"Frodo?"

The voice was high and small, heavy with sleep and a wonder that was merely half-aware. Frodo blinked, looked down from his window perch and away from the sun rising over the trees, and beheld Pippin.

Curiously subdued—although it was still morning after all—the hobbitchild rubbed at his flushed face and sleep-crusted eyes. Behind him the rumpled bed also gave testament to his recent rising. "Were you out all night? You’re still in your clothes."

"Not… quite," he returned softly, quite unwilling to speak too loudly or familiarly of it. His head still felt filled nigh to bursting, leaving a pleasant hum within his ears and an uncommon skip to the heart beating solidly within his chest.

"Hey." Pippin came closer, consideration sharpening his gaze. "Are you feeling all right?"

The sun burst over the trees, limning them both in gold, heating his cheeks which were chilled from his window vigil. "Yes."

"Why were you out so late anyway? Merry was really worried, you know. He kept asking all sorts of questions, and…" Small, sun browned hands gripped the window frame. "…you weren’t angry with me, were you? I was really worried that you were angry at me and that was why you left…"

A bemused smile curving his lips, Frodo looked down at the littlest Took. It hadn’t taken him long to wind up, after all. "Pippin…"

"I didn’t hear you come in and we were worried about you, Frodo. Haven’t you gone to sleep at all?"

"I… couldn’t sleep." It was true. Not even his aunt’s white, set expression had contained its normal power to empty him. Instead he’d sat in the windowsill, cocooned pleasantly in whatever sanction the elves had given him and for whatever reason. He’d hummed quietly to himself, watched the moon set into the trees and the river, let the dawn take him. "I wasn’t angry with you."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"That’s all right, then." Those preliminaries firmly established, Pippin grabbed Frodo’s pants leg and started to louver up, then hesitated, fingering the tattered and stained fabric there.

"Frodo, what did you do to your leg?"

Frodo blinked, stared at his young cousin for long moments, then said softly, "I was in the Old Forest. I got chased by wolves."

The green eyes went huge. "The Forest? Truly, Frodo? And wolves? Oooo…" Pippin’s gaze narrowed suddenly. "Were you scared?"

"I was petrified," Frodo told him, feeling the soft edges of hazy comfort beginning to fade away beneath the constant questions. It made him a bit blunt. "There were seven of them and they were big as ponies."

"Seven!" That did it. Pippin wriggled upward and, as Frodo watched rather dumbly, his tiny cousin settled himself rather proprietarily into his lap, preparatory for what looked to be a great tale. "What did you do, then?"

"I tried to outrun them and ended up in a tree."

"But what did you do…?"

"Pippin," he interrupted, feeling abruptly rattled, desperately trying to hold onto what softened feelings that were, like the trees in the river bottom, put into too green and high relief with the coming of sunrise. A strange, tight numbness began brewing behind his eyes. "I’ll tell you a fine story later, all right? I need to get ready to go to the barns soon, and…"

"But Frodo…"

"Pippin, leave off, will you!?" he retorted. Immediate contrition took hold as the boy recoiled, eyes gone huge again. "I’m sorry It’s just…"

"You’ve had one pint too many, haven’t you?" Pippin said in acceptance of the apology, wagging his head like a sage old uncle.

"I’ve… I’ve not… I…" Frodo stammered, then said incredulously, "Peregrin Took, what on earth makes you say these things?"

The narrow face was rather smug. "You have, haven’t you? You snuck out and got a bit tippled last night. It’s all right, Frodo, I don’t mind. Pearl always wakes up cranky when she’s had one too many."

"I did not have one too many!" Frodo began.

"Then what were you doing?!"

Pippin and Frodo both turned at this last, new demand to behold Merry standing in the doorway to their room. His arms were crossed over his chest, his chin jutted out and mouth taut, his eyes dark and brilliant.

"Do you have any concept of how worried we were?" Merry continued levelly.

"You mean how worried you were!" Pippin inserted helpfully. "You were the only one that went looking yesterday, because they all said Frodo’d run away before and they…" he trailed off uncertainly as Merry shot him an indescribable look then returned said glance to his older cousin.

Frodo settled Pippin back to the floor then swung down to the floor a bit gingerly—reality seemed to have come back to him in an undeniable rush, including the fact that his leg was very tight and sore. He walked forward several paces, limping slightly, until he was barely an arms length from his cousin. "Worried? Merry…"

"Yes, worried!" the younger boy retorted passionately. "The last time I saw you, you were acting like you were taking sick, or something…"

Frodo looked down, his cheeks heating.

"Mum was up all night waiting for you, did you know that?"

"I can’t say that I understand why."

The words slipped out, laced with a resentful venom that, had Frodo been thinking clearly, he never would have let pass his lips in front of his cousin. Even so, the reaction to his words was not what he expected. The broad-planed face went scarlet, then white. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Pippin was edging closer to them, next to the foot of the bunk; Frodo could see him from the corner of his eye well enough to figure that he was quite as poleaxed as himself by this apparition of justice that had suddenly descended upon them both.

The apparition spoke again. "You don’t care, do you? You don’t care that Mum was worried about you, you don’t care that I was worried about you!"

"Merry," Frodo looked up apologetically, "that’s not true and you know it."

"You never take me seriously, do you?"

"Merry, what are you…"

"Have you ever taken me seriously? Ever?"

"I don’t…"

"Have you?" the younger boy demanded with a passion that impacted against Frodo’s senses like a slap.

Frodo started, "Of course I…" then asked in plain bewilderment, "What kind of question is that, anyway?"

"I think it’s quite a reasonable one! You obviously didn’t take me seriously enough yesterday. You just left. Not a word, not a hint—I had to find out you were gone from him!" Merry flung one hand towards Pippin, whose narrow face was pale and slack and quivering with the beginnings of distress.

Frodo saw this, grabbed the outstretched hand. "Merry… stop. Not now. Can’t you see…?"

Merry yanked his hand away. "Do you see? Do you even bother to think? Don’t you even care?"

Frodo closed his eyes. "That’s quite enough."

"Is it? Well, I’ve had quite enough as well!"

"That makes two of us, then, doesn’t it?"

"You didn’t even come and find me this morning…"

"I had no idea you were up this early…"

"You didn’t bother to find out, did you…?"

"Merry, be reasonable, you’re never up when I have to be…"

"Me be reasonable? I’m not the one who pushed you out of my room, I’m not the one who ran off without telling anyone anything, and you say I’m not reasonable…?"

"I didn’t… didn’t mean anything yesterday. You didn’t… knock…" Frodo trailed off, unwilling to go further.

"Since when have I had to knock?"

"Perhaps you need to start. Have you ever considered that I might need some privacy sometimes?"

"It was lunchtime, Frodo!"

"I didn’t want lunch! I wanted… I just…"

"You just didn’t want me, did you Frodo?"

"Merry…!" It was strangled.

"And you don’t want me, do you? Because he’s here, isn’t he…?

"Is that what this is all about?" Frodo snapped. "That Pippin’s here and you’re not?"

Merry fell silent, his entire frame shaking with sudden resentment. Frodo put fingers to his temples; what had started out as mild numbness was now gravitating into little knives behind his eyeballs.

Immediately there was a small presence at his side, clinging to him tightly. "Frodo…" Pippin whimpered softly and he took a deep breath, put a shaking hand on the boy’s shoulder.

"Pip, why don’t you go on? Go outside. I’ll sort this out, all right?" The cinnamon curls quivered violently as Pippin shook his head.

"You’ll sort it out? Merry insisted wrathfully. "Oh, I see. You’re going to start doing it with him now, are you? You’re all set to start dangling and diverting and taking care of him… though how you think you’ll do that when you can’t even take care of yourself I’ll never know—just look at you, Frodo!"

Silence. The accusation was like a well-aimed punch to the solar plexus; Frodo couldn’t speak, could only gape at his cousin where he stood framed by the door. Merry was clad clean and well, the very picture of a prosperous landowner’s son, all gold and bright and crisp in the window’s light; in direct opposition stood Frodo, who was suddenly and with an odd sense of guilt aware of torn and bloodied clothes, hectic, pale eyes, tangled hair and filthy feet.

Orphan. Poor relation. Outcast. The words, employed with varied effect by a small group of boyhood enemies, had never struck home before as they did now, unspoken yet still hanging in the air between the two cousins and friends.

"Merry!" Pippin wailed into the sudden quiet and clutched tighter to Frodo.

"You shut up!" Merry snarled at him.

"I had no idea," Frodo said numbly, "that you felt this way."

"Because you are ruddy clueless!" Merry stomped over and stuck his face right into his cousin’s; Pippin nimbly scooted out of the way and around Frodo, still clinging. "Mum’s right, you know that? You walk about with your head in the clouds, never paying attention to anything that matters! You don’t seem to care what matters! You don’t want to do anything like anyone else does! You don’t seem to care what anyone thinks! The girls and boys whisper about you, the older boys pick on you—Lotho picks on you! And you let him!"

Frodo went white, looked down. Merry’s eyes narrowed.

"He does not!" squeaked Pippin and then retreated behind his eldest cousin once more. His words fell unheeded, feathers against stone.

"You look through people as if they’re not there…"

"I don’t look at you that way," Frodo inserted quietly, eyes fastened to the floor.

"Don’t you? You’re always trying to get away, or turn away. If there’s something you don’t want me to hear, or see, you dangle something else before me to get my mind off it! If there’s something you don’t want to share, you just don’t share it, do you?" Merry’s voice was escalating with each acicular demand. "You push me away or just look past me, as if I wasn’t even there! You don’t want me. You just run. You always, always run!"

Hardly aware of what he was doing even as he did it, Frodo grabbed Merry’s arms, hard. "Stop it!"

Merry wrenched back and away, eyes suddenly glimmering; when Frodo started for him once more he crouched into a defensive stance.

"You’re going to fight me now?" Frodo insisted. "Is that what you want?"

Merry straightened slightly, but didn’t move.

"Well you know something, Meriadoc?" Frodo felt the words gather in his chest, growling outward like some storm, "You might call me the biggest coward in the world, but if that’s what you really want, I’m going to do with you just what you say I do with Lotho and all his cronies. I’m just going to let you."

Eyes blazing, Merry lurched forward. Before Frodo could even react to this, Merry was slamming into him and he was falling backward and against the ladder to the beds. It went flying. Pippin, somehow still attached to Frodo’s hip, squealed and was torn loose to take a header onto his bunk; Frodo slammed his skull on the bedpost and went sprawling sideways, his legs and arms all tangled up with Merry’s. The younger boy grunted as they hit the floor, landing smack atop his older cousin.

Anger fled. In its place was disbelief—and Frodo was made once again aware of how big Merry had gotten over the past months. Perhaps this had not been the wisest course of action.

"Stop it!" Pippin was screeching in his ear and he dimly saw him piling onto Merry’s back, pulling at his shirt. "Stop it, stop it!" The load on Frodo’s chest seemed to double, though he knew full well that Pippin couldn’t possibly weigh that much.

"Meriadoc! Frodo! Peregrin!" The stentorian bellow echoed through the small room but didn’t faze Merry. He sat up, shaking Pippin off and sending him flying as though he were a bothersome little insect, one hand splayed on Frodo’s breastbone and the other drawing back into a fist.

From seemingly nowhere the owner of the bellow acted; Merry’s upraised fist was clasped and halted in its downward path by an uncompromising grip and Merry was unceremoniously hauled off Frodo, leaving the latter spread out gracelessly on the hardwood floor.

Merry was still struggling; his father shook him, then when that had no effect rolled his eyes and with a quick neat twist had his son in a grip that locked one arm behind him and the other in front of him. "Meriadoc!" he growled. "Settle!"

With no other choice before him, breathing in quick gasps, Merry settled.

Esme stood by the toppled ladder, her hands on Pippin’s shoulders. He was standing quite still, hunched over and shaking, tears running down his pinched face. Frodo closed his eyes and put both hands to his face, feeling the hard floor against his skull and spine and feet. Then he took a deep breath and sat up.

Saradoc didn’t let go of his son. "All right," he said, a quiet puissance that stilled all three of the boys. "What is going on here?"

No one said a word. Frodo looked down at the floor for long moments then peered upward tentatively. His eyes glanced over Merry where he stood, red-faced and hot-eyed and immobilized by his father’s huge frame, held Saradoc’s firmly questioning gaze, then almost against his will slid sideways and met his Aunt’s visage for long seconds. She looked tired and drawn; her hands were still on Pippin’s shoulders and her expression was unreadable as it met his, still containing some of the same elements he’d grasped from it the previous night. This time it was Frodo who looked away.

"I said," Saradoc reiterated sternly, "what is going on here? Merry?"

No answer. Merry shook his head angrily, breath still heaving at his chest.

"Frodo?"

"It was," he answered slowly, eyes angling up to meet Merry’s, whose in turn bored through Frodo, hard and unrelenting as black sapphires, "only a misunderstanding."

"Wasn’t it just!" Merry burst out, angling forward; his father’s grip tightened uncompromisingly and he whirled him about, shoving him towards the door.

"To your room with you, young hobbit, until you cool off a bit!" One hand firmly along Merry’s back, his father marched him from the small dormer and down the hall.

"You too, Peregrin," said Esme softly.

"I’m in my room!" he protested quaveringly, "and I’m not needing to cool off, now!"

"I meant that you’re going with me, child. Come on, now. You need something in your belly—you’re shaking like a leaf." She gave Pippin a gentle push towards the door. He threw Frodo a quick, confused backward glance, and Frodo gave the child a quickly reassuring nod as he obeyed. Esmeralda’s eyes slid back to take in the oldest lad.

"Aunt Esme…" he started to rise.

"We will talk later," she told him quietly, and there was serious menace underlying the words. "Believe me. For now," her gaze was scathing as it raked him fore and aft, "just attempt to somehow make yourself presentable and go eat."

"I’ve the barns…"

"Well, it looks as if you’ll be late then, doesn’t it?" She took Pippin out.

Frodo pulled his knees into his chest and rested his forehead on them miserably.   So much for holding onto a magical interlude.

Well, at least the headache was gone, too.

* * * * * *

"Now." Saradoc marched Merry through the narrow, curved corridor and down the stairs two at a time, one broad hand upon the ramrod-stiff back. "Suppose you tell me what that was all about?"

"Nothin’," was the surly reply.

"Somehow I find that doubtful, lad. Particularly as you were twitting anxiously over the countryside most of yesterday looking for your cousin. And when you did find him this morning, you just decided to wrestle?" Saradoc quick-stepped them both across the third-story landing and down the next set of stairs. "Doesn’t fly, Meriadoc."

His son didn’t answer, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched as he descended before him. They reached the second-story landing and Saradoc said bluntly, "Do you think Frodo’s not in enough trouble that you have to get him into more?"

This did connect. "I didn’t get him into anything!" Merry whirled about. "He got himself into it!"

"Which is why you were on top of him, ready to give him several of the best you had," his father said reasonably.

Merry’s expression was mutinous.

"He didn’t seem to be putting up much of a fight."

"He never does!" the boy snapped back, then realized he was doing so to his father and took in a quick, uneasy breath. Saradoc stared levelly at him, then reached out, whirled him back about and started them both forward once more. They reached the first floor and Merry started left, toward the kitchens; his father grabbed him by one shoulder and spun him back right.

"Oh no, lad. No breakfast for you. To your room and stay there for the rest of the day."

"Da!" Merry burst out. "I just got out of my room yesterday!!!"

"So? You know the rules—no brawling in the Hall."

"I didn’t start it!"

"I thought you said Frodo never put up a fight?" Saradoc censured. "You might or might not have started it—but you were the one who was surely ready to finish it. To your room, boy… and no more lip!" he ordered as Merry started to protest. "If you’re lucky, your mother might sneak you something. If she can talk me into it."

"Da…" Merry whined as they arrived at his room.

"Button it." Saradoc opened the door, gave him a push inwards. "You’re to stay here, mind."

And he closed the door remorselessly on Merry’s startled face. He felt the latch click and took his hand away from the knob, shaking his head.

"Esme’s been far too lenient with that lad."

* * * * * *

Merry watched the door close with something that might have been very akin to dismay, had not anger tracked it sideways into disbelief. It just wasn’t possible. Frodo stayed out all ruddy night, but was he in trouble? Was he having to miss breakfast?

Probably not.

Merry stubbed up the floor rug with his toe, flipped it, sent it flying across the room. It landed against the far wall beneath the window in a crumpled heap.

It wasn’t fair!

Must be nice, to just come sauntering in whenever you well pleased, and not be beholden to anything or anyone. Frodo wasn’t grown up yet, but he sure seemed to be acting as if he had the right to be! Staying out all night… it would be all over the Hall in another few days. Not that Frodo cared. People talked about him all the time, and every time Merry thought it was bothering him, Frodo would turn and smile and shrug—and change the subject.

He didn’t care.

And then there was Pippin…

Merry stalked over, gave the rug another swift kick. It flew and landed with a heavy thud against the bedpost.

Everything had been fine until that little brat had shown up. Until his mother had put him into Frodo’s room. Until Pippin with his wheedling and his whinging and his big-eyed ‘aren’t I cute’ mannerisms had sidled into the middle of what had always been a mainstay of Merry’s existence.

And Frodo let him!

The rug was treated to another removal by foot, this time back over against the window.

He followed it, reached out, angled himself up onto the window and thumped back against the sill angrily, ignoring the jar it gave his backbone. He propped his feet up on the other side and hunched downwards, his entire face twisted into a mighty scowl.

* * * * * *

Peregrin, the tears and dirt scrubbed from his face, the scrape he’d somehow gotten on his shin tended to, and his stomach comfortably filled, ran over to a bunch of boys and girls his own age and burst into their midst with all the presence and artless grace of a falling star. Esme stood at the door that led to the common from the refectory and watched her brother’s son with inordinate fondness—it was hard not to be charmed by the boy. She remembered Paladin had always had that easy way with others about him; now as Thain, he used it quite effortlessly in getting exactly what was needed.

A furtive movement caught in the corner of her eye; she angled her head to see Frodo enter the dining hall, his shoulders hunched in the peculiar, self-effacing way that he employed when he didn’t want to be noticed. Unfortunately he hadn’t yet managed to realize that his very mien at these times attracted all sorts of notice because he looked either frightfully guilty or easily put upon. Like now. He was certainly not the only hobbit there despite his tardiness, but as he joined the line at the food tables he was a rather noticeable target.

He didn’t even look to be the same elegant, riveting being who’d so willfully sauntered into the Hall last night…

Esme shook her head, clearing it with a shudder, noted that Frodo had managed to after all make himself somewhat presentable, and turned away. The table next to the door held a pewter goblet she had filled with Brandy Hall’s finest; she took it up, walked out into the common and, finding an unoccupied wooden bench, angled herself carefully down into it.

Curse the lad—he’d robbed her of a good night’s sleep to boot!

She pointedly turned her attention back to Peregrin, who was in the middle of the little group of children, telling some outrageous story by the looks of it. Esmeralda sighed. She had cautioned him against spreading anything of what had happened that morning, but had little hope that he would heed it.

Her brother had also suffered from an unguarded tongue as a youth. He’d come to discretion the hard way.

"A little early in the day for that vintage, isn’t it?"

She jumped and turned to see her husband leaning over her, hands resting on the back of the bench, and realized she must be flat exhausted if he could sneak up on her that easily. "Not too early in this day," Esme told him bluntly; he chuckled a bit shortly and walked about to seat himself next to her.

"The little one all right?"

"Sure, and look at him." She gestured where the children were dispersing somewhat, with a small group of them including Peregrin haring off to the next adventure. "He’s fine. Getting some food down him did more than anything. How’s Merry?"

"In his room." He shouldered back into the bench, looking over the common with somewhat proprietary pride. Before his mother had come into her own with the Hall, this common had been just a scraggly lawn behind the kitchens; during her years as Mistress, Menegilda had transformed it into a serene little haven, cozied by the hill on its south, the common room wing on its west, and the kitchen wing on the north. Saradoc had continued the shaded, carefully-landscaped little nook in her memory, and from their seat one could see, up the hill and to the east, a beautiful view of the orchards. Tall, stark loveliness of line and form, stretching down and up the gentle slope of the next hill, well-ordered and tended rows just beginning to blossom. "The lad was pretty hot—you’re not to be sneaking him anything from the kitchens for at least the hour, mind," he directed. "He needs to calm down and think a bit about what he did."

"What he did?"

"In case you didn’t notice, Em, Meriadoc was not the one in danger of getting his head punched."

She looked as if she was about to protest, then shrugged and took a sip of her wine. "You’re right."

"I know I am. Has Frodo come down yet?"

She jerked her head back towards the kitchens and common room. "He’s in there, slinking about as if he’s committed murder."

Saradoc chuckled again.

"What’s so funny?"

"Just thinking of something that Dad said."

Esmeralda gave him a long-suffering look.

"Well," he continued, "just this morning at breakfast he was listening pretty carefully to what you had to say about the lad being gone last night, and he started to tell me about some conversation he’d had with Frodo in the baths just yesterday…" he shrugged. "Of course, he didn’t get very far, just mentioned that the lad was growing up and perhaps I’d not done my duty to him. Of course he didn’t get any farther before he went off into a spell again…"

"And how are you not doing your duty?" she demanded, outrage dispelling sleepiness.

"Well, in this case the old hobbit is right. I’ve been so used to Frodo running in tandem with Merry that I’ve forgotten how old he is. Yesterday was but proof of that—it caught us both by surprise, Em."

Esmeralda was silent, offered him a taste of her cup.

He took it, half drained it then handed it back to her, ignoring her mock outrage. "And Rory-dad may be crazy as a coot, but his heart’s in the right place. Once we were half through breakfast he seemed to kick back to what he’d started to say. Said that Frodo’s too much comprehension and control about him. That if he’d just let go sometimes, he probably wouldn’t get into as much trouble and he’d certainly feel better."

"Too much?" snorted Esme. "I’d think he’d not nearly enough! He’d walk off a cliff, that one, because he wasn’t watching where his feet were."

"Well, that’s true enough. But Dad seems to think the lad’s smarter than any of us give him credit for."

Esme didn’t immediately reply. Her eyes were following the little children, who had begun a round of tag and freeze—the ones who were caught had to stand absolutely still, as if frozen. Pippin hadn’t been caught yet. Several other hobbit adults were enjoying the pleasant afternoon; two elderly hobbits walked by and nodded greeting to the Hall’s master and mistress. She finished her wine and set the goblet down at her feet. "Perhaps it’s for the best."

"For the best?"

"This entire fight." She shook her head. "It’s not like Merry, this."

"They’re lads, Esme. If I’d a copper mark for every row I got into with rivals and friends…" he shrugged, leaned against the back boards of the seat. "We’ve been lucky with Merry. And this thing with Frodo, whatever it is, it’ll blow over in another few days. "

"I’d move Peregrin if I’d a place to move him to. Maybe I need to just make some room somewhere…"

"Move Peregrin? Why would you do that?"

She placed hands over her stomach; it was roiling rather madly. "After last night… I’m not sure that child needs to be staying with Frodo."

"Esme, don’t be ridiculous!"

"Oh, I’m ridiculous now, am I?" Esmeralda whirled on him. "You were just saying that Frodo’s becoming aware of things he wasn’t before. I agree with you. So why is it ridiculous?"

Crossing his arms across his broad chest, Saradoc met her glare evenly. He said nothing, just looked.

Esme turned away. "You didn’t see him."

"Perhaps I should have. Aren’t you over-reacting a bit to this?"

"I’m thinking of Peregrin! And our son!"

"And are you thinking the slightest bit about Frodo?"

"This after you going on about consequences?"

"I think he’s made his own consequence—you already said he was slinking about, looking guilty as murder."

She opened her mouth, tried several times to speak, then simply repeated, "Sara, you didn’t see him!"

"And you’ve not yet told me what there was to see. It upset you, that much is obvious, but you’ve not…" he trailed off and smiled genially as a small group of giggling hobbitlasses walked closely past their bench; baskets in arms, they were obviously headed for the wildflowers that grew on the hill south of the common.

Esmeralda took a deep breath and clenched her hands into fists, angry that the memory of it all could shake her so. Saradoc frowned, put a hand to her cheek.

"Emmie," he said softly.

"I can’t help it!" she told him between gritted teeth. "I can’t help the way I feel! Don’t you think I’ve tried? But he’s so… so… I can’t even think straight! And that just makes me madder!" She laughed awkwardly and suddenly, tears surfacing in her eyes. "It does! It makes me absolutely furious that the lad grates on me so. It wasn’t like this when he was younger. But now he is, and every time he looks at me, there’s something fearful and angry in it. I’ve never had a child be afraid of me, you know? Oh, they step carefully, but not fearfully! Merry loves him so… and I want to love him too! But…" she looked down, ashamed, "but he... he’s not anything like us, Sara. He’s just not, and I think he’s not quite right in his head, and there are times that he scares me."

"Like he scared you last night."

"Last night…" she shuddered. "It was worse. He didn’t look natural. He looked… bewitched. As if everything in him had been taken and flung open and twisted so far left of normal that it would never be put back right." Her voice was shaking, with an effort she steadied it.

"He seems back to normal this morning, though."

"I guess…" She took in a deep breath. "Sara, I think he was… with someone last night."

Saradoc gave a little self-depreciative huff. "Well, then I left talking to him a mite late didn’t I?"

"I… I didn’t quite mean that," she said, low. "Or maybe I did. I don’t…"

"Em." He leaned towards her, light blue eyes very puzzled.

"I think he was with the elves."

He leaned back again, let his breath out in a long, slow hiss.

"Prim… she would have the same look to her when she’d gone to them."

Saradoc let out a low, incredibly profane curse and angled forward, leaning his forearms on his knees and shaking his head. "There are days, Em, that I wish my dear Aunt Primula had kept her troublesome arse in Hobbiton with her poor husband and never returned here. And that I could somehow rip every memory of her from these walls and your heart."

"Sara…"

"She’s done nothing but hurt you, and everyone about her."

"It wasn’t all of her doing!" she retorted, thoroughly rattled.

"Certainly enough of it was. She had her own share of the Brandybuck moonstruck madness, true, but she made her choices and they backfired on her and everyone about her. We’re still dealing with the consequences of what she did, and of Bilbo’s cavalier attitudes, and those damned elves…" he grumbled to silence. "And now… her son."

She reached out, laid a hand upon his back, felt muscles clenched tight and hard as rock.

"Yet again, here we are, the same song and dance!" he snorted grimly. "What to do with Frodo!"

Esmeralda rubbed at her husband’s spine, mouth settling thinly.

"We could send him to Bilbo," he ventured.

"No." It was flat.

"Frodo’s of consentable age, if not legal age. Seems to me that it might be time for the Bagginses to take some responsibility towards him. Bilbo’s got the means—and the space."

"And what would that crazy old hobbit do but encourage him in his fancies, make him even more unfit for the real world?" Esmeralda shot back. "If it wasn’t for Bilbo Baggins…"

"Emmie…"

"We have to keep him here, Sara. Here."

"Even if it might be best for him to leave the Hall?"

"I didn’t just mean the Hall. I mean here, in the Shire. He belongs to the Shire. Not with the elves, not mooning after things he can’t have, and not with Bilbo in that barren hole on the Hobbiton Hill. We can’t let Frodo get away from us, too…"

They were silent for long moments. The courtyard was all but stilled and deserted, many of the hobbits that had been there finishing their mealtime were now at other tasks.

"Then perhaps," Saradoc ventured, "he needs to travel back to Tuckborough with your brother when they come to Merry’s birthday several weeks from now."

"Paladin has enough problems in his own household right now… he doesn’t need Frodo adding to them."

"Well, that’s true enough." Saradoc rubbed at his nose, nodding disgruntled agreement. "Maybe we should give in and let Frodo go with Mac on the river. He’s wanted to for some time."

Esme frowned. "I really think that would not be wise, considering…"

"Oh, Em… that’s insulting. Mac never outgrew his preference for the lads, true, but he’s not about to do anything he’s not invited to and you know it."

"You didn’t let me finish. I certainly didn’t mean it that way," she retorted defensively. "I meant the others that run the river. Those bargehobbits would eat Frodo alive."

"Mac would take care of him… and his reputation would protect Frodo. Not many of those river-rats want to cross my brother or insult him. He’s too generous an employer—and he’s too good with his fists."

"Your brother can’t ride herd over him every moment, and Frodo’s got such genius for trouble, in that situation he’d need more than Mac’s reputation; he’d need a bloody babysitter!" Esme shook her head. "Not to mention how it would look, us sending a green-as-grass lad to them because he was willful…"

"Well, he is." Saradoc chased his hands back through his wavy, gilt hair. "You and your brother both have always been a bit too concerned with the looks of things."

"Sometimes it’s all we have, Sara."

"Fine words from the lairds of the Westfarthing," he snapped, albeit teasingly.

"Or from the jumped-up tinkers of Buck Hill!" she returned just as playfully. Then Saradoc sat back, looked at her, reached out and captured her hand in his own.

"Ah, but you’re no laird of a Took and you’ve never been, lass. You’re a jumped-up vulgar Brandybuck now, pure and simple." He inclined his head on her shoulder and she leaned into him, buoyed as always by his presence. Brandybuck legacies… there was no moonstruck madness in this hobbit. He was the sanest and steadiest she’d ever known.

"If we send Frodo out to be fostered," she said into his hair, "it has to be somewhere he can come into society, not be shut away from it. He already shuts himself out…"

"Em," Saradoc growled, "this is getting us nowhere." He twisted until they were nose to nose. "I’m sick and tired of talking about wayward, willful children, and I’ve had about all I can stand of Frodo Baggins for one day!"

She sighed, then reached forward and kissed him on the nose. "Yes, husband."

He grunted approvingly. "All right then." Then he smiled. "At any rate, I’m thinking that perhaps you need a nap today, wife. You didn’t get enough sleep last night."

"Too much needs done today, husband."

The smile tucked away into one corner of his mouth, startlingly reminiscent of their son’s when he also wanted something finite. "Let someone else do it." He cupped her face in his hands, still nose to nose. "Who knows? There might be a few things that need doing in bed today."

Esmeralda raised her eyebrows, playing along. "Besides this nap you want me to take? The sheets need mending? The bed posts are coming unhinged?"

"That last is a distinct possibility," he told her, thumbs stroking both cheeks.

"Mm. I see."

"Well, I see that we’ve two choices," he said quietly. "We can calmly walk to inspect these very important items… or I can carry you through the Hall and everyone will know that I intend on taking my wife back to bed mid-morning."

"We disappear into our quarters and everyone will know anyway," Esmeralda pointed out.

"So?"

She stood, grinning down at him. "So I’ll walk to the block, thank you."