The door was open.

Sleep still in his eyes, Frodo peered at it. Warm air wafted over his face from it; with a shiver he curled up, drawing the wool coverlet about his shoulders. He was still on the floor, dressed only in the blanket and a clout.

The floor was cold.

Frodo shoved upwards on chilled hands, his hips and legs still confined by the blanket, and become conscious of the fact that, yet again, he had slept an entire night against that door—which he had closed, he thought, eyeing it suspiciously. It was now early morning. His playmate had spent yet another night with someone else, and he…

He was, he realised with a sinking sensation in his gut, a fool.

Rather unsteadily, Frodo gained his feet and stood there, swaying like a drunkard in a windstorm.

Every bone he possessed ached fiercely.

And bloody damn, the room was cold. He'd let the fire go out.

Shivering, he grabbed up the blanket and swathed himself in it. Hating himself every step, he inched towards the connecting door and, holding his breath, had a listen.

Nothing.

He kept listening, the warmer air tingling at his cheeks, but still…

Nothing.

His face twitched; he reached out, gripped the handle, pulled the door firmly shut and locked it.

Ten minutes later Frodo was squatting down beside the small hearth and coaxing life into the wood he'd laid there, with kindling and a few judiciously placed matches. He still had only the wool blanket wrapped about his body—gaining a heat source was at this point more pressing than attiring himself in chilled clothing. Tiny flames began to lick greedily at the fuel, popping and hissing; fingerlings of heat began to waft against his chill hands. His nose and cheeks were particularly frigid; he bent, sticking his face close.

A smile tugged at his mouth; he remembered doing this as a child during the winter, running all shivery from his room to the kitchen where his mother was stoking the hearth and sticking his face down near the heat. Once he'd underestimated the power of the burgeoning fire and had singed his eyelashes and eyebrows, not to mention a bit of his forelock—he'd had to go about for some fortnights looking fairly odd. His father had laughed indulgently and called him a little rabbit, all lashless and round-eyed; Frodo had protested, quite indignantly, that he was a hobbit, not a rabbit.

The memory, although pleasant and warming in one fashion, didn't help warm his body one bit. Rather grumpily—he still felt as if someone had taken a very large stick and trouted him with it all night—he kept fiddling with the fire. At this rate it would be forever before he got a decent cup of tea.

Soon enough, however, the fire began a cheery blaze. Frodo inched closer, stretched out his hands, wriggled his cold fingers over it like some conjurer.

What did a conjurer look like, anyway? Bilbo would know; he had spent some time in the company of one… Gandalf was his name, wasn't it? Supposedly Bilbo was not the only one; Belladonna Baggins, whom Frodo had never met but certainly heard wild tales of, had been quite familiar with the wizard, which meant Gandalf must be quite old.

Perhaps that was why Bilbo looked young; he was about a wizard so often.

And blast and buggary!—why did he continually have to think of Bilbo? He was as daft about Bilbo—albeit in a totally different fashion—as he was about Merimac. He tugged the blanket closer about his shoulders. Wishing for the moon in his hands, for things that could never come true and he should know better—he should—than to expect those things would be true…

A short rap on his door made him jump; he cursed himself again, quite inventively, as he glanced hopefully at the connecting door. But the rap came again—not from that thrice-buggered connecting door—and more insistently this time.

Frodo rose, a bit sourly, to answer.

Merry was waiting on the other side, entirely too fresh-faced, dismayingly awake. There was a cheeky grin on his face which faded, somewhat, as he saw Frodo.

Frodo defensively hitched the blanket closer. "Yes, I just woke up and no, I'm not dressed yet."

Two pale-red blotches were forming high on each of Merry's cheeks—one of those cheeks was sporting a purplish mark and Frodo started to question this, was cut off as Merry lowered his lashes and his head then bulled past him into the room.

"Don't you ever sleep in a nightshirt anymore?" was the lad's short comment.

That old hobbit sage had been right; perdition did consist of other people before breakfast. "Do come in, Merry," he said, rather pointedly.

"Glory!" Merry protested, going over by the fire and putting hands in his pockets. "It's cold in here, Frodo."

"My fire went out last night," Frodo answered, running a hand through his hair.

"Must've been early, it stays pretty warm in the burrows."

Frodo declined comment, instead padding over to stand next to the fire as well. Merry's cheeks were still flushed, and he refused to meet Frodo's gaze; Frodo frowned then reached out, brushed his fingers against the cheekbone also spotted with purple. "What did you do, run into a door?"

"Ferdibrand's fists, actually." Merry twitched away, then suddenly grinned wryly. "You should see him."

"So what did you and Ferdibrand?—never mind, I don't want to know," he added as Merry started to open his mouth. "It's too early, Merry. Please. If you love me you'll tell me where to obtain a large pot of tea—my fire is so new it shall take forever for the water to heat."

"If you got dressed," Merry had returned, albeit slightly, to sullenness, "then we could go to breakfast. Or," his next words seemed to explain, to Frodo, the sullen mien, "are you eating with Uncle Merimac as Pervinca thought you might? She brought breakfast for both of you, in case."

"I…" Words did battle upon Frodo's tongue, vanquished themselves and left him weaponless. "I… can't eat breakfast with him this morning. I'm supposed to… to go to the stables." Yes, that was a good excuse.

"You still have to eat breakfast," Merry told him with an air of extreme patience. "And anyway, Frodo, Aunt Eglantine told me that was I to see you I needed to tell you that Uncle Paladin told her you couldn't ride this morning because he was called away on business. I'm sorry," he added, truly apologetic, "I know you were looking forward to riding the filly, but he also told Aunt Eglantine—which she told me to tell you—that you were to ride for him this evening."

Once Frodo followed the series of 'tolds' and 'tells', he became aware that none of this was news; he knew Paladin was going away today, but how had he…? The internal question died before he finished it; he knew the answer because he'd heard. Last night.

He'd heard too much.

"You should thank me, you know," Merry waggled his fingers over the burgeoning fire. "Pervinca was going to come and make sure you were awake; I told her I'd best do it because you're quite growly in the morning with people you don't know well." Merry shot him a knowing, entirely-too-patient look. "In fact, you're growly with people you do know well."

"Hm." Then Frodo had to admit, "I'm probably not ready for Pervinca before breakfast, if she's like she was when we met."

"Worse," Merry said. "Anyway, you'd hardly want to meet a girl at the door dressed like—well, more like not dressed." There was definite censure in the tone, and Frodo could well imagine the reasons for it; he'd looked in the mirror this morning, even if he had just as quickly looked away at the ha'nt that had peered back at him. Perhaps he should just shoo Merry out and bury himself in the bed, not even have a cup of tea because he deserved not having tea for being such a buggered, bloody, bollixed, utter prat of a fool…

"I'll eat breakfast with you, Merry," he said quietly. "Pervinca can spend some time with her uncle for now."

"Then would you just get dressed?" Merry asked, exasperated.

"All right, all right!" Frodo snapped back. Tossing his blanket over at the bed—and regretting it the moment he did as the chill air hit him—he quick-stepped over to the wardrobe and yanked the doors open, not caring much about what he put on as long as it was warm. He snatched up thick cord breeches, shirt and woollen waistcoat and practically leapt into them; fastening his belt about his waist Frodo came back over to the fire, noted that Merry was pointedly not even glancing at him.

"Am I that disgraceful-looking?" he prodded, shifting his shoulders and beginning to fasten his waistcoat.

Merry didn't answer for a moment, staring at the fire, then he turned to Frodo, his cheeks all burnished pink again—this, Frodo assumed, from the lovely, lovely heat beginning to emanate from the hearth. "You're better now," Merry stated. "But you need a serious brushing. And a face wash—your face is all dirty, Frodo, did you sleep on the floor last night, or something?"

"Or something," he said, going over to the mirror and starting to yank a comb through his hair. The floor had indeed done some damage to the thorough bath he had partaken of yesterday; he splashed cold water over his face and told himself it was all and more than he deserved.

Fool. Fool, prat, clueless git, gormless idiot, fool…

"I'm really hungry, Frodo. Are you almost done?"

Merry was more than a bit cranky himself this morning. All things considered, a large breakfast might solve more than a few things. Tying his hair back, Frodo then nabbed a woollen day coat from his press and layered it over the waistcoat. He was still cold.

When he turned to face Merry, the lad was peering at him searchingly.

"Well?" he asked. "Will I do to sit to breakfast with the Master of Buckland's son?"

"Um," said Merry, and averted his eyes. "Come on, I'm hungry."

Giving up any further attempts to consider the vagaries of teen boys—particularly this boy, and at this time of day—Frodo followed.

* * * * * *

Eglantine descended upon them just as they finished breakfast, accompanied by the aged hobbit dame—Ruby—who seemed to always be at her right hand, and requested that since Frodo had been freed up from morning stables, if he could please come with her?

"What for, Aunt?' Merry asked. "Can I come, too?"

"Oh, I have doubts you shall want to," she replied, and cocked an apologetic eyebrow towards Frodo. "Aunt Lalia has requested your presence, Cousin. I'm sorry, but I've put her off several times already."

"Oh, bloody—" Merry shut his mouth with a pop as Eglantine gave him a severe look. "Well, you're right," he defended himself. "I really don't want to come."

"Neither does master Frodo, I'll warrant," Ruby put in, echoing Frodo's own thoughts. She grinned, and the somewhat-wicked tone of it was a surprise; with her silver hair, twinkling blue eyes and rosy, round cheeks, she was the very ideal of a perfect hobbity grandmum.

Well, perfect grandmums were likely boring. Frodo found himself smiling back.

"No doubt, but done now, 'tis over with," Eglantine said, then frowned thoughtfully. "Oh, I should have thought of it earlier, Merry; seeing you reminded me, but too late."

"Thought of what, Aunt Lanna?" Merry queried, giving a quizzical look at Frodo, who shrugged.

"Never fear, next time we shall see it done. I was thinking that your uncle could take you with him on a Bounders inspection. He had to go this morning on like business—some merchant complaining about one of the Bounders over-exerting their authority—'twould be a good experience for you. I know your father would like you to get familiar with such things."

Frodo noticed the mix of pleasure and dismay that flitted across Merry's face. "He's only fourteen," Frodo quietly said, and didn't back down as Eglantine turned to him, obviously surprised. "Does he have to shoulder those things here, as well?"

She started to answer, instead Merry's uncertain face flushed, turned stubborn. "I'm old enough!"

The sudden protest made Frodo blink. "I didn't mean it like that, Merry—"

"Then how did you mean it?" was the demand, and one far more irate than Frodo had imagined his simple question would have engendered. "I'm not a baby, Frodo. Da takes me on business when I'm home!"

"I know you're not a baby, but more than a few times you've told me you wished you didn't have to go on business," Frodo reminded him. Merry, who had opened his mouth for another sally, hesitated, the wind obviously taken from his sails.

"I…" he started, then muttered rebelliously, "That was when I was younger. I like it sometimes."

"Merry, I'm just—"

Eglantine put a quelling hand on Frodo's shoulder; it stayed him as much out of the firmness of her grip as his uncertain start at her touch. "Just a moment," she murmured to him. "Merry, my dear," she ventured more loudly, "your mother and father both requested that you should go with your uncle on suitable ventures. I think you'll find that trips with Uncle are very different than your father's business, which is why your parents want you to have the experience. However," her eyes moved to Frodo, "your older cousin's concern does him credit. So I'm thinking, Merry, if you end up really disliking any trips with Uncle Paladin, then we'll stop them. That way we'll fulfil your father's wishes but not make it such a burden on you." She kept holding to Frodo's gaze. "Only sons," she said, and this time it was obviously directed at Frodo, "unfortunately have to bear things a little earlier. Eh, Cousin?"

This time Frodo was the one who had the wind neatly trimmed from his sails; he wasn't sure how to answer the question posed, nor was he sure it was a question even though Eglantine kept her hand on his shoulder and her eyes upon his.

"Frodo?" Merry's voice wobbled in the slightest—there was challenge there, yet also beneath it was the younger cousin asking for assurance, permission.

Frodo pulled his gaze from Eglantine's to Merry's. Behind him, Ruby had moved off and was speaking matter-of-factly to a young lad who had, from the rags in his hand, obviously been wiping down the tables. Eglantine's presence inhibited Frodo from saying what he really wanted to, so he smiled instead. "It's all right, Merry. At least you don't have to see Aunt Lalia."

"Oh," Merry groaned, suitably diverted. "I've had to. Several times. She's just a—"

"Merry!" came a cry from across the room. "Where have you been, anyway?"

Frodo turned to see Fredeger Bolger and several young lads he didn't know, all gesturing frantically as they ran over.

"What?" Merry said, a bit impatiently.

"Turp's going t' back Dwarf!" Freddy announced.

"No!" This was plainly news from the expression on Merry's face. "Really?"

"Really and for truly! Today! Now! Come on!"

Merry threw an apologetic glance at his aunt and his older cousin then, before Frodo could blink or nod, darted away with the other boys. They raced out through the doubled round exit of the dining hall, a herd of unruly hair and thundering feet.

Frodo turned, one eyebrow raised questioningly, to peer at Eglantine.

"Dwarf is a stunted colt who has proven, time and again, that size is often deceiving," Eglantine remarked by way of explanation, taking her hand from Frodo's shoulder. "He's been a handful since he was foaled—he's bitten and kicked grooms, escaped from his stall on a regular basis and shed everyone who's tried to mount him. Plainly Turpin has decided enough is enough and that he should take care of him personally." Despite the catalogue of faults Eglantine was smiling; it was obvious she admired the pony's spirit as she furthered, "Dwarf is quick, mettlesome and very clever. Backing him should prove quite entertaining. Paladin shall be sorry he missed it. I'm sorry you can't join them just now, Frodo, but," she shrugged and kept smiling. "I'm thinking you're a bit outnumbered by bairns in that lot."

"I think," he said, with some consideration, "that you're right."

"I heard you discovered the soaks today," she continued, "and a few lads more approaching your own age and sensibilities."

He peered sideways at her. However had she found that out?

"M'lady?" Ruby came up; behind her the lad she'd spent time speaking with had bent to his work with a new assiduousness. "D'you want me to see to spices whilst you visit the Auld Dame?"

"Nay, I shall see to that myself, and later. I do, however, need you to check that lot of wool that just arrived from Pincup, make sure it's being parcelled out and dyed properly. Also, while you're there, if you would please remind Hazel that I do indeed prefer those cloaks be finished by Himself's birthing day, no later; I know she's behind and I know exactly why. Oh, and if you could find Vinca and set her to the stores' lists with Cook, that would be fine."

Frodo could see Ruby mentally filing the tasks, giving a tiny nod of her silver head in response to each. "Yes, m'lady. And then?"

"And then go spend some time with your lovely husband; I hear he's to return from the Bounds with Himself this afternoon, yes?"

Ruby nodded. "That he is, and after a fortnight away."

"Then I'll see you in the morning, but," Eglantine gave her a wink, "not too early, mind."

Ruby literally beamed, gave a tiny bob of the knee and hurried off.

"Well." Eglantine watched her depart then turned to Frodo. "Shall we go, then, do the pretty?"

* * * * * *

Lalia Took was perhaps the most enormous hobbit Frodo had ever seen—and that was saying a lot since he'd once met Ponto Baggins whom, it was said, hadn't been able to mount a pony since he was twenty-five.

She sat in a chair that resembled more a throne—a well-padded throne, to boot—and the way it was placed, at the end of the long, narrow smial, merely enhanced the impression. The area was lit by seeming tens of candles despite the window on the east face—that window was firmly shut and curtained, as were the others. The smial was overly hot, smelling of wilted and rotten flowers; the air was close and altogether too still even for breathing. Frodo glanced back at Cousin Eglantine, feeling over-faced as a pony put to too high a fence. When Eglantine had first broached this little expedition to the Dragon's Tower, he'd wondered why it seemed everyone at Smials would jump when Lalia said 'frog'. Now, in the commanding presence of the old dame, Frodo had a bit more understanding of the impulse.

"Frodo Baggins is here, Cousin. As you asked," Eglantine said with a quiet respect that held no hint of the exasperation Frodo knew that the mere sound of Lalia's name produced in just about everyone. Was there a hobbit that Eglantine couldn't get along with? he wondered, and then remembered Merimac once saying that Eglantine and Esmeralda had fought like wildcats when they were tweens.

It was comforting, to know there might be a few chinks in that formidable armour of comportment. Then he thought again of Merimac and bit at his thumbnail.

"Come here, boy!" Lalia ordered testily; lost in his own disarrayed thoughts Frodo jumped and, with another sideways look at Eglantine, obeyed.

"Take your fingers out of your mouth and come here, I said. Let me have a look at you… well, oh well, you do look like Dora Took—not that Baggins wench of an Aunt of yours, but the old lady herself—that old dotard on the Hobbiton Hill for once spoke the truth." As Frodo belatedly realised that the 'dotard' Lalia spoke of was Bilbo, one fat hand reached out and captured his wrist; pale and flabby it might be, but nevertheless it possessed the strength of Gillyflower's brawniest oarshobbit. "Plain as plain you're more Took than Brandybuck or Baggins," she said with a malicious satisfaction, shooting a glance at Eglantine. "Blood will out, eh, girl?"

Frodo was startled by the gross disregard in that application of 'girl', but Eglantine merely stated, "As you say."

"The Blood," Lalia repeated, and the way she voiced it was sheathed in audible capitals. "I wondered, with all the mixing in his veins, but he's so like to old Dora… and I'm surely old enough to remember her. He's that same fey look to him."

Eglantine gave Frodo a reassuring smile. "I'm thinking you're right, Lalia."

"Huh." Lalia's eyes didn't swerve in their inspection; Frodo wondered if he'd have any skin left after she'd done with him. "Tell me, boy—d'you dream true?"

Of all the questions he was expecting, this wasn't among them. A strange shudder went through Frodo and he said, hoarsely, "I don't know what you mean."

She laughed, a low and musical sound that seemed at odds with her coarse appearance. "I'm thinking you do. And if you don't, you will. Aye, one such as you'll hear the dreamings, if you stay here long enough. You'll hear 'em and follow 'em and dance the Spiral down… and then you'll really dream, won't you?"

"The Spiral? What—?" Frodo started but Eglantine interrupted him.

"Lalia." There was unmistakable warning in Eglantine's voice. "'Tis not yours to—"

"And 'tis yours? You're only Took a third of the blanket as it is and deaf as a post to't, who are you to tell me what's proper? You're not Thain's wife yet, my girl, don't even try to play the hoity-toity with me." The old dame snapped her fingers dismissively towards Eglantine, whose face twisted angrily for seconds then went impassively smooth.

Miffed at the old dame's attitude, Frodo started to pull away. Lalia's grip tightened, denying any attempt at escape. "I'm thinking you've your mother's blood, all right. That hoyden Primula, she looked all Brandybuck but she was Mirabella's child through and through. Belladonna was a wild baggage, to be sure, but she at least had the Blood. Mirabella hadn't even that excuse and she was worse. Sly. She hid her nature all too well, that one."

It was all he could do to not yank his wrist away and smack Lalia's fleshy jowls in the bargain; the odd mix of ire, resentment and resignation that Frodo felt every time he heard his mother dismissed was taking a inordinately violent turn beneath such acid scrutiny.

It seemed Lalia had even more weapons at her disposal. "'Twas the best try in the Shire, your father attempting to tame Primula. Instead she went mad. He broke her."

"He did not!" This time Frodo did wrest free and he backed away, rubbing at his wrist. "You don't even begin to understand what you're talking about!"

Interest sparked in the old eyes. "As if you do?" she dryly asked.

"As a matter of fact," Frodo retorted, "I do."

Amazingly, it seemed to shut her up. From beside him Frodo could see Eglantine's nonplussed expression at this and he felt a quiver of interior satisfaction. There, he said silently. That's for my father, you old bitch.

Those gimlet eyes peered at him for long moments, then flickered. She turned to Eglantine, her manner suggesting she'd had done with mouthy tweener lads. "So where's that Brandybuck?" she demanded.

"As I've told you," Eglantine said with a small grin towards Frodo which absurdly warmed him to the pit of his belly, "Merimac shattered his leg and he's not up to climbing stairs as of yet."

"Pity. A proper rogue, that one. Not many that'll give me a run for my money, 'ceptin' him, and…" she eyed Frodo sourly, "this one. P'rhaps."

He stared at her.

"Come back, boy," she abruptly said. "Not many about this hole can spit in my eye."

Something within him responded to the plea—and plea it was, no matter the way it was tendered. But Lalia turned away and her next words sent sour the sympathetic moment.

"Get out, both of you. Tell that husband of yours, Eglantine, that I need to see him. If he'd stop playing Laird with his ponies and his Provost he might be able to help Rumbra and me manage Smials as he ought. Nothing but trouble, that Paladin… never is and never will be. Should've run off as a tweener with that wild-hare Brandybuck, done us all a favour."

Frodo felt the hairs on his neck rise in simple outrage; Eglantine merely took his arm and steered him from the room.

They escaped into the fresh smell of loam and wood; into the cool air wafting up the stairwell. Frodo sucked it in gratefully, realising ire had made him all but hold his breath. Eglantine, quietly thoughtful, descended beside him with a studied grace which made him even more awkward in consequence.

"I never thought to agree with Pearl, but she's right—you should just push that old bitch out a window!" Frodo finally burst out once they'd gained the ground floor. "How does anyone put up with her?"

"How," replied Eglantine, obviously choosing to disregard his first statement, "does anyone ever live with anyone? Four parts resignation and the other two determination, I should think."

"What about respect? And," he hesitated, then said, "love?"

She gave him a sideways glance, smiled. "Yes, I'd say those are important. Very important. But they don't always figure in, do they?"

"They should."

"But they don't, my dear, and that's just the truth of the matter. Take Lalia… well, you saw it yourself, Frodo. She's lonely and desperate beneath all that bile, and while I often want to smack her silly, I feel sorry for her the more."

He had seen it. But… "That doesn't mean she has the right to rule everyone here."

Eglantine's eyebrows rose, and a smile tucked itself into one corner of her mouth. "What makes you think she does?"

Frodo halted, startled, but Eglantine kept walking. He quickly strode the few steps to catch up with her and they passed together beneath the arch that led to the family wing. Within the hallway all was quiet and coloured rosy gold, rich with lantern-light.

"But…" he reasoned, "even in Buckland I heard how she was the matriarch of Smials, and Bilbo said once…" he trailed off, abruptly cross at how often he would still utter the words 'Bilbo said'.

"What people say and what actually exists are seldom the same. I should think you'd know that better than most," was the gentle reproof.

His cheeks flamed, but not due to his own bout with gossip over his paternity. It was because he had the sudden and undeniable wish to ask her: In which case, what is the truth about you and your husband and my playmate?

He looked away and set his teeth against what words wished to speak themselves; she didn't seem to notice but continued on. "Yes, Lalia is a presence here we unfortunately cannot deny. She resents both Paladin and me; she tries to bait me as she can—you heard her—but I won't let her, any more than I'll let her bully either of us into running Smials her way. She has no power other than what I give her."

Other than what I give her. He was taken aback by the steel behind the words; Eglantine seemed so girlish despite years and several teen- and tweenaged children, so much that he had thought her malleable as fine and fair clay beneath an artist's careful hand.

He was beginning to question such an assessment, and Eglantine's next words further dispelled illusions. "Unlike our sweet Merry-lad you are old enough, dear Cousin, to comprehend the careful tightrope we walk here. Our Ferumbras is still alive; his health is fair, considering, but he is a cripple and cannot in truth hold the Thain's peace even did Lalia feel inclined to let him. Ferumbras would long have deeded full rights to Paladin save for her," she nodded back up the stairs, "whose one remaining influence is that over her grown son. All too often a mother's love can be pitiless, needy and importunate where it should be naught but a nest to shelter the fledglings 'til they can fly."

He knew that Eglantine had not meant the words to wound him; unfortunately memories regarding his own mother were, as Lalia's taunts had also proven, still far too ambiguous to easily rest with. "Why," he suddenly asked, "must it be so?"

Eglantine stopped at this, her brow furrowed. "It is not always so, Frodo."

"I've seen little reason to believe that," he said bluntly and immediately regretted it; he'd said far more than he'd meant to, unwittingly won over by whatever it was that entreated him—here at Smials, with her, with her husband—to readily trust.

"Then perhaps you will see such reason here," she replied, moving forward once more.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, until she halted at her own set of smials. "Time has run away with us, hasn't it? It's nigh to lunch already, and I think Paladin was to meet you this afternoon at the stableyard?"

The stableyard. Had it only been last year—it seemed a hundred—that the Brandy Hall byres had been a shelter, of a sort; a uncomplicated place where time had only been measured by the cycle of animals' needs, the rhythm of sheer physical labour. Sandwiched between Eglantine's door and the one that led to Merimac, Frodo felt serious need of such sanctuary.

If only he was sure of what exactly from.

"Well, once your cousin Paladin has worn you ragged on that filly of his—and he will, I know him—I expect you'll be spending the rest of the evening with Merimac."

He flicked a harried glance at her; if she knew about his venture to the springs, surely she must know…

"Shall I have dinner sent from the kitchens for both of you?"

Misery swamped him, heated and chill all to the once, and he looked down, uncertain of what to say. Yes, I want to be with him, came to his lips and halted there, and No, can't you see I stand no chance against the two of you? and the fact that he hadn't been with Merimac all day, hadn't seen to him, hadn't been there in case he needed him…

The small and inner accusatory voice fell silent.

"Well, my dear, shall I?"

Frodo looked up, found Eglantine waiting with her hand on the doorknob of the crème-painted door, her notice of him almost as piercing as Lalia's had earlier proven. Tightly, he nodded. She kept peering at him; he had to look away beneath the discerning gaze, afraid that his eyes were but a thin gouache over thoughts he didn't wish exposed.

"Frodo," Eglantine finally, quietly voiced. "'Twill be all right here. Everything comes right in the end."

If only he believed her. If only it were the truth; what really existed as opposed to merely what people would say.

Cool fingers brushed his cheek, then Eglantine leaned forward and kissed the spot her fingers had smoothed. "Go on with you, then. You've had a busy day and I'll warrant your playmate's missed you."

A quiver went through him as she touched him, intensified as she spoke; he looked up, saw clear admittance, and acceptance, and wondered how and from where such could come.

"Our dear Merimac does love you, that much is obvious," she continued. "I'm beginning to understand why."

Those last words threw him further into confusion as she glided through the door and shut it behind her, leaving him alone in the brightly-lit corridor, still firmly sandwiched between perdition and promise.

Eglantine's words kept tracing themselves through his mind, over and over, echoes attempting to fill the hollows of insecurity.

Then tell me why! he suddenly wanted to shout after her. If you know so much, tell me! He has you, he has Paladin… What do I matter? How can I possibly matter?

Perhaps it's not how you matter right now, but how he matters. The small, accusatory voice returned. He was there when you needed him most. He didn't desert you…

Frodo stared at the door, bit his lip.

As he loves you? he silently begged of her. And him?

But the crème-painted door remained firmly shut, and the door behind him, also tightly shut, was no less an obstacle.

Closed doors, locked and latched and the habit, still deeply inherent, of never, never opening them…

Finally, hampered of anything resembling reasonable thought, Frodo turned away, walked slowly down the darkened corridor.

* * * * * *

Much later that afternoon, when the sun was beginning to slat sideways through the green hills, Paladin found him. It took some looking, to be sure, and finally, not holding out much hope, he'd gone to the stables and asked Mick if he'd seen the lad. Mick had shrugged then wordlessly pointed to a row of stalls, the furthest box which sported a nearly-full skip placed before its door.

Several forkfuls of soiled straw, on the end of a well-wielded pitchfork, came hurtling from the stall and into the skip as Paladin walked over. The mare whose box it was pricked her ears, giving her master notice from where she stood with one foot comfortably cocked. Next to her a slender lad was determinedly fluffing through the straw, a singular lantern illuminating his work and setting copper into his dark hair—which was strewn untidily with glints of gold. Paladin peered closer, realized it was more straw, and smiled. "Lad?"

Frodo started, hesitated a mere half-moment, then slowly peered upwards from his work. His eyes widened; clearly he hadn't expected Paladin. They flickered with several turbulent and uncertain things before Frodo carefully shuttered them, looked down.

Paladin was once again taken with several divergent impulses—but this time he wanted more to hug the lad than trout him. Instead he crossed his arms and took another step forward.

"I'm thinking you've paid for your ride and then some." He gestured about the stall, purposefully light. "Care to have a go at River?

Frodo blinked, brows drawing together in palpable mystification.

"The filly?" Paladin prompted.

The solemn face brightened, and Frodo said, "Yes, sir."

* * * * * *

River was everything he'd ever dreamed and more; strong boned yet delicate, copper as a new ha'penny, as the swirl of the Brandywine that had obviously inspired her name. She had white markings splashed up all fours to knee and hock, as if she was wearing spotless stockings, and a diamond-shaped white pendant hung between her liquid eyes.

Frodo looked at her and fell hopelessly in love.

"She's so much white, Turpin swears her dam must have dallied with a tinker's pony," Paladin confessed with a grin. "But she's one of the fastest we've produced, so if some tinker's beast did sire her I'd like to suss him out and purchase him!"

Turpin, as if to prove his master's statement, muttered under his breath but gave the filly a fond slap. Paladin winked at Frodo then mounted the filly's stable partner, a staid and sturdy bay gelding who would no doubt have stood immobile even without the stablehobbit's presence at his bridle.

"Did you back Dwarf?" Frodo asked the trainer—he'd been dying to know, after all, and not seen Merry to ask. Turpin glanced curiously at him then grinned.

"Aye and I did. 'Twas a ride; your young cousin and his cohorts got quite the show. The bugger's just too smart for his own good, is all. He's half the lads afraid of him so he thinks he rules the roost. That pony, m'lord," he directed to Paladin, "is too much like his father—but at least he's not mean."

"Dwarf's sire is as vicious a beggar as I've ever laid eyes upon," Paladin informed Frodo. "Except to lasses. He's putty in female hands—not unlike the rest of us, eh, Turpin?"

Turpin gave an amused snort, then nodded to the young stablehobbit. "Lay hold of th' filly, boy, while I put master Frodo up." As the lad took the bridle, Turpin went to River's side, bent over and clasped his hands together, gave a meaningful jerk of his head to Frodo. "Let's have you, then."

* * * * * *

River was as unchancy a ride as her namesake, Frodo found before he'd fully gotten her up to the gallops; sensitive and temperamental. He had several jolts and jostles as she curvetted beneath him—testing him, he wondered, or just flighty?

"She's no' daft; too smart, in fact," Paladin confirmed, keeping tight hold upon the leading rein. "She's a huge heart and a will of iron. It's a tough line to walk, with her; if you crowd her she'll sull up and refuse to heed you, but you still have to let her know who is in command or she'll run all over you."

"How…" Frodo gave a small grunt as the pony twisted beneath him—testing his seat, he now had no doubt—and tightened the reins, "fitting."

"I think so, too." Paladin smirked. "She and I have never really gotten on, I must admit. The day she was born she kicked me in the gut and I heaved my breakfast all over the stall. 'Twas that very day I named her."

Frodo flicked a sideways glance at Paladin. There was an undercurrent of wry cynicism in his words, as if more than the fact of an inability to bide easily with River's namesake lay in them. The filly took advantage of his momentary lapse of attentiveness and gave a small hop into the air.

"Patience, little hoyden," Paladin chided. "Not much longer and you can run your silly head away."

River rolled air through her nostrils, nipped at Paladin's pants leg with a fond mischief that suggested perhaps she didn't hold him in quite the disrespect he claimed. The bay gelding Paladin rode pinned his ears, warning his charge that she was being impertinent.

"Good lad," Paladin approved his mount's sensibility. "When I leave you on the turf," he continued, "I'd advise you to take hold. She won't object to the bit or a firm hand; in fact, should you not take her in hand you'll regret it, trust me. Ride the fine line with her, just remember that." He looked over at Frodo as they crested the hill. "If I didn't think you could handle her, you'd not be here, believe me. Don't worry."

Frodo wasn't worried. He realised that perhaps he should be, or should at least feel a bit of trepidation; instead there was an eager rising within him to the challenge. River too was eager, prancing as she sighted the white gallop fence. He spoke her name quietly and she flicked an ear back at him, thinking it over.

"Just a handy gallop today. Time enough to test her real speed once you've gotten used to each other. By the by," Paladin added with a sly grin, "she's quite the start on her.  Tie a knot and hang on."

Frodo took him at his word and snugged up on the reins, shifting his crop so he could lace fingers through the coarse mane. She dipped her head as Frodo gave a calming tug to her crest; Paladin nodded approvingly and unclipped the lead. "Off you go, then. I'll give you the signal soon; she doesn't wait well."

That was an understatement. Perhaps she'd never seen a race, but there was no doubt River knew her business. The moment her hoofs touched the grassy sod of the gallops she was crabstepping sideways, trying to duck through his hands and go. Frodo took up another notch on the reins, gave another gentle pull at her mane; this time she ignored the tug, came up on her haunches and hopped off the ground like a rabbit, taking Frodo by surprise and nearly unseating him. All the time she had an eye rolled back, watching him. Then she gave a little series of crowhops, but by then Frodo knew exactly what she was doing. He wrapped his calves about her ribs, see-sawed the reins, growled in time to each hop:

"You… little… wanker!"

Racing genius she might be, but compared to the Buckland ponies River was a rank amateur at bucking—in fact, she wasn't. Bucking. Not really. Frodo employed a manoeuvre that could quell even Fiddle—a rank old gelding renown in Buckland for his spectacular and explosive airs above the ground—and soon the filly was standing still, her nose pulled to his right knee, her eyes bright with surprise and her mien promising all but to never do it again.

"Do you want to run," Frodo asked her, "or just be a prat?"

Her ears twitched back and forth, once again thinking it all over.

"I want you to run. Things have been too bloody… sluggish around here," he said with firm exasperation. "Do us both a favour, eh?"

Her eyes brightened and her muscles were quivering; he released her, realising that if he didn't she was going to lose her temper.

Don't crowd her, he reminded himself, and it was easy, because he felt he understood.

She resumed her prancing and sideways antics, but this time it was pure eagerness, not testiness, and Frodo felt a rush of satisfaction as he looked over and saw Paladin's grin. Frodo straightened her out, saw the track line up before him between a pair of keen-pricked, copper-furred ears. Beneath him the filly danced, whirled, danced again, and the thin line of waiting spun and dipped between them, a spindle tight and tense…

"Go!" Paladin called.

River leapt from her place like a fresh-lit firework, the speed of it nearly taking the breath from him. Frodo was glad he had his fingers wrapped in her mane, wondered if he might have just somersaulted backwards over her rump if he hadn't. With each stride he was propelled faster, the filly eating up the turf with smooth, long leaps. Belatedly Frodo remembered Paladin's request—no full speed until they'd gotten used to each other—so dutifully he took up on the reins. River shook her head, protesting the command. Frodo insisted, pulling first right and then left. The filly snorted more defiance and twisted, veered towards the rail; Frodo barely managed to steer her away from it before she hauled her head down between her knees, slowing, her graceful bounds turning into short, ill-tempered hops. Frodo barked out her name, sat deep into the saddle, booted her in the ribs and, swinging his crop, smacked her arse.

The filly lifted her head and flew. Frodo sat down to ride.

Her strides kept lengthening, her speed increasing; once more Frodo dutifully closed his hands on the reins to slow her. This time she obeyed, light as down in his palms; he tested his new-found mastery by guiding her to the inside rail, then back to the middle of the gallop, then over again. She snorted at him each time as if to say, what are you doing? but complied, all at a handy gallop.

But he could feel her coiling beneath him, a tight-wound, willing spring of instinct and speed, and she kept tugging at him, lightly but eagerly; her message was all too clear: Let me go. Let's go. Now. All there is, is now. Now, and the running…

"Sod it," he suddenly murmured, to himself and to her, and shoved his hands forward on her neck. "Go!"

She rose beneath him like a wave, upward and forward, neck and shoulders thrusting through his hands and into the grass and sun and wind, haunches lowering, gathering behind. Her hoofs pounded faster; the white fence became more and more a blur, and he wondered, suddenly, if he was even close to her top speed.

The answer became obvious as she went faster and even faster. This was no nimble-if-coarse Buckland pony running in a bush race after spending harvest in the traces, nor did the game and finely-bred Ash even begin to compare; Frodo had never ridden at such speed in his life. It was… it was…

It was brilliant.

He hugged close to her neck, revelling in the surge of the powerful muscles, the rippling snorts that timed themselves with the pounding of her hoofs, their percussive rhythm frantic and fantastic accompaniment to the swell of his own heart, the trill and hum resounding in his ears. The wind stung his eyes and whipped his hair and poured over him; beneath him the little mare surged and foamed and carried him along, light and furious and wild…

"Like a River," he said, and the wind whipped away his words. River, oh River…

They shadowed the inner rail and soared past the marker poles, went wide on the near turn, flattened out on the straight, full out the entire way. They pounded round the far turn before the singing in Frodo's ears gave way to sense and he asked her to slow—this time she was willing, tiring from her huge burst of speed, and he recognised that he'd have to watch her carefully—and himself—because no doubt they would both go until their hearts burst and while he thought for himself what finer way could there be to go, he owed the filly more than that. So much more.

He passed the finish at a canter, pulled her down to a trot and let her go a while before he asked for a walk and turned back, staying to the outside rail, out of the way. His caution was warranted; the echo of hoofs was approaching in the distance—another set of ponies exercising.

Once again concern riffled through Frodo as he patted River's sweat-lathered neck and let the wet reins slip through his hands, but her breathing was regular, if of course laboured, and her eyes were bright as she rolled them back towards him. We have a secret, she seemed to be saying and, comforted, he scratched her withers in agreement.

"Yes," he agreed, "but I think we're also in trouble."

For at the gate Paladin waited for him, still mounted on the bay gelding, immobile, pocketwatch in hand. Even the gelding looked disapproving.

But Frodo's ears were still singing, his heart hammering in time to River's, and he couldn't even bring himself to care.

"Keep walking," the Thain ordered tersely and, leaning forward, clipped the lead to River's bridle. He urged his pony onto the track beside them at the prescribed walk, still going the wrong way and staying to the outside rail.

Another set of ponies galloped easily past; River pricked her ears in interest. She was tired, yes, but not exhausted. She was happy.

They rode for some time in stilted silence, River blowing in counter-time to the soft fall of two sets of hoofs.

"If you are to ride for me," Paladin finally and severely said, "you shall have to follow instructions."

"Yes, sir," Frodo answered, lowering his eyes to hide the music that must be echoing behind them. He wasn't sorry, not one bit—oh stars, what a ride!—but neither did he want to have those rides halted, not now.

"A pony can't go full out for an entire race," Paladin continued. "The shorter ones, yes—those bush races in Buckland which you've no doubt ridden are a flat run, so I'll be forgiving your ignorance, this time—but the distances here are much longer. I'm only glad you showed sense towards the end and slowed her. You have to be responsible, Frodo, and look after her; it's to be sure she won't look after herself."

That stung, not only because in that moment Paladin's comment about responsibility reminded Frodo far too much of Uncle Saradoc's constant harping on just that subject, but because he'd also realised it for himself on that far curve. "Yes, sir."

A foursome of ponies came trotting by. River nickered to them, this time.

"She seems none the worse for wear," Paladin admitted slowly. "I've…" he hesitated, then went on, still slowly, almost reluctantly. "I've never seen her go that fast, lad."

At this, Frodo's eyes flickered sideways to take in his companion. Paladin was giving him much the same glance, only his brows were wryly twisted and his lips twitching.

"I can't tell you never to do it again," the Took admitted. "But be bloody careful."