The evening was turning cool when they finally descended back into the yard, and stars were beginning to peek past the rays of sunset. One star in particular, brighter than the rest, flanked the sickle moon as if hung from its lower edge. River's breath had returned to normal, and the moist warmth of it tickled at Frodo's hand. Paladin walked on silent feet next to his own mount, in the waning light insubstantial as a shadow. Frodo could have been alone, content smoothing over him as lightly as the sweat upon his skin.

One of the ever-present stablehobbits was politely waiting on the yard cobbles; he looked disconcerted when they both came up. "M'lord, I wasn't told there were the two ponies; if you don't mind I'll go fetch—"

"Never mind, lad," Paladin said. "You can take Brownie here; Frodo and I shall tend to River." He handed the rein to the lad, directed his next words to Frodo. "You'll learn as much about a pony on the ground as riding it, so…" He shrugged.

The stablehobbit nodded politely and led the bay towards his box.

"Brownie?" Frodo's brows drew together critically at the name, one that seemed rather silly for such a dignified pony.

Paladin came over, set to loosening River's girth with a fond smile curving his lips. "Pimpernel named him. She was about three at the time, of course."

Frodo grinned to himself at this. Of course.

"Lanna told me you've plans to sup with Merimac tonight," Paladin ventured off-handedly. So off-handedly, in fact, that Frodo didn't catch the impact of what he was saying for a full five seconds. And when he did, indignation swelled so swiftly that it took his breath away.

The evening, so clear and fresh and pleasant, began to drift away on a thick cloud of animosity.

The filly nudged at him. Frodo took no notice, shot a sideways, cross glance in Paladin's direction. What had always worked on Aunt Esme obviously didn't affect her brother; Paladin paid the considerable glare little heed and after a long moment Frodo gave it up, looked down and shrugged, refused to answer.

"Ye-es," said Paladin, taking the saddle and pad from the filly's back and settling it on a nearby rail, "we've something special planned for Merimac's supper; he's not been eating as he should since he arrived. But of course," the green eyes flicked his way, "you'd know that."

You know bloody well I don't, Frodo seethed—but half the seething was towards himself, tinged with regret because he didn't know, and shouldn't he have?

Why wasn't Mac eating well?

The filly nudged him again then, when he didn't accede to her affectionate request, insistently lipped at his jacket. A smile pulling unwillingly at one corner of his mouth, Frodo scratched her neck.

It was better than facing the Thain's determined affability—or his own culpability.

He snuck another glance, found the object of his ire holding out a hair-and-straw wisp to him. "Here," Paladin directed. "Rights of rank; you do the work, I'll hold."

Rather sullenly Frodo handed over the rein, took the wisp and began currying the filly's damp hide. She gave a grunt, switched her tail and pinned her ears as he bent too assiduously to the task.

"Hoy," chided Paladin, still mildly, "she's not one of those cold-blooded Buckland cart ponies. Have a care."

Cheeks heating from the not altogether unwarranted criticism, Frodo did as bidden.

"I'm thinking," the Took said, "'tis a good thing, you having supper with him."

And why would you think that? Frodo turned his attention to River, moved his fingers to scratch her withers. Neither did he miss the bald assumption in Paladin's words.

"He needs the company."

He has your company, doesn't he? The filly was stretching her neck out, making ecstatic faces.

"Frodo, are you listening to me?"

"Why should you care, what I choose to do this evening?" Frodo blurted out—and wasn't sorry.

Paladin studied him for long moments. Then, "I think you know the answer to that."

No, Frodo railed silently. No, I really don't.

"And if you don't," Paladin said as if Frodo had spoken aloud—though he knew he hadn't, "you should."

Frodo stood silent, peering at him, fists clenched against the filly's hide.

"I've heard you have quite the imagination," Paladin told him, still plainly unimpressed by either his glare or his stiff posture. In fact he turned away and reached for a halter, one of several that had been draped upon the post. "However that imagination is doing you no service at this moment."

"What does my imagination have to do with anything?"

For moments Paladin didn't answer, removing River's bridle; with a clink of teeth and metal she relinquished it, sticking her nose obligingly into the halter he held up. "You'd see it," he presently said, "if you'd but look."

"See what?"

River shifted sideways at his vehemence; Paladin rubbed her forehead.

"It seems to me you've tricked yourself into believing in something that doesn't exist. Particularly since you seem to be punishing your cousins just because that same imagination has run away with what sense you were born with."

Still the mild tone—yet it stung like a full-fledged blow.

Paladin peered at him for a few more moments, shrugged and, turning away, led the filly over the cobbles towards her box.

* * * * * *

"Aunt Eglantine, have you seen Frodo?"

She was in the driest of the cellars, within the spice cupboards, carefully measuring the precious stuff into small, labelled tins. It was a familiar and homey sight—the Mistress of the holding tending to matters too important to delegate to others—Merry did as he would had Eglantine been his mother and came over, offered to hold the tin. She relinquished it to him with a pleased smile.

"No, I'm afraid not… and what a fine help you are, Nephew; here's the lid and will you close that up tight, put it on the sorting table there and hand me the next one, the salt cellar?"

Merry did so. "It's only that, well, he wasn't at the stables and the head lad told me that he and Uncle Paladin had already been and gone. His room's locked, but he didn't answer when I knocked."

Eglantine knelt down before a small chest hunched on the floor, "If he's not at the stables or in his room, then perhaps Frodo is helping your Uncle Mac. I'm going to be sending up supper to them in a while."

"Oh." Merry was crestfallen. "I'd hoped Frodo would come sit with me and Freddy at supper."

"Well, it might be better on another night," Eglantine suggested, opening the chest then gesturing him to bring the small cellar closer so she could spoon flakes of salt into it. "I'd leave them be for now—our dear Merimac is feeling very poorly and he's not possessed of the best temper when he's laid up." She winked at him conspiratorially, and Merry grinned at this despite the slight resentment that flared, never forgotten.

"I suppose you're right, Auntie," he admitted. He didn't want to think too greatly upon the fact that with the resentment there was also relief in knowing that Frodo would be otherwise occupied. "I thought it might be a chance for Frodo to get to know Freddy better—Bran doesn't seem to like Frodo much but he's not coming anyway; I'm mad at him."

"I seem to have heard rumblings of a bit of a tussle between you and Ferdibrand," Eglantine agreed. "That must be where you got that fine bruise on your cheek."

Merry touched the spot and smiled again, but there was a hint of chagrin beneath the smile and in his next question. "Is there anything happens about here that you don't know, Auntie?"

"Not much," she said lightly, and if Merry didn't know better he would say there was a small bit of chagrin, quickly stilled, as she shut the larger salt chest and stood up. "Close that one up carefully, now—that's my lad—and hand me the one marked with the bay leaf."

"Then," Merry ventured as he obeyed, "perhaps you know what's going on with Frodo?"

Dark brown eyes slid toward him, then returned to their scrutiny of the spice shelves. She took down a large jar filled with green, beckoned Merry closer and began to measure out small bundles of the leaf. "What do you mean, what's going on with Frodo?" she asked. "That's rather a broad subject, dear; I think you'll have to be more specific."

"Well." Merry looked down into the tin as she filled it—the sharp-dark scent of the bay leaves was another homey and pleasant sensation. "He's changed. A lot."

"I imagine he has, what with all that's happened since you last saw him. And I should think you've changed, too."

"I've not changed all that much," Merry protested. "Not as much as he has."

"Be that as it may, Merry, you must remember that Frodo's just arrived, and he's not visited very often," Eglantine said. "Neither is he terribly forthcoming, at that. I certainly don't know him as well as you must."

"Oh. I guess not."

"Here you go. Now I need the one for thyme."

He handed it over, took the bay and capped it tightly, placed it on the table next to him. "Aunt, perhaps you don't know Frodo all that well, but… it's only… see, I think sometimes when someone doesn't know someone very well, they can notice things that someone closer can't. Does that make sense?"

Eglantine was watching him in between scoops. "It makes a lot of sense, lad—go on."

"Well, it was that way at home, at the Hall. I'm thinking that my mum couldn't see what Frodo was about because she was too close to Frodo's mum. And I was also thinking that maybe it's also hard for me because I'm close to Frodo too, even though I'm better at knowing what he's about than Mum or Da…" Merry trailed off, uncomfortable with what his words were implying, but too intent on answers to let it hold him back. "I can't ask them about this. But maybe I can ask you. Maybe you can see things that I can't."

"Hm." Eglantine tapped at the box she was holding. "This is getting old; well, nothing to do about it now, that's sure… 'Tis an honour that you thought to ask my advice, Merry-lad, but I really don't know if I can help with this."

Merry felt disappointment trickle through him—but she hadn't finished, and her next words were hopeful.

"I can try. I mean, I can tell you what is before me. As I said, your cousin seems very reserved, but as I remember he was that way even as a child. Not so unusual, that; some things might change in us, but others don't. He does seem more… oh, settled, perhaps?… than the last time I saw him at the Hall, but he's naturally uncertain about being here, it's all strange to him, I'm thinking. I've no doubts that he loves you very much," Merry smiled at this, "and I remember Peregrin telling me how good a storyteller he is. He's very Tookish, I think, and he seems quite capable and grown-up for his age—but I imagine having to take care of your Uncle Merimac has made a hobbit of him, and that's not a bad thing."

"That's another question I was hoping you'd help me with. Because… well…" Merry blushed, hoping that she didn't see it, "you know Uncle Mac. Sort of."

A rich chuckle. "I think I know Merimac more than 'sort of', dear, but what has that to do with your questions about Frodo?"

He flushed even harder, his mind wandering back to that discussion he'd had with Frodo regarding how well Eglantine most likely knew Merimac; with some effort he returned his focus to the matter at hand. "Well, Uncle Mac has been with Frodo all this time, and I can't help but think he has a lot to do with Frodo's changing so much."

"Here, that's done then. Close it up and hand me the next jar—the marjoram," she directed, then, "Well, perhaps you're right. Merimac was hurt quite badly, you know; he has needed Frodo's help and as I just said, it would certainly make Frodo look at things differently. But that's only natural, isn't it? Older cousins teach younger cousins things they need to know. I'm sure Frodo has taught you quite a few things."

Older cousins teach younger cousins things they need to know. For moments that niggled at him—there was something in those words he should heed, could heed—then Merry realised he could fill the pages of one of Frodo's books with those things Frodo had taught him and smiled fondly. "Well, yes. But," he became serious once again, "Frodo says that I'm the one who's changed."

"Perhaps he's correct," Eglantine suggested. "Perhaps you think that your cousin has changed merely because you're seeing him through different eyes now. After all, you're nearly fifteen, aren't you?"

"This summer," he answered, muted. Through different eyes: those words were not so subtle in context; they warmed him all over.

"There'll be changes more and then to spare for you, over the next several years," Eglantine said with a meaningful lift of her eyebrows. "Here, take this. We've only the one left—that's it, the one for sage—and then Cook will be able to season his roasts as he wishes."

"Mum?" Pervinca's voice, then Pervinca herself, came into the small alcove; in her hand was a huge, metallic ring crowded with keys of all shapes and sizes. "I've brought your keys; I'm finished with… Well hullo, Merry, are you Mum's helper this eve?"

"He came along and offered to help, which was very welcome," Eglantine answered. "My thanks, dear—I was about to need them to lock up the spices, I'm finished here for the now."

Pervinca handed them over. "Cook waylaid me as I came up from the cellars, offered some suggestions for the provender lists. He also said he needs the salt right away; shall I take it?"

"I'll take it," Merry offered.

"Good show, then!" Pervinca laughed and drubbed at his head, which attention never failed to annoy Merry, not that she seemed to notice or care. "Clever boots you are, ensuring you're early to supper!"

Well, he couldn't deny that had been part of his motivation, but Pervinca didn't have to blabber it out like that, either.

"And Mum, old Clivia saw me in the kitchens; she says she's in need of a spot of myrrh for the Unc's medicine; she hasn't enough to make another batch."

Eglantine reached to the top shelf and took down a small, locked box; opening it, she removed two amber crystals and carefully placed them within a small paper, that retrieved from another, lower shelf. "Here, then, take this to her right away. I'm relieved your uncle brought us more from his South run; we were almost out and 'tis dreadfully necessary in that draught. Merry?"

"Yes, Aunt?"

"Here you go as well," Eglantine said, handing him the salt cellar, then smiled and added, "Don't let yourself become delayed by any more fisticuffs; Cook's waiting and he's as impatient as any thwarted craftshobbit. Fly!"

Merry held the precious box to his chest and flew.

* * * * * *

He was in his room, the door shut firmly behind him locked, shored up against the hard wood, pondering. Pondering…

Riddles.

There had come a rap on that same door, some time previous, but he hadn't answered, hadn't moved.

The room was dark, the only source of any illumination was a lamp wicked down to a small ember.

Throat tightening, he looked down at his feet. That memory echoed another, seeming eternities past…

Frodo swallowed hard, gripped tightly the locked knob at his back, and raised his eyes to peer at the connecting door.

It was unlocked. It swung inward, silently, on well-greased hinges.

Frodo tiptoed in just as silently with breath held, all hollow, behind teeth and tongue.

On the stove there was a kettle gently frothing; the stove was stoked high, keeping the room almost too warm. A pair of blue trousers was flung across a divan. There were plates upon the table, remnants of a meal that had not been eaten as it should—far too much was left on those plates. A cup of tea, half-emptied and long past gone cold.

Merimac wasn't there.

But where had he gone? Where would he go? Was he even now across the corridor, waiting for the return of not just Eglantine but her husband? Somewhere he'd undoubtedly receive more welcome than a stupid and selfish tweener had given him…?

A low snore made Frodo start and whirl about, then heave a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a sigh. There, sprawled across the bed with his leg bolstered by several pillows, Merimac lay asleep.

Still on tiptoe, breath still tight in his chest, Frodo padded over.

He'd seen such slumber many times; so often had Frodo lain awake beside his cousin, sleepless with awkward wonder and uncontainable bliss, security and solace and deep-laid humility at the presence so warm, so wrapped about him, so here. He knew every line of that face, every vein tracing that neck, the way those eyelids would quiver when Merimac was dreaming, the way he'd start awake if Gillyflower drifted as much as slightly off course and would leap into his trousers and head towards the stair before his eyes were even open.

The bandages on the propped-up leg were fresh, new linens were upon the bed and the nightshirt his cousin wore was spotlessly clean, if faded. Yet such wholesome trappings didn't quite disguise reality. Since that dreadful accident his cousin had understandably been drawn and frail-seeming, but Frodo's own self-imposed distance made him see it anew: Merimac lay entirely too quietly, too limply amidst the bedding; dark smudges like bruises beneath dark lashes, more lines tracing shadows into flesh that had been flushed ruddy brown yet now clung all sallow to hollows in cheek and neck and jaw. Even the black dragon that curled about his right forearm seemed to droop, no longer plumped out by the solidity of muscle, hanging in surrender to bone and sinew. Merimac's hair was lank, more like soiled straw than the bistre-dark strands Frodo had run his fingers through so often; he smelled not of clean sweat and smoky brine and uisge, but sickly sweet and tepid, the egest of pain and illness.

It's just going to take time, Frodo told himself, but the taint of uneasiness lingered and a small sound, a whimper almost, escaped him. Before he could even think to halt himself, he'd ever so gently leaned over the bed and reached out a hand to push the hair from Merimac's sweated forehead.

Merimac started, grumbled slightly. Bleary eyes opened, narrowed. He frowned, muttered, "Frodo?"

"I'm here," Frodo told him.

With another grumble and a few creaks and groans—not only from the bed, but stiff and outraged joints—Merimac shifted onto his side, still frowning, his hair once more falling back into his eyes. Those eyes fastened to Frodo's, puzzlement further clouding them.

Frodo wasn't sure what to say, or how to say it did he know. Instead he reached out, smoothed that lock of hair back once again and murmured, "Cousin Eglantine said she would send supper up."

Merimac was silent, still peering at him. Presently he ventured, drowsily, "You smell of the stables."

The recalcitrant brown wisp fell back. With a determined sigh, Frodo raked his fingers through his cousin's forelock and back, baring his forehead. "At least stables smell pleasant. You, on the other hand…"

"It's too warm and close in here."

"And what proper hobbit would scorn a nice cosy smial?"

"The definitive word is 'proper', eh?"

Silence. Merimac kept gazing at him. Frodo didn't take his hand away.

"You look dreadful."

"I feel somewhat dreadful," was Merimac's slow admittance. "I fear Eglantine's happy draught has worn off. And without it, the smial keeps spinning every time I think to move. Methinks, dear Cousin, that cursed long cart ride did me a disservice." He fell quiet once again.

"I should," Frodo suddenly whispered, "have been here earlier."

"Life is too short to waste on 'shoulds'." Merimac closed his eyes. "Ah, much better. Did our dear Thain-ish cousin put you up on old Ash?"

Frodo frowned—that had been yesterday, had Merimac so lost track of time? "Yes."

"I thought he might. Did you two get on, then?"

For several seconds Frodo considered whether Merimac was talking of Paladin or not, then realised he meant the pony. "Erm… I was told that Ash hadn't gone at such speed in quite a while."

Eyes still closed, Merimac smiled. "That's my lad. If it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing."

My lad. Inexplicable tears pricked behind Frodo's eyes; irritably he willed them away. Several times he opened his mouth, tried to say ten different things yet they all died upon his lips; he wasn't sure exactly what to say. Instead he kept running his fingers through the brown, lank hair.

Merimac lay quiet, submitting to Frodo's attentions. Once again silence crept between—not chill, but enveloping them both like a warm blanket. Long moments slid by unheeded, measured only by the ever-present earthy thrum of Smials, by the rise and fall of the coverlets over Merimac's ribcage as he breathed, by the rhythm of Frodo's fingers: forward then back, forward then back.

"If," Frodo finally asked, his voice hesitant into the stillness, "I ask Eglantine to bring you some more medicine for the sickness, would you consider a bath before supper? If I can arrange it?"

Merimac opened his eyes, considered the question for some seconds. "A bath," he said softly, wonderingly. "A real bath, in a tub?"

"That's what I was thinking. If I can have one brought in."

"Not a careful meander about my damned leg with a sponge and towel and too many goosepimples?"

"I thought it was too warm in here for goosepimples."

"Likely. But still. A real bath." Merimac paused. "If we can manage to contain my spinning head and heave my useless carcass into a tub, then I'd be churlish to refuse, wouldn't I?"

"Yes," Frodo managed over suddenly-tight vocal cords, "you would."

"Mm. However, I think…" Merimac trailed off, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

It wasn't a long pause, but it was enough to concern Frodo. His hand tightened against his cousin's skull. "Mac?"

The grey eyes opened once more, a small spark igniting within them. "I think you should make sure they bring a tub big enough for two. I refuse to sit to sup with a grubby stable lad."

Frodo closed his eyes, then smiled.

* * * * * *

Eglantine was, Frodo more and more found himself convinced, a miracle worker.

He had tiptoed across to the crème-coloured door and given an apprehensive tap; Eglantine had answered and ushered Frodo in while he had explained the predicament and expressed his concerns that it might not be possible. His apprehension proved itself false; within five minutes Smials' mistress was giving precise instructions to a young lass who had been summoned by pulling on a length of cord that made no noise but must go somewhere and do something with alacrity, the response was that immediate. Then Eglantine had given Frodo a kiss on both cheeks, pronounced his idea a capital one that she should have thought of herself, turned him about and shooed him back across the hall, saying it was all but done and he'd nothing to do but wait.

Within the span of another ten minutes, Eglantine had shown up with a dose suitable for assuring Merimac's comfort. Within an hour a gleaming, hammered brass and copper tub was brought in and settled next to the fireplace, followed by an impressive procession bringing vessel upon vessel of hot water. In an hour and a half the tub was filled, sending curls of vapour towards the ceiling, and Frodo and Merimac were once again alone.

Getting Merimac into that tub was somewhat of a challenge. He'd ill-temperedly refused help from the servants who'd brought it; it was only after they'd departed and he'd looked at first the tub, then his leg, then Frodo standing prudently out of the way, that he realised how foolish such pride had proven itself.

If Merimac's frame hadn't been rendered flexible from years of climbing rigging-rope, it most likely would have been impossible, but presently between caution, tenacity and quite a lot of swearing on both their parts, they managed, and the injured leg was carefully propped over the lowest end of the tub and laid on a pillowed stool beyond.

Merimac grimaced, shifted then settled back into the water with a gusty sigh. "A real bath," he marvelled again. "There are few things landshobbits possess that I covet, but the Smials' underground spring…" He sighed again, leaned his head against the high curve of the tub's head. "Hot water at your fingertips all year round, from deep in the Spiral."

"The Spiral?" Frodo queried suddenly; he'd heard that term somewhere before. He had. From… from…

From Lalia.

Two seconds later he also remembered how Eglantine had tried to silence her about it, as if it were some clandestine thing, yet here Merimac was speaking of it as nothing special. Was he also privy to Smials' secrets…?

"The way the caverns here wind down," Merimac was off-handedly explaining, "like one of those great conch shells I've in my cabin on Gillyflower."

A shell… a conch shell? It misted into Frodo's awareness, teasing remembrance then dispersing as Merimac continued.

"Pal has always called it the Spiral. Once when we were tweeners he guided me a ways down it; he was talking as if there was something truly wondrous there but all I saw was earth and more earth. He was all shirty because I wasn't suitably awed and we never did get all the way down—though we did spend some delightful and squirmy times in the soaks. There are hot springs down there, you see, lovely silty things several times warmer than blood heat, in fact many of the caverns are used as Smials' baths. Some Tookish ancestor actually went so far as to have the water piped up by some unlikely contraption that also keeps the pipes warm… bloody damn, Frodo, are you going to spend the entire time before supper circling this tub as if you were a bird looking for a steady spar to light on?"

Frodo blinked, grasped he was doing exactly that, and forced himself still.

"Neither can you take a bath with your clothes on. Hurry up, the water will cool and I was hoping I could talk you into scrubbing my back."

An answering smirk couldn't help ghosting itself across Frodo's lips as he raised fingers to his shirt buttons, but it was short-lived. He felt utterly, utterly foolish, because who but a fool would feel so suddenly hesitant to do such a simple thing as strip down for a bath? He peeled from his shirt, glanced at the doors, unfastened and kicked from his breeches and clout, looked at the doors once more.

"Yes, the doors are locked—you should know, you've checked them how many times?—so stop dithering and get in!" Merimac commanded.

The tub was not only large enough for two, but three, and the water was indeed deliciously hot, slick against the skin and smelling of clay and salts. Frodo climbed in opposite his cousin and eased down into pure bliss.

The displaced water lapped upward at Frodo's armpits and runneled over Merimac's collar bones as Merimac slid further down into the warmth. Frodo drew his knees to his chest with a sigh; Merimac gave a nudge to Frodo's knee as it brushed against his own good one and wiggled that foot beneath Frodo's rump, grinning at him. "That's more like it, eh?"

It was. But…

"Why?" Merimac said, and Frodo realised in mortification that he'd muttered the last several words aloud. "What do you mean, 'why'?"

Frodo sank down, hiding behind his knees, dropping his chin until it touched the water; he would have rather said nothing, ventured no further, but where there was usually within his heart a need for circumspection and silence there were instead questions demanding answers. Too many questions, in fact, and choosing one was all but impossible.

"Why," he finally whispered to the water, "do you put up with me?"

Silence. Then water sucked upwards and down about his chin; his knees were pushed gently aside and hard fingers rose from the water to take hold of that chin, tilting his face upwards to meet Merimac's. "Only you," his cousin said, "would think you have to even ask."

Frodo swallowed hard, his gaze fleeing sideways beneath the serious-soft light of his cousin's gaze. The fingers on his chin tightened, gave the smallest of warning shakes; Frodo looked up once more.

"And that's one of the more intriguing of the puzzles making up Frodo Baggins." The grey eyes were alight with the fond perplexity that had become all too commonplace. "Do you mean what happened earlier? Oh my dear, you and I are too bloody pig-headed to not have a toss or two on this wave we're riding. We're bound to get wet once in a while; in fact we've been soaked already more than once. Did you really think it would be otherwise?"

"No. I don't… Well, maybe… it's just… It's hard to explain," Frodo finished miserably.

"Hm." Merimac's fingers loosed his chin, traced up along one cheekbone; Frodo found himself angling into the touch, eyelids lowering. "You think I don't understand," Merimac continued. "But this time I think it's you who doesn't quite understand."

"I want to," Frodo said against the caressing palm.. "I do. And I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so… so daft, I shouldn't have left you, it's only…"

…it's only that I care too much and you… you're all… what is left and I try but I can't stop it, I know too much yet not enough…

"Come here," said Merimac firmly, and when Frodo hesitated, leaned across, grabbed him by both arms and pulled him close. Abruptly Frodo's entire world consisted of warm, bare flesh slicking close and wet against his own, another heart beating steadily against his breastbone, breath stirring his hair, arms wrapping him close, thighs gripping at his haunches, and all of it so close, so here that he felt as if he could just sink into his cousin's skin and gladly—gladly!—disappear…

"I thought we'd settled this, love."

He couldn't speak. This time he wanted to; Frodo willed words to his tongue, demanded that they obey him, but nothing. Tell him, damn it! he cried to himself. Say something, anything, tell him why!

Merimac waited.

"I just want to… to understand." The words finally came, hoarse with half resentment and half relief, both underlain with fierce apprehension. "I thought I did. I don't mean to… to… clutch to you like a drowning sailor." The reference was unfortunate but apropos; such fragile over-dependence was as repulsive to him as it was to Merimac. What bound them did so because the bindings were not fetters. But now, when everything had been taken and he saw the possibility of this last thing being taken as well?

"Loving is such a simple thing," Merimac murmured into his hair, "and you try to make it so complicated… Look. I'm your first playmate—and I won't be your last if I know you, you're all hot coals and fireworks under those half-mast eyes of yours—but regardless of where we go or who we are, even when you're in your fifties and I'm in my eighties still struggling to keep up with you… you'll always have a place with me. Not only at my side, but in my heart."

"But—"

"Shh. When the day comes, soon or late, that another playmate walks into your life, and you'll want to go with them, for play or love or both… well, we may or may not be together then, but do you really think I'll say you nay?"

"No, but…" Frodo fought for words. "Mac, I don't want anyone else. Not like this."

"Of course you don't," agreed Merimac, to Frodo's surprise. "And neither will you. It can't all be the same, you know. It's never the same twice, and that's how it should be."

Frodo clenched his fists against the broad chest and wondered how it could transpire that he lay naked and curled so tight against another that they might have been one creature, yet what cravings possessed him were not so much physical as ones which pierced him head and heart, an arrow released from too-tight nock.

"Are you not eager to broach the Gamgee maiden, eh? Would you turn her away, or expect me to cause some unforgivable and childishly-dramatic ruckus by leaping between you both and refusing to let you bed her?" Merimac lifted his eyebrows, his voice purposefully deeper. "Or are you telling me that your part in the Bel-fires shall be no more than grim and onerous duty, that you'll do me the rather-dubious compliment of closing your eyes, lying back and thinking of nothing but Dear Cousin Merimac?"

A sudden urge to giggle hitched at Frodo's ribs and he protested, "It's not the same…" then trailed off, recognising that he'd said it before.

"I know. When are you going to start believing it, eh?"

Frodo fell silent for a long moment. Then said, dourly, "If I were you, I'd trout me. Hard."

"Mm." Merimac's right hand started trailing over the curve of Frodo's back. "I've entertained the notion a time or two, believe you me. For such a keen set of brains as you have beneath that dark thatch of yours, at times you can be remarkably dense."

Frodo was unsure whether to be affronted or not, decided he'd thoroughly deserved that one and let it go.

"Just remember this, cousin-mine. I will trout you if you walk out on me like that again. The only thing that saved you was my leg buckling under me when I thought to follow you."

"You came after me?" Frodo wondered at the spasm of pure satisfaction that particular revelation gave him.

"Tried to, I said." Merimac gestured impatiently at his propped-up leg.

"But you came after me. Would have. I mean—"

"That I did." There was also an underlying satisfaction in Merimac's tone, as if he'd proven something to himself. His hand kept up its soothing motions along Frodo's spine, lingering most particularly in spots that made Frodo twitch, and not unpleasantly. "I am glad you came back, though. I was just a bit miserable, if you must know. And more than fairly peeved."

"I was, too."

"Peeved, or miserable?"

"Both," Frodo confessed, and his cousin gave that broadly-crooked grin which never failed to send Frodo's stomach straight to butterflies.

How was it that Merimac did this to him so easily? It never took very long to make the admittedly swift journey from platonic comfort to very physical cravings; today had been a marathon in comparison, equalling out at just over an hour.

It also could be considered Merimac's responsibility that Frodo found sex in bathtubs a Fine Thing.

Shifting very deliberately, Frodo ran one finger up the sparse-furred length of his cousin's breastbone. "Perhaps," he ventured just as deliberately, "since we were so thoroughly miserable, we should have several hours of make-up sex."

"Hours!" Merimac snorted. "Fancy that."

"It's been a long time, you know."

"Has it? What if I break the news to you that it has been," Merimac's eyes followed the progress of Frodo's finger with some amusement, "a grand total of…" he trailed off, frowning. "It was the day of that questionably-entertaining supper at the Hall… Bugger. How long have we been here? I've rather lost track of time. And here I always thought I had a good memory for my age."

"You've been," Frodo ran his hand down to Merimac's hip, this time, "slightly under the weather, you know. I'm not sure age has anything to do with it."

"Mm. Possibly. All I do know is that right now I feel every bit of that age and more; I doubt being dragged behind a four-hitch of Pal's ponies would be worse. Forgive me, love, but it would take more than even your considerable persuasive abilities to get that sort of rise from me tonight."

"Even if I beg?" Frodo tried. "You've said you like it when I beg."

"Oh, and that I do. But I am afraid it's a lost cause. I'm sorry."

Disappointment made Frodo a bit sharp. "Then stop smiling at me like that. It's indecent, what you do to me just by smiling."

A gleam came to Merimac's eyes—but he didn't stop smiling. "If I do half the indecent things to you that you seem to do to me, then we might just consider it even, eh? Anyway, I think you're just trying to renege on your promise to scrub my back."

"I do want to scrub you. Just not only your back."

Merimac's grin faded and with it all sense of pretence. "I'd think to offer you some ease, but honestly, Frodo… I don't think I can. Lanna's old wort-wife makes a powerful brew, but… I… I hurt. And no amount of happy exercise is going to get beyond it, not tonight."

The lack of response in the body against his and the ragged undertone to Merimac's voice firmly stoppered any further protests, playful or otherwise. Frodo leaned forward and kissed his cousin on one cheek, chagrined at his own insistent anatomy as well as plain irritated at himself for not heeding what should have been obvious, had he been regarding anything but himself.

In fact, he hadn't been paying attention as he ought since they'd arrived here.

"Well, a dose of something—and as to the parts of that something, I'd rather not question—but it helps keep the world in one place, and as for the leg I understand the pain's a good thing; it means I'm healing up," Merimac furthered quickly; Frodo's sudden concern must have proven transparent. "Perhaps then I'll be able to keep up with you… oh, who am I trying to fool, I find it difficult on my best days to keep up with you, you little tosser, and—whpf!" This as Frodo put fingers over his lips.

"I'm sorry," Frodo said earnestly. "I shouldn't have… well. I won't tease. I'll behave myself, scrub your back, haul you out of this tub and dry you off. We'll have dinner and call it well done for the night."

Relief sparked in the grey eyes. Frodo smiled and reached for the soap.

* * * * * *

The tub had been emptied and taken away by the very hobbits—plus several they had recruited into helping—who brought supper.

Frodo wasn't sure how the sovereigns of Smials had managed salmon—he supposed they were close enough to the Western coastlines to make it possible—but his gratitude for their thoughtfulness soon turned to concern as Merimac seemed disinterested in even his favourite dish.

"The way you're chasing that fish about on your plate," Frodo told him, purposefully bright, "one would think it was still flopping about."

"I like salmon," answered his cousin, in a tone that suggested he was trying to remind or convince himself.

"I know, and this is a really good one," Frodo furthered hopefully.

Merimac took another drink of wine, continued to push the food about on his plate.

"It's worse, isn't it?"

Merimac shrugged, then abandoned any pretence at hunger, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "I think I'm just tired. And perishing for a bit of sky and wind."

"Perhaps we could take you for a small outing tomorrow, then."

"Perhaps you could steal Lalia the Fat's bath-chair; that would be fitting, eh?"

Frodo snorted at the appellation and threatened, "I just might."

"Spare me that much humiliation, at least. I'll try the crutch. But for now," he opened his eyes, "I think I'll go to bed. Come with me?" Beneath the lightness was a raw plea; Frodo's heart did several flip-flops.

"Of course I will," he said quietly.

* * * * * *

He hears water, lapping against sand and rock. The creak of wood, the susurrus of sailcloth luffing in the breeze, the rattle of cord and clamp and pulley against spar and beam.

He smells salt, tastes moisture on his tongue. From the shore there is the scent of mud and bracken, of flowers newly budded; from beneath his feet rises the mix of oil and grease, scrubbed-white wood and sweat, fish and silt.

Gillyflower.

But, not.

When he looks up, the sails are alabaster-pale, so thin they seem spun of gossamer, and the wood about him is also pale—not from the bleaching of sweat and soap, but grained glossy and new. A tangy, soft breeze caresses his cheeks, sends strands of dark hair trailing and curling over his face and throat. Above him a glittering bell tilts in the breeze, its voice pure and crystalline-sweet. However the decking beneath his feet does not sway with the light airs; it is still, so unnaturally still as to hover, it seems, surrounded by a never-ending sea of glass upon which stars dance and the moon rises, framed by ancient spires, reflected over and over again in the glass.

It is beautiful, and terrible, and he fears being lost in that glass yet beneath the terror he yearns to go there—oh, how he wants to see past those ruins, climb that horizon, sink into that huge, golden moon…

More silence, several drawn-out heartbeats. Then, Who would you have me be?

Choose? He hesitates, says the first thing to come to his heart. Why must I?

Arya vaninyonya, elenion ar sirë, she says, the old Elvish—he remembers its sound if not its meaning from that night of starfire madness—and he wonders how she speaks so, she is no elf… is she?

A glint of teeth bares in either a snarl or smile—he can't tell which, and her eyes glimmer against the light in her hands. I remember. Yet you do not… and perhaps it is kinder. I spoke of you, my little lost son of the stars and river. You have come into earth, out of sacrifice, by starfire. What would you choose, now?