During lunch, Pippin and several other bairns—a pack of Tookish cousins whom Merry had christened The Brats—homed in on them and loudly commandeered the nearby seats, which annoyed Merry and amused Frodo.

The misty morning had fractured itself into brightness. Shafts of sunlight pierced from windows beyond and skylights above, spreading into swaths of illumination. Motes of dust were visible in the filmy light, glittering and dancing upon every passing air current—and the activity in the large, cosy dining hall assured that those air currents were indeed lively.

Frodo had chosen to sit beneath one of the skylights, slit-eyed with pleasure in the sun's warmth. As they ate, Merry found himself staring as that sun spilled down and caught fire in his cousin's hair, tossing copper through dark curls. The sudden and novel perception teased a peculiar quiver in his belly; thoroughly captivated and dismayed, Merry shifted in his seat and frowned, wondering what it was about Frodo that was causing his own untoward notice.

The Brats were of course chattering like magpies; not to Merry, as was usual, but to Frodo, who kept listening with appropriate nods or replies, and all the while not allowing it to halt his food intake. It was a welcome respite for Merry; he had found that Pippin and cohorts were irritating him more and more; within a se'nnight of his arrival he'd gladly escaped into the companionship of those cousins his own age: Fredegar Bolger and Ferdibrand Took, to name two.

The younger cousins' fascination did have one redeeming aspect; it gave Merry more opportunity to watch the older cousin. He hadn't really done so, not even last night for he'd been too entranced by the tales Frodo had spun for him about life on the River to heed the tale-bearer—other than how Frodo was a more comfortable pillow now, for he'd gained some weight.

But it wasn't just weight that had changed Frodo, though the last time Merry had seen his cousin, said cousin had been over a stone diminished from that horrible illness. Frodo hadn't gotten any taller—though certainly Merry had—but obviously shipboard life had agreed with him, setting him hard and fit as if he'd spent a full summer haying. Merry wasn't at all sure whether he approved of the longer hair, or the way Frodo was dressing; it only brought home all the more the fact that Frodo had gone away to the River and come back changed. And that change was more than a little disturbing.

Not that Frodo seemed to need his approval—which was in itself disconcerting—and not that it was easy to ferret out those changes other than the obvious physical embellishments; it all went somehow deeper than hair or skin or weight. Merry sensed in Frodo an new-found and odd confidence that seemed… well, Merry hated to use 'arrogant', because it wasn't the proper term, not quite, but there was something altogether too… smug about the way Frodo put his face to the world now. He even moved differently. Not that he'd ever been clumsy—well, not all that clumsy, anyway—but now he seemed so… well…

Deliberate, that was it. As if hinted-at poise had turned into something more aware, more contained and powerful and… fascinating.

Oh, and wasn't that just the stupidest thing he'd ever said, only he'd not said it out loud, thank whatever stars shone in the sky. Merry tore his eyes from Frodo, sawed away at his helping of roast and wished it was his own head he was lopping off, because if it couldn't come up with any better thoughts than that...

"You didn't get seasick?" Pippin was marvelling. "Oh, that's brilliant—Dada goes near a boat and he pukes so he can hardly stand!"

Frodo's knee insistently nudged at Merry's beneath the table; Merry raised his eyes once more to find Frodo sliding an amused gaze towards him and giving a tiny lift of his eyebrows, his thoughts obvious. They're really rather funny, aren't they?

Not if you have to put up with them for more than a few days, Merry answered just as silently and was thoroughly relieved that the old rapport between them had not changed. Frodo turned back to his plate, an understanding grin teasing at one corner of his mouth.

"Some seedcakes, young masters?" An older female came by with a large tray of baked goods balanced capably on one arm. This diverted the bairn sect as they gave forth loud and enthusiastic agreement; the dame grinned and winked at the older lads, set a small platter down. As Pippin and his friends descended on the newest treats, Merry saw Frodo curiously watching as the dame made her way down the tables.

"Aunt Lanna says the Hall's ways might be efficient and labour-saving, but that she doesn't like the milling about and confusion when everyone serves themselves," Merry answered the question in Frodo's eyes. "So there are servinghobbits for all the tables. It's rather different, isn't it?"

"Yes. I like it," Frodo said with a quiet matter-of-factness, returning to his own meal. Despite the attention-seeking of The Brats, Frodo seemed only half here; a preoccupation that had hung about him most of the morning, Merry realised. Usually such preoccupation—one thing about Frodo that obviously hadn't changed—would drive Merry distracted, urge him to tease Frodo's attention back from wherever it lay. Instead Merry found himself wondering instead if he could follow the threads of Frodo's interest down and inward, follow him there.

There was this sense of… of… oh, blast and buggery—and Merry found great pleasure in using those forbidden words; he and Freddy had of late spent some hours practising the fine arts of spitting and swearing—why couldn't he figure it out?

Only that Frodo seemed more… more…

Frodo leaned forward and smiled at The Brats, and Merry's heart twisted and gave an ungainly flop; two seconds later he was flushing wildly and for the first time in his life wishing that Frodo would not turn to him, not smile just for him, not speak to him just right now because… because…

Merry ducked his head, bit into his remaining portion of meat and dolefully contemplated how it was thoroughly unfair that Frodo should keep changing so.

* * * * * *

Finally Frodo and Merry detached themselves from Pippin and company; in the time remaining before Frodo was due at the Ride, Merry offered to show him about.

"Why do you even bother listening to them chatter on like that?" Merry said. "It's all I can do to not knock their silly heads together and I don't encourage them like you do!"

Frodo shrugged. "Maybe they are silly, but I remember when I was younger and how no one took me seriously when I would say things. They didn't think I noticed, but I did, and I didn't like it. Even if what I said was probably ridiculous, it was important to me. So," he shrugged again. "We're close to the entry hall, aren't we? Shall we go look at the portraits?"

"I was going to show you the kennels," Merry suggested hopefully—he really had no desire to look at all those boring portraits—and continued before Frodo could protest, "You'll like Uncle Paladin's dogs, I promise; they're so different from the ones at the Hall. They're all sleek and long and gentle, and they run like the wind."

Frodo gave him another one of his sideways looks; one more thing that had changed was the rather-secretive undercurrent to those looks, and this one suggested he was humouring Merry. Talk about not being taken seriously!

Then Frodo sidled closer and curled an arm about his shoulder, gave him a quick squeeze, and Merry's mind turned absolutely, unfathomably useless.

"They aren't as big as Farmer Maggot's, are they?" Frodo asked with dismay.

"Well… yes. But… they're different." Merry stammered, then pulled away and took his cousin by the hand. "Come on, you just have to see them."

* * * * * *

They were different, Frodo agreed. Soft-eyed and long-nosed, lean and silent, they came over and politely sniffed his fingers, ears obligingly flattened. Their fur was long, soft and appropriately curled not unlike a hobbit's; they were imposingly tall at the shoulder but strangely reserved, almost aloof despite seeming to enjoy his touch. Comparing them to the Hall's mastiffs—or Maggot's bloodthirsty hounds—was like comparing an Elf to the Men he'd seen in that slavers' village on the River. Yet, according to Merry, a brace of them could outrun and take down a full-grown stag.

There was also, in the kennels just past, a smaller contingent of short-legged and thick-bodied little rascals, milling at their ankles with excited barks and leaps. One leapt up into Merry's arms; he caught it deftly. "It's a game," he said to Frodo. "They're great fun, but they're just like Pippin, they rarely get tired and they never stay quiet."

Frodo chuckled. The little hounds were indeed well compared to Pippin; there was a brown-patched little bitch that was bouncing up and down at his knees, small yips suggesting that if Frodo didn't pick her up, and now, she would surely die. Frodo obliged; the bitch responded with happy, wriggly whines and proceeded to thoroughly wash his face.

The dog in Merry's arms was performing the same ecstatic gyrations. "These dogs are murder on rats and voles; the bairns love to take them rat-catching. But oh, Frodo—I was allowed to go on a real hunt! It's not like at the Hall, where there are specific hunters and gamekeepers; Uncle Paladin is keen with a bow, and he's all those Boundshobbits that keep training here—and the Provost!—and more splendid archers you've not seen. The forests are thick in these parts, and teeming with deer... be still you, or I'll put you down! The dogs and the archers work together; combined with the ponies, it's like a dance. Meat's rarely scarce on the table here, I'll tell you. And the furs and leathers they make! There's a tannery just west of here and the tanner is the best I've ever seen. He made me a pair of riding gloves so soft…" he trailed off, giving Frodo a strange look. Frodo, who was snuggling his cheek against the little bitch with an indulgent smile, lifted his eyebrows.

"Well?"

Merry cleared his throat and looked down. "Well. Anyway. I've never seen anything like how the dogs work. It's amazing. I'd wager Uncle Paladin will let you come on a hunt, if you like." Merry, face still averted, put the dog down and Frodo smiled, thinking how much his young cousin had changed. All his lanky, disjointed parts had finally met in the middle—for how long that would be, Frodo had no illusions—but for now it was a startling glimpse of how, possibly, Merry might look when he finished maturing.

It was wonderfully endearing.

Merry peered up at him from where he'd bent down to release the dog. "You look as though you're laughing at me," he accused.

"Not at all," Frodo quickly reassured. "It's just been a long time. You've changed."

"I've changed?" Merry said doubtfully, standing back up and once more averting his face. "I'm not the one who's changed," he muttered, so low that Frodo almost didn't hear him over the dogs.

"Oh, yes you are," Frodo avowed. "Let's get out of here—these dogs are so loud we can't hear ourselves think."

It was true—the little hounds had decided to add even more barking to their repertoire of attention-seeking. The two boys escaped the kennels, meandering in a slow fashion towards the stables. Outside the sun was spilling brilliant warmth over the cobbles, with only a few hanks of vapour skimming the green dales beyond the boundary of Great Smials proper. Nevertheless it was still cool, with a hint of moist; Frodo stuck his hands in his pockets, breathing deep, contentment stealing over him.

"Shouldn't you check on Uncle Mac before we see Uncle Paladin?" Merry asked. Content fled, but the incongruity of Merry asking such a thing made Frodo uncertain of whether he truly wanted to laugh or choke.

Instead he replied, "I'm sure that your Uncle Paladin is already checking for me."

Merry's eyes widened, then he leaned close. "You know," he ventured quietly, as if bestowing a grave secret, "I've heard that Uncle Merimac and Uncle Paladin were, you know… that they… well, they were… um…"

"Playmates?" Frodo managed to lightly say, though it twisted that discontented thorn once again into his breast. "Well, they're good friends and cousins, they're close to the same age; it's only to be expected that when they were tweeners they might have been."

Merry flushed. Frodo wondered how many different shades of pink those cheeks could encompass and allowed himself another quick, clandestine grin.

"Well," Merry said, obviously uncomfortable, "yes. But…"

Their pace had slowed; into the silence that followed, Frodo prompted, "But?"

"I… I heard…" Glory, but Merry was nearly stammering. "Well, there's talk that it wasn't just long ago. Wasn't only when they were tweens. You know? And some people—the ones about here—say that the only reason Uncle Mac's not still here is that he hates farming and staying in one place. I mean, honestly Frodo, they're too old for… well, for that."

"They aren't that old," Frodo protested. "My parents were older when they had me. Anyway, I've heard Mac say more than once you are never too old until you're dead." Merry stared at him; Frodo reminded himself to whom he was speaking and shut his mouth with a small pop.

"Well," Merry continued after a small silence, "they're too old to be acting like tweeners, aren't they? I mean, I know Uncle Mac still… well, he still goes about with lads, like, but Uncle Pal? He got married and all. And then…"

Frodo waited, and when Merry hesitated, prompted, "And then?"

"Well…" Merry's voice dipped even more dramatically. "There was even talk that Uncle Mac had once stayed here with Auntie Lanna and Uncle Pal, I mean really stayed. That they… well… all three of them. Together."

Frodo was even more unsure whether to be dismayed or amused. Here Merry was insisting he hadn't changed, when even six months ago he had been oblivious to anything like this. The revelation was somewhat robbed of its sting by the way Merry delivered it, with that mix of fascination and outrage and distaste that most younger people had when discussing the physicality of their elders.

He should just continue walking and moreso, continue to keep his mouth shut; it wasn't quite on to ask one's fourteen-year-old cousin about the rumoured pillow habits of one's playmate. But Merry didn't know that he and Merimac were lovers anyway, and this was a piece of information, rumour or no, that Frodo wasn't about to let slip through his grasp.

"So who told you this?"

"Freddy did—Fredeger Bolger, d'you remember him? Well, Freddy should know; his mother was playmates with Aunt Lanna when they were lasses, and he heard his mum talking about it. In fact," Merry's brows twisted, "Freddy seemed surprised that I thought it was odd. But why wouldn't I? I mean, if someone did that on the River—kept their playmates on after they'd gotten too old for it—well, it wouldn't be all that awful, but it would cause talk. You know how Uncle Mac gets talked about because he won't marry. Granda Rory's always at him."

"'Different customs for different farthings'." Frodo quoted the old saw with some asperity.

"But Tuckborough is surely different than most, don't you think?"

"And Hobbiton says that very thing about Buckland."

Merry's jaw twisted to one side.

"As to talking, they do talk about it here," Frodo pointed out, still surprised at his own reasonableness in the face of yet more proof that Merimac had much more than mere friendship tying him to Great Smials. But he couldn't contain the old bitterness in his next words; Frodo had certainly endured a few experiences with gossip. "It's not the talk, Merry, but the way they talk."

"Well. Yes," Merry admitted, giving a half-heated kick to a small stone. "But it just seems so… queer."

"I seem to remember that's the word they called me at the Hall." Frodo tried to lighten his tone, but couldn't. Coming from Merry, such words stung.

"That's not what I meant!" his cousin protested, so quickly and strongly that Frodo felt sorry he'd mentioned it. But he wasn't about to let the matter rest.

"Isn't it the same thing, in the end?" Frodo pointed out. "Merry, I've been enough places in the past months to see that nothing's the same anywhere, and those differences are really nothing more than… than window-dressing for a tailor's shop. The clothes change regularly, there might be a hat or cravat displayed differently, and maybe they even have bed-socks in the winter in the odd shop, but they're still just a tangle of clothes, basically the same no matter how you choose to display them. Or wear them."

Merry was giving him a wary look, as if he rather wanted to agree but wasn't sure that he could, but Frodo was suddenly listening to part of what he'd just said—a tangle of clothes—and something shifted into vital memory so abruptly that he went still, silent.

It had been a fair autumn day in Hobbiton that a gipsy lad had offered Merimac a night's pleasure then, when gently rebuffed, had gone on to offer a 'tangle', and while Frodo had at the time had some suspicion of what a 'tangle' might be, he realised that he hadn't had the half of it, not by a long shot.

Then memory shifted him forward, again with remarkable speed, the way Eglantine had kissed Merimac in greeting, and how that had been met, not with shocked gasps, but in fact had been blatantly egged on by the bystanders.

Together. Together, and perhaps it was Merry's innocence of revelation, but Frodo had not even clocked that this was what it meant, that a teasing proposition by a gipsy might mean the same as a tweener game that Frodo had only barely heard of and might mean the same as…

Paladin. And Eglantine. And… and Merimac.

The sudden, shadowy and persistent fantasy that flickered through his mind made him want to writhe—and not with distaste, but keen absorption.

"Frodo?" Merry said, low.

Frodo realised that he had indeed stopped mid-stride and was staring at the ground. He looked up to find Merry peering at him with huge, rather glassy eyes. Forcibly he shut a very large hold door on everything—absolutely everything—he was pondering.

"Perhaps lunch didn't agree with me," he lied and started walking once more, forcing a pleasant expression onto his face. He was saying too much, implying too much; it wasn't fitting.

Merry caught up with him quickly enough; he also seemed rather relieved at the change of subject—though, thank the stars, he didn't have the half of it. "More like The Brats chattering away soured your stomach."

The appellation made Frodo chuckle—a thankful change from the abrupt flare-up of lust which plainly threatened to char his brain into inadequate and hyper-reactive cinders. "'The Brats'?"

"You've only had to be around them for a little while. I swear, Frodo, there are days I just want to break Pippin in half, only then there'd be two of him running about and then I'd never get away from him!"

Frodo had the rather-daunting vision of several pint-sized Pippins running about his knees and wasn't sure whether to laugh hysterically or run screaming.

"Frodo?"

"Mm?"

"Did you want to do that to me, when I was Pippin's age?"

Frodo halted, peered cautiously at Merry. The dark blue eyes were intent upon him, the first direct glance, Frodo suddenly realised, that his cousin had treated him to all day. "What do you mean, Merry?"

"Just what I said. Did you wish I wasn't about, pestering you, when I was that age?" Merry was quite serious. "I want to know, Frodo, really."

"Well," Frodo thought for a moment, decided this was one subject he wasn't about to hedge about. "Yes, I did. When you first started tagging after me I thought you were the worst pest in the Shire." He shrugged at Merry's chagrin. "You asked. And I think it's just the way things are, don't you?"

"Maybe," Merry admitted, still somewhat downcast. "I wasn't as bad as Pippin, was I?"

Frodo chuckled. "No, not quite. I didn't have to resort to hanging you on a wall hook to shut you up. Well," he amended with a sly grin, "not very often, anyway."

"Hoy!" Merry protested, and aimed a half-hearted swat at his cousin's ear. Frodo ducked it easily and prepared for another, but Merry went abruptly serious once more.

"I remember that you listened to me a lot," he said. "Like you do Pip and the rest."

"Yes," Frodo said gravely. "But then, you always listened to me."

His cousin smiled and ducked his head. Once again they started walking, this time Merry taking them down a small path that led between two banks of earth, both populated by windows and doors—more smials.

"Merry!" Someone hailed from a window directly to their left; promptly there were two bodies clambering out of said window followed by an irate feminine voice. The two lads—for once they sorted themselves outside the window, they revealed themselves as such—came bounding over.

"Freddy!" Merry exclaimed cheerily. "And Bran! I thought you were stuck, Freddy, helping your mum with the baking today since Stella's away. Frodo, this is Ferdibrand Took and Fredegar Bolger. This," he gestured towards Frodo with a big smile, "is Cousin Frodo Baggins. I told you about him, remember?"

The two boys grinned welcome. A more likely-looking source of mischief made tandem Frodo hadn't yet seen at Smials: Fredegar was brown and round and pink-cheeked, every mother's dream of a perfect hobbit son save for the mischievous glint in his eyes that promised to give that mother some grief. Ferdibrand all but had 'Took' stamped on his forehead, from the shock of carroty hair falling in gold-green eyes, to the whip-slender frame growing too quickly out of shirt and breeks.

"Lads!" once again came the irritated voice from the window and a quite handsome, black-haired hobbit matron appeared at the sill, shaking a spoon at the two miscreants. "We might be well and done for now, but if I catch you jumping the window again, you'll end up with this spoon broken on your backsides, believe you me!"

"I'm sorry, Mum," said Freddy, and Ferdibrand inserted, "I'm sorry, Cousin Rosamunda."

So this was Rosamunda Bolger, who knew so much about her old playmate Eglantine's pillow habits…

Frodo ruthlessly quelled any more wanderings down that particular road of thought. Or not-thought, more like.

Rosamunda's stern face softened. "Well, just see that you don't. Hullo, Merry, who's your friend?"

"This is Frodo Baggins," Merry repeated, and Frodo gave her a small bow, held out his hand for hers.

"Nay, m'dear, I'm all over flour. You're Drogo Baggins' boy, aren't you? And Primula Brandybuck's… my, how time does fly, and you a tweener now, aye?" Frodo nodded, pleased that she had called him his father's son, and that she hadn't made the automatic statement of how young he looked for his age—perhaps life on the River had changed that for the better. "Well," Rosamunda continued, "I'd surely appreciate it if you'd make sure these two layabouts," she shook the spoon at her son and Ferdibrand, "hie themselves back here in two hours' time. I've no objections to a break m'self, to tell the truth, but we've work still to do."

"Aw, Mum!" Fredegar whined.

"I mean it. And Cousin Frodo here has my permission to thrash you both if you don't heed him!" she warned then, with a complicit smile at Frodo, disappeared back into her smial.

The two lads were looking at him rather suspiciously.

"Oh, give over," Merry exclaimed. "Frodo's no tattle-tale. Anyway, I'm not about to let you make trouble for him by being late back to your mum's as she said. We're off to the Ride—want to come?"

There was vociferous agreement to this; the newcomers linked arms with Merry and began marching off. Merry threw an apologetic glance back at Frodo, who shrugged and smiled. Thus reassured, Merry allowed himself to be led off by his companions.

Still smiling, this time in bemusement, Frodo followed.

* * * * * *

There was already a pony saddled and waiting by the time the four lads entered the yard; a stout and furry grey fellow held by a groom who greeted them cheerfully. He established himself as "Mick, t' head groom" and furthered, "Himself's waiting for ye in t' Ride; he's watching t' guv'nor school one of t' four-year-olds. Tis'un's Ash." He handed the grey's rein over to Frodo with a bow, then retreated back to his duties. Frodo extended one hand for the pony to sniff; the short ears pricked in interest and Ash obligingly whiffled at his fingers. When Frodo turned to follow Merry and the other two boys, the pony docilely followed.

Smials' trainer—the 'guv'nor'—was just dismounting from a fine chestnut colt as they came over. The Ride was a large, flat area surrounded by immaculately-painted fencing, floored with sand and wood chips raked level. "Nay, m'lord, I'm thinkin' he's no' ready yet; a few more months under saddle, some hunting, and he'll be all business, in his head as well as his heart."

"Aye, Turpin," Paladin agreed, smoothing a hand along the colt's crest. "Some just take longer to grow into themselves, and you're always the one to know it—Frodo, hullo!" He nodded dismissal to Turpin, who smiled pleasantly at the boys and led the chestnut away. "I see you've found Ash." His green eyes suddenly danced with a mixture of delight and dismay. "And a bit of an audience, it seems."

"I… suppose I have," Frodo said, painfully subdued and growing even more so as the Took came through the open gate and gained his side.

"And if you don't want an audience?" Paladin suggested, with a grin and swipe at first Freddy then Ferdibrand. "Particularly of these troublemakers!"

"Hoy!" Ferdibrand protested. "Uncle Pal, have a heart!"

Freddy gave a pretend yelp and hid behind Merry, who chuckled and shoved him away. "No, you're not using me as a shield!"

Frodo was watching them all, a slight smile on his face.

"Snooty-arse," Ferdibrand said later of it. Merry had rounded on him and given him a smack that resulted in Ferdibrand hitting him back; a fine scuffle had ensued and it had taken Ferdibrand's father to break it up.

"I tried to convince our Merimac that you'd like his company for your ride," Paladin said, bending down to give Frodo a leg up—the pony was quite tall; in fact all of the Tuckborough ponies seemed tall and fine-boned. "I think he was hurting a wee bit much to chance it today. And my dear wife let me have both sides of her tongue for suggesting it, so…"

Frodo had to take a few breaths to still his reaction to those words, then accepted the leg up, settling into the saddle and seeking the irons, rather unsuccessfully. "The stirrups are too short," he answered in lieu of responding to Paladin's comment.

"Here, I'll do them for you, easier that way," Paladin said, busying himself with the task.

"Is he…" Frodo trailed off, moved his leg out of the way, tried again, "Is he all right?"

"Who? Ah, Merimac. I think so, but the trip was hard on him, you know. Lanna came by when I was checking up on him; she decided it would be better to slip him some of the old cure into his tea. He's no doubt having a snooze about now." Paladin went to the other stirrup, unbuckled and measured it to Frodo's leg. "Yes, he's in quite a bit of pain but the worst of it is having to reacquaint himself to life ashore." He shot the buckle home and peered upward, meeting Frodo's eyes. "I'm sure you know by now he doesn't exactly take to the life of a landshobbit."

Frodo once again found his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; instead of speaking he gathered the reins. Paladin nodded slightly at this, and those green eyes didn't leave Frodo for a second, narrowing into unnerving focus.

"Off with you, then. On the rail, tracking right at the walk."

Relieved to have something to do beneath the penetrating gaze, Frodo nudged the pony with his calves then, when he got merely a sluggish response, gave Ash a firm rap with his heels. The pony gave a grumbling sigh and walked on, turning right as directed when they reached the wall, his dragging steps becoming more reaching and business-like as they rounded the first corner. By the second corner the pony was actually giving to the bit, feeling less like a block of wood between his calves. Frodo began to suspect that Paladin had put him on a 'babysitter' and, as he came back around to where the Took stood, he saw a grin on his face.

"I see you've found us out, " Paladin said. "Old Ash carries a lot of the bairns when they're first learning, and he's quite the knack for telling me how experienced someone is. You know a bit after all. Trot on."

"Do we have to stay here?" Frodo heard one of the lads—Fredeger, he thought it was—say from the rail. "Come on, Merry, we've only the two hours, you know."

There was a hesitation, as if his younger cousin were sorely tempted. Then, "I'm staying," was Merry's firm statement. "Go on, if you'd rather."

Frodo smiled, shortened his reins and trotted on. Once in the faster pace with the breeze tossing his curls, he forgot about whatever audience he had, revelling in the rhythm and motion. He was somewhat aware of Paladin offering suggestions, and of his body's response, but his mind was blissfully flying, propelled by the surge and roll of the pony beneath him. All too soon the measured pace wasn't quite enough; the pony read his intent and, obviously contented with a rider on his back who wasn't totally inept, surged forward, asking. With a smile, Frodo gave the affirmative, lifting Ash into a canter.

Hoofs struck wood chips and sand, sharp yet muted; it echoed the three-step pace of many a tweener dance and Frodo could all but hear music in his head. Ash rolled air through his nostrils with every stride, plainly agreeing with the swifter pace; Frodo nudged him a bit faster, angling forward over his withers.

Wind whistling past his ears, rippling through his hair and kissing damp against his cheeks. The rise and fall of muscle and sinew against his hands and legs, the sting of silver mane slapping his chin, the warm smell of hide and grassy breath. The urge to sound a cry of pure exaltation at the speed and sense of oneness with another living being.

A cry settled into his ears, but it was not his own; Frodo became aware that Merry was all but dancing on the fence, urging him on, and had it not been for that fence he would have urged Ash flat out. For a moment he considered the height of the fence and the long gallop beyond; Ash's pace reflected the wildness of the consideration, the pony game enough to give it a go, but sense regained control of passion and Frodo sat back in the saddle, submitting to the boundaries of fence and Ride.

He slowed, then dropped to a walk. Laughing, he slapped Ash's neck affectionately and made his way over to where his host was standing mid-ring.

Paladin was attempting a stern face, but the grin beneath was quite obvious. "I'm thinking you can sit a pony fairly well—though I'd rather not see such speed in this ring again. Save it for the gallops."

Frodo was unable to contain his good humour even in the face of a reprimand, however slight. "Well, he just wanted to go, sir, so…" He trailed off with a shrug. Over on the fence Merry was still bouncing.

"Frodo!" he cried, "that was brilliant!"

Paladin's hidden grin found its way to the surface. "I must say," he drawled, "that's the quickest pace I've seen old Ash take in some time. How would you like to try some real speed?"

If Frodo hadn't already been struggling for breath that would have sent him gasping; anticipation curled and blossomed in his belly and he quickly nodded. "Yes, sir!"

Paladin leaned over, gave Frodo a fond clout on the knee then rubbed a firm hand back and forth beneath Ash's mane. The pony leaned into the caress. "And if you're to ride my ponies, you'll have to drop the 'sir'. Aye?"

"All right, Cousin." Frodo wasn't too sure he was all too eager to drop that sense of distance given by the 'sir'—his feelings towards Paladin were all too uncertain as it was—but it was even more difficult to refuse the Took's friendly manner.

"Walk him out, then," and Frodo knew the sense of that; Ash's sides were heaving against his knees, and steam rose from the pony's hide. "We'll see about meeting you up with River in the morning, I've other things to see to for the rest of the day," Paladin continued, moving off.

"River?" Frodo wondered, throwing rein to Ash, who stretched his neck happily.

Paladin didn’t stop walking toward the gate where Turpin had arrived with another pony; he called back over his shoulder, "The filly I told you about. Tomorrow after breakfast; don't be late, now."

"River," Frodo said to Ash. "She follows me wherever I go, doesn't she?"

Ash shook, a contented yet violent motion that sent Frodo lurching sideways.

"And perhaps that's the way it must be," Frodo addressed the pony again and started to walk.

Over by the fence Merry had quieted. During Frodo's gallop he'd been so taken by the speed and excitement of it that nothing else had mattered. So how was it now, with both Frodo and the pony so subdued and spent, with patches of sunlight spilling over Frodo's shoulders, his hair clinging in damp curls to his neck and temples, breathing as hard as the pony with glittering eyes and a soft smile still remaining on his lips… how was it now that Frodo had become this… this something else? How was it that Merry looked at him and didn't see merely his adored older cousin, but instead felt his brain fill with incomprehensible, dizzying thoughts that seemed to return, over and over, to the things his Uncle Merimac had once intimated to him about cousins growing older, or to the experiences he'd lately been having with Ferdibrand in that darkened corner of the feed room…

And when Frodo finally came over to him, grinning in that conspiratorial way that he'd always had but which now seemed somehow… patronising, Merry went hot, then cold, then nearly stomped off in a sulk because he was unsure of what else to do.

"I hear they have proper baths here, just like at the Hall," Frodo suggested. "Care for a nice long soak?"

All the blood rushed to Merry's face and his brain, yet again, went totally and humiliatingly blank.

"Um," he stammered, "I… I can't. I promised Freddy and Bran that I'd, well, that I'd meet them after we were, you know, finished here."

"It's all right, Merry, I understand." Frodo's smile broadened, and Merry wondered how his cousin could understand when he himself comprehended absolutely nothing. "Off with you, then," Frodo urged. "I'll see you later."

Merry fled.

* * * * * *

The baths at Great Smials were another source of amazement.

Directions obtained from one of the grooms at the stables, Frodo had hied himself to his smial—all the while ordering himself not to even glance at that connecting door to Merimac's room which, he refused to admit, was a dismal failure—grabbed a change of clothes, and followed the indicated path downward. For some time he was winding in the direction that he'd gone only that morning, and it worried him; however before he reached the tunnel where he'd heard… whatever it was, there was a 'y' in the trail just as the groom had told him. Gratefully he dove into the required left fork; another ten lengths or so and it led him into something straight from fantasy.

The smial—no, it couldn't really be called a smial, it had been dug by no hobbit's hand—was an immense grotto thick with steam and heat and satisfied voices. Glittering stalactites hung from the high, mineral-encrusted ceilings, some of them dripping milky liquid into small pools. There were no tubs, wooden or metal. The rocks had formed their own interconnecting basins, some deep and some shallow, and everywhere hobbits were taking advantage of the fortuitous makings of nature.

Frodo stood, towel and clothing in hand, wondering if he should alight somewhere in particular, if there were any places set aside for age, sex or rank. The Hall's bath-houses were segregated by gender, and Frodo had more than one time been privy to the older males' relieved joshing that the baths, at least, were one place they could escape feminine companionship and just enjoy that of their own sex. Frodo could only assume the females felt the same way—certainly there had been enough ribald jokes and giggles as they'd come from their baths.

A burst of laughter gained his attention, and he had his answer. Over to one side he saw an entire family sporting in one of the larger pools, the father assailed by five giggling, splashing children and the mother watching them all with a fond grin. In another pool a little lass was submitting to having her hair scrubbed by an older female, and three lads were lined up awaiting their turn. Beside yet another pool a female hobbit was lying on a thick towel, nursing a newborn and combing fond fingers what was likely her husband's hair; he was seated in the pool, leaning back with obvious content, immersed to his collarbones in steaming, swirling water.

"Hey!" greeted a voice from his left; a lanky, pale lad appeared from a hank of mist, a smile on his heat-flushed, thickly-freckled face. He too was minus attire save for a towel slung over one arm. "You're new here, are you?"

Frodo was long past acknowledging the Tuckborough lilt that permeated Smials; he merely nodded, and the lad grinned wider.

"I was thinking that you looked a bit lost. I'll wager you're the Took's cousin, aren't you? I heard there was a tweener came with the RiverMaster… how's his leg, anyway?"

"Um," Frodo hesitated, said, "it's better, I think."

"Och, that's fine. M' dada said 'twas a shame to see him nigh ruined like that. Everyone hopes he'll be well." Frodo wasn't too sure what to say; the lad saved him from replying by asking, "This is your first time to the soaks, then? Aye, well, let me put you straight on a few things. First," he started to tick off the points on his fingers, "unless you like bairns hollering and raising the dead, you don't want to be bathing in here."

It was pretty noisy, Frodo had to admit.

"Second," his new acquaintance was saying, "I'd stay away from the lasses' cavern—you'll get a sponge thrown at you if you're lucky, and if you're unlucky you might get dragged in and ducked and who knows what else!"

"I wasn't sure," Frodo said, glancing sideways as two hobbitlasses walked by, earnestly talking and clad in only their hair and the towels hanging over their shoulders, "that there were places like that here."

"There are!" the lad told him. "There's all sorts of grottoes here, big and small; there's places for lads and lasses, for the old mons and, like y'see here, the main soaks. Not that you canna' bathe where you like, see, as long as you're not bothering anyone, but it just ends up that way, people grouping with who they choose. There's even places further out in the caverns where you can have a little privacy if you'd like. Some of the families have their own soaks, like mine. My brother," he gave a disgusted face, "kicked me out of our soak because he's courting his newest playmate. Why he has to have this fancy for gaming in water…"

Frodo, having his own fancy for water-gaming, said nothing and hoped his body wouldn't betray him.

"Ah, well." The lad shrugged. "I was going back to where some mates of mine are; want to join us?"

The offer was so sincere and charming that Frodo felt it might be just flat rude if he refused. "All right."

"Great!" the lad enthused. "I'll show you the ins and outs of bathing Tookland-style—you'll never want to go back to coppers and bum-chilling tubs ever again… where is it you're from?"

Good question, that. Frodo answered the simplest he knew. "Buckland."

"Och, that's right, I remember now—both you and the RiverMaster are from Brandy Hall, aye? And travelling the Brandywine on his boat? You'll have to tell us all what it's like. Buckland bathhouses are fair complex, that I'll give you—but they can't measure to ours!"

As the lad took his arm and started to lead him off to the right, through the varied and numerous pools, Frodo was beginning to believe him. The bath—no, 'soak' was what he'd called it—was utterly fantastic, and only became moreso the deeper within they went.

"What's your name, Bucklander?"

"Frodo Baggins."

"Not Brandybuck, then?"

"My mother was."

"I see. Oh, are you a relative of the Baggins in Hobbiton, then? With the dragon's treasure?"

There was a trickle of resentment that he couldn't stop; Frodo cast it away and nodded. "I'm not sure there's any treasure, though."

"Get away!" the lad said. "Surely there must be, and him rich as good earth and nine days older than it, so I've heard. My name's Eckard Banks, by the by. Aunt Eglantine is m' mum's second cousin; most of us Banks live in the Tookbank and we're always in each others' back pockets, so to speak."

And obviously the lad liked to speak, Frodo mused with a slight grin. Eckard led him through various soaks and rock formations, cheerily greeting most of the hobbits he passed, until they came to a good-sized pool backed by a pitted and curved wall of glittering, milky stone.

"So here we are… lads, this is Frodo Baggins! He's new here, so let's treat him fairly, aye?"

There was a literal gaggle of tweener lads in the pool, all slanting curious eyes his way and voicing cheery, off-hand greetings that won over any sense of discomfort at being the centre of attention.

"You're the one as came with the RiverMaster, aren't you?"

"Is it true they had to cut off his leg?"

"I heard he brought his cousin with him—that's you, then?"

"Are you related to the old Baggins in Hobbiton?"

"How old are you?"

"A tween? Brilliant!"

Those were the only questions Frodo in actuality heard; the rest were lost in a cacophony of eager voices. He wished for fleeting seconds that he hadn't accepted Eckard's invitation—this was different than the noise of the family soaks? At least that was impersonal.

"Oh, shut your gobs and enough already!" yelled Eckard from beside him. "How's he supposed to think, let alone answer y' all to the once?"

The lads subsided, some good-naturedly and some with a few mutters. Frodo gave his champion a sideways look.

Eckard seemed to realise that he was poised to flee, and said stoutly, "We don't mean anything by it. We're just curious, see. Wouldn't you be?"

"C'mon, join us," ventured another lad, a tween lolling on his elbows in a shallow part of the large soak. "We'll be good, king's ex. You only have to answer a few questions."

All was smiles and eager eyes. Frodo was put in mind of Tom Cotton: bold as brass, clear as pool water and just as likeably genuine.

"Only a few questions, then," he said, and began to strip out of his attire.

* * * * * *

By the time Frodo began heading back to his smial, he was wrinkled as a pitted prune and limp as a well-used dishrag. The lovely salt-silt, head-clearing smell wafted about him still; he swore he could see steam rising from his skin as he walked. He'd found out a few more interesting details about Great Smials, and all seen from the viewpoint of lads close to his own age.

Those lads had been quite good company, even if their blunt and friendly curiosity had been daunting. Frodo'd had to answer more than a few questions, most of them quite harmless and some a bit personal; in return he'd asked a few of his own, which had been answered in the same, cheerful fashion. Their attitude was quite the difference from Hobbiton, more akin to Buckland where guests and fosterers were a normal and accepted occurrence; they'd been more interested in who he was than why he was there. But the brash inquisitiveness—that seemed to be all Took.

In fact, one tween had boldly looked him up and down, smiled and asked if he was willing to stray from the RiverMaster's side, just for a night or four and wasn't he hard up anyway, since his playmate was so incapacitated? Frodo had blinked in astonishment, then found himself sorely tempted as he returned the frank appraisal—his prospective suitor was quite fine to look at and obviously Merimac had no compunctions about having more than one lover surrounding him—but at that last statement, the one about incapacitation, guilt twinged quite fiercely and Frodo gave a mild refusal. The lad had taken it with equanimity, offered that perhaps another time would be better, aye?—and had sunk down to his chin in the blissfully steaming water.

Frodo mused over that offer as he curved his way back upward to the family diggings, wondered if he really would have taken it in some other circumstance. It was an intriguing thought; contemplating it sent a delicious shiver through him. Merimac was all he'd ever known and had, and while there was comfort in that—more comfort than he'd even believed possible—there also was a traitorous niggle of rebelliousness; it was all he'd known, and he was curious.

Yet something else within it made his gut hollow out all cold, made him want to turn and retreat; the fantasy was appealing—oh, more than appealing—but the reality of it was daunting, and he wasn't even sure why, only…

Only what?

The uncertainty was humiliating and infuriating, all to the once. He should have accepted. He should have gone with that handsome lad, spent "a night or four" in just the play and pleasure, gotten over this hesitancy… this awkwardness… this… this whatever it was.

Coming to his quarters, he threw a aggrieved glance towards first Merimac's door, then the Thain's crème-coloured door, and slunk into his smial. Frodo wanted to slam it but the abrupt buzz of voices from within stayed him just in time. He slid it shut with hardly a sound.

Was there someone in his smial?—but that was impossible, the only alcove was that where the bed rested, and when he walked forward he found it empty.

The voices grew louder the further inward he came; Frodo turned about and saw that the connecting door was slightly ajar, funnelling sound more than adequately.

"… haven't been alone here the day?" Quickly Frodo placed the voice; it was Paladin, and he sounded annoyed.

"Eh, all I've done is sleep it away." Merimac's voice sounded… thin.

"Mac." There was an unmistakable undertone to that voice; Frodo felt his face heat with an uncomfortable mix of yearning and ire; the contradictory craving to be a part of what was happening yet at the same time wish himself a thousand miles away. He shouldn't be listening to this. He didn't want to listen to this.

If only he wasn't such a prat he could be shagging his brains out with that lad from the soaks and not have to listen to this…

The next words stayed any thoughts, however fleeting, of flight.

"Pal, do you never have any regrets?"

"You know better than that."

"Do I?"

"I would hope that you do. You know me better than just about anyone I could name."

"Saving Herself."

A small chuckle. "She does know me all too well." A pause. "As do you, if you'd stop feeling sorry for yourself long enough to clock it."

"I'm not feeling so sorry for myself right now—and for that I have Herself to thank; her sweet brew is quite powerful. No, Pal, it's my lad I'm feeling for most, right now."

My lad… Against his will Frodo crept closer to the door, tense as a fawn in a meadow.

"I will confess, " Paladin retorted, "that I'm not feeling too charitable towards your lad at present. Leaving you on your own for the day!"

"And why should he be expected to wait on an old cripple?"

Frodo winced.

"You keep saying that and I keep not believing it. I surely don't understand why he's doing this to you."

"Ah, but then you didn't understood why I once flung my rope belt in your face and said I never wanted to see it—or you—again."

Silence again, thick with something Frodo didn't comprehend. Slowly and heavily, Paladin finally answered, "Well, aye. Not then."

Frodo wanted to shut the door, stopper his ears, anything to deny what was transpiring between the two hobbits in his universe whom he most, at this moment, irrationally desired and resented, hated and loved...

"Now," and there was tenderness in Merimac's voice, so familiar and yet not, "what's all this in aid of, eh?"

Frodo drew closer, peeked through the crack between the door's hinges. What he saw made him bite his lip and want to turn away—only he couldn't. He stood there, hunched over as if charmed to the spot, and watched as Paladin settled himself at the foot of the large, wool-stuffed chair where Merimac was and leaned his head against Merimac's good knee.

"I do have regrets, you daft pillock," said Paladin. "And I'll warrant I take them out and air them more than you ever do."

"Just so," Merimac agreed mildly, his head resting against the chair back. The faint light cast unkind shadows upon his face, but there was a faint smile upon his lips. His fingers began stroking through Paladin's hair.

"D'you think I don't realise how miserable you are when you go on so?" Paladin said, "and that I don't wish I could take it all away from you somehow? It occasionally hurts, if you must know, that I can't make you happy in the place I so love."

"Well, that could just as equally be myself speaking of yourself. We can only hurt those whom we love past reason, eh?"

"And here I am going on so when I meant only to cheer you up—only you could do this to me, you woolly-headed Brandybuck—"

"Oh, dry up, you great soppy Took," was Merimac's answer, and Paladin smiled, bopped his head lightly against Merimac's knee.

"Ah, well." They sat silent for long moments, then Paladin shifted. "I do wish you could go with me tomorrow."

"I wish I were able to go with you tomorrow. Remember," and there was a sudden light in Merimac's eyes that not even Frodo's distance and narrowed vision could deny, "when we were riding with the Boundshobbits?"

"How could I forget? Particularly when you almost got us tossed out of them!"

"Hugubert deserved that arrow through his hat and you know it. Blowhard."

"But did old Uncle Flambard deserve the saddle bur?"

"The pony didn't deserve it," Merimac said decisively. "But that quarrelsome old codger did."

"Just because he kept calling you 'that vagrant pup of Rorimac's'—which you must admit, at the time he had some grounds for."

"He was all shirty because I kept beating him at cards." Merimac chuckled, but it was thin—like his voice—and Frodo realised, with a forlorn tug, that he hadn't heard his cousin's normal, heady laugh in far too long.

"Ah, well." Paladin sighed. "Speaking of ponies—I was supposed to put Frodo up on one of my race fillies tomorrow morning, but this Bounds business can't be put off. I tried to find him, tell him to come instead in the late afternoon… and frankly I was hoping that you could tell him."

"He'll not mind the wait. Should I see him, I'll tell him."

"You should be seeing him, curse it all." Paladin said with a frown.

"Not only soppy but an interfering Took at that," Merimac chided.

"All right, you, I'll leave it be. I'll have to get word to that somewhat-pig-headed lad you love some other way, I suppose."

Lad you love… Frodo's body angled forward; he should go in there, apologise, have this out with both of them while he could, tonight, now…

"Mm." Merimac bent down, kissed the top of Paladin's head. "Stay here tonight?"

"I was hoping you'd ask—"

The thorn that had all but been dislodged rammed itself back into Frodo's breast; he took a few staggered steps back from the door and turned away. Blood-heat flooded into his face and for moments he wasn't sure what he wanted to do, only that it was violent.

Instead he stood there, quivering for long moments. Then he took in a deep, shaky breath, crept back over to the door silent as a mouse. With great caution he closed it, then turned away.

* * * * * *

On the other side, Paladin's quick eyes caught the movement. He looked sideways, caught the doorknob in its last twist, and frowned at the door for long moments. He was so still, unfortunately, that Merimac finally noticed.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," Paladin assured softly, but his frown didn't abate. He had the sudden impulse to go over and wrench the door open, find out if it actually had moved and if so, whether it was Frodo or merely some overly-inquisitive servant. Instead he let out a soft sigh and rose from his seat, smoothing the concern from his face. "I'll make you some tea, shall I?"

"And toast?" was the hopeful query.

"And toast. And then a fine tucking into that soft bed of yours."

"Pal." It was soft. "I hope you understand. It's not that I don't want to, or can't… well, perhaps it's quite difficult at present, but no matter any of it…" Merimac sounded absolutely miserable. "It just doesn't seem right, lying with you while Frodo's still so mixed up about it all."

Not for the first time was Paladin possessed of conflicting wishes concerning Frodo: either to smack him silly, or to hug him until he couldn't breathe and tell him, It's all right, truly, it is…

"I haven't given it a thought, love, and neither should you." Paladin turned to Merimac purposefully and smiled, all the while wondering if it had been Frodo behind that door, and what he had heard, and why under the bloody earth he wasn't still listening, to hear this in particular. "I mean it. You're doing as you should, and you'll find no protest from me."

Merimac looked away, a ghost of a grin touching his lips. "I don't know why I bother to bring anything up; you always know, don't you?"

"Why else do you think we've put up with each other for so long?" He lifted the cup. "Still three spoons of honey in your tea?"

"I've never liked honey in my tea and you well know it—"

"Are you sure? I distinctly remember that you've always—"

"Bollocks." Merimac's head raised, and ah, yes—his eyes were no longer so dull. "I know people tended to get us mixed up when we were lads—Mother knows why—but you are getting senile, old Pal, if you've gone so far as to forget that the one who takes their tea tooth-rottingly sweet is you."

Paladin smiled and set himself to insuring a proper brew.

* * * * * *

It was late, quite late, when Paladin awakened to a familiar, beloved hand on his cheek and the faint light of a lamp wicked low.

"Sssh," Eglantine told him, her voice barely a whisper. "He's sleeping."

The candles about them had nearly guttered. Paladin looked down, noted that Merimac was indeed sleeping. As were Paladin's own legs, since it seemed both of them had fallen asleep atop the coverlets: Paladin half sitting up against the headboard, Merimac's head and shoulders cradled in his lap.

"Bugger and balls," he whispered back. "This is going to hurt, isn't it?"

"Only if you move." Her eyes danced in the faint light. "And only if you did indeed doctor his tea as I asked, because otherwise you aren't moving because you might wake him, and he's not been sleeping at all well."

"Have a heart!" he hissed at her. "And of course I did."

"Then," she wicked up the lamp and modified her voice from whisper to murmur, "you can move him. Gently, though."

It was obvious Merimac was doped to the gills; the hobbit who could feel a wind change even sleeping didn't as much as whimper protest as Paladin inched from beneath him and gently pushed him over onto the bed proper. However, the return of circulation as Paladin swung his legs over the bedside was making him feel very much like whimpering. Loudly.

Eglantine had settled the lamp on a table and was already on the other side, shifting coverlets and padding Merimac's injured leg. "That," she said in soft determination, "needs to be seen to on the morrow. It's starting to smell, and swell."

Paladin gritted his teeth, tried a step then decided such a move was not exactly smart as of yet. "Perhaps I should stay home tomorrow morning after all, assist you. You baby him shamelessly, you know."

Brown eyes cut across the bed at him. "So you say?"

He tried another hobbling step. "All right. I baby him shamelessly, too. But he accepts it better from me."

"Is that so?" Eglantine kept eyeing him mischievously, even as she kept working Merimac's sleep-heavy limbs beneath the blankets. "Well, two males growling and preening and trying to fool each other as to which one has the highest pain tolerance is acceptance. I suppose." She reached under, shifted Merimac's shoulders with a soft grunt. "You could aid me here, Husband."

"Wife," he replied, "I cannot. I shall fall down." He winced as a particularly sharp pain lanced up his right calf. "Damn!"

Merimac muttered once; they both froze. Their relief was all but comical as he settled back into full slumber, and Eglantine put a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles.

"I feel as if we're putting the bairns to bed, afraid they'll wake and prevent us from making a few more," Paladin grinned at her.

"Promises," she chided, gaining control of her giggles. "Are you staying, then?"

"I'll do him no good staying, nor will it do any good for…" he trailed off, his eyes going to the connecting door. "I only intended to see him safe into dreams; he doesn't need me stirring about pre-dawn as I must tomorrow."

"This morning," she said.

"This morning," he acknowledged with a grimace. "At least I think I can manage walking. A little." He suited action to words, taking halting steps toward the connecting door.

"What are you doing?" she asked, brows drawing together curiously.

"Opening a door."

Eglantine fell silent behind him as he reached out, gingerly twisted the handle. It clicked, ever so softly, and swung on silent, well-oiled hinges. Lamplight spilled into the room beyond—rather unnecessarily, for there was a slender figure curled up, with pillow and coverlet, sleeping on the floor just beyond the doorway.

Paladin knelt down, started to reach out. Frodo twitched and curled up tighter; a mumble came from his parted lips. Dark curls trailed across his cheeks, shadowing but not concealing the remnant of tears—and it was this last made Paladin hesitate. The lad was chary of him as it was; would waking him now, in this circumstance, be of any help?

Likely not. Paladin turned, met his wife's gaze. She just peered at him helplessly, one hand drawn up to her breast.

He stood, and, leaving the door ajar, came over, led her from the room. Once out in the hall, the door shut behind them, she turned to him. Her eyes were filling, her hand was still at her throat.

"Oh," said Eglantine, "my dear."

"Yes," he said and, putting his arm about her, drew her across to their own smial.