Mist hung heavy in the trees. It made ghosts of the air, wafting and swirling with the slightest breath or breeze. Droplets fell from the moisture-soaked trees, brief smatters of false rain falling and tapping the ground.

Frodo dragged his feet through the dewy grass, a silvered wake of green footprints. He felt as if he’d been manumitted from slavery. This morning had been his fourth and final day of squatting in those bloody cabbage rows and he felt that if he never saw another vegetable garden for the next twenty years of his life it would still be too soon. This particular job was something that he’d never had to do more than once or twice because he’d long ago proven so wretchedly cack-handed at it; he quite frankly couldn’t tell a weed from a shoot and neither did he care to after these past four days. The barns were better by far. He didn’t feel like he had five black thumbs in the barns. And to make matters worse, the rain had persisted, off-and-on showers that kept him damp and the rows slick and his hands covered in mud and slime, and the head gardener carping at him constantly because he kept trying to pull up the wrong thing…

But he was free and he wondered if the lesson his foster parents thought to teach him had been the same one he’d actually learned, and he gave a shiver then just… let it all… go. It was done and he was done in, and meanwhile there was a wonder to sucking damp air into your lungs, feeling the mists all but swirl in your chest, to feel the moisture kiss your cheeks and runnel across your scalp, to play the game of guessing where the next breeze would send water droplets down from the branches to pelt you with a wet, sap-scented rain. Better a wet summer than wet winter; a nice tepid rain was an excellent way to take a bath without resorting to the bath-house. But he was so stiff from crawling on his haunches, and all for a vegetable that he wasn’t sure he cared to eat—for a while, anyway—and a hot, roomy bath was a mightily welcome thought.

It shouldn’t be too crowded this time of day. Merry was always claiming that evenings were the best times, when the older hobbits would crowd about on the wooden benches and talk about so many varied things—but that was Merry, always listening, always attuned to happenstance and stories. Frodo preferred making up his own stories, truth be told, or reading them, so the late mornings were his favorite, when it was quiet and he could close his eyes and drift in a tub, or lie out on one of the benches and not have to think of anything in particular unless he chose to.

The round bathhouse, wood and thatch, seemed deserted. Frodo hefted his bag higher on his shoulder, jumping the first two steps and landing lightly on the decking with a self-satisfied chuckle as he remembered what had happened to another person who’d done just that when he’d soaped these steps last autumn—they’d slid right into the door! He opened the door and peered inside carefully, then smiled broadly. Choicest of luck!—it was deserted. This time of day there usually wasn’t anyone on hand to attend to the bathers, which was even better. He’d have the entire place to himself; he could heat the bath to scalding, soak until his toes and fingers wrinkled like prunes, then sprawl on a bench and finish reading the book that weighed his pack so. His aunt might have thought she’d hidden the Old Forest book rather cleverly, but he’d found it, and now had only a chapter to go. Smiling in keen satisfaction, Frodo padded in and shut the door behind him.

The roundhouse was quite large, better to serve the plethora of hobbits who dwelt at the Hall. Lined with pungent-smelling redwood that would better resist the wet-rot, the structure was heated by a stove that held on its enormous surface dozens of large coppers for heating the tub-water. On one end a nest of large river stones radiated heat and were often splashed with water to make them steam. Benches curved along one full third of the eastern wall, and a wicker basket of green boughs sat pungently at one end of those. Large, rounded tubs of wood and pitch were to the western wall, several up on blocks, emptied and drying, others half full of water and waiting, all of varying sizes that would accommodate up to six hobbits. Several little nozzles attended one corner, angling in from above and placed cunningly over drains—many visitors to Brandy Hall commented wonderingly upon the novelty of these showers, but they were quite practical and very useful. It was just good manners to at least sluice off before getting into a communal tub.

Frodo slung his bag into one of the round cubbyholes placed just inside the entry, quickly stripped and shoved his clothes after it, then strode over and tested the water in the tubs. The room was fervently warm, baking pleasantly into the bones, sending steam heat wafting upwards through the few high, staked-open windows; however, the water was not. He started for the stove, looked down at his frame and reconsidered the wisdom of handling a hot copper thus then went over to the hooks and nabbed a towel, knotting it about his hips. Taking another towel, he used it to wrap the handle of one of the huge copper kettles, carried it a bit gingerly over to the nearest and smallest tub, then dumped it in.

It took several kettles before he was satisfied with the intensity of temperature; after refilling the coppers from the pump that stood not far from the stove, he went over to the shower, pulled the chain and tensed, leaning against the wall and squinting his eyes in expectation of a chill hose-down. He also realized, just before the cold water hit, that he’d forgotten to remove the towel.

Oh, well. It was already wet. He pulled the chain twice more then, quite ready for a warm bath, mopped his face, slung the wet curls from his eyes and turned to go to the tub…

And halted as he saw who was standing just inside the entry, kit slung over one shoulder.

Lotho.

Frodo remained where he was, eyeing the older boy warily.

Lotho might have been momentarily taken aback by his younger cousin’s presence but he quickly recovered, angling his pack from its place on his shoulder and placing it in its own cubby, then turning back to face him, sliding the braces from his shoulders and starting to unbutton his shirt. "I’m surprised to find you without your little shadow."

Frodo gave no answer.

"You look more your age when you’re not surrounded by babies. Oh, but maybe you want it that way?"

Still he remained quiet.

Lotho shrugged from his shirt. "Keeps Uncle and Auntie Brandybuck from wondering, no doubt, what you’re up to with their precious baby boy. But I heard you got caught this week. Out half the night and spending your days in the gardens, so I heard."

Frodo’s jaw tightened against the hot words he longed to say; what came forth instead surprised him, for he hadn’t intended to say anything, no matter what. "Why do you do this?"

But once said he was glad he had, for a startled light erupted in the dark eyes.

"Do what?" Lotho asked, and for moments the undeniable confusion in his voice made him sound like an ordinary tweener, not the avid tormentor the younger hobbits saw, nor the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth lad that the adults were treated to with great regularity.

"This." Frodo gestured, frowning. "Why are you always on like this? Always making of things what they’re not… What’s the use of it? What’s the use of you and I being enemies?"

Lotho frowned, obviously still a bit taken aback.

"What do you get out of it?" Once freed, the queries came, hammeringly quick. "Why do you care so much what I do? And what could you possibly want with me?"

At that last statement, Lotho's eyes flattened and Frodo knew he’d somehow made a mistake. The knowing became apprehension as Lotho carefully hung up his shirt and started over towards him.

"That’s a very good question," the older boy ventured as he advanced. "You know, I’ve been pondering just that."

Frodo’s eyes flickered past Lotho to the door, which his cousin’s large frame was blocking off. The bathhouse was big, but not so big that he wasn’t quite effectively trapped. His hair dripped into his eyes, chill and bothersome; he shoved it off his forehead and behind his ears.

"Ever since the haying, actually." The dark gaze was still nigh unto unreadable, a sign that Frodo had come to recognize meaning Lotho at his worst. But there was something behind even that, something that made his stomach clench into a hardened knot; a small flare was kindling behind those flat eyes as they stared him down. "Maybe you can help me to figure out an answer for it."

Frodo was suddenly very glad that he had something wrapped about his frame. He’d never felt uncomfortable in the baths no matter who was in there with him; it had just never mattered before. But right now it seemed to. Very much so.

And ever moreso as Lotho came to stand before him. True, he always made it a practice to get just a little too close to Frodo, as if realizing that his younger relative’s personal space was very precious to him, but at this moment he seemed even closer than was his wont. Frodo made a small step backwards then stopped, realizing that the wall was only a matter of inches behind him. Lotho simply smiled, a broad expression that on any other face would have expressed undiluted happiness, but served in this instant to uncloak some sort of darker emotion. Beneath the weight of that expression, Frodo wondered how in all the named and unnamed stars the luck he had been praising mere moments before had turned so incredibly wretched. He was going to get the stuffing beaten out of him.

Maybe someone would come in. Maybe, sheer bulk and strength notwithstanding, he could at least get in a return lick or two before he was murdered…

Lotho reached out; automatically Frodo flung up a hand to deflect the blow. It worked for a second, then his left wrist was captured in a fierce grip and Lotho yanked him forward, placed his other hand on his neck. Frodo was stunned into immobility by the fingertips that smoothed along his throat—not for choking purchase but consideringly, as if he was looking for the pulse hammering there. And Lotho’s gaze followed his hand, as if inordinately interested in whatever it sought.

"W…what are you doing?" Frodo stammered.

"Just trying to figure something out." The hand, not gently but insistently, moved from throat to collarbone, then down along his breastbone. "What do you think I’m doing?"

"I… I don’t care!" Frodo’s voice tightened and cracked; he attempted to shift out from under the insistent, ungentle pressure but was aptly circumvented from doing so by the tight grip on his wrist. It shifted and pulled his arm up behind him before startled senses could react, made him arch forward when all he wanted was retreat.

"Don’t you? You should." Neither was the voice gentle; it was tightened and suddenly guttural. "I’m just attempting to answer your question." The hand trailed across his chest, maddeningly slow and frighteningly knowledgeable. Frodo couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t even begin to wonder at what was suddenly going on…

"Q…question?" He was shaking and he knew it but he couldn’t stop it, any more than he could force himself to move. It was as if he was rooted to the spot, charmed by the very repugnance of it, horrified fascination trailing the wake of that touch.

"You asked me what I want. It all rather depends, doesn’t it?"

"On what?"

"On you." Fingers curled about Frodo’s waist; he jerked back but was prevented from going far by both Lotho’s tight hold and the knock of redwood boards against his backside.

"Don’t!"

"Oh, come on. You’re not as unaffected as you’d have me think." The grip on his arm tightened rather unmercifully. "Are you?"

He wasn’t. That was the worst of it. His mind and heart were both desperately irate but his frame shook, his breath stabbed cold fire through his chest, and there was one unthinking, unreasoning part of him that was more than willing to give whatever it was a go…

Lotho’s fingers closed on the knotted ends of the towel he wore and Frodo panicked. He was unable to loose himself from the hands that stilled him like iron bands; in precipitous reaction his free hand flailed outwards, reached up, closed about linked metal. Desperately he yanked the length of chain. A small rumble, then icy water sluiced down over them from above.

With a spluttered gasp, Lotho released him and staggered back.

"Perhaps that’ll help both of us to cool off, then," Frodo spat out. "You’ve just found some other way to humiliate me, and that’s all there is to it."

Lotho stared at him for a long moment, silent and dripping. Then he smiled again. One hand shot out, tangled in Frodo’s wet hair and pulled him forward. To Frodo’s astonishment, Lotho put his mouth on his. Hard.

He reacted once more on pure instinct. Lotho lurched back with a muffled curse, whipping a hand up to his lip. It came away, thumb smeared with a rusty stain.

"You little turd, you bit me!"

Frodo glared at him, wiping the blood from his own mouth then spitting sideways, not only contemptuously but to take the taste of it from his tongue, and started to step sideways and away. Movement unfortunately drew the confrontation tighter, attracted predator to prey. In that first split-second Frodo nearly freed himself of the tensity of the situation; the next he was grabbed and spun about, lifted and slammed against the wooden wall so hard that the breath was knocked from him in a fierce grunt. Lotho was up against him, pinning him so that he could barely draw in another breath, all but hanging there with his toes grazing the wooden flooring, one arm caught behind him and the other trapped in Lotho’s powerful grip.

"You like rough play, do you?" was the growl next to his ear. "Just what do you want, cousin? Maybe we need to find out, just you and I…"

The door latch clicked. It swung open. Frodo gave a small noise of relief and Lotho twisted against him, turning a thwarted gaze toward the new arrival.

It was Rory. The old hobbit halted mid-stride, eyes widening as he took in the scene before him.

Lotho rounded slowly back to Frodo, eyes flattened. Two more interminable seconds in which Frodo started to speak, then a smile touched the brown face, chilling him silent. Looking right into stunned blue eyes, Lotho ground up against him once, then as Frodo gave a tense, unwitting gasp, drew his cheek along Frodo’s own and backed away slowly, still smiling.

Frodo staggered slightly as Lotho released him, staring numbly after him as the older lad ducked his head and went over to the cubby, grabbing his shirt and bag, head still down.

Rory also seemed caught out, somehow. "Lad…"

"I’m just leaving, sir," was the return statement, filled with soft respect. "I just remembered something I’d best do…" He angled his back to the elder hobbit, bestowed upon Frodo another smile of black, silky satisfaction, and turning, left the bathhouse.

Frodo just watched him depart, his face twitching and his stomach wanting to heave and his lungs pumping as if he’d run ten miles… and his entire body feeling as if it were somehow had been set ablaze. Then he turned huge eyes on Rory, saw the expression on the old hobbit’s face as he turned back to him, taking all of it in—and Frodo wanted to sink down into the floor with abrupt humiliation and fury.

"Boy…" Rory sighed, shaking his head.

Frodo tried to speak. His lips moved, his throat constricted, but no words came out.

Rory limped over to the bench and sat heavily down, then leaned on his cane and looked at him. Silence settled into the small roundhouse, punctuated by the drip of water and the hissing of the rocks and, Frodo was sure, the frantic hammering of his heart. Rory’s face was unreadable, save for the frown that quirked his ginger-silver brows; finally he looked down, shook his head and heaved another sigh. "The attendant’s gone. I’d forgotten that they weren’t here mid-morning, and I can’t do this on my own. Will you help me?"

"Yes, sir," he whispered. It took every ounce of will he possessed to make his feet move, to control his quaking limbs. By the time he got to his uncle’s side Frodo felt less rattled and was at least able to assist without totally fumbling, but his fingers shook as he helped Rory undress and then supported him as he crawled into the smaller tub that was still nicely warm. It made him realize it hadn’t been all that long since he’d filled it, with all intentions to just enjoy a nice, quiet bath.

"Get in, lad."

Frodo shook his head. He wasn’t about to unknot what concealment he had left. And he had a strange suspicion, as he met Rory’s faded blue eyes with the negation, that the old hobbit knew exactly why. He wanted to writhe.

Rory’s next words stunned him further. "I didn’t mean to interrupt, lad."

Protests gathered in his throat, but stuck there no matter how he tried to voice them. Indignation gave way to sudden, very real uncertainty and insecurity, those emotions changing and morphing into things he wasn’t even sure he had a name for. He wasn’t frankly sure what he did feel, only that he was disoriented and unnerved almost past bearing. He gripped the tub sides until his knuckles whitened, unable to meet Rory’s gaze.

Rory looked carefully at him, was silent for long moments then ventured slowly, "Frodo, can I give you some advice?"

Advice? Thoroughly taken aback, Frodo nodded a bit warily.

"If you have to ease yourself with someone, find another."

This hit even harder than the apology. Frodo stared at him.

"That lad doesn’t know how to play fair. He’ll hurt you before he’s done with you."

"I didn’t…" Words finally came, strangled and all but useless. "I didn’t…"

"I was your age, once. Don’t remember it most days, but some I do. These things happen. You’re just finally growing up. It’s all right."

"No, it’s not…!" he blurted then twisted away, leaning on the tub, his back rigid and unyielding to Rory as he wrestled with the sudden heaviness of his thoughts. It wasn’t all right. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t supposed to happen, not this way… was it?

His uncle sighed and settled down into the water. "Would you heat the water up a bit for me, Frodo?"

Frodo glanced sideways at him, and Rory simply peered back. The strange compassion on the ancient face disarmed him, made him suddenly and frantically glad of the chore, so Frodo did as bidden, going over to the stove. He spent a few moments standing near the radiant heat, put his face over the hot rocks and poured a small amount of water there, inhaling the sharp steam. It seemed to help clear his head. The rest of him, unfortunately, was still one raw nerve.

"Has Sara even bothered to speak to you about this?"

No. Not now. Please. Taking up the copper, Frodo threw a harried glance at Rory, nodded quickly, started over with kettle in hand. Unfortunately, Rory somehow discerned his affirmation for the lie it was.

"Mm. Then all the more reason for you to listen to me when I tell you that Lotho is not the one to be experimenting with. He might have some of the others fooled, but I don’t trust him."

Crimsoning and inwardly cursing his complexion, Frodo started to protest once more then fell silent, constrained by the tightness in his chest and belly. Instead he dumped the hot water in, went to get another kettle.

"Frodo, you aren’t the first one in the Hall to be caught a-neck with a playmate. Better at your age to be running with the lads and perhaps learning a few things that way than be risking getting some ignorant young lass breeding before her time—and yours."

He fumbled, dropped the empty kettle. It clanged loudly into the roundhouse; temples throbbing and ears humming, Frodo bent over rather cautiously and retrieved it.

"Not that there aren’t ways around that, to be sure. Nor would a few extra hobbitbairns lack family at this Hall. We look after our own, we do," Rory continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact he was making matters worse, not better. "But better to save serious things for when you’re old enough to be answerable for them. Some day you’ll find yourself a fine, comfortable bride and settle down, hold to your responsibilities to your clan and blood. But there’s plenty of time for that, isn’t there?"

Almost desperately Frodo grabbed up another kettle; Rory waved him back. "That’s just fine, lad. It’s quite warm. Thank you."

Wishing that there was some way he could escape, Frodo returned the hot copper to its place, realizing that in all decency there was no way that he could leave. Rory couldn’t get out of the tub by himself and he couldn’t just leave him here, no matter how badly he wanted to. The knowledge didn’t stop him from hoping that his uncle would take one of his mental wandering spells, and stop giving him more information than he really wanted to hear right now…

However it seemed that for the first in a while, old Rory was staying coherent for longer than a five minute stretch. "Until then, you hold close to your playmates, boy. Make those choices wisely and they’ll sustain you the rest of your life. Don’t be like your mother, Frodo, and act out improper. Be careful and discreet. And a lad like Lotho… he’s not the proper choice for you."

Or did I?

He shivered, goosepimples lining his bare chest.

"Come over here, lad, before you catch your death. Get in," Rory ordered a bit crankily. "Keep your towel on if you think you’re hiding something, but get in the tub. You can take a cold shower after I’m through talking to you."

Frodo started resignedly to obey, then the door creaked open once more. It admitted one of the late afternoon attendants, who smiled cheerily at Frodo and Rory. "And how are you both today, masters?"

Frodo had never been more happy to see someone in his life. He smiled greeting, then made a beeline to his clothes. Not bothering with underthings, he fairly leapt into his outerwear as the attendant chatted up his uncle with the easy familiarity that came in the bathhouses.

"Hold a moment, Bron… Frodo!" his uncle’s voice rose.

"I… I have to go, Uncle," he said hoarsely, fumbling with his buttons and tucking in his shirt.

"Frodo, I think…"

Mostly dressed, he grabbed up his bag and shot the old hobbit a pleading look. Rory looked as if he were about to protest, then shook his head and looked down.

"Go," he said.

Frodo fled.

* * * * * *

The soft, misted outdoors eased nothing. Not the constriction in his throat. Not the tensile feeling as if his nerves were razored and left exposed, alternately heated and frigid. Not the groping, hesitant manner of his thoughts, trying to align themselves with what had just happened and what still seemed to be happening.

It would have been better if Lotho had beat him bloody and senseless. He could at least find some understanding in his reactions to that.

Frodo halted his headlong pace mere meters from the side door of the bathhouse reserved for the female hobbits, took another few wobbly steps and leaned against the trunk of one of the trees that towered over the south courtyard and helped shelter the bathhouse from common view.

He couldn’t run, not from this.

Taking a huge sob of breath, he looked back from where he’d come. What would happen if Rory let slip what he’d seen? How could he possibly explain? His thoughts went unswervingly to Merry. He already knew his aunt and uncle thought he spent too much time as it was with his cousin. The past year in particular had proven time and time again that his aunt was more than adequately prepared to accept the worst of him. And how could he face her with any sort of truth, when he wasn’t sure right now what the truth was? When even now it was as if tiny, tight-wound tendrils of unconscious yearnings were uncoiling within him?—wakened from hazy slumber by someone he despised and feared.

This couldn’t be normal. No matter Rory’s placations to the contrary—those had been made under the assumption that he was reacting like this because he’d wanted it.

Frodo crouched to his haunches, dropping his bag on the ground, doubling up on the unbearable tightness in his belly and wrapping his arms about his knees. Dampness encroached, sinking into his backbone and rear, but he scarcely felt it, too taken by and wrapped within other sensations to feel the wet.

He hadn’t wanted it. He hadn’t.

But if his heart had been so sickened, and his brain had been so appalled, why had his body been—why was it still—in such willing disagreement? The sheer physicality of it twisted through him, betraying him, and while he was fairly ignorant he wasn’t stupid or made of stone. He’d certainly entertained fantasies of what this moment would actually entail: the first touch other than his own, the keen sudden awareness of shared sensory overload, the giving over of trust and need. But never had he dreamed it would be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to hurt like this…

Tears crowded behind his eyes. This couldn’t be normal. No more than anything he did was ever normal. No more than, it seemed, his mother had done anything normal. Even her brother—her brother who had loved her, of that Frodo had no doubt—had made mention of how she had ‘acted out improperly’. It was one thing, it seemed, to explore possibilities, yet entirely another to let those possibilities take over most of your existence and strip you of any sense of respectable discretion and control…

No. He didn’t want to know this. He didn’t want to know any of it. He just wanted to be Frodo, son of Drogo Baggins, just a hobbit. Normal. Not possessed of this conflicted confusion and wild, inexplicable longing. Not wanting things he could never have—all of it too much, and rising to the siren call of anything strange or forbidden or feared.

Leaning back into the gnarled, roughened bark, Frodo curled his arms upward over his skull, arching back and wishing desperately that he was home again, wherever home was, and a tiny bairn once more, and that it could all just begin again so he could somehow do it right this time…

A sharp rustling made him freeze in place. His eyes darted about and his first thought was that his tormentor had come back, perhaps with reinforcements; however nothing on the ground met his gaze and the rustling continued. Frodo looked up. Nothing in the tree he leaned against, nothing in the few neighboring ones—yet he could still hear the leaves, a heavy susurrus that was not naturally fashioned by wind or damp. He caught sight of the small, wiry figure in the tree just as it vanished upward into a clump of leaves. Brows quirking in mystification, Frodo rose slowly to his feet, staring upward.

It was Pippin. Curiously, his head inclining sideways, Frodo paced slowly forward. As he did so, he noted the tree’s proximity to not only the bath-house reserved for the girls, but also the proximity of the clump of leaves—and the hidden Pippin—to a window on the bathhouse’s northern side.

His own tensilely-painful abstractions were abruptly smothered in amazement and irritation. Frodo’s steps quickened. He quickly reached the base of the large old oak that Pippin had scaled. Voices and laughter floated from inside the squat, oval building and upwards through the high venting windows; obviously quite a few of the girls preferred a late morning bath as well. Frodo felt his stomach clench all too tightly, first at the thought then once more, even harder, at the light, cheerful sounds coming from the window. He gritted his teeth against it, instead focusing on the small form above. When he got hold of him...

Little monster.

"Pippin!" he hissed.

The leaves went abruptly still.

"Pippin, I know you’re there!"

Slowly, a thatch of amber curls appeared from behind a thick clump of leaves, followed by wide, brilliant eyes. Pippin was obviously trying to look terribly innocent.

Frodo, however, wasn’t buying it. "What are you doing?" Then as Pippin began to draw breath to speak, furthered quietly, "Never mind. You shouldn’t be up there."

"Awww, Frodo..."

"Don’t wheedle with me, Peregrin Took, just come down now. Quickly and quietly as you can, all right?"

The little boy grimaced, then disappeared for a few moments behind the leaves. They shook. It was silent for long moments, then Pippin reappeared and said in a strangely subdued voice, "It’s pretty high. And the branch is all wet. I... I don’t think I can get down, Frodo."

"Oh, for..." Frodo rolled his eyes and sighed. "All right. I’ll come and get you. Wait there." He reached upward with both hands, grabbed a low-flung branch and louvered himself up. Once in the tree he climbed silently and with care, in a matter of moments arriving on the same branch as Pippin. The boy wasn’t really up all that high, thank goodness, and sat waiting, perched on his rear end and entirely too far out on a narrow limb. Beyond his hunched shoulders, voices soared in girlish laughter, rising with the steam that wafted up from the open window. Frodo had the nearly-overwhelming urge to peer over Pippin’s shoulder and into the bathhouse; instead his cheeks warmed and he clenched his jaw, focusing on the tree bark beneath his knees.

"Come on."

"Can’t you get closer?" The high voice carried entirely too far; Frodo put his finger to his lips, frowning.

"Be quiet!" he hissed fiercely. "It’s bad enough for you to get caught up here—if I get caught up here after the past fortnight my death will be imminent. Now I can’t go any further, that end won’t take us both. Just shinny out towards me. How you got up here in the first place, wet as it is, without being able to get down..." Pippin wrinkled his brow consideringly, started to answer; Frodo forestalled it with an irritated gesture. "Come on. You can do it."

The child took a deep breath, then nodded determinedly and began scooting on his rear closer to his cousin.

"What on earth possessed you to come up here?" Frodo growled as Pippin got close enough for him to grab him by one shoulder. Action seemed to relieve the young hobbit’s small bout of panic, for he spoke, his voice low but with normal earnestness.

"Well, I’ve been thinking."

"This is thinking?" Frodo’s grip tightened on the damp, sap-stained shirt.

"Well, yes. I was wondering what exactly makes boy and girl hobbits different. I mean, I sort of know, you know? I’ve seen m’mum in the bath, but she’s not a girl, exactly, she’s Mum, and…"

Frodo stared at him, caught between incredulity and the sudden twist in his gut that informed him this was not a subject he really cared to go into at this particular moment in time.

Pippin kept going. "You know, the other boys are always going on about it and I figured this way I could find out... and would have, too, if you’d not come along..."

"Look," Frodo hissed irritably, "I’ll explain it to you later, okay? Let’s just go now, and I’ll explain it to you when we get back to our room."

"You know all about it? I should have known you would, ‘cause you’re so much older than me..."

"I don’t..." Frodo started, then shook his head and closed his eyes for precious seconds. "That’s enough, Pippin. Come on. Get down. Now." He waited as Pippin shinnied past him, then started to disentangle himself from the limb and stopped as a movement through the window grabbed his attention. The way the opening was angled, it gave a remarkably clear view of what was within—despite the mist hanging in the trees and the steam wafting upward from the wooden floor below—and one of the girls had stopped in front of the window. The only towel she wore was wrapped about her head and she was flushed pink and gold from the heat, graceful and quick and more than adequately curvaceous.

Frodo was paralyzed. He couldn’t have shifted had someone come up with a lodgepole and tried to whack him off the branch. Frankly he hadn’t thought this much sudden, relentless and twitching discomfort was possible to endure without dropping dead on the spot; it was as if every reaction from the bathhouse was revisited in triplicates, cranked so unbearably tight that his ears popped.

The hobbitlass moved closer to the window, carrying a long rod which she proceeded to hook into the window’s catch. With one quick shove, she widened the half-open casement fully open and looked upwards to ascertain its proper position. Her eyes met his and hung there, both of them staring fixedly at each other, mouths agape.

She shrieked.

The sound broke through his own immobility. Frodo jerked back, lost his purchase on the rough, slick bark and slid back down the tree limb. He hit the fork of trunk and branch hard enough to see stars and almost cant sideways off the tree. Small hands tangled in his shirt, righting him as he laid there for precious seconds, forehead against the branch, gulping his wind back. He hissed one word, low and quite profane.

"Frodo?" Pippin’s hands were still in his shirt, pulling. "Are you…?" Frodo shook his head to clear it and raised his eyes to where the younger boy crouched in the tree trunk next to him, staring at him. Raised voices from inside the bathhouse threw him back from pain to panic; Frodo rolled from the tree branch, hanging by his arms he dropped to the ground, landing rather awkwardly and holding his hands upward for the younger hobbit. "Jump!"

More uproar was issuing from within. Pippin’s eyes widened and he leapt outward with scarcely a hesitation. Frodo caught him, set him on his feet, grabbed his hand. "Come on! Run!"

They sprinted out of view just as several robed figures came swarming from the bath-house.

* * * * * *

It was half an hour later. Pippin, no worse for wear from his exertions, had gone to lunch. From his window Frodo could see everyone gathering below, voices lifting against the courtyard barriers as they came from all over the Hall to file into the refectory for the noon meal. He’d refused Pippin’s insistences that he come and eat. Instead he stood at the window and looked out over the courtyard, arms crossed about himself as if cold.

He wasn’t cold. Neither was he hungry. Right now he felt like he would heave up whatever he tried to put into his stomach.

On the grey cobbles below, Merry came into the line of sight accompanied by his father, listening intently to something Saradoc was telling him. He looked a bit subdued, no doubt from his own stint with punishment. Frodo was quite sure this was the first time the youngster had been allowed from his room over the past four days. Certainly they’d not been allowed to keep company with each other the entire time. Merry seemed rather reluctant to enter the dining hall; Saradoc turned to him, asked something. The lad shrugged, and in an almost-identical gesture his father shrugged as well then turned and went inside. Merry stood there for a long moment, then turned in Frodo’s direction. He started to lift his chin upward; Frodo ducked out of sight behind the wall. The wooden sill dug into his shoulder blade and he stayed there as if frozen for long moments, hoping against hope that his cousin hadn’t noticed him. Then slowly he peeked about the casement and looked down. Merry was just disappearing into the dining hall.

He didn’t want to see anyone, not right now.

Frodo reached out, closed the shutters firmly. The room went dusky, lit only by the trimmed lamp as he padded over to the room’s entrance and slid the wooden partition fully closed. Noises from beyond it carried to his ears, drifting up the stairwell; he leaned his forehead lightly against the woven, slatted wood and closed his eyes, then pulled himself upright and walked over to the room’s middle, reaching up where the lamp hung on a hook above. Turning the wick higher, letting more light into the room, he then went back over to the window and the washstand beside it. He avoided his gaze in the polished brass of the mirror.

The pewter pitcher was full—good. He didn’t want to leave his room right now, even to fill a pitcher. Frodo poured the water into the basin, watching as lamplight scattered against water and pewter, trailing the fingers of his free hand in it, raising his wet hand to his face and closing his eyes against the feel of it, soothing and cool, against his heated cheeks.

He’d thought only to rinse his face and neck, but found himself peeling out of the dirty clothes he’d meant to change out of in the bathhouse earlier, kicking them into a corner as if they were covered in greasy sludge opposed to only the grime of a muddy garden. He grabbed towels from the shelves beneath the basin and hung a clean one on the hooks screwed into the wall beside the mirror, laid another on the floor beneath his feet.

The sponge in its little cubby was rock hard, but softened rapidly as he dropped it into the filled basin. It had been Merimac who had gotten the large sponge for him on one of his sailing ventures—Frodo often wished that he could go with him on those few times his cousin had been to the harbors and the big seas. Merimac had also gifted him with a large seashell that Frodo kept in his locked cabinet; it was also from those westerly harbors, and much more magical than the practical sponge. When you held the shell to your ear you could hear what he’d been told was the echo of the sea…

The memory of that sound coursed a small shiver through him, ratcheted up his awareness another notch as it always did; for once it was not a welcome sensation. He dug both hands into the basin, lifted shimmering water in his hands and lashed himself in the face with it, gasping a bit as it dripped down onto his chest. It was more chill than the cold rooms beneath the kitchens.

Good.

Frodo grasped the sponge, lifted it and slid it dripping over his arms and chest. The water prickled his skin, made it quiver like a horse shuddering a fly from its withers, shocking the heat from his frame and leaving him damp and shivering.

Better.

He did it again. Then once more. One hand reached for the small round of soap in its dish; however the soap was slippery and suddenly all too pleasantly tactile as it slid across wet skin. It wasn’t the feeling itself—he had gotten somewhat used to that in the past year or so and knew how to satisfactorily deal with it. It was what had engendered it, and why, and how it was suddenly all too much to bear…

Frodo dropped the soap round onto the towel at his feet and applied the sponge with more than usual vigor. He found himself scrubbing particularly at his neck and torso, lips and cheek, as if to wipe away the groping, unforgiving memory imprinted there. Flesh stung from not only friction, but the small rough spots within the sponge, leaving reddened streaks across pale skin. He realized what he was doing, eased up a bit.

It was all too easy to quickly grow accustomed to the cool touch of the wet sponge, moving into it as opposed to withdrawing. Sopping the sponge into the basin once more, Frodo squeezed it over his upturned face. The water familiarized itself to him; it filled his mouth, tickled his neck and chest, curled and traced his ribs to runnel down his stomach and haunches, was momentarily held and detoured by belly fur but driven inexorably and gravitationally down, trailing cool tracks across heated skin. He sucked in a quick, quivering breath, standing there dripping, stricken instantaneously and almost painfully aware. It seemed so shatteringly different, too long left banked and denied and now flaring, hot and high, against any semblance of control.

The sponge dropped to the floor to join the soap; his fingers raised to his face then smoothed over his chin… throat… chest… ever downward… following the trail emblazoned where moisture beaded and traveled. Hands stroking, eyes closing, teeth sinking into his lower lip…

"Frodo?"

The familiar voice ripped him from the discomfited, rich haze. It approached from the hallway, companioned by an also-familiar tread and query and a hand scrabbling at the partition.

"Frodo, are you coming to lunch or what? It’s my first day out and we could…"

"Merry," he grated out, "wait!"

No such luck. The partition was yanked open; Frodo snatched the towel from the rack and it slapped against the pitcher, sending it flying in a spray of water and silver. Attempting to save the pitcher, clutching the towel to him at the same time, instead he knocked into the washstand and it lurched sideways, falling to the floor with a harsh clash of metal wash crockery, a splash of more water and the dull thud of old wood. Still clutching at the towel, Frodo whirled to the doorway where Merry had stopped rather uncertainly. Frodo tried to reswallow his breath to no avail; it all but resounded in the small silence, agitated and harsh, his hands shaking and knotted in the towel, the thick fabric drawn and draped against his belly. The two stared at each other for long moments. Merry’s eyes grazed Frodo, up and down, brows drawing together in absolute bewilderment and frame angling slightly back in obvious mystification of what he was seeing. Several questions rose in the dark blue eyes—and thankfully died a-borning for lack of true inward comprehension. Instead his younger cousin focused on the most obvious and understandable aspect of what he was seeing.

"You’re taking a bath instead of eating lunch?" Merry said incredulously.

"I felt…" Frodo’s voice strangled itself for seconds; he tried again, was somewhat successful. "I needed one. I was out grubbing in the cabbages all morning." He looked down, ensuring that his towel was adequate concealment—just barely—of what he’d really been doing. "I wasn’t hungry, anyway."

Merry’s face scrunched itself up into a serious frown and, to Frodo’s abrupt consternation, the lad came in and over to him. "Are you sick? You don’t look very well."

"I’m fine." He hunched up defensively, clutching the towel even tighter against him.

"I’m not too sure about that," the younger boy replied. "You’re white as that cloth. And you’re breathing funny." He reached out to place a hand on Frodo’s forehead. "You aren’t sickening with something, are you?"

"Merry…" he flinched from the touch as if it were a brand, "don’t!"

His cousin blinked, dropped his hand.

"I’m not hungry!" Frodo snapped, backing away several steps. The wall bumped, then abraded his shoulder. He leaned gratefully and heavily into the support. "Don’t you know what a closed door means?"

No reply. Merry stared at him.

"Well, don’t you?" he demanded, aware that he was shaking like a sapling caught in a river valley wind, trying to control it, failing miserably.

And the worst of it was Merry’s face, dumbstruck, his jaw clenching sideways and his brow furrowing tighter by the moment, and that Frodo couldn’t even explain to him what was wrong or what was happening. It didn’t matter that Merry was his dearest friend; he was just a child, still a child no matter that Frodo somehow no longer was. To speak of or demonstrate any facet of it—outraged feelings or oddly-risen yearnings or horrific, tangled confusion—was a line Frodo had no right to cross, a sharing he could not now even envision. It was a protection he must uphold and a severance he simply must endure.

He turned away, passion draining from him with painful swiftness, curling into the chill dampness of the towel.

"Frodo?" Merry’s voice wavered.

"Just go. Please." And when the youth did not immediately obey his voice rose, roughened with denial and humiliation. "Go on, Merry!"

A quick gasp, the sound of even quicker feet. Frodo couldn’t even turn to watch him go. He slid down the wall and crouched there, burying his face in one end of the sodden towel, squeezing it fiercely against his eyes and the tears that sprang there, hot and unasked.

* * * * * *