just as easily. No worries there—and the doors here are remarkably soundproofed… Oh, let me do that, dear," she said to her husband, who shook his head and kept stirring the small pot.

"Nay, I have it. You never put enough honey in, anyway."

"I appreciate that you're finally developing a nice healthy stomach to fill out your waistcoat," Eglantine chided softly, "but I shall divorce you if all that sugar causes you to lose your teeth."

Paladin grinned at her and tapped his teeth with the stirring spoon. "All there, yes?"

"Yes. So far. And look at you—is it even possible that you can't tie your robe without assistance?" She walked over, made her husband a bit more presentable.

Despite agitation Merimac chuckled at her fussing, familiar and homey, soothing as the concoction Paladin was brewing. Eglantine turned her hazel eyes upon him as she finished snugging her husband's robe close, then turned and walked over. To Merimac's surprise she knelt down before him, drew his free hand into his lap and folded both of hers over it.

"'Tis like old times," she told him, her eyes brilliant-soft. "Sitting before the fire in the Great Hall at Smials, or in these very rooms. Cooking toddies on the stove and staying up to meet the dawn."

"Bairns and Shire-rule tend to stifle long nights with no sleep, eh?" was his reply. "And Himself none too pleased that he has to see the sun rise this dawn."

"Himself just likes to growl about it. He's seen plenty of sunrises," she answered with a teasing, sidelong glance at her husband. Paladin snorted. Eglantine turned back to Merimac, her eyes piercing, her pointed chin coming to rest on their conjoined hands. "You've been away too long, my friend."

A bittersweet and familiar twist at his heart, and Merimac reached forward, twitched his fingers into the amber curls flung across his lap. Her hair was soft as rabbit fur, and her hands tiny within his, yet tensile and hardened with the cares of one wived to the most successful landholder in the Tooklands.

"I told him as much yesterday." Paladin measured the frothing drink into three warmed mugs, walked over and passed them about. Scratching at his tousled curls, Paladin took up his own and sipped from it. His green eyes sharpened as he looked down at Merimac, who was very aware that he was considerably less turned out than even his sleepy compatriot. "Your eyes are quite reminiscent of piss-holes in the snow. In fact," Paladin continued mildly, "you look as if you've been up all night for the watch."

"That's not a poor assessment," Merimac admitted. "I'm sorry to disturb you so early. I know you're due to leave this morning."

"No matter," Paladin shrugged. "If we leave later, we leave later. The ponies are fast and the roads good—it didn't rain hard enough last night to muck them up—and we can always go cross country on the last leg if it gets late."

"Which means I'd best wear my split skirt without the overlay," Eglantine said dryly, raising her head from Merimac's knee to sip her cup, "if Himself is in the mood to hop the hurdles."

"Oh, nonsense, my dear, I've seen you take the Quarry fence with three sets of skirts flying nearly over your head. Your instinct is marvelous."

"Instincts, perhaps. It's my modesty and pride which suffers in such straits," she teased, winking up at Merimac.

Throwing his head back against the chair, Merimac stifled a howl of laughter just in time, remembering the little hobbitchild sleeping in the connecting bedroom. Paladin smirked into his cup, snagged a chair with one furry, uncombed foot and offered it to his wife; when she indicated her preference for staying put, he smiled at her then settled into the chair.

"So. You told Lanna that you needed help? What has settled so oddly into your eyes, my friend?"

Merimac told them. Not every bit, no. No details of the sensual map made with fingertips and breath and voice, or the knowledge given from that—such things were not to be lightly shared outside their circumstances, even with his dearest friends. But the rest, yes. The beginnings of the situation, the fathomless well behind Frodo's eyes, Merry's equally deep confusion, Frodo's increasingly perplexing behavior and the untenable situation growing within the Hall.

"I'm… out of my depth here. I want to help my cousin, I want to help my nephew. But how I am to do anything when it looks very likely I'll have to drag Frodo kicking and screaming to my boat? And…" He trailed off. Eglantine's hands were firm in his; Paladin's grass-green eyes just as forthrightly comforting. It gave him the wherewithal to continue.

"I really think Frodo wants to go to Bilbo's, to tell you the truth. But that worries me as well. There's no doubt that the lad would find a lot of books and papers and the like to occupy his mind, but I'm thinking that he spends entirely too much time smudge-fingered and pie-eyed over his writing desk as it is."

"It seems he enjoys it," Eglantine reproved.

"I know he does—but what has it done for him so far, eh? Nothing but make him turn so far inward that he didn't even see what was happening to him until Lotho yanked him out of his little world—and Ancalagon's breath, but if that wasn't one of the nastiest cock-ups I've ever had the dubious pleasure of witnessing…" Merimac realized his hands were shaking in her grip, steadied them.

"Mm." Paladin shifted in his chair. "If he does, as you say, tend toward retreating into his own fantasy far too much, I'm not sure that Bilbo's is the best place for him."

"Perhaps fantasy and his 'little world' are all he has," Eglantine's quiet words stilled both the males for a moment.

"Be that as it may," Merimac finally admitted, "I'm not sure the old hobbit of Bag End is ready to have a hard-up tween twitching in his smial at all hours."

Eglantine smirked and took a sip from her cup. "Just so."

"Neither will the Hall Master and his wife stand for it, eh?—and there's a very peculiar thing. I can't say I quite understand Esme and Sara not wanting to let the lad go." Merimac started to take a sip from his cup, realized it was empty, huffed irritably at it. "Damn it all, Pal, there's something so bloody… bizarre about it. Something doesn't make sense, and I don't understand. Frankly I'm not sure I want to understand it. I just want to get Frodo away from here before he combusts. As you said."

Eglantine was looking at her husband, her delicate brows knit together with something that seemed akin to worry. Paladin was looking into his cup and his face was grey. Merimac's eyes flickered from one to the other, an uneasy churn settling to the pit of his stomach.

"Is there something to this either of you aren't telling me?"

Eglantine got up, took the cup from his hand, went over to the steaming pot and refilled it.

"Is there?" Merimac demanded. "What?"

Paladin shook his head. "'Tis nothing. An old dream."

Merimac sat bolt upright in his chair. "You… dreamed of this?"

"I didn’t say that. But I am thinking, the more and more you tell me, that Frodo-lad is fairly Tookish." Paladin turned the full bore of his gaze upon Merimac. "And you know what that can mean."

Merimac tried several times to make his throat form words; finally succeeding. "Paladin, what are you saying?" As Eglantine glided over and handed Merimac his refilled cup, he took it and frowned up at her. Her face was smooth, giving nothing away. Merimac continued. "Could you possibly know what this is all about?"

"No, I don't. Not really. But I trust your instincts."

"They're all but screaming at this bit of work," Merimac muttered.

"There's no denying, 'tis something going on within that lad the Hall can give no help to."

"What is it, eh? If you know, you must tell me…"

"I… can't tell you, love. No more than you've chosen to tell me all," Paladin furthered bluntly, raising one hand as Merimac began to protest. "I've probably done no good telling you this much."

"'This much'?" Merimac rose from his chair and paced over to the other side of the smial, stopping at the table that sat next to the window. The new-making of morning was chill upon his cheeks and neck; the storm clouds tearing into remnants before the lightening sky. Beyond the window the damp ground ran glistening into the rocky strand and the river. His eyes followed it, measuring it almost instinctively and hearkening to its song while his broad hands cupped his drink. "You've told me nothing, you realize. Other than an inkling that Frodo might have the same curse that plagues you from time to time…"

"Mac," Eglantine said fiercely, "it is no curse!"

"To catch glimpses of what will be—and what will not? How," Merimac turned from the river view and looked directly into her eyes, speaking softly if pointedly, "do you expect me to look upon it as anything but a curse, my dear?"

Eglantine's eyes dropped. Then, resignedly, she nodded.

"This can't explain all of it," Merimac insisted. Eglantine's scent, violets and new grass mixed with the heady spiced-wine scent that he knew intimately as Paladin's, wafted soothingly into his senses as she brushed past him on her way to the stove, then took up the pot. He watched as she carried it carefully back over to her husband, pouring the remainder of the warm, whiskey-laced milk into his mug. The Thain sat looking into the liquid for long moments, seeming suddenly frail in the large, wooden chair. "Pal?" Merimac insisted, hearing his voice waver disturbingly on the familiarity of the nickname.

Eglantine sat on the chair arm beside him, her brows quirked with worry.

"Of course, you're correct." When Paladin looked up and spoke, he was once again hale and firm, as if the odd moment of vulnerability had never been. "This explains little of the situation. It certainly explains naught of my sister's wish to hold Frodo close as she has—other than perhaps she fears for him."

"Fears for him?' Merimac said bluntly. "More like she fears him, period."

"Mac…"

"If you have not seen the odd way Esmeralda eyes that lad, I have. And it is to no good purpose, any of it. The further I see it, the further I start to think that Esme seeks to leash Frodo as she could not with Primula. And more, the lad feels the bite of it all too keenly."

"You only see Frodo's view in this." It was the Thain that spoke, courteous yet chill. "Nor do I expect you to do otherwise, but since you have asked for my help, I must be fair in giving it. To everyone."

Merimac fell silent at the reproof, took a drink from his cup then turned back to his view of the Hall-front strand. Shouts echoed from across the wide firth; familiar voices from Gillyflower, several unfamiliar ones from the ferry. He was late returning, as well, and the knowledge gave him more urgency than ever.

He did not sleep well here. Even walking seemed a chore; he was too used to the fluid roll and pitch of the water, and land was too solid, too ungiving beneath his sun-bleached feet.

"I just want to get Frodo away from here," Merimac stated. "Mayhap Bilbo's is where he wants to go, and mayhap it isn't, but if I take him to the river he can decide what he really wants. He deserves the chance to at least try and figure that out without any pressure. From anyone."

"I stand by what I told you yesterday," Paladin said from behind him. "Frodo needs removing from this Hall. But if we're to accomplish this in the easiest manner possible for all concerned, we must do it with care. As you've already said, there are others involved."

"Merry," Merimac breathed into the dawn air.

"Perhaps," Eglantine said, "if you let Frodo have too much rope on this he'll noose himself with it. He's matured, yes, but he's not an adult and he still needs guidance. I think we need to just offer a settled fate to him—one that can be changed in the future if he so desires, but for now just make the decision and see to it that Sara and Esme will abide by it. And if Merry-lad knows that he could come to Smials when winter comes, and that Frodo will be there as well as Pippin, then the separation will go easier, yet still happen as it must. That little one," she said firmly, "is too young to be paired like a tween."

"Young or no, Merry's clung to Frodo and Frodo to Merry," Paladin muttered. "'Tis way past time something was done."

"I find it hard to believe that Esme has not realized how Frodo's blossomed into awareness," Eglantine said softly. "He's small for his age, and he's no doubt all too reticent, but that was no child that sat next to you at tea, Paladin."

"Scaling Mac with his eyes and juddering every time anyone over the age of consent looked at him. Yes," Paladin said with a slight grin. "and no doubt all this explains why our dear RiverMaster is walking so stiffly this morning, and also how there was a definite cry alight on the air from the boys' little smial last night. I went to check on the ponies last night before I retired," he explained with another grin as Merimac turned curiously to him. "Just as well Peregrin slept here last night, was it?"

"Mm. Frodo is… enthusiastic," Merimac admitted, a small smile touching one corner of his mouth as he contemplated his cup. "I only hope I can survive his eagerness."

"Go have a soak in the tubs," Eglantine said mercilessly.

"To be honest," Merimac said wryly, "that's not terribly safe, either."

Paladin burst out laughing and sprang up from his chair, lightly as a boy. Within two strides he was next to his old friend and giving him a fierce embrace.

"Don't coddle him, love," Eglantine furthered sternly, "If he can't take the heat he needs stay from the kitchen." But a smirk played about the curve of her lip, betraying her mirth as she held out a hand for Merimac's empty cup.

He relinquished it to her. "Well, then. If I'm to get no sympathy for my age and sensibilities, perhaps I should go and leave a fine note at my brother's door. After early breakfast, eh?"

"That would be best, aye," was Paladin's answer. "I would suggest to make all as formal as possible. Specific time and place, and all that."

"You know, I'm not a total hames with social matters," Merimac grumbled good-naturedly, trying to wriggle somewhat unsuccessfully from the firm embrace.

"You're not?" Paladin said with exaggerated surprise, looking up with arched brows.

"Not, and you know even the rogue Brandybuck's still more sensible than any Took," was the grinned sally. "And still taller than you, you must realize."

"We're all the same height when we're horizontal," Paladin inserted slyly, then gave Merimac's cheek a light slap and released him. Merimac snorted, and Eglantine gave a heavy sigh.

"If you two are going to be vulgar then I shall be forced to make more of that lovely toddy to sustain me." She eyed Merimac sideways, then stepped over and gave him a kiss to one cheek before he could reply in kind. "If you would take my advice and not Pal's, I am very serious about the bath. Or at least a bit of a sponge-off and use of a comb. No sense appearing before your Master looking like a disreputable river-rat." As she flicked a strand of lank hair back from his forehead, her eyes glinted teasingly. "Even if you are one. Off with you, now."

Merimac met her eyes, then Paladin's, then smiled and did as bidden.

* * * * * *

"And why are all three of you so set on this?" Saradoc’s voice was level; he sat back in his chair, drink in hand, his blue eyes fierce above the glass. Esmeralda stood behind him, both hands braced against the headrest. She had refused a drink for herself but had poured a round for everyone else, listening to her brother's request.

It made no sense. "I too would like to know," she said with quiet intensity, "what this is all about."

"Nothing more than the proper disposition of your ward into fosterage, sister," Paladin said, crossing one well-clad leg over the other and resting his glass against the armrest.

"Esme." Eglantine was standing to the back of her husband’s chair, in much the same position that Esmeralda was. "It seems an equitable solution as we've put it forth. Frodo goes to the river as soon as possible and stays with Merimac for the remainder of the season. Come Samhain we send Pearl here and Frodo comes to Smials. 'Tisn't the first time we've traded special fosterages."

"True enough," Saradoc admitted. "But I'm quite curious as to what prompted it all, and I'm sure my wife is as well." His eyes went over to where Merimac stood at Paladin's right hand, arms crossed over his chest. "As much as Merry's attitude got him into trouble," he continued, still eyeing his brother although his words were obviously directed at Paladin, "my son was right about one thing. None of you have bothered with the lad before. Particularly not Bilbo, who obviously wasn't very serious in his claim—he left yestereven and the only thing he had to say was that he intended to have the lad for a visit."

"He'll go home and promptly forget it all, of course," Esme said dryly. "We could paper the entire Hall with Bilbo Baggins' whims."

Merimac looked as if he wanted to say something, then shook his head and remained silent.

"Perhaps you're right, although I fear you underestimate Bilbo," Paladin answered. "Departed or no, I think he's serious about wanting Frodo to visit. And I shall tell you right now you have no legal right to withhold such."

"Speaking, of course, as the Thain," Esmeralda inserted.

"As much the Thain as it is permitted," Paladin's answer was wry. "You know my status there as well as I. I'm not challenging you, dear heart, so waste no arrows on my carcass. I'm merely reminding you of what you already know."

Saradoc shifted in his chair. "I can't deny that I think the Bagginses have been remiss in their duty toward the lad, but there are… complications involved."

"And those are?" Paladin asked smoothly.

"I would not let Bilbo raise a dog I liked, let along an impressionable child," Esmeralda stated.

"The 'impressionable child' is that no longer, Esme."

Merimac's sudden, flat statement unaccountably irritated her. "The lad’s not yet a tween!"

"In less than a month he will be, eh? He's no longer a child, he's finally well past his change and he needs the same things you’d give any other tween. Freedom, for one."

It begged another, sharper retort, but Esme chose to ignore it, instead turning to Paladin, who repeated softly and stubbornly, "What complications exist?"

"Bilbo's undesirability as a guardian, for one," Esmeralda answered. "He's unfit, I say."

"Unfit? Or merely undesirable?" She started to protest his splitting of hairs, but Paladin raised a hand. "Now, the distinction will be important, particularly given Frodo's maturity and the fact that he's old enough to have some say over this."

Esmeralda, tempted to answer, was halted by her husband's sharp contemplation of her brother. "I will admit," Saradoc said, leaning back in his chair ponderously, "that the lad is in desperate need of fostering, and has been for some time. Esme has, understandably, been hesitant about doing so, for various reasons." He shrugged, gave her a fond glance which was both warming and irksome, then continued, "Wait until your little lad is nigh to a tween, Paladin, and see how eager his mother is to give him up. It's the way of things. I'm not sure that my own mother ever let loose of Mac, even when she caught him in the hayloft with you and Milo Burrows."

Eglantine met Esmeralda's eyes, hiding a chuckle behind her hand that Esme couldn't help but smirk at. Behind Paladin, Merimac nearly snorted wine through his nose.

Paladin didn't budge. A slight twinkle of eye and a tiny smile acknowledged Saradoc's story, but it did not set him one jot from his interior path, whatever that was. Esmeralda's own grin faded. To see her brother this focused was not necessarily reassuring—what was going on, here?

"All too true, Sara. But the fact remains Esme is not Frodo's mother, and while I can certainly understand her feelings for Primula's son, I don't think it's quite that simple any more."

"Nothing is ever as simple as it appears," Saradoc concurred.

"No, it's not. And I can understand your hesitancy for not having the lad packed off to Bilbo Baggins'. I respect the old hobbit, but his reputation quite unfortunately proceeds and follows him. Frodo has rank and a place to uphold; to have his first fostering-out be at the home of the Shire's chief moonstruck dreamer and rake—particularly if Frodo himself shows a tendency towards having too strong of leanings toward his own fantasy world—is perhaps not the wisest choice at this time." Paladin crossed his legs, set his drink down on the small table next to him. "You cannot legally stop it from happening should Bilbo set his mind to it, but you can delay it. Which brings us back to the proposition we've already set before you."

"Bilbo Baggins aside for now," Esme dismissed that with all the consideration it deserved, "Sara is correct about our Merry-lad pointing out a very valid question. Why are any of you bothering with this, here and now, and in such a fashion?"

"Nothing this important needs to be decided with haste," Saradoc agreed. "this is a complex solution—a decent one, but complex. Why bring it to us now?"

There was a short silence. "How," Paladin said slow and direct, "can you imagine that we are deaf and blind to what is happening here?"

Esmeralda frowned at her brother; his eyes were clear and troubled but it did not ease the impact of his statement.

"And what exactly do you think is happening?" Saradoc asked quite levelly.

Merimac's shoulders twitched, as if he longed to say something and was hard pressed to keep it back. Right on cue, he did not hold back for longer than it took him to drain his drink then draw breath. "Pal, I told you as much. They don't even begin to see it."

His reaction was, if in character, more vehement than might be expected in the circumstances. Esmeralda shot a glance at her husband, found him looking at his brother with an intent, querying gaze. Frowning, she followed that gaze back to its focus.

"Might I?" Merimac motioned with his empty glass over to the sideboard; Esmeralda started over and he held up a hand. "Spare me. I've had precious little sleep and I've even less stomach for any mannerly hostess routine. Particularly after the dog-and-pony show we witnessed yesterday." He motioned to the dining room about them, much darker and less grandly set than the day before.

With a purse of her lips, Esme desisted; the description rankled but then it was unfortunately accurate. Neither was she prepared for a verbal fencing match with her brother-in-law when he was so obviously in a mood. She threaded fingers through the gold necklace about her pale throat, watching in puzzlement as Merimac went over to the single fire that crackled in the hearth to take off the early chill. Placing a broad hand upon the mantle, he stared into the fire and tossed back his drink and Esmeralda noted that he might be presentable, yet looked more unkempt than was his wont, his face lined with telling weariness. No sleep, indeed.

Eglantine was also staring thoughtfully at Merimac, but concern, not puzzlement, was paramount in her features. Whatever was going on, she obviously understood—which, Esmeralda supposed, shouldn't surprise her. Paladin took a sip of his own drink, the line between his brows furrowed deeper. Saradoc sat back in his chair and let out a grumbling sigh, still eyeing his brother.

Eglantine was the one to finally speak. "As to why we should bother, Frodo is our cousin. Pippin obviously adores him. And it's not as if we haven't invited Frodo to Smials before," she reminded her Brandybuck relatives softly. "Each time you said that he didn't want to come."

"He didn't," was Saradoc's frank rejoinder. "He's never wanted to go anywhere, unless one counts the times he's run away. I will admit that we gave up trying to convince him…"

"And the months pass all too quickly into years, and our young hobbits grow all too fast," Paladin concurred. "I understand, my friend. I certainly don't yet have the entirety of responsibility that lies upon your shoulders, but I'm beginning to realize it." He peered at both Saradoc and Esmeralda over his drink. "As to what is happening here? Come, now. Merimac has just reminded us of what transpired yesterday in this very room, and I shall admit that my own household's problems have made me… well, sensitive to things that can all too easily be missed beneath the cares of our land."

"I'm not sure that Frodo's attitude has been missed by any of us," the Hall Master said laconically.

"His attitude—" Merimac began from over by the hearth.

"Is certainly of importance," Paladin quickly clarified. "We're both having trouble and we both might have a solution for each other."

"You all seem quite certain that Frodo will be eager to go to the river."

Merimac's eyes slid sideways, met his brother's.

"Whereas I've never seen any hint in the lad that he has any calling for such work. His parents died there. He watches the boats pole past the shallows and is bad-tempered for hours afterwards."

"I had," Merimac's voice was quite flat, "no idea that you paid him such attention."

"I'm sure," Saradoc said, just as flatly.

"Be assured, we have Frodo's best interests in mind," Paladin said firmly.

Merimac strode back over, coming to a halt just behind Paladin's chair. It had the peculiar and unintentional look of an honour guard taking his place—or perhaps not so unintentional. Esmeralda considered with dismay Merimac's grey eyes, alight with something that was not at all pleasant.

"I believe that you do," Saradoc said, musingly cold. "However I've been watching my brother very closely, and I'm beginning to wonder at his intentions."

Paladin and Eglantine looked at each other with something akin to dismay then, as if on cue, Paladin's hand shot out and gripped Merimac's sleeve as the riverhobbit started forward.

"What is that supposed to mean, eh?"

"No more or less that you make it mean, brother."

"To which you have—"

"Merimac." Esmeralda had about had it with the fraternal cock fight running apace in her parlour. "What makes you think that you can control that boy? Or that we could simply loose him on that boat of yours when he's already wild as a hare? It would not be good for Frodo, nor would it be smart, considering the company you keep. Even going directly to Smials—assuming he needs to be riven from yet another home now, which I don't think would be good for him—would be a better solution than letting him run riot with you…"

"Oh, perfect." Merimac snarled. "Directly to Smials? I guarantee you that would be no decent solution!"

"Mac…" Saradoc growled, "you've no call to—"

"Do you really want to know," Merimac yanked his sleeve from Paladin's grip, stepping forward, "what would happen if Frodo went directly to Tuckborough in his state of being? Eh? I can just about paint a picture for you. He would slink about Smials, looking tragic and surly and gorgeously inaccessible. And wouldn't our lovely miss Pearl take one look at that challenge and decide she was the one to broach it?"

"Mac—" Paladin voiced from his chair.

"Being ignorant about the charms of a lass and somewhat desperate to fit in somewhere—anywhere!—he'd most likely respond to anything she had to offer, and then wouldn't Pal and Lanna have more trouble aboard than any hobbit could reasonably abide?"

Esmeralda stared at him, scarcely able to credit what she was hearing.

"What with Pearl's talent for getting exactly what she wants, and as frustrated as Frodo is right now, there's no doubt that those two would…"

"Mac," Eglantine said desperately, "please!"

It brought him up short, silenced him as quickly as any physical hold. With a shake of his head and a rake of his fingers through his hair, Merimac reined in his temper. However Esmeralda was no longer going to keep silence in the face of this. "Merimac, have you well and truly lost your mind?"

"I'm thinking," said Saradoc from behind her sourly, "that's not the problem."

Merimac's broad shoulders stiffened again, obviously reading something in the statement that Esmeralda did not. "Both of you refuse to see your hand before your face!" he replied hotly. "If you don't loose that lad, he'll run."

"He's run before," Saradoc pointed out. "He goes, then comes back. It's all he knows how to do, it seems."

"You push him much farther, and he won't come back." Merimac turned on Esmeralda. "Frodo is not what you want him to be—he never will be, and your insistence on not accepting it is just Tookish stubborn pride, pure and simple!"

Just behind him, Paladin gained his feet and laid a firm hand on one of those shoulders. The gesture infuriated Esmeralda further. She had vast affection if little approval for her brother-in-law, and such affection had necessarily come about the long and hard way. For ever since they were bairns, Paladin had strayed into mischief after mischief with his Brandybuck playmate, and to a sister wanting nothing but soft roads for her only brother, Merimac's wild, tangled paths had often driven Esmeralda to distraction.

"So you think," Esmeralda spat out, "that you can miraculously succeed at what we have tried everything in our power to accomplish? You think that you can hold him?"

"Hold him?" Merimac shot back. "Hold? That's where you and I differ, sister dear. Neither you, your husband, your Hall, nor I will hold that lad, not for long. Not any more. The explosion's long overdue, and one day very shortly he'll run and not come back. We'll all have failed him then, and he'll end as just one more young hobbitlad lost Outside, alone in the Wild or selling his favours on the docks—"

"Merimac!!" Esmeralda gritted at him and Saradoc lurched upward from his chair.

"—because he's been held night to breaking, but despite this supposed tender and 'care', he feels that he has no home, anywhere!" Paladin's grip tightened on Merimac so that his knuckles gleamed yellow; Merimac slowed his words but not his intent. "You might make a lifetime's effort of trying to chain the lightning, but you won't catch me at it!"

"No," Saradoc said bitterly, quietly. "You'll just let it strike where it may, no matter who might get hurt."

The grey eyes flashed, first with anger then with uncertainty. Merimac looked sideways, eyed Paladin's narrow, closed profile, lowered his gaze. Eglantine, still standing beside her husband's designated chair, clenched her fingers in the brocade fabric back and watched them all with a piercing, sorrowful gaze.

The Took let out a grumbling sigh. "Esme," he said, shaking his head, "do you not even comprehend any of what is happening here? Merimac might be speaking of things we don't want to hear but he is right, can't you see that?"

Esme turned on her brother. "I see more than you think," she said through her teeth. "Including that your dear problem child’s main difficulty is that she will never be Thain. Pearl is too intelligent to moulder away wived to some common crofter, and the only possibilities for a husband to match her brains and rank are the two heirs to Brandy Hall, or the Mayor’s son—who at present happens to be five—or some rich landowner’s son, of which there aren’t that many.

"And then her mother produces a child—not only a youngest child, but a son, moreover, who will by mere right of sex be qualified to hold the Thain's post. He's beautiful, he's bright, he loves the world and expects it to love him—and you wonder that Pearl resents little Peregrin?"

Silence followed her words. Then Eglantine said, softly, "You see all that so plain and true, yet you cannot see what is happening with your own fosterling? Your husband speaks so bluntly about intentions, and your ward's best interests, but I think it is not Mac's intentions that are in question here. I do not believe the Hall any longer has sight of what would be best for Frodo Baggins." Her gilded eyes turned to Esmeralda, arrow-direct. "You have no right to keep that young hobbit a child, Esme. Not for any reason."

Esmeralda fastened her gaze upon her brother's wife, feeling as if a butterfly had alighted upon her merely to grow fangs and bite. Eglantine had her own steel base, which one forgot at their peril.

"You’ve certainly gotten your unlikely trio together to get you exactly what you want, haven’t you Mac?" Saradoc said musingly. "Again."

"And again, you misconstrue my motives, brother—"

"We're losing sight of what matters, here," the Took interrupted firmly. "This is about our children. Not about us."

"That's just what I was trying to say," Merimac muttered sourly. "This needs to be about what's best for Frodo."

"What's best for Frodo?" Saradoc rumbled angrily; Merimac started to open his mouth in furious reply but Paladin's hand fiercely clamped his shoulder once again and he subsided. Esmeralda started to draw breath for a reply, but her husband strode forward and halted a mere half-length from his brother and Paladin, arms akimbo and shoulders hard as iron. The two brothers were the same height and cast of feature, but there the resemblance ended and had continued to segregate. Land and sea had given different casts to their bodies just as heredity had given them differing coloration. And their dispositions were just as similarly opposing, a guarantee of uneasy existence ever since the younger had grown past the elder's care and advice.

"You keep parroting 'what's best for Frodo' as if that can be the only consideration possible," Saradoc stonily continued. "I ask you: what about what is best for the Hall? Or for my son, who seems to be joined at the hip with Frodo Baggins?—the same Frodo Baggins, I remind you, who has frankly been determined to be a pain in the neck and stubbornly walk his own bloody-minded path even if it leads him off a cliff! How exactly is our unwillingness to let him endanger himself or those about him now suddenly construed as some deep plot to purposefully misunderstand the lad? For pity's sake, how can we misunderstand something that is clearly unfathomable in the first place?"

"If you were as concerned for your blood-son or your foster son as you claim," Merimac shot back, "then you'd be all too ready to not question my motivations and all too willing to let Frodo come with me to the river!"

"Pray," Saradoc said heavily, "enlighten me, brother."

"Better that I," Mac said between his teeth, "be put to this particular test than Merry."

Saradoc clenched his fists. Eglantine let out a small, choked noise. Paladin's eyes narrowed and his jaw quivered. Esmeralda looked at her family and felt as if a punch line had been delivered with nary a story told or tendered to herself.

"Close your mouth, brother," her husband said in the low, trembling voice that she knew denoted how furious he was, "or by the memory of our mother I will close it for you."

"You may strike me if you wish," Merimac stated, flatly quiet, "and no doubt I'll deserve it. But it won't change the truth, and you know it."

Esmeralda's stomach lurched within her, as if it knew what she did not.

"Merry already thinks the sun rises and sets in Frodo's eyes," Merimac said, still quietly. "Frodo might have a pure heart and absolutely no intent, but he is not made of stone. Neither is Merry capable yet of understanding that he's playing with fire. It's unfair to keep either of those lads in a situation that could explode on them at any moment."

Silence.

Esmeralda started to speak, to voice something—protest, declaration, agreement. Yes, Merry clung to Frodo too tightly for his age, and Frodo could not deflect the danger that coiled in his veins like tiny drakes, heritage and possible harm… instead she fell mute as her husband turned away from them all, radiating ire surely as a well-stoked stove gave forth heat. Going to the sideboard, Saradoc poured himself a drink, downed it then poured another.

Eglantine alone cared to brave that furious wall of immobility set against them all. "Sara. Esme. You're both at wit's end. I understand, believe me. Let Mac take Frodo until we can. Our little Pippin is staying, and I understand, Mac, that your Berilac is coming to be fostered here as well, so they can be company for your own son. It is a certainty that Merry will miss Frodo dreadfully when he leaves."

Saradoc's shoulders twitched, and Esmeralda turned a narrowed gaze upon her brother's wife, trying to fathom the undercurrent of what was being said. It was not easy, nor was it a normal feeling, this numbness—as if detached sparks were trying to illuminate a peculiar and dumb darkness within her mind.

Silence.

"You're right that Pal and I agreed to help Mac with this," Eglantine continued gently. "Yes, because he asked us, and because it affects us, too, if Frodo comes to Smials. We'd like to help. He is our cousin. Pippin adores him. Merry could come as well, once there's been some interval of separation—perhaps even Berilac if Mac wishes it. Come winter, the lads can all bide at Tuckborough and if things work out…" the Took's wife shrugged. "Then only happiness will result, yes?"

Cupping his drink in broad hands, Saradoc contemplated the portraits above the massive wooden top for several moments. All was hushed in the formal smial. Through the open shutters the river could be heard, rushing and tumbling, and Esmeralda was surprised that she even noticed it; normally it was such an accustomed and unavoidable background presence that it was all but inaudible.

"Fine, then," Saradoc said abruptly. "Take him. Because quite frankly I'm getting sick of the entire subject."

"Sara!" Esmeralda blurted out.

The Master of Brandy Hall turned to all of them, broad and resolute as a fighting bull. His eyes settled first on his brother. "You I will not give over fosterage to, and I think you know why."

Merimac stiffened.

"Frodo will go with you to the river. But not as your ward; all things considered, it would not be fitting."

Oddly enough Merimac relaxed and nodded. "Certainly not."

"I'm glad we agree on at least that. Your cousin will be on your boat for a temporary visit only. I've no doubts you'll take care of him—and I've no doubts that within a fortnight you'll be wishing you'd not agreed to any of it."

"That's where you and I usually differ, brother," answered Merimac. "I've always doubts."

"Sara, this is not your—" Esmeralda started, outraged.

"As to winter's tide," Saradoc continued as if he had not heard, turning to the hobbit who would, all too soon, be his full compatriot in rank within the Shire's borders. "Paladin, we will surely take Pearl into fosterage and give Frodo into your care. It's an exchange of equal circumstance and rank, as is stated and accepted by law and right of charter."

"We would rather wait until harvest is done to send her, as I stated," Paladin agreed. "Which is why Frodo going to stay with Merimac is such an equitable solution until Pearl is here at the Hall."

Saradoc took another sip of his drink, nodded. "We are agreed, then?"

"We are. Shall we seal it over another breakfast, before we ride for Tuckborough?"

"I… think not," Saradoc said, eyeing Esmeralda. She stood rigid, eyeing him back. Paladin looked as if he thought to protest, then looked at them both and demurred.

"As you wish."

"Merimac," Saradoc furthered, "You said a fortnight?"

"I'll be back within the week," Merimac answered, "if I can manage it, and no more than a fortnight. I have to see to some business I've put off too long, and manage some accommodations for Frodo on Gillyflower."

"Come, then, have a bite with us before we have to head home," Paladin held out an arm to Merimac; he kept trying to catch his sister's eye, to no avail.

"I think I'll go find Frodo, actually," Merimac said, and there was something in his voice that was not quite off-hand, and a matching tension in Paladin's laughter. This time Esmeralda did raise her eyes to peer at her brother and her husband's brother.

Eglantine came up to her, placed a soft caress of lips to her cheek. "We'll go to board, see Peregrin. We won't leave without bidding you both farewell."

Esmeralda returned the kiss distractedly, frowning after the three as they vacated the smial. There was a quick burst of dialogue from outside the door as it shut, muffled and unintelligible, but satisfied. Esmeralda turned to Saradoc then, her fists clenched. He took one look at her, then sighed.

"Emmie, I'm sorry. It's got to be done, love, surely you see that."

"You had no right!"

"I had every right. And if you'd look at it other than with a feminine eye, you'd see that."

"Don't patronize me, husband. You have your place as much as I have mine, and the details of fosterage are my responsibility and always have been. You not only took that from me, you did it in front of others."

"Does it really have to do with your pride of place, wife?" he rumbled back, "or with whom this particular arrangement is concerned?"

"That is not the issue, here—"

"Damn it, Esmeralda, the very fact that you can't even understand what I did this for means it is the issue! You need to let it go!" he snarled back. "I did it for you, can't you see that? "

"You usurped my authority by placing a charge of mine under another's care, and you did this for me?"

He stared at her for long moments, then growled a curse beneath his breath. "Fine, then. I'm going to see to the preparation of the ponies for your brother. Is there anything you need me to see to or do while I'm walking the yard?"

"I would think," she said sharply, "that you have done quite enough."

He growled another, viler curse, then spun on one heel and strode through the door, slamming it behind him, leaving her alone.

Alone. And for the first time since she had come to them as a bride, the large set of suites that made up the Master's smial seemed yawning, and cavernous, and cold.

Empty.

Esmeralda went to her office, closed the door, wrapped her arms about herself and leaned against her desk. Her head was aching, suddenly, aching fit to burst, as if every hair follicle were tender and inflamed. She debated dosing herself heavily and simply lying down—she had nothing to do until after lunch, nothing that couldn't wait.

Instead she began pulling pins from the tight bun of hair snugged to the back of her skull. Finally the fair, heavy mass fell down her back in frizzled waves; she put the pins on her desk, kneaded fingers against her scalp and knew some relief.

The tiny office was dark, cozy, close. Everything in it spoke of her life since she had come here; the shelved rows of ledgers and genealogies and histories that were too valuable to be in the open library, the worn, honey-coloured desk with the present ledger open atop it, tiny, precise rows of dark ink detailing the least bit of custom that went through the Hall grounds. Even the warming candle had been a present from a grateful tenant farmer. In here, there were signs everywhere of Brandy Hall's success at her very capable hands.

So why here, in her haven and demesne, did she feel naught but this sweeping sense of failure?

Finally she fled the tiny room, fled the Hall, although no one that saw her would have said she was taking flight from anything. Her pace was moderate—if anything a bit slower than her norm—but instead of heading for the midst of Hall activity, she pushed open the massive round door that led from the cliff fronts and closed it securely behind her.

Somehow, she wasn't sure how, she found herself on the rocky strand that lined the front of Brandy Hall, her skirts rucked up over her thighs, straddling the swing that her father-in-law had mounted for his children, her well-groomed feet burrowing into the gravel and pushing her lightly back and forth in the breeze.

The rope squeaked in her hands. The breeze wafted her hair about her, wrapping her in a cloth of stranded gossamer; for moments she wished she'd rebound it, then considered her throbbing head once more and didn't care if it snarled. A small group of hobbits appeared around the forested bend, poling down the river on a flat loaded with vegetables, and she raised a hand in greeting to their cheery hails. She could imagine they had no idea that they'd just waved so carelessly to the Mistress of Brandy Hall who was parked on an old rope swing as if it were forty years earlier and she still a girl visiting her favorite cousin. A smile touched her face as she remembered; it all seemed to merge into one long, golden afternoon that, at the time, it had been impossible to believe would ever end….

Esmeralda also remembered a summer solstice gather day, only six years ago, when Primula's son had done the same thing. Little Merry had come screaming into the Hall as if his breeches were on fire, and she had known ten kinds of panic before she'd seen that her son was laughing amidst his cries, bouncing in mirth and pointing to the front of the Hall where Frodo was stuck to his knees in those same deceptive river shallows after attempting some crazy stunt with the swing.

They'd gotten Frodo out. He'd been a little younger than Merry was now, and had thought the entire process the funniest thing in the world. Saradoc had already learned the hard way to avoid picking his young nephew up, so it had been Merimac—home for the festivities for a change—who had waded in and yanked Frodo from the river. He'd made quite the game of it, swirling the skinny, muddy legs about in the water and threatening dire consequences, then finally heaved the fiercely giggling little boy over his shoulder, waded out and deposited him in Esmeralda's lap.

Esmeralda had gathered him up, fiercely hugged and scolded him then, once Frodo had grabbed Merry's hand and the two had skipped away only a little penitent, had put her apron over her face and laughed until she'd cried.

Until she'd cried.

Tears. She put her hand to her face, brought it away wet, laid her forehead against the rope and closed her eyes tight, as if to chase the tears away.

No, Paladin wasn't deaf, nor was he blind, and he was the only other living soul that knew what she knew.

It was said, more often than not, that the Tooks had faery blood in them from long ago. The rumour of fey oddity found itself proven from time to time in flesh and blood. Her brother had, since she could remember, had the ability to… Sense things. Once it had been a bad dream that they had all dismissed as a child's fancy—until great-Uncle Isembard had been found just where Paladin had dreamed him, at the bottom of a ravine with his horse twisted and broken atop his body. Another time it had been when Merimac's ketch had jibed and he'd gotten tangled in rope and nearly drowned—Paladin had woke screaming, that time. Then yet another, nearly twenty years ago…

It had been long ago, that Yule, and Paladin had come to terms with what he had seen, and had never mentioned it since. He never did—he was as uncomfortable with his strange moments as Esme herself was.

And now… what was her family seeing now? In herself? In Frodo?

Esmeralda knew what she saw, and there was no longer the artless and affectionate little boy she had adopted as her own. Instead she saw a rebellious and resentful youth who seemed intent on proving himself more and more… alien… with every day that passed.

She rolled her forehead against the rope, watched tears spill and spot wet upon the woven print of her skirt. It was like looking into a distorted mirror, past into present into uncertain future, and certainly if one reflection held true then wouldn't the others as well?

The words sunk in, dredged further gaping holes within her composure. Yes, look to her only son, and yes, he loved Frodo so much that it hurt her heart to watch. Merry also was changing painfully fast—too fast—his senses and awareness teased into form by Frodo's changeling state. There were days lately that she wished she could physically wrest the two apart—and when had this started, this wish that her son and her foster-son would no longer keep company? For it was true, she had never before begrudged Merry his older cousin's presence; in fact never before had she even worried that Frodo would not take the greatest of care for his 'little shadow'. But now—Frodo could scarcely care for himself, let alone Merry or Pippin.

Gravel crunched with a regular approach of footfalls, slowed, stopped. She took a breath and quickly wiped at her eyes, started to look up. A familiar, petulant voice froze her in place.

"Hullo, Aunt."

If there was one person in the world she had not expected to see, or wanted to see less at this particular moment in time, with tears rimming her eyes and her hair hanging wild as a maiden's to her hips, her skirts hiked up every which way from sitting like a bairn on a swing, and without a single shred of anything resembling composure…

As usual, Frodo was showing a spectacular lack of timing.

For long seconds she did not reply, hoping that he might just choose his preferred avenue—escape from her presence if at all possible. Then the press of gravel shifted and scraped, the footsteps coming ever so slowly closer, and she ducked her head down further, letting her hair cover her face.

Then, once again, his voice. But the tone was softer, slightly slurred in a fashion she was not accustomed to, and what he said surprised her ever more.

"Are you all right?"

She stiffened, humiliated that he had somehow kenned her discord, and turned away, dashing at her eyes. "Certainly I'm all right."

Silence. Then, "Of course." The belligerent underlay had returned to his voice. "I guess you're here to lecture me because I didn't come back for breakfast."

Startled at the free edge to his tongue, Esmeralda looked up. Her breath caught at the apparition that stood before her. By some trick of light the sun had splayed a shadow deeply over him, glimmering those unearthly eyes into brooding sparks. He was suddenly brilliant and knife-edge hard—as aware and abandoned in presence as any wild creature.

She fled from odd uneasiness into familiar territory and stood up, rearranging her skirts and stating briskly, "Believe it or not, you do not occupy every thought I possess, Frodo. But yes, you have absolutely no business dragging in this late, particularly after your display yesterday."

"My… display. And what," he asked slowly, "exactly did I do? Other than ask you a question you refused to answer?"

"You know what you did."

"Yes, I guess I do. Because my very existence seems to offend you." She started to speak, fell mute as he continued, "In which case, I have to wonder why you feel this need to keep me about."

Esmeralda felt as if her legs had been kicked out from under her. For moments she struggled for words, unsure how to answer the nonsense he was spouting. And he fell silent, watching her with a brooding fixation that was unnerving.

"Since your last… escapade," she finally managed, "you agreed to be here for breakfast every morning. Without fail."

"It looks as if I failed, then," his reply was still slurred and low; he surprised her further by coming several steps closer. "But that shouldn't surprise you either, should it?"

The sun shifted, lit the water and reflected on his face, throwing it in stark relief. He had, she realised in puzzlement, been crying. Or, Esmeralda corrected herself as Frodo stopped not four hands in front of her, he'd been drinking. She could smell it about him as surely as she could see the river silt dulling the cream of his shirt. That shirt clung to him, sodden and half-unbuttoned, and one brace lay twisted. His hair fell uncombed and damp into his face, the sun flaming russet sparks amidst dark tangles, and his lip was curling into an expression that couldn't decide whether to be a pout or a sneer. More, there was a lithe and careless quality to his motions, a provocative arrogance that she'd never seen there before.

A spate of breeze took her hair, blew it forward; a length of it splayed across his face, sliding down to nestle into the hollow of his neck. Esmeralda was frozen for uncountable moments, then she snatched at her nape, pulling her hair once more behind her, twisting and frantically knotting it.

Unaccountably, one side of his mouth curled into a slight smile.

"Where have you been?" she demanded suddenly, still securely binding her hair.

The smile turned somewhat crafty. He put a finger to his lips. "'Tis a secret. I cannot tell."

Stars above, but he was infuriating. "Whatever possesses you to do things such as this?" she retorted, and his expression sobered, the light in his eyes no longer openly mocking, but captious. "Why do you defy me at every turn? Why do you behave this way?"

"I'm sure I don’t quite know," he said, slow and considering. "But then, it's what you expect, isn't it?"

"Frodo…"

"It's what I must do. Just as I must always come back here. I've very little choice in the matter, you know. Perhaps," his voice dipped into a sudden, biting venom that startled her, "you should just tie a stone to my ankles and push me from the ferry dock, let the river take me, too. Then you can keep me here forever, just as you've kept my mother."

The cold deliberacy of it punched her in the gut as surely as if he'd swung at her physically, and before she could even think she'd raised her hand.

His eyes gleamed, fever-bright, and he raised his chin as if in irrational welcome to the blow. That stopped her as surely as his comment had prompted her action. She let out a sharp, disturbed breath and said, lowering her hand, "You're drunk."

The sudden, hectic light that had flared went dim. His eyes lowered demurely on his cheeks, dark lashes veiling blue. "How nice," he murmured, "that you noticed."

"Have you completely lost all reason?"

"Ah," he said, so softly that it sunk into the sounds of the water. "I'm only living up to expectation with that, as well."

Then he turned from her and slowly walked back to the Hall.

Watching him go, Esme realised that she was shaking.

* * * * * *

Frodo stumbled up the steps going in, nearly fell, saved himself from it by an unlikely and elaborate maneuver that he was abruptly glad no one was about to witness.

Damn. He thought the swim had done him good, had at least quieted everything down to a dull roar. But now the chill water was a distant memory, he had bumped into the person he least wanted to see, and that presence and the mead had loosened things he didn't understand, including anger, and his tongue, and unfortunately the dragons as well…

Why had he said what he had? Yes, there had been the momentary satisfaction when she had flinched, and the even deeper, perverse gratification that had uncoiled in his gut when she'd raised her hand to punish him for it, and the intense sense of… disappointment when she had stayed her hand.

His head pounded in time with the rhythm of his tread in the dim hallway, murmurs and voices whispering, his thoughts all but tripping him up. Frodo alighted the stair leading to his own wing; he took the steps slowly, leaning heavily on the railing, his knees strangely wobbly. This wasn't like when he'd drunk too much at Merry's party. This was different, somehow. Everything was different. Somehow.

"Frodo?"

For long seconds he couldn't place the voice. Then quick steps up to him on the landing, and before Frodo turned about a hand laid on his shoulder. The touch was abruptly familiar, and his knees weakened further and without warning.

Anger runneled away, pooled into the pit of his stomach and reformed itself into something else.

"There you are--whups, lad!" Merimac's arm went about him and Frodo leaned into it without thinking. And when he thought to pull back, his body betrayed him and leaned even closer. "I've been looking for you, I've things to tell you…" Merimac trailed off suddenly, gripped his shoulders and pushed him back, looking at him. He was frowning.

Mac shouldn't frown. He was better at laughing, at fun; certainly better at fun than Frodo himself, who couldn't even have a few goes at a mead sack without growling at well-deserving aunts or losing himself in river bottoms…

He staggered on the fourth step as Merimac pulled him up to it and his older cousin stopped again, peering at Frodo, still frowning. "Isn't it a bit early in the day, lad?"

"I…" he had to trail off, think carefully. "I didn't have breakfast."

"Oh, I think you did," Merimac wryly said. "I think you drank your breakfast."

Frodo stopped mid-reply, thought again for long moments. Then when nothing came to him in the form of reply, he gave the only answer that made sense. Very carefully he pushed Merimac up against the wall of the landing, and leaned into him, and tried to kiss him.

But for some reason Merimac was having none of it. He avoided the caress entirely too easily and pushed back. Frodo leaned harder, trying to make himself extremely difficult to shove. Finally, after a few false tries at capturing Frodo's hands, Merimac managed to grab his wrists firmly

"You want me up against the wall, then?" Frodo asked earnestly, trying to reach his face. "I guess it's your turn."

"No, lad, that's not—"

"But it is. I mean, if we want to be fair about it and all." Somehow Merimac's expression was not at all what it should be if he was submitting to being seduced, and this fact suddenly made sense to Frodo. "Oh. I suppose we'd better go to your room first, don't you think?"

"No."

"You want to, right here?" After a moment's thought, the notion had a strange thrill of appeal. After all, not many hobbits came through this way, and did it matter if they did?… and Merimac kept re-capturing his wrists no matter how many times he tried to wriggle them free…

"Sink me, lad, wrestling you with a few under your belt is like trying to catch a wet otter with one arm tied. What were you thinking, getting squiffed so…?" The hands tightened abruptly and Frodo winced. "What did Bilbo's message say?"

Libido drained itself away into a great chasm that suddenly opened in his belly. Bilbo's note, tucked away in his breeches' pocket, seemed large and heavy. "Nothing."

"Frodo, did he say something that upset you?"

How could desire change itself so quickly into resentment? "I don't have to tell you anything about that letter. Just because we had last night…" his voice choked him, anger swerving into sudden mawkishness, "… but last night was wonderful, and…"

"By the multiple paps of…" Merimac closed his eyes, angled his head against Frodo's. "Frodo, my love, how much did you drink?"

"Not nearly enough. Because if you're not going to take me to bed, and Aunt Esme is not going to slap my head off, then perhaps I need to have a little more to just make everything be quiet..."

Merimac straightened—unfortunately taking his face out of range just as Frodo was going to try and kiss him once more. "Quiet? I don't… Your aunt… what?"

"Nothing," Frodo said again. "Can't we just go back to your smial, and—"

"Frodo, we're not doing anything but taking you to your smial—"

"All right, my smial. I don't think Pippin will be there for a while yet—"

"Frodo." Merimac shook him. "That's not what I meant. I'm running out of time, and you might look like seven levels of willingness all liquored up and half-undressed, but it's not going to… mrph!"

Mac still tried to speak about Frodo's mouth, which was just fine because it opened his lips and softened his tongue quite wonderfully. And those hands that released Frodo's wrists and clamped to his skull might have been trying to pull him back, but Frodo obdurately pressed harder into his cousin's frame and knew slight triumph when he felt a hard knot starting to rise against his belly. He took his freed hands and slid them down to the inseam of Merimac's trousers and felt even more triumph as the hands on his skull loosened, ever so slightly, and breath hissed out into his mouth.

Then those hands gripped even tighter, making him gasp, and pulled his face away. "Frodo."

He ducked from the grip, dove his face into the broad chest. "I thought you were already gone," Frodo whispered. His fingers worked diligently; Merimac kept grabbing for his hands but Frodo kept managing to evade such capture, homing in on belt and buttons. "But you're not, and you'll be leaving me all too soon, why can't we—?"

"Frodo, if you can keep your mouth and hands to yourself for a moment, I can tell you about—"

"I'd rather have your mouth and hands on me—"

"And… sink me, lad, how many arms do you have?! It's sure I'll have to lock up the liquor if I'm to ever get anything done with you about—"

"Mac," Frodo heard an edge of a whine in his voice, knew he sounded desperate, but he didn't care. He felt desperate—no, more than that. The dragons were fairly roaring, couldn't his cousin hear them? "I want to. Now. Please."

Merimac hesitated, looking at him with a quirk between his brows. Frodo seized both the moment and his cousin's shirt, pulling him close for another kiss.

Hesitation still, rampant in the kiss and in Merimac's stiff frame against his. Then it was as if his cousin shrugged and surrendered to the moment—and living within each moment was what Mac was best at, no question—unless perhaps 'best' should broaden to include how good he was at kissing.

And other things. Frodo gave a small whimper as broad hands ran down his back and over his flanks, pulling him close. For several terrifically arousing moments he wondered it they were indeed just going to go for it, here and now in the middle of the stairwell. Every sense Frodo had nearly erupted in fierce and total accord with the thought; he opened his mouth and gleefully let his eyes cross, his body shiver and his mind go blissfully blank.

Oh, how had he survived nearly twenty years without this?

Breathing, echoing up into the vacant stairwell, and tiny moans that Frodo knew were coming from his throat; he locked one knee into Merimac's hip and climbed him as if he was a favorite and familiar tree. Those hands supported him, held him there, and lips trailed down his breastbone; Frodo buried his face and fingers into Merimac's thick hair, reaching down with one hand to unfasten his cousin's shirt buttons—thank whatever stars above that it was an old shirt with loose buttonholes, else his unsteady fingers might not be able to slide the small bits of bone through so easily. Merimac was so warm beneath his touch—Frodo still felt chill from his earlier swim—and he finished with the shirt quickly, twisting and diving his hands down further, only to be frustrated not just by that belt, but by trying to reach it and unfasten it.

"I hate belts," he said against Mac's temple.

"Poor lad," Merimac answered, but there was absolutely no mercy in his voice and a teasing, rather heated glitter accumulating in his eyes.

Frodo had never heard of anyone dying from capacious hardness, but right now he didn't doubt it was utterly possible. Merimac loosened his hands on Frodo ever so slightly, allowing him to slide down his body. Frodo kept his clumsily-tangling fingers working at that belt; Merimac probably thought he was helping by clamping his hands tight upon Frodo's flanks and grinding him closer, but he wasn't. Frodo growled at not only the sensation, but the frustration as he tried frantically to get his hands down between them. He kept trying, writhed in Merimac's arms. It wasn't working.

"Frodo," Merimac said vehemently, "slow down."

They were in the middle of a stairwell, where anyone might come by, getting more and more undressed, and Frodo sincerely felt that if he didn't get his hands on Mac—right now—that he would just seize up or fall over or something equally traumatic… and Mac wanted him to slow down?

He managed to wriggle his hips back slightly and in the resultant space one hand dove down into Merimac's breeches, filling with fur and rigid, damp heat.

"Frodo!" Merimac said again, even more vehemently than before; in answer Frodo curled his fingers across a spot that he had quickly learned was quite sensitive. Merimac jerked against the wall. "Sink me, but you have to…"

"I'd like to think that." Frodo said, softly purposeful. He didn't stop what he was doing for even a second. "That I could sink you…" His eyes slid up, touched his cousin's; he twisted his hand.

Merimac winced and gave a funny noise; he abruptly grabbed Frodo's hand and unclenched it from about his anatomy, pulling upward to capture Frodo's wrists. "Lad, lad," he chided. "If you're going to sink anything, I am going to have to teach you the meaning of 'foreplay'."

Not to be diverted, Frodo leaned forward over his captured wrists and kissed his cousin's open mouth. A smile fluttered beneath his lips and Merimac returned the caress. Frodo leaned into it fiercely, a thin moan vibrating in his throat that scaled upward anticipatorily as Merimac stepped down a tread, steadied himself between the two steps, smiled again and tightened his grip on Frodo.

Then that breath was all but yanked from Frodo as Merimac flipped him around and snugged him close. Frodo gave a startled noise of query, wriggled, almost got loose; one broad hand held to both his wrists with a strength that suggested Merimac had not even used a half of such against him before.

"Foreplay," Merimac murmured into his ear. "Listen to your cousin, now, and wait."

"I don't want to…"

Frodo didn't get a chance to finish his statement; it was choked along with his breath as a warm, wet line laid itself along his nape, and warm breath filled his ear, and teeth nipped at that same ear. Frodo went weak at the knees.

"You just think you don't," was the soft reply. Merimac took his free hand, trailed it along the cords of Frodo's neck and across his collarbone, then beneath his arm to tease downward. "Yes, last night was wonderful…"

"Mac…" Frodo groaned.

"Eh, and there's no doubt you're a tweenager," his cousin continued, both voice and hand meandering with painfully-slow purpose. Frodo twitched as those fingers flicked open his trouser buttons with blithe ease and gave a slight aggrieved sound as Merimac did not immediately make a grab for what Frodo desperately hoped he would. Instead those fingers settled into the hollow between his waist and hipbone. "But I'm not, you understand, and since you're such an apt pupil, it's time you learned this as well, eh?"

"Mac…" He gave a tug to his wrists.

"Foreplay," insisted Merimac, as his fingers started to press with light but firm circles, and the other hand gripped more tightly to Frodo's wrists, disallowing movement.

"Mac," Frodo started to protest, then the fingers at his hip shifted, whispered through the fine fur that began there, pressed inward—and, oh glory, but how could such a seemingly innocuous spot feel so… good?

"It doesn't always have to start straight up and rough, o impatient cousin." Merimac whispered into his ear. "You can take a bit longer than ten minutes, you know. And your partner will certainly appreciate it."

"Mac." He was going to die. There was no doubt in his mind. There was something crazily working apace, between that hand which so firmly if negligently held his wrists together and that other one… well, he was just going to explode with frustration if that other hand didn't just…

Just… "Mac," he said again, hoarsely desperate, fingers clenching at empty air.

"Yes?" Merimac nuzzled at the hair behind his ear.

"I… I want to touch you…"

"Not yet," Merimac breathed in his ear. "Just slow down, love. You're going to come apart if you don't…"

"I… I…" Frodo stammered.

"Yes, you. If you don't…" those fingers, hypnotic and maddening all at once, "just…" riffling across the fur on his belly, "slow…" then up to tease at one all-too sensitive nipple, "down."

If he didn't? He was going to come apart if Mac didn't… didn't…

Then Merimac's fingers did encircle him and Frodo let out a strangled grunt, lurched his hips forward into the welcome pressure. Merimac made a startled sound, which was good until Frodo toppled further forward and found, suddenly, that there was no longer a step beneath his left foot. No step, and Merimac grabbing frantically to him, and Frodo's legs refusing to comply with any sensible instruction.

Frodo wobbled, letting out a yelp, his seeking toes finally grazing the step—barely—and his ankle turning as he frantically twisted to clutch at Merimac.

"Oh, bugger—!" Merimac snarled, just before they were airborne.

Two seconds later they slid to a halt at the bottom of the stairwell, an improbable tangle of arms, legs and unfastened clothing. Only four steps but it had seemed like fourteen; Frodo lay atop Merimac, trying to get his air back and failing for long seconds.

"This is why," his cousin growled, arching his back and wincing, "stairs are not on my list of favorite places to be having a quick—ow! Watch your knee, lad!"

Frodo slid his knee carefully away from Merimac's hip, his lungs still unable to take in a decent draught of air. Suddenly the tight band about his ribs released and he took in a quick, harsh gulp of air. It should have come out as a whimper, instead it was a fierce giggle.

Merimac looked at him, blinking dubiously. "Oh, lad, but you are so drunk!"

Frodo chopped off his mirth, leaned forward in all seriousness and gave Merimac a light kiss on the mouth then, even before he'd finished the slight touch, started giggling again. His cousin snorted, his own grin starting, and drawled, "Good thing it was only a few stairs and not the whole bloody lot, they'd be scraping bits of us off the bottom for the next week or…"

He trailed off, staring past Frodo's shoulder.

Frodo squirmed, trying to turn about but Merimac's grip was iron. His voice, on the other hand, was purposefully light and musical.

"Hullo, sister dear. Nice weather we're having, is it?"

Frodo went as still as if frozen there. Slowly, his eyes slid over to the doorway of the stairwell.

Sure enough, it was Esmeralda who stood in the arch leading from stair to hall, mute and still. Frodo wondered how long she had been there, and what she must have seen—not that it mattered for she was surely seeing more than enough now: both of them tangled, shirts unbuttoned and… he took a quick peek and flushed—oh, yes, and breeches unfastened, to boot. It was only an amazing and considered miracle that nothing else was within plain sight, considering how the slight spice of danger seemed to have given him—and Merimac, now that he noticed it—quite a sizeable reaction to such.

Or perhaps there was something nudging through unfastened trousers, because Merimac's eyes had flickered downward and he was holding Frodo fast against him, not letting him rise.

Esmeralda's face was slack, pale. Her hair was falling from the knot at her neck, fists clenched at her sides, foot-fur curling damp from the riverside where, obviously, she had followed him. Her eyes were wide with a peculiar mix of fury, shock and something else, much deeper and intense, that Frodo hesitated to even fathom.

He retreated from it, sliding his eyes back over to Merimac's, the breath cramping in his chest with sudden and fierce trepidation. He found blessed surcease in the firm hands upon him, and safety within the spirit that voiced itself in Merimac's next words.

"I'm sorry," his cousin continued with an absorbed blitheness, "that we can't get up and greet you properly, but as you can see you've caught us at rather an… awkward moment." There was a smile on his cousin's tanned face, but it unaccountably did not reach his grey eyes. Neither was there was anything akin to fear, which Frodo for some reason had expected…

But why should Merimac fear Aunt Esme?

For that matter, why should Frodo himself have any fear? He was old enough, he had every right to make his own choice in playmates, and how dare she look at him as if he was doing something wrong?

He started up again; again Merimac clutched him close, stilled him. Silence spun itself out almost unbearably; Frodo was furious, and scared, and even more angry that either of those two emotions should be swamping him and he should be feeling as if he was some bairn that had been caught with his hand in the cookie crock out of turn.

"Esme." Mac's voice had changed, vividly, from sunlight into steel.

Still silence. Frodo squirmed against his cousin's chest; Merimac eased up on him so that he could turn his head to view his aunt. Her eyes met his, clashed; Frodo glared at her.

True to form her eyes dropped, but she gave him a good stare-down before they did. Then, in a voice that was as steely as Merimac's own had been, she turned to her husband's brother. "I would," she said tersely, quietly, "speak with you. Alone."

Frodo's cheeks heated—as if he were an unbreeched child, to have her speak over him!

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Esme." Merimac was very calm, and blunt, but his next words were warming. "I've very little time, and I've promised the remainder of it to Frodo."

"I can see how much time you thought you had," she snapped.

Once more incensed beyond all good judgment or heedfulness, Frodo started to rise. Once more, Merimac held him still.

"That is not your affair, but Frodo's. And mine," Merimac returned. "Esme, we've already said what needs be said, and agreed upon what needs be agreed upon, eh? If you'll show a bit of courtesy and excuse us?"

A sharp intake of breath; for moments it seemed that she would push the matter. Then, after a silence that all but had Frodo quivering with his own violent, oppressive and indescribable emotions, Esmeralda turned her back on them and vanished into the darkened corridors.

* * * * * *

She retreated as if demons nipped at her flax-furred heels, not even sure of where she was going, only that she must. She tried to shut her eyes, had kept them shut forever, it seemed, until this past five minutes when they were irretrievably opened. And now they were unable to close themselves, or turn away, or let loose of what was still being branded before them, fire and air.

All Esmeralda had meant to do was follow her nephew, have this out with him once and for all, find out what he wanted…

Well, she'd found the latter out. Quite viscerally.

Everything was changing. In the span of a mere few days, things were spiraling from control, wisping through her capable hands like so much smoke.

She felt sick. She wasn't even sure of her thoughts, any more. They danced wild, like tall, lithe shadows about a green-gold fire, alien shades with the intent of taking every bit of peace and sanity and tearing it asunder.

Esmeralda stumbled on the front step, righted herself and kept walking.

Was it Frodo's voice she had heard, or was it Prim's?

Was it Merimac who had answered, or some past echo of Bilbo's reply?

A dim flight of stairs, murmurs of suggestion and query, and Frodo running his hands up his older cousin's body as if he knew exactly what he wanted and how to gain it—no longer a child, no longer her child…

A loft, sweet with new-mown hay, and Bilbo's voice speaking in some alien tongue that scattered and halted in suggestive spates, and Prim gasping out a name that was not Esme's, no longer her name…

Esme herself, torn in time and space, unable to turn away or move or protest—until now. Now when it was, as ever, too late…

Her toes met the red dirt of the road, and she stopped.

Before her, the Brandywine. To her left hand, the road meandered up Buck Hill crowning the Hall, back to the main road, north to Stonebows, south to Grindwall. At her right hand the road dwindled to a small path, foot traffic leading back to the main road, the Ferry. Behind her was her rightful place, her fiefdom. Behind that lay the Old Forest.

The Brandywine to claim Frodo, or the Forest. The river, or the elves. Merimac, or Bilbo.

Death, or madness.

The sun played across the water, light within darkness, and reflected against her eyes, to leave little pricks of dark when she shut them.

There was no choice available here, nothing right or proper that she could see to change, charge or mend. She had no choice, no correct path. No power.

How Merimac had looked up at her as if she were the one in the wrong as he'd lain there at her feet, fallen wrapped and tangled and half-undressed with her pre-tween nephew:

How Paladin had looked at her so curiously when he had found her crying long ago on the old shiprock and, with the strange strength of giving that was so much a part of him, had chided her:

How she'd had no answer then, and how she found one now:

She couldn't seem to do what two abject scoundrels had only to waltz in and accomplish. Merimac… Bilbo… they'd coaxed affection from Frodo's reticence when Frodo never looked to her or her husband but with distanced scorn, when Frodo had encouraged her only son to defy her as well.

The fact that Frodo should, of the likely lads his own age and rank, instead look to Merimac Brandybuck. That he should one moment show her husband's brother a vulnerability and willingness that Esme herself had long despaired of ever seeing him possess, and in the next moment turn his surly, outsized eyes to her with naught but venom.

Only Frodo Baggins would crown this particular milestone with the… the same exotic absorption that seemed to take everything he did and twist it into something skewed just past normal.

Everything had changed, yet everything was the same, somehow. Here she was, back eyeing the river and wondering at how something that had given her so much had also taken away something most vital.

It was taking Frodo as it had taken Primula. The sundering had started, she now knew, when he had first run away. They'd found the little lad at River Run, his back to the dwelling where he had been born, his eyes filled with tears, his soul dealt to the horizon and his heart bartered by the river…

No. Not just the river. The Forest was where it had begun; the sundering had in truth began before he was born. It had begun from the moment Primula had decided that mortal needs should commingle with immortal fire.

And herself, between water and wood, balanced on the levee of her reason and her rulings…

Hoofbeats sounded to her right, and the creak of wood and leather, and her husband's voice boomed down into the bottoms.

"Hoy! Em!"

Esmeralda was thoroughly grateful for the excuse to turn her back on the Brandywine, and moreso for Saradoc's presence no matter how angry she had been with him before. Now she wasn't even sure why she had been angry; she was too snarled and shaken and, yes, bewildered by what was playing behind her eyes, like one's of Pal's dreams…

He halted the little gig beside her, strong and broad and sane, in his wheat-colored shirt and cords, his pipe in his mouth and his hands firm upon the reins. The grey pony stood quiet and Esme ran a hand beneath its mane as she stepped to the cart, looking into her husband's eyes and wishing she could just shut out everything but the fond tuck to his mouth as he regarded her.

"Your brother and his wife aren't leaving until after lunch—they're with Peregrin—and I have to take these barrels to the stillers' hall. There's none else to be spared at the moment, and…" he trailed off, a frown gathering about his expression. "Emmie. You're not still cross with me over that business with the Unlikely Trio?"

The Unlikely Trio. For as long as she could recall, that had been his name for Merimac, Paladin and Eglantine. He had been quite scornful of his younger brother's penchant for thinking with his heart instead of common sense—and nomer had turned into habit, even if the older brother's tweener disapproval had mellowed somewhat with years.

"Sod all," he said about his pipe, looking closer. "What has that bloody lad done now?"

Esmeralda had to laugh—it was either that or cry, and he knew her too well, did Saradoc.

"Get in the cart, Em," he ordered, holding out a hand to her. "Come with me."

Without another word, she did so. With a cluck of his tongue against pipestem and teeth, and a shake of the rein, he urged the pony forward.

For long moments there were no words between them. Esme carefully separated her hair into sections, combing it with her fingers and began to braid it—not an easy task against the jolt of the cart. Her husband kept eyeing her; when she'd finished her braid he dug into his breeks pocket and found a short bit of twine, wordlessly handed it to her.

She tried to explain, then. The encounter on the strand, her resolve to follow Frodo and finally hash it all out, then the stairs. Merimac's irritation, and Frodo's surly regard.

The pony started trotting up the hill. They leaned forward on the seat, adjusting for the sharp incline.

"Mm. I was right."

"You were… right?"

"I know my brother's tastes all too well, and Frodo's been jittery as a buck in rut since Merry's party. It was just a matter of time before the lad tripped over his own anatomy, and I knew there had to be something beneath Mac's sudden urge to show Frodo a riverhobbit's trade." He puffed on his pipe steadily for a few moments. "You should've just left them be, Em. You'd expect the same courtesy from chance passersby did I decide to tumble you in a dark corner."

"That's just a bit different…"

"Hm. Only because we're no longer tweens and glad of our nice soft marriage bed. Though I seem to remember a late night not too long ago behind the vats…"

An unwilling smirk played about her lips. Then she shook her head. How like a male, to take something like that to try and shift the subject. "Sara, it's not—"

"Em," he interrupted quietly as they gained the hilltop, shifting the reins in his palms and urging the pony to a quicker trot. "You know I didn't mean to take any of your authority from you this morning, love, but I hope that this all shows you that it's long past time that lad left. Particularly if he's looking at you in such a fashion…"

"No," she retorted. "He didn't. It wasn't—"

"What? Disrespectful? I think it was, love. Aware? I'm thinking you're the only one that's not been aware of how he's blossomed."

Esmeralda had a momentary flashback to that darkling stranger on the strand, and closed her eyes. "Sara, he's been such a child—"

"Well, he's that no longer and you need to hearken to it. And as for how he acted towards you by the river… It's not that he might be looking at you with an itch in his trousers—because no growing lad is immune to looking at anything, including occasionally a fencepost—it's how he's choosing to look." He took a drag from his pipe, let smoke curl out his nostrils, "And the anger in it. And even more importantly, how it makes you feel."

"It… disturbs me."

"Exactly." He hesitated, then continued, "Particularly if just watching the lad act the randy tween with my bounder of a brother has you this tied up in knots. At least Frodo's trying to do something more normal than his wont, and at least Merimac won't intentionally hurt him."

"Not… intentionally."

Saradoc slid his eyes towards her. "Let it go, Emmie," he warned. "In under a fortnight it'll be over and the lad will be elsewhere."

"As if anything will change in a fortnight," she muttered.

* * * * * *

They lay there for a few more seconds after Esmeralda's departure, then Frodo became aware that he was pinned awkwardly and uncomfortably against Merimac's hip, and that his belly was damp and sticky. He grimaced and shifted against Merimac.

"Um, hm," his older cousin said, reading his discomfort with a slight grin. "The fall must've done you in. Which was why I wasn't about to let you up until Esme was gone."

Frodo felt his cheeks and ears warm fiercely.

"Don't fret, lad," Merimac tapped his cheek. "You would not believe the things that set me off when I was a tween." He pushed Frodo slightly back; this time Frodo wasn't sure he wanted to be let go of. "Frodo?" Merimac queried softly, touching his face.

"I didn't do anything!" Frodo burst out.

"I know you didn't. 'Tis all right, I tell you; these things happen."

Once again, they were speaking at cross purpose. "No. I mean… yes… but… but… Why did she do that?" Frodo finally managed to ask. "Why did she act like that? Why?"

"Ah," was the soft realization, followed by a silent gaze that was all too uncomfortable, then the puzzled answer. "I'm sure I don't know."

"She… seemed angry."

"Angry, perhaps, but there was something else too, and I'm not sure I understand it, not really. I mean, the polite thing to have done would have been just to turn and quietly leave, not even let us know she'd unwittingly intruded. Can she really think…?" Merimac trailed off, then shrugged. "Come on, then. We've been here long enough."

Rising to stand upright, Merimac grimaced and stretched, wiping at his stomach with one tail of his shirt. Holding out a hand, he assisted Frodo to his feet. "Fasten your breeks, love. Not that you're not quite fetching, peeking at me like that, but…"

Frodo looked down, flushed, tucked both his rather-damp anatomy and his shirt back into his trousers and fastened them. He felt woozy once again. It was almost as if adrenaline, desire and anger had fought off his more-than-tipsy state; now, upon those deserting him, there was little left but the light-headed, faint reality of too little food and too much mead.

And, oddly enough, his brain could only focus on one thing amidst all of what Mac had said…

"You don't have time?"

"Eh?" Merimac was still making himself presentable; he tucked his shirt into his breeks and fastened them, reached up the stairwell to retrieve his belt. "Oh. Time. Yes. One of the lads came not half an hour ago from Gillyflower. There's a shipment arrived that I have to see to right away."

Resentment spiraled upward once again within Frodo, sudden, cold and flat. Which was ridiculous. He knew Merimac was leaving, he knew that he himself was staying, so why the anger?

"I'm sure he's down cooling his heels in the kitchens as we speak," Merimac was saying, and that peculiar look was returning to his face—a rather strange absorption that Frodo had caught on his face one or twice, and always in tandem with his speaking of his boat, and the water. A wry, lopsided smile touched Merimac's lips and he reached out to cup Frodo's chin. "I'm sorry we got… well, you did get some relief, but we still got interrupted, didn't we, lad? I'll be back within the fortnight and we'll take up where we left off." The smile turned teasing. "Think you can wait that long, o randy tween? I confess, it might take me that long to recover—"

Right now, Frodo felt that it was possible he could wait forever. He'd never been so furious and cold, all at once. It almost didn't seem as if the emotions were his own—as if he was somewhere in his own skull and safely ensconced, watching everything go by like a mummer's dance.

And Merimac seemed quite unaware of Frodo's inner turmoil, chatting on quite cheerily, as if there was indeed something to be cheery about.

"I don't even plan to be a fortnight, but whether or no, it will give you time to get your things together. And then we're away for the water, eh?"

The river. Leaving. Hadn't Merimac heard anything he'd said, understood any of it? They wouldn’t let him go. He couldn't go. It was impossible, any of it.

Frodo twisted away, turned, took the steps upward two at a time.

"Frodo?" It echoed up the stairwell, then the sound of footsteps, running up behind him. "Frodo!"

He didn't stop. He'd almost reached his little smial when broad hands grabbed him, stayed him and turned him to face concerned grey eyes.

"Lad, what—?"

Frodo swayed. Why didn't Merimac want to understand? "I told you. I can't leave. I won't leave."

"Yes, you can. It's been settled."

"How can anything have been settled? They won't let me go, and—"

"It's been settled, I tell you. You're to come with me when I return… that's right. I didn't tell you. I was going to tell you and then we got distracted."

His older cousin was serious. Frodo blinked. "They're going to let me?"

He must still be drunk. The rate all these emotions were churning through him, and morphing moment by moment into the next, and Frodo was glad he had that slight distance from them, because otherwise he'd just sink to the floor and curl into a tight, furry little ball…

Merimac was grinning. "Paladin told them quite firmly that they had no rights to keep you from your relatives."

"Pala… Pippin's father Paladin?"

"Well, that is the only Paladin I know personally, yes. And you think you've no allies, little cousin?" The grin turned soft; Merimac suddenly seemed to shake off his own sense of horizon and faraway, coming in to focus once again on Frodo. "Come on. Let's get you to your room, let you sleep it off. I have to go now, but before you know it you'll be out of here as well, eh?" A twist of brow and a flick at his clothes. "And I'd suggest you change into something that smells less of river water, sex and home brew before you crawl into bed."

Frodo was so flabbergasted that he allowed Merimac to steer him through the door of his room and gently push him in. Frodo turned about and peered at Merimac as he leaned against the sill.

"Give me a kiss, lad, and I'm off."

"You're going… now?"

"Yes, I just told you, remember? One of the lads is waiting for me downstairs with the dinghy and a message from a very twitchy customer."

A bit overwhelmed, Frodo bent forward and gave the requested kiss. It was starting to grow into something more interesting than a mere quick buss before a thought, stray and sodden, worked itself up to the front of his mind. He pulled back suddenly.

"Merry, too?"

The answer didn't need to be voiced—it was plain in the tanned face. Frodo shook his head, backed a step.

"I told you. I won't leave him."

Merimac stepped towards him and for moments Frodo was afraid that his older cousin was prepared to just pick him up and carry him bodily out of the Hall. Frodo retreated, ever so slightly, and Merimac halted.

"Frodo, we've been over this—"

"Yes, we have!" he snapped. "You just won't understand, will you?"

Merimac started to reply, then took a breath, held it and said softly, "I'm trying to understand. I believe I understand more than you think I do. But now is not the time to discuss this, lad. You're more than a little tipsy and I have to leave—"

"So, go!" Frodo clenched his fists and his teeth, turned away. He wasn't really expecting the hand on his shoulder that tried to turn him back about; Frodo whirled and yanked away before he could even think.

Merimac was left standing with hand outstretched; very obviously he withdrew it, closed his fingers into a fist, dropped it to his side. The look on his face was puzzled and so openly concerned that it raked into Frodo's composure like claws. He could see—could all but feel—an internal awareness and anxiety which was rising within Merimac, beginning to commit serious war with the obvious reality that yes, Frodo was not exactly sober and acting childish to boot…

A whistle resounded through the Hall; Merimac alerted instantly and strode past Frodo to his window, looking outward. He put two fingers to his lips and whistled back; an answer it seemed, for he turned about and eyed Frodo.

"I have to go, lad. Now."

Now. Fine. "Am I stopping you?" Frodo retorted.

"A fortnight, no more. Hopefully less," Merimac informed him, walking slowly over. "I'm coming back, Frodo. I am, do you hear?"

"A fortnight will change nothing," Frodo said woodenly, looking down. Fingers propped themselves against his chin, made him look up.

"Exactly what I'm saying," Merimac told him softly and touched his lips to his forehead. The kiss burned into Frodo's skin like hot metal and he quivered, then pulled back.

"Just… go."

Hesitation. Then the touch left him, and air wafted, moved, and when Frodo looked up Merimac was no longer there.

"A fortnight will change nothing," he repeated, a whisper lost to the empty room.

* * * * * *