The dreams didn't stop.

They did grow formless, muted; his resolute attention to pen and paper seemed to be seeing to that. But they refused to stop. And sitting hunched over his desk o'nights gave him no sense of the satisfaction he normally gained upon filling pages of parchment. It was forced, a set task to discipline his unruly mind, and the words reflected it.

Frodo grew haggard from lack of sleep. He managed to hide it from Merimac; not difficult despite Frodo's determined attentiveness to his cousin, as said cousin was suffering in his own way and not as hawk-eyed as normal. Frodo did do his best to avoid Paladin and Eglantine every chance he could; this was difficult, particularly as both of them came to Merimac's smial, sometimes to tend him, oft-times just to bear him company. Frodo would retire to his own hole as soon as he could during those times, beneath the pretence—and it still gave him insecure twinges of resentment but he refused to let them show—of letting his cousins have their own time.

His mornings were spent on the gallops; the only true sense of release he received was mornings spent riding River, often at top speed, across the damp turf. Paladin put him on two more ponies, and many times Frodo would be galloping next to Merry, both of them riotous with the wind in their faces, drunk on the thunder of hoofs on the turf, on the surge of contained, raw power between their knees. Sometimes Pippin and several of his set would be about, riding their own ponies; the little tyke could really, really ride and, as Merry said, it was brilliant to see Pippin's boundless energy used for something other than chattering non-stop to them.

Yet despite their time together, Merry was daily growing more distant. Frodo was perversely thankful of this, for it meant that Merry wasn't paying the close attention that he normally would have. But the knowledge was nevertheless a dull itch: not quite pain and with a little effort smoothed into comfort. It was a comfort, to see Merry so content and busy. Yet for all of that, Frodo would sometimes catch the younger boy peering at him with an unfathomable expression, one which made Frodo wonder if Merry had somehow figured out what was going on between Cousin Frodo and Uncle Merimac.

It cautioned Frodo into even more circumspection. He didn't like that Merry should see him so differently, that the one constant that had remained with him since Merry had been born was altering into…

Into what?

What do you see, and why? he wanted to ask Merry.

But he didn't.

Merry wondered how the cousin who rode like a daemon and urged him on so, that screamed with laughter as they rode the ponies breakneck over the dales and would come to a halt so flushed and breathless and starry-eyed that it made Merry's own heart race… how could Frodo be so full of heat and life one moment, then snuff it cold as if guttering a candle, become so painfully formal and polite?

Of course, Merry fully realised that his cousin was very, very good at slamming doors in one's face, even if those doors weren't really doors but more like a thick veil that lowered to obscure Frodo's eyes, rendering them—and thusly Frodo's spirit—impenetrable.

But still… Merry wondered why and he also wondered why it was almost a relief that Frodo was so distant, and all because Merry feared being near him yet wanted to be near him so badly it ached.

Perhaps Frodo was so detached because Merry had indeed gone on Bounds rides with Uncle Paladin—and enjoyed them—and Merry knew that he himself didn't like it when things lured Frodo farther from Merry. But that didn't really seem possible; one of the most annoying traits about Frodo was how he refused to entertain or allow that sort of possessiveness, and no matter how Merry tried to protest that it only meant he cared, Frodo refused to see it.

And wasn't it just like Frodo that he didn't seem to mind Merry having new friends? Merry wasn't too sure he cared for that any more than he was complacent with Frodo spending so much time with Uncle Merimac. It wasn't Uncle Mac's fault that he'd shattered his leg and was so sick, but still there was the feeling, almost shameful and never purged, of resentment towards his uncle for having so much of Frodo's attention.

Perhaps that was the reason; perhaps Frodo's preoccupation was all because of Uncle Merimac—who wasn't doing very well—and Frodo had to help take care of him, despite the fact that Frodo knew both Merry's uncles—and his aunt, if rumours were true—had been, well, playmates, and maybe still were…

Maybe that was also why Frodo avoided Uncle Paladin even more than he was avoiding Merry; maybe Frodo was uncomfortable spending so much time with Uncle Mac when it was obvious that there was something between both of Merry's uncles and maybe Frodo wished… wished for…

Wished for what?

Anyway, those kinds of things didn't bother Frodo. Only…

Only that Frodo was old enough to be running with his own playmates—and glory, if that didn't make Merry want to punch something, and hard, because… well... because—but instead Frodo was playing nursemaid to Uncle Merimac, probably really frustrated and bored, and if only Merry was old enough, he could… he could…

And Merry's brain refused to entertain that any further; it would just shut down as effectively as one of Frodo's internal doors.

Perhaps Frodo was stand-offish because he realised that Bran didn't like him—and though Bran still thought of Frodo as a toffee-nosed tweener, he no longer expressed that opinion in Merry's hearing so Merry had forgiven him, sort of, particularly because Bran was really, really good at what often went on in the darkest corner of the feed room and the sort of play they indulged in seemed to take Merry's thoughts away from Frodo even when he didn't know why his mind was on Frodo.

Anyway, perhaps Frodo was trying to be polite. Frodo could be really, really outspoken at times, but he knew how to be polite, that was certain.

Blast it all, Merry should just grab Frodo by the shoulders, shake him, make him tell what was going on and why.

But he didn't.

A week later, Frodo took everything he'd written over the past nights and fed his hearth with it, burning the scrawled-upon parchment for the garbage it was.

Merimac was sleeping, oblivious in the connecting smial—all he did was sleep anymore, particularly after ministrations to his leg, which left him exhausted—and it seemed that Frodo himself had merely traded one sort of imprisonment for another. The watchful eyes of Brandy Hall and Bag End had been replaced by those of Smials, only it wasn't just Merimac who was no longer that safe harbour to rest in but a treacherous and slippery shoal into the dark, or Paladin who watched him with a strange, patient glint in his eyes and obviously waiting for something, it was also and even more the never-ending spiral of dreams…

For the first time, he actively yearned to speak of it, to tell someone, anyone.

But he didn't.

* * * * * *

Eglantine, backed by old Clivia, prescribed soaks for Merimac's leg; the slightest bit of infection had set in. Mere basin-soaks would not do the job; the caverns were the best place for it. Hobbits had, for years, sworn upon the healing power of Tuckborough's underground springs with good reason; and those soaks weren't so far from the family wing that Merimac couldn't manage to make it there on his better days with a stout crutch and Frodo's help; dry land and judicious drugs were bit by bit clearing his head, and the small bit of exercise would do him good, set his blood to running through his veins and ease the swelling of his leg.

When Frodo had thought to protest this—it seemed a long walk to him—Eglantine had given him a warning shake of her head and he'd remained silent, unsure.

The first attempt was excruciating, both for Merimac and Frodo; slow and obviously painful and they had to stop more than once so Merimac could prop himself against the wall and pant as if they'd run miles. However, they made it and several cousins, already at the baths, helpfully settled them into a small area off to itself. Once they had departed Frodo unwound the padding, carefully heeding the instructions Eglantine had given him and taking care not to disturb the sets.

The wound was still ugly; however frayed flesh was beginning to scab over, trying to bind itself back together, and bare bone was no longer so clearly visible. Unfortunately peeling the bandages away also peeled much of the scabs, and it did have an unhealthy yellow tinge to it that was not only puffy, but obviously painful; Merimac winced several times and swore beneath his breath.

"I suppose," Merimac said, dubiously peering at it, "it has improved."

"It most certainly has. But then," Frodo replied, "you didn't see it all bloody and broken on the decking."

"A mercy, that. If you can hold the damned thing, I think I can inch my way over to the pool."

Secluded or no, they received quite a few visitors, all of them curious but obviously concerned as well. One hobbit in particular, close to Merimac's age, came over and had a soak with them for a good while; Merimac's eyes brightened as he introduced the newcomer to Frodo as Milo Burrows, who'd been born in the Eastfarthing but had married a Baggins and moved West.

"We're here visiting relatives," Milo answered Merimac's inquiry. "If you remember, Peony's sister lives here at Smials, in the east-most curve. So, offspring and all, we came for a visit."

"I hope you can stay for a while," Merimac said.

"As we can; planting's not so far off, you know, and always earlier South. We just got here," he furthered, "or no doubt I'd have heard you were here as well. Can't stay away from the auld sod, eh?"

"Don't talk about Paladin that way," Merimac retorted, with a sly humour Frodo hadn't seen in far too long; Milo betrayed his earnest nature by quickly apologising and protesting that he hadn't meant that, not at all, then gave Merimac a swat upside the head once he figured out that the joke was on him.

"Cheeky beggar," he started, then gave a sigh as a feminine voice called his name. "Back to family duties," he explained, rising from the soak with a "Coming, dear!"

"Faith and fishes, but I wouldn't have Peony Baggins on a tray with garnish," Merimac said once his old friend had left earshot. "But each to their needs. Milo loves her to distraction and they've a crop of tousled, happy kids, nothing wrong with that even if Peony is too brisk for my tastes. Eh, we had some times when we were tweeners, despite him being somewhat… conventional." He grinned. "I try to keep in touch, but Milo's piss-poor at answering anything sent to him, post or package… by the Mother," he leaned back with a sigh, "but this feels good. I thought it would sting like a bed of ants, but I think for the first in too long I don't wish my leg would just fall off. And it might be the blood pounding in my head and nothing more, but the dizziness hasn't tripped me for a good half-hour."

After a while, they dragged somnolent bodies from the water and laid on the rocks. In fact, Merimac dozed off several times, waking up merely to turn over with the statement that he wasn't sure he had the wherewithal to leave, it was too delicious.

Frodo snuck a glance at him; the warm waters had put some colour back into his face, and when Paladin arrived at the designated interval, complete with rolling bath-chair, Merimac had rallied enough to protest that he could make it back if he'd made it here, thank you very much.

Paladin was, however, more insistent. "My dear wife sent me specifically; says you're not to hop about until she gets your leg re-bandaged. Right now she's more able to trout me proper than you. Get in."

Eglantine indeed was waiting with the old wort-wife, her arms full of bandages and salves; Frodo escaped to his own smial and a favoured book.

After they had all gone, Merimac called to him and Frodo gladly answered.

Perhaps it was going to be all right.

* * * * * *

Dark, everything is dark and damp; there is wood-smell within his nostrils, however this is no ship's keel but wet and living, green with sap and leaf. His eyes adjust, pupils widening in the filtered light; wet fern brushes his calves, and dark branches trace against the night sky, and shadows flicker against rough bark.

He still has sand upon his belly and thighs from that faraway, fantastic beach, however beneath his feet no longer spreads velvet sand, but rich, black loam, thick and firm.

She has returned. He is no longer surprised; She is always there, somehow, even when she wears the face of someone he knows.

She is peering at him from behind a yew tree, the ragged bark seeming an extension of the odd tatters that are her clothes; he wonders at what she likely is, for he has heard of beings like this: dryads, tree-people, spirits of wood and water…

He takes a small step backward, away from her, into a patch of moonlight fingering its way through the trees; he tenses for scattered seconds, remembering, always remembering… yet the stars sing quiet and he feels their song swirl down, not to overcome him but as if to caress his curls where the wind would riffle and tangle.

She smiles and simply reaches behind; once again in her cupped hands She brings forth the shell. It no longer gleams alabaster but muted amber and speckled umber—yet the light burns no less gold, is no less a pinpoint of brilliant heat.

It flickers about them, reflects against stone and darkness.

No longer does the starlight ripple clear chords through his hair; it has been muted by the earth thrumming beneath his feet. Earth, stone, wood, tree… and the light, held like a beating heart in Her palms.

I… He hesitates, says desperately, I do not know. Please, please leave me be!

Submit… He hears the echo, faint and clear, of Elladan's spirit. We cannot fight all things. To some things we must submit.

The words beguile, echo through cavernous rock, weave possibilities, glimmers in darkness, about them. He takes in a deep breath: bewildered, giddy, lost.

There… there is no truth, he tells Her, vehement.

The words are a thrill of recognition. Even as Elladan spoke to him of submission, Frodo had spoken to the elf with just these words. Yet they halt him with wary confusion.

He has never been able to actually take it. Always has something held him back.

She smiles again then alerts, eyes flickering past him and into the darkness. She cocks her head as if listening. Then She bows her head, puts the shell into tattered clothes. Its light fades. She begins to back away.

Wait! he begs. I don't understand!

He starts, hears his own voice in echo of her words: I can wait forever…

And again he starts up, wakes gasping and spent.

Only this time, he finds eyes upon him.

"Frodo?" The bed gave a soft creak as Merimac rose to his elbows. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure," Frodo managed to say past the huge, panicked lump in his throat. "I had… a dream."

A hand placed itself gently on his back, making him start. "I'd say nightmare, more like," his cousin said. "You're all a-sweat and shaking."

Frodo realised that he was.

"This isn't the first time, either. Is it?"

He turned, saw a concern and comprehension in the grey eyes that surprised him; he hadn't known his cousin had been aware of any of it.

"I don't always take the medicine," was Merimac's reply. "I spend too much of my time dreaming, too…" He tugged gently at Frodo's curls. "Come here, love."

Frodo surrendered to the insistent embrace, smothered his ragged breaths against Merimac's chest, closed his eyes and held tight.

"I used to wonder why you'd dream like this," his cousin's voice hummed against his cheek.

"Like what?" Frodo whispered.

"Well, so fierce and frightened and… ruthless. As though you rode the night mare without a bridle, frantically trying to stay on her…" Merimac trailed off, then said, "Perhaps it's to the good we brought you here, eh?"

Why would it be good? Frodo silently wondered then spoke, purposefully light. "I thought we brought you here."

"Mm. And I think," his cousin slowly ventured, "that perhaps I've another hag-ridden Took in my arms."

A strange chill went up Frodo's spine at the words. "What do you mean?"

"What's it like," Merimac suddenly murmured, "to dream like that?"

Frodo swallowed hard, forced some strength into his voice. "Like what?"

"Like you can see through all the walls, peer into all those little smials."

Frodo waited, but Merimac remained silent, his breathing ragged, and Frodo propped up, crossing his arms against Merimac's chest. "Smials?" he asked softly. "What smials?"

"The ones," was the slow answer, "that contain what… what we are. And what will be…"

The words almost whispered, gave Frodo a chill—not only what they implied, but that Merimac—solid, practical, about-as-fae-as-a-rigging-rope Merimac—was saying them.

What was going on?

"You should have taken your medicine; you're talking nonsense, love." Frodo tried to tease but it fell short; instead he leaned forward and laid several kisses to Merimac's chin.

"That tickles, you," his cousin batted at him, and as quickly as the disconcerting moment had come it was gone, Merimac's gaze clearing from the cloud.

It's just the pain, Frodo reassured himself, the pain talking for him and nothing more than that. You're imagining anything more; the dreams always make you vulnerable to seeing things that aren't there, and you know it.

"I am talking out my arse, aren't I?" Merimac suddenly said, his voice stronger. "Pay me no heed, I think I wander sometimes. This sodding leg had better heal soon before I start blithering like my father and then you will have to drown me." He nuzzled the top of Frodo's head. "All the dream-shivers gone, then?"

Frodo heard him with one part of his mind; the other part was frantically protesting, yet still he knew the lie beneath his protests; there was something not right about any of this, because the dreams made him vulnerable all right, vulnerable to things that, yes, weren't normally there… hidden things that no one should be able to see and why hadn't this left when the elves had taken the Song from him and why did he have to know this, why?

"Frodo?" Merimac softly persisted, "are they, then? Gone?"

"Yes. They're gone." Frodo clenched his lids against the tears in his eyes, set his teeth against the persistent, pernicious twirl of his thoughts, fought them with the very real and tender awareness of how like his cousin it was to try and comfort him when he was so disabled himself.

But it wasn't working. Suddenly the smial seemed too close, almost stifling. He sat up, rubbing his palms into his eyes.

"Mac, I need to… to go for a walk. I need some fresh air to finish… finish shaking away the nightmares."

"I see." Silence, then, "Walk a bit for me, will you?"

Frodo turned to him remorsefully; Merimac's expression also went culpable and he purposefully smiled, gave him another playful cuff. "I told you, pay me no heed; I'm muzzy and stupid tonight. And anyway, Vinca is determined to roust me out-of-doors tomorrow; she's set on nicking the Great Bitch's bath-chair since I'm not up for a long walk. Personally I'd rather rot, but the lass is bloody determined."

Frodo couldn't help but smirk—he had come to know Pervinca's persistence first hand. But it didn't ease his discomfort; he found himself leaning back, pulling away.

"Come back soon, lad," Merimac told him, tugging at the curls on his nape. "You need your sleep; you can only howl all day and prowl all night for so long, you know."

"Says you," Frodo managed the tease this time, leaned over and kissed his nose. Let me go… let me go, please…

"Off with you, then."

Merimac released him, and he escaped.

* * * * * *

It was long past midnight, and Frodo still sitting upon the front stoop of Great Smials. He'd thought to keep going, keep walking until exhaustion took him, perhaps lose himself in the patch of trees just past the commons, but such resolve had abandoned him and he'd not made it past the front entrance. Instead he'd dropped heavily to the top step, put his head in his hands and sat there, mute and quivering.

A dove called from the tree verge; its mate answered, low and throaty. The night was clear and the moon's crescent swayed high above the treetops, thin horns of gilt against black night and silver stars. Those stars beckoned to him, urging him to come out and bask in their light but he stayed hunched over on the step, denying their call—for if he succumbed to that then what other song might enter his unguarded senses?—letting the overhang cover him in shadow. The light airs reached him, however, cooling his hot cheeks, soothing him as he turned his face to that beckoning sky.

The step was cold and damp, and crouching there for such a long time had rendered him stiff and sore. With a small groan, Frodo rose to his feet, set his back into the smooth, sturdy post of the overhang, shot an uncertain glance back towards the door and from whence he'd come. He should return.

Not yet, the night coaxed, and something within him agreed, Yes, just a little longer, just to breathe….

The moon was low enough to illuminate the doorway, rose-white to blend with the light of the lanterns set to each side of the large entry; the curve of the lintel gleamed and there were small, curious shadows scattered over it. Frodo blinked, then remembered the first time he'd crossed this step just over a fortnight previous.

That lintel, so obviously aged, and when he'd touched it the feeling had been…

Odd. Comforting. Familiar, yet so strange as to not be believed.

Would it do the same, now?

It was better than chasing himself into tighter circles, better than contemplating…

Frodo padded slowly over to the door, thighs still tingling from sitting for so long, and halted directly before it. There were indentations set into the grain of the lintel; he leaned closer then gingerly reached up, placed a gentle touch along the wood. It seemed… warm, somehow, and his fingers tingled when he drew them back. A bemused smile curving the corner of his mouth, he reached out, ran his fingers over the wood once more; it was smooth as glass, even the carvings.

But not simply carvings, no. They were letters. Leaning even closer he traced their edges. It was common script yet also oddly uncommon, and hard to read. The spelling was quite archaic, the lettering flourished with odd bits here and there.

His lips vibrated, forming the words as he spelled them out.

Tucks Burrowe crowned the headpiece, then to either side were the words Here I byde, fowes ere fyre—The erth hath takyn me, the erth be myne.

At the top of the lintel there was an intricate flourish, set in curves that fed back into themselves; his fingers, following the line, were led from the edges of it into its centre, a complicated but definite path.

"'Tis quite beautiful, at that."

With a squeak, Frodo whirled and snatched his hand away from the lintel, putting it behind his back.

"Nay." The moon limned the owner of the voice in fire-silver, rendered the face dark, yet Frodo knew it just as he knew the voice, in dreams and reality. Paladin mounted the steps and came to stand beside Frodo. "Don't be afraid, or ashamed. Such things should be touched, remembered, made real." As if to demonstrate, he reached out and lovingly ran his hand along the letters.

Frodo swallowed his breath back, willed steady his pounding heart.

"I did give you a start, didn't I?" Paladin said, giving the wood one last caress before he turned to Frodo, his eyes kind. "I'm sorry, lad; 'tisn't fair to creep up on you when you're a thousand years away. Fitting, for that's about how long this lintel has been here."

Intrigued, Frodo's gaze returned to the wood. "Was it, really?"

"It surrounded the door to the first smial burrowed here."

Tucks burrowe. Silently, Frodo let his eyes re-trace the words. Tuckborough.

"It's a bit late for a walk," Paladin ventured. "Can't sleep?"

"No."

"Neither can I some nights," was the rejoinder, and Frodo noticed that the Took was not at his normal and natty best; his hair mussed, in his shirtsleeves with those rolled up, the shirt halfway buttoned and rather sloppily tucked into an ancient pair of breeches. Paladin took a deep breath then exhaled frostily in the cool air, looked upward. "And this one's a beauty, aye? Clear as dark indigo glass, pocked with stars."

Standing next to the Thain, with that intense gaze boring into the starfield as opposed to his own self, Frodo felt a strange respite in his companion's normally unsettling presence. "Do you often watch the stars?" he asked.

"As I can," Paladin answered. "The perfect way to shrug off a complicated day, and if the day wasn't so complicated," he shrugged, and teeth glinted in the dim, "'tis still a nice bit of quiet."

That was a perfect opportunity to make an exit, and Frodo was surprised that he didn't take it. Instead he let the starlight whisper through his curls, and wondered what Paladin heard as he looked upward—if he indeed heard anything. Supposedly this particular Took had more than the usual touch of 'fae'—but rumours were, as Frodo knew all too well, deceitful.

"You look as though you've had an uneasy day yourself, lad," his cousin ventured all too prosaically, putting his hands into his pockets and not taking his eyes from the sky.

An uneasy day. And wasn't that an understatement.

Paladin stood silently next to him, still looking at the night sky as if he'd not a care in the world. The stars seemed to crown him; if Frodo looked closer he could swear to seeing them, glimmering, through fabric and flesh, as the Thain also surrendered himself to the night…

He made a tiny step of retreat; Paladin turned to him questioningly but Frodo looked down, put his palms to his eyes and rubbed hard.

"I should go." Frodo turned away. "I promised Merimac I'd get some sleep, at any rate."

He took two steps, was halted by Paladin's voice, low and vital. "Frodo. Wait."

His mind debated ignoring the words; his body stopped him before he could contemplate such resistance, half turning back towards his companion.

There was a grim consideration in Paladin's expression that sent a strange, anxious tremor through Frodo. "Lad, are you all right?"

"I'm… fine. I'm just tired, and—"

"And you'd rather not be near me unless you absolutely have to."

Those words froze him to the spot; urge for retreat or no, he had no choice but to raise his face to Paladin and wonder how… Eyes meeting eyes, and too much truth betrayed there, and Frodo tore his gaze away, his heart hammering so hard his temples pounded. "I don't know what you mean."

"Are you sure of that?" Paladin said gently, and when Frodo glanced warily toward him there was a wistful?—yes, wistful!—light in the green eyes. "Oh, to be a tween again, and to want so much, even when the cup is already filled to overflowing… 'tis a pretty spot you've found yourself in, Frodo Baggins."

"I don't think you know the half of it," he muttered, unable to disguise the resentment underlying his words.

"I know the Tooks have a reputation for foolery and sport," Paladin told him. "But I'm not daft and if you think I canna' ken the battle waging 'twixt your head and heart when you turn those lovely eyes to me—or to Eglantine—then you're the one who's daft."

Frodo stared at him. It was too much; why was he saying these things and oh, he'd thought he'd disguised it well enough but he should have known, for Paladin had been watching, even as Bilbo had once watched him, only at Bag End Bilbo's instinctual Tookishness had been tempered by the prosaic and cheerily-oblivious leavening that was Baggins, and here there was nothing but the Took…

Paladin continued, still so gently frank. "You want to hate me, you think I would take away what little you have—though if you're thinking 'tis such a little thing then you're underestimating both yourself and our dear Merimac—yet you can't hate me because you're too intelligent and sensitive for such as that. You want whatever it is we have here—you can feel it, I've seen it in you—yet your mind isn't sure what that even is, your heart's been trampled once too often and your body's so newly wakened that you're not sure what it's saying that you do want."

Humiliation flared heat into Frodo's cheeks; he dropped his gaze. "You're mocking me."

"Nay, never." For the first time since Frodo had arrived Paladin reached out and touched him, fingers brushing the hair back from one temple. "I make no jest, lad, none of it. I don't take it lightly. I don't take you lightly."

Frodo wanted to pull away, yet he couldn't; he wanted to return the touch but couldn't, rooted to the spot like a hare beneath the hawk—and as if comprehending this Paladin drew quickly back, closed his fingers into a fist and told him, "I also don't trespass where I'm the least bit uninvited. I only want you to know that I'm no threat to you." He paused. "In any way."

I don't believe you; I don't, do you hear me? Frodo took a step back. "I need…"

"Yes?" was the calm response.

"I need… to go. I can't—"

"Dada?"

They both started; Frodo flung his head up, eyes wide, Paladin gave a sigh and a wry smile, turned. Frodo looked past his companion's shoulder to see Pippin padding across the green in his nightshirt, a rather-limp, stuffed toy wedged beneath one arm and a thumb planted firmly in his mouth. Frodo wondered how he had gotten there, watched father go over to son and scoop him up; Pippin clamped skinny arms and legs about his father's torso, and Frodo had to smile, this time glad of the wistful clench of his belly—it was more understandable, more… finite.

"The night wanderings breed all too true in our blood, aye?" Paladin remarked as he turned, Pippin in his arms, back towards Frodo. "All three of us seem prone to it. And how often, Peregrin Took," he chided his son, gave him a tiny shake, "have I told you to not crawl out your window?"

"But I heard voices," the child protested. "I thought I was just dreaming again, but then I heard you, and Frodo, but I couldn't hear well enough to know what you were saying so I got curious. And anyway, I had to come and see Frodo because I've not seen him enough lately, even if he is staying here." A large set of sleepy green eyes cut accusatorially towards Frodo.

"What have you been dreaming about, son?" Paladin asked Pippin, and the serious way he spoke sent an odd tremor up Frodo's spine.

"Not sure," the child retorted, rubbing a fist at his eyes.

Frodo wondered at Paladin's resultant frown; it was certainly out of proportion to such commonplace information.

"Well," Paladin said, in a light tone that didn't match his expression, "most dreams aren't worth the bother of remembering, at that. But you be sure to tell me if you do remember."

"Oh, I will," Pippin affirmed and gave a huge yawn. "Hoy, the stars are so bright tonight, Dada. And you know, Frodo knows the names of all of them."

"All, you say?" Over his son's curly head, Paladin gave Frodo a smile.

"Oh, yes. Frodo, tell us what that one," a finger pointed somewhere in the direction of up, "is."

"Oh, no," Paladin said as Frodo started to open his mouth. "Surely you're making a game try, but you'll gain no delays this late, young hobbit. It's back to bed for you."

"Ohhhh, but I'm not sleepy, Dada." This despite the jaw-cracking yawn Pippin displayed.

"Mm," said Dada, and again Frodo had a supreme chance for escape yet found himself following as Pippin was carried back to the fifth window down the curved frontis wall. The curtain had been dragged out, and as he came closer Frodo noted it was stitched with tiny ponies: rearing, bucking, posing and otherwise cavorting. "In you go, son," Paladin furthered.

"But you said I wasn't to climb out my window—"

"You are not climbing out," Paladin said severely. "I am hefting you back in."

The child, who had started to add another comment as his father first spoke, closed his mouth as the tone penetrated and, without another word, allowed himself to be lifted over his sill. It was just high enough that for moments he disappeared downward and into the gloom.

"Shut the window," Paladin directed.

A small hand appeared, pulled the curtain back in and started to reach up for the sash cord, then hesitated. Pippin's voice floated back up and out the window. "Will you tell me a story, Frodo?"

Paladin cut an amused look towards him, and Frodo said, "Not tonight."

Silence. Then, "Tomorrow?"

"Go," said Pippin's father, "to bed."

Silence again, then a meek, "G'night." The hand reached up, fumbled at the cord; Paladin leaned forward and shut the window himself.

Frodo chuckled.

"Come on." Paladin turned to him. "We'll raid the wine pantry on our way in—you look as though you could use a little relaxing. Then we'll hie you back to your smial, and I'll peek in on Merimac."

Disarmed, Frodo silently followed, his thoughts regaining the fiery whirl they had entertained most of the night, with a few additional stray sparks he wasn't sure how to classify. Just as silently he halted when Paladin stopped by a sideboard topped by a tall cabinet that, Frodo abruptly noticed, had racks of bottles within. Paladin fished in his pocket, took out a rather-large ring of keys, ticked through them and selected one. Fitting it in the lock he then opened the cabinet door, tapped one finger against his lips for a moment in contemplation, then chose one of the bottles. It had already been opened.

"What say we finish this, you and I, before it goes sour on us." Taking two fluted glasses from an upper shelf, Paladin set them down and poured into them a rose-gold liquid. He then proffered the first glass, flashing an encouraging smile as Frodo hesitated.

"It helps," Paladin gently insisted, "if you're having trouble with the sleeping."

Frodo accepted it—it was such a homey, comforting gesture, sharing a glass of wine—and felt his unease start to uncoil itself.

Paladin smiled again, sketched a small toast towards him then took a goodly sip. Frodo followed suit—the wine sparkled upon his tongue, sweet but not overly so, trailing warmth down his gullet. It was familiar, somehow.

"Old Winyards," his companion said. "'Tis the best wine in the Shire—but don't tell my sister so."

Frodo smirked, and took another mouthful. He had to agree; the Hall's wine was drier, more sharp and raw.

"Brandy Hall's been not so long at the vineyards; they've more skill with the harder brews; their cider is superb and their brandy unmatched." Paladin drained his glass with a contented sigh, offered the bottle to Frodo. "Another, lad, to chase the dreams away?"

"Thank you, but no," Frodo replied quietly. "I've not the best head for wine."

"If it's sleep you want," Paladin winked and poured more into his glass, "then that's all to the better, aye?"

He had a point. Frodo accepted, murmured thanks.

Paladin refilled his own glass, peered at the nigh-empty bottle then topped off his own and Frodo's glasses to the very brim. "That's the last of it, then, and you've done me a favour. No use letting good wine waste for lack of drinking it. And the lads have brought too much up from the cellars, I'm afraid."

They stood silently for several moments, sipping their drinks; Frodo let his eyes wander about the walls, still not totally willing to freely meet his companion's gaze. The portraits flickered in the hearth-fire's light; it made the figures captured there seem alive.

"We've one of the best portraiturists in the land living here," Paladin ventured, his gaze following Frodo's. "He did that lovely picture of your mother and father that hangs at the Hall, as well as the one with the three of you. Getting a bit long in the tooth, the old dear, but his hand's still steady and his eye still as sharp."

Glad of something mundane to focus his attention upon, Frodo walked over to the one wall that had no windows or doors interrupting its line. It was wide and adorned with tens of expensively-framed paintings. "Are they all Tooks?"

"Mostly," Paladin answered, coming over to stand beside Frodo—though not too close, Frodo noted with some relief. "I'm sure you know this lot," he said with a grin, pointing to the portrait of himself, Eglantine and their brood. There were portraits hanging all about it of singular figures; Frodo identified Pippin's grin immediately—though his immaculate state of dress was not so familiar—and next to that was a lass, possessed of Esmeralda's white-blonde hair, dressed to the nines and sitting poised so properly on a chair that Frodo almost didn't recognise her: Pearl, away from her prickly, lavender-doused presence, was frankly ravishing. Hanging below Pearl was her youngest sister; the pale hair Pervinca shared with Pearl—albeit more gold—was her main resemblance to the almost-insubstantial luminosity of the rest of her family. Somehow Pervinca possessed a more earthy and engaging radiance, appealingly plump, her fashionably low décolletage showing off what was, to Frodo's tastes, a wonderful set of attributes. Another lass completed the seven; she had a kinky mass of fiery red hair barely contained by a embroidered net, and a glint in green-brown eyes promising that her equally contained, dignified carriage—which reminded Frodo strongly of Eglantine—was a manner encountered mainly by portrait painters.

"Pimpernel," Paladin told him, pointing to that last one. "You'll meet her soon, I hope. She's away gallivanting with her playmate and, as to be expected, her thoughts are far from home."

Eglantine was there, much younger and less prepossessing, yet still obvious was the artless, primal allure that so confounded and fascinated Frodo. Paladin was there as well, a younger picture of The Possible Heir to Tuckborough posed next to a beautifully-groomed, liquid-eyed pony. "Brownie," Paladin pointed out.

"Brownie?" Frodo stammered.

"Aye, he's in his prime, there. Time makes us all sag, bag and lose our gloss." He shrugged and smiled. "The way you and River are getting on, perhaps we should commission one like it for you." Frodo smiled back as Paladin gestured to another portrait, a dark-haired male and a copper-haired female. "My father and mother. Both dead now, rest them. I'm sure you are acquainted with a few in this one," he gestured to the one Frodo had first seen upon his arrival, with a much younger Esme and Paladin and their siblings.

Frodo was charmed beyond any sense of suspicion towards his host. Slowly they made their way about the wall, Paladin making short and fascinating commentary about the depicted personages; as they made their way towards the fireplace, the two large paintings there caught Frodo's eye. One was a quite striking gentlehobbit posed next to an equally striking pony; his face was rather severe, his hair coiffed immaculately, his coat hanging perfectly. The one next to it was an imposing raven-haired female; she was staring boldly at the portraiturist, proud and straight-backed in the inevitable overstuffed chair. She was not beautiful but she was striking, eyebrows arching splendidly over deep-set blue eyes that seemed somehow familiar, high cheekbones, firm chin. She was not 'Tookish' in the least—save, perhaps, the glints of copper in her dark hair—yet had the kind of looks that could convince anyone that the rest of the fair Tuckborough lasses about her would prove as nothing but insipid and insubstantial polish.

"That is Ferumbras," Paladin said quietly of the male. "And that is Lalia."

Frodo's eyes widened. Was it even possible that huge old scheming spider in her dim, top-most lair had ever been this handsome… this earnest… this young?

Yes, he decided suddenly, looking into the portrait's eyes, it was all there. Power and privilege, charisma and incredible self-possession… none of that had changed, it had only… twisted, somehow.

He stared at it, sobered and intrigued, for some time. Becoming aware of his host's patient waiting, Frodo took another sip of his wine and followed him to the next portrait.

It was as surprising, in its own way—and as indicative of the inevitability of change.

It was of no great size yet well-done: two lads, both dressed in silk and fine-brushed wool yet managing to give the impression that such finery was dashed uncomfortable and not at all their preferred garb. One was tall and lanky, with disproportionately-broad shoulders that ill fit his immature frame; brown hair hung insistently in his eyes and he leaned against—well, it had to be the same inevitable chair—in an obvious and massive discomfort for the propriety of either said chair or the ongoing portrait. The other lad seemed on the surface more dignified, but such was, upon closer inspection, more pretence than reality; there was a spark in the green eyes that promised trouble, his sparse frame seemed to resist the enforced stillness, and dark curls spewed wildly about his face as if an echo of such spirit.

Those same green eyes, albeit framed with a few more lines, were watching him, sparking with nearly the same mischief. "I thought you might find this one interesting. Have you ever seen a more likely pair of rascals?"

Frodo wasn't sure that he had. Paladin had been… well, say it, he'd been too fair of face even then, yet he was all knobby elbows and knees, skinny and unfinished; and Merimac, with his crooked, too-wide mouth, his overlarge hands and his huge grey eyes, was such a… lumbering, half-grown tween.

And at that moment Frodo would have given anything to have known Merimac then, been with him then, basked in the clear, uncomplicated light behind those familiar eyes and shared those years that seemed now to more and more come between them… years that hadn't mattered until they had arrived here.

His smile faded and the discontented, envious thorn that Frodo had thought gone betrayed itself to have remained in his breast after all, a barbed end that had clearly resisted all efforts to trim it away. He raised the glass to his lips, gulped more of his wine, felt it burn and purl all the way down.

"Frodo." Paladin's voice was, suddenly, uncertain in the silence.

Frodo didn't answer, couldn't answer, just stood there staring at those two impossibly-young lads and mouthing his glass, breathing in the sweet sharpness of Old Winyards yet also smelling river-wrack and pipe smoke.

"There's something I need to tell you, Frodo; something that I don't think you realise, something that you should, by rights, know."

I have rights in this? Frodo kept peering at the portrait—quite the expense, to have a formal portrait done of two playmates, even cousins; usually sepia-toned festival sketches were all that were ever done of young lovers, the coin for colour better spent upon more formal pairings. Do I, really?

He turned to his older cousin, a sullen light kindling in his eyes; Paladin obviously saw it, for he held up a hand, quickly and quietly said, "Before you say anything, let me speak. This is important, lad; Merimac informed me of it and in actuality 'twas implicit from the moment you both arrived here."

There was an earnest appeal in his words and gaze both; Frodo lowered his own gaze in tenuous assent, wrapping his fingers about his glass and sipping from it once more. It was humiliating to note that his hands were, ever so slightly, trembling.

"I'm sure by now you've come to know that we've lain together, Merimac and I, for nearly as long as we've known each other; I'm not about to deny that and neither will I refute the fact that Eglantine and I have tried more than once to convince him to stay here, swear oath with us. But," he raised both hands, this time, as Frodo clenched his jaw and would have moved away, "heed me in this, if nothing else I say to you: he and I haven't been together since you both landed from Gillyflower, and neither will we."

The thorn, twisting so tightly inward with each spoken word, began to subside from piercing pain to dull, wondering throb as Paladin continued. "Merimac was the one who set that limitation, Frodo. He did it for you, because of what you mean to him and your own uncertainty about it all—he would rather break his remaining good leg than hurt you so—and I understand, you see. I understand and more, I agree with him."

Frodo peered at his cousin, brows a-quirk.

"Do you hear what I'm saying?"

He indeed heard; and he saw nothing base backlighting those green eyes, only entreaty and conviction, burning steady and bright.

"I hold to this no less than Merimac," Paladin told him. "I'm no threat to you, and one day you'll understand how and why, but for now 'tis enough that you hear me, and believe me. Yes?"

"You mean it," Frodo said, very slowly, "don't you?"

"I do." Paladin took a drink, and to Frodo's surprise the hand wielding that glass was not altogether steady either. "And you must believe me even more when I say, here and now, that Merimac needs you."

"What," Frodo said unsteadily, "do you mean?"

"I think you know what I mean."

Frodo shook his head. "I think I've drunk too much wine and nothing makes sense. What do you mean he needs me? He needs my help, yes, there are things he cannot do and of course I should be helping him, but… it's not…" Paladin simply looked at him; the pressure of that glance pulled further, if unwilling, explanation from Frodo, "It's not what he has here."

"And isn't that the point?" Paladin insisted.

"How should I know?"

"You should, and you do. You've seen it, even as I have."

"Seen what?" Perhaps, if he kept asking questions, then he might receive some answers that made sense.

"What could happen."

"I don't understand what you—"

"Merimac and I are many things to each other," Paladin interrupted, and it seemed a trivial interruption at that. "But there is one thing that has always sundered us."

Frodo was ready to either howl at the moon and hope that his cry would reach her even through the layers of earth, or pitch his glass into the hearth and watch it flare—there certainly seemed to be enough alcohol content in his drink to make a quite satisfying flame. He must be well on his way to being drunk. None of this made any sense.

Paladin leaned back against the hearth. "Has he ever told you why we parted?"

"He said once," Frodo confessed, wondering if this straying path might lead him somewhere explicable, "that you left him, and he left you, and it wasn't simple, what happened."

"Not at all simple, no." A slight smile quirked at Paladin's mouth and he leaned forward, his face mere hands from Frodo's own. "When your dreams reside so hard and fine within the being of another, what else can you do but feel it a betrayal when they drift as dreams must? He wanted to bear me away, give me the world, and believe me, I wanted to take it. We would have fulfilled our hearts' desires, perhaps, in giving ourselves so totally over to each other, but we would have given up too much of our souls—and each of us had that unwelcome fact shoved in our faces by two insistent ladies."

"Eglantine," said Frodo softly. "And… Gillyflower."

"My body rebelled every time I set foot on his boat, no matter how hard he tried to make it home for me. But for him…" Paladin shrugged. "Believe me when I say we tried, oh, we tried to make Smials home for him. He tried, too, as much as I tried to bide on the River. But Merimac, 'twas different for him; not the body's rebellion against foreign elements but his soul that would sicken. Do you understand, lad?"

He did. All too well. Paladin must have read it in his eyes, for he smiled briefly and settled further against the hearthstones, continued. "We tried, all three of us, to wrest what we wanted into being. He's been here many times, settled down for a while, but always his eyes would turn far away and I knew that soon he'd be gone. 'Tis difficult, you see; difficult to know that what makes you alive is anathema to the one you love. Yet we've had to all come to an understanding; we had to. We take what time we have, and live it all we can."

Frodo was alternately smarting and moved by the heartfelt words; he had to look away, found his eyes falling upon the portrait of Lalia Took, resolute and compelling. "What," he voiced slowly, "does any of this have to do with now?"

"Other than set proof before you of what you think I have that you don't?" A gentle hand laid itself suddenly upon his shoulder and Frodo twitched. "Nay, lad. I've that history, surely, but now is more important, this moment yours and rightly so; what is the past but something to heed, to remember in fondness and caution both? And as to the future… only a few can even guess at that, and they are often mistaken."

Frodo wanted to shrug off that gentling hand; the next moment he wanted to lean back into it and cozen more from it, only he didn't know what 'more' was so instead he stood still, quivering and mute.

A slight caress, then those fingers pinched at his nape, hard. "Listen to me. I'm playing no games here, unless you consider our cousin's life a game and I don't think you do. I don't tell you any of this to hurt you, I tell you so you can understand. He's willingly come here, many a time; he's been content all of those times, as happy as he can be away from his bonny mistress. But the difference between then and now? He always had the out, then. The possibility of escape. Now, he doesn't. You all too well understand the cravings of flight, I'm thinking, more than I ever can—I've seen you ride that filly with more abandon than most can grasp at—do you understand what I'm trying to say to you?"

Slowly Frodo turned to peer at his companion. Those soft eyes had turned to beryl and stone.

"Often I've set him free, yet now and here I cannot. I'm part of the tethers, Frodo. I'm the keeper of the gaol. You…" he paused, as if trying to find the correct words, "you are the only link he has to the River and his home. You're bound to it, I'm thinking, just as tightly as he is."

"I would have…" Frodo hesitated, then murmured, "I would have stayed with him there."

"As I could not. That," Paladin said, "was the one thing that drove us apart. The River. And once it has you," there was a sudden acrimony in his voice, "it never lets go."

The words were almost desperate, steel hard as the hand upon his nape—a hand that, Frodo realised, Paladin would never have normally raised to him. He'd said as much, had voiced recognition of what conflict it raised in Frodo.

"Listen to me, lad. If you don't value what you've given for our cousin, I certainly do. Lanna does. We well understand what you've done. You stayed with him through it all, you landed at the Hall for him—and while I don't know much about your situation there, I do know it was flat uncomfortable—you wrote me even though you must have been uncertain about what your place would be here, and then despite that you still came with him, stayed with him." Paladin loosed his grip and came about to face him; abruptly he reached out, took the glass from Frodo's hands, set it on the mantle and took those hands within his own. "There are no words for what I feel for him, Frodo; how could I do anything but love someone who cares for my beloved so fiercely?"

Never had he apprehended it so, never had he put himself in the position of even contemplating it in such a fashion. The raw, pure sense of it shivered through Frodo, pulled the hard and resentful thorn from his breast and crushed it underfoot.

And it was just so… simple. How else could it be?

"Do you see, now," the fingers over his quivered but held firm, "why he needs you so?"

This lurched within him, more disturbing than the possibility of loss was the admittance of what such loss would transpire. Looking down at their clasped hands—and those hands could have been cast from the same mould, long-boned and slender and lightly callused—Frodo bit at his lip and tried to capture a feeling: just one, just a small thought, perhaps an explanation of what was happening in his breast.

Paladin leaned forward, laid a kiss to Frodo's forehead, then whispered, "If you believe nothing else I tell you, you must believe this. Please."

"I…" Frodo gave a shiver and closed his eyes, then stepped back, pulled away.

"Frodo?"

"I do," he said hoarsely, "believe you. And I think…" He felt suddenly light-headed, was unsure of whether it was from words or wine. "I think I want to go back to my room now."

Paladin was silent; Frodo slid an uncertain glance his way and found the Thain's face set in awkward lines, as if he was regretting what he'd said. Then the expression faded away, leaving only a very real concern. "Come on, lad; we'll go together. Merimac's no doubt waiting for you, as Lanna shall be for me."

Frodo wasn't sure he wanted to be accompanied; he wasn't even sure he wanted to be with Merimac as of now, but there was no way to lightly refuse those all-too-discerning eyes, particularly when their owner's smial was right across from his own.

They melted into the dark hall; Frodo found his steps wobbling ever so slightly. The sense of bonelessness was beginning to be rather pleasant, actually, and contrary to what he'd thought moments before the thought of a warm bed with warmer company in it was even more pleasant. He reached out, turned the latch and started to walk in, then figured it would be merely polite to at least wish Paladin a good night.

Unfortunately as he turned to do so, the whisper that came from his lips was not in any fashion what he'd intended to say.

"Do you… do you dream?"

Paladin's eyebrows rose at the abrupt turn of subject. "Everyone dreams, lad."

Frodo hesitated, wondering if he was mad… no, he was just tipsy and confused and all dithered about everything that had happened in the past hours; why else had he brought this particular subject up, here and now, and with this person of all the bloody people in the whole bloody Shire? He looked down, tried to salvage the confusion his tongue had tripped him into. "It's nothing, really. I was… was just wondering if it was dreams kept you awake, too."

"Mm," said Paladin. "Mayhap they do… yet I'm thinking you aren't talking about my dreams. Are you?"

Frodo bit his lip, unsure of how to answer and wishing he'd not had that second glass of wine.

Fingers took his chin, lifted his face up. His cousin's eyes pierced his own, at first questioning, then canny. "Are you?"

He felt he should explain, somehow. "Pippin said that he dreamt, and you were… anxious… and—"

"But we aren't discussing Pippin's dreams, either," Paladin said, muted and implacable. "Are we?"

Frodo wished that he had never brought the subject up, never even hinted at it because it brought the same light to his cousin's eyes that he had seen before, but this was in full flower while the other had been naught but patient buds amidst thorns.

Flowering as surely as the light belling outward from a gleaming seashell, and the kindling, kindred light in wild, golden eyes…

The gold flecks in Paladin's eyes glittered. The fingers upon Frodo's jaw twitched, then tightened almost painfully and when he spoke, he was stammering. "By the… You… you've… seen Her."

Reaction rippled through Frodo 's frame so quickly that he couldn't have stopped it did he want to, and his first thought was not Her?—Her who? but You know, you know…

"Close the door, will you?" came a sleepy protest from over near the bed.

Both Frodo and Paladin jumped, and resignation crawled across Paladin's expression while a breath of… relief?… regret? wafted across Frodo's being.

"I wake to a draft and an empty bed, and not only that but I find my two favourite cousins whispering in my smial," was Merimac's further plaint.

"I was just talking to Frodo," said Paladin, with a quick and meaningful glance to Frodo before he padded into the room. "And you're supposed to be sleeping."

Frodo closed the door behind him and slumped against it, hard.

"So you and my lad are the only ones allowed to forego slumber, eh?"

"And Pippin, it seems. He waylaid us on the porch."

Merimac chuckled. "That tyke is going to be rotten by the time he hits his teens."

Frodo pried himself from the door and managed to say something quippy despite himself. "I think he already is, actually." He realised as he said it that it cast a slight aspersion upon Pippin's parents, then decided that, here and now, he didn't give a good damn.

Merimac snorted, and Paladin shot him an amused glance. "There speaks a Brandybuck," Merimac said in satisfaction, and as Frodo came and sat on the bed, Merimac gave him a welcoming smile.

Wildling dreams and phantom needs and shadowy portents of what was or what might be; all scattered to the winds, dispersed by his playmate's sturdy presence.

"I think," Paladin ventured, "that our young cousin has more Took in him than one would imagine." His glance was short but direct, and Frodo squirmed beneath it. Then Merimac's hand clasped his, once again filling him with its familiar and welcome dose of solidity and reality.

"I'm destined to be undone by Tooks," Merimac riposted, then mimicked Paladin's accent. "'Tis fae and fate, nae doot."

"You old cynic," Paladin bent forward and flicked a finger at his cousin's nose. "You've no call, quoting old Tuckborough sayings you don't even believe in."

"What makes you think," Merimac answered quietly, "that I don't?"

Paladin's face, just above Merimac's and concealed somewhat by the dim, seemed concerned; but when he raised it to glance at Frodo, there was nothing but light humour. "I took our lad here through a tour of the Presences. He was particularly amused by the portrait of two homely troublemakers."

"Oh, bugger, you didn't," Merimac groaned. "I wish you'd toss that thing onto the fire; I look like an overgrown bull-calf."

"And I look like a skinny bird."

"Oh, shove up, you silly beggar, you were always gorgeous."

Despite the after-effects of too much tactile conversation—and perhaps due to the effects of the wine—Frodo found himself chuckling at them.

"And here's my other gorgeous lad," Merimac said with a light cuff to his temple, "laughing at the two old prats."

"So why aren't you sleeping?" Paladin said sternly. "It's late… ah, I know. You poured the draught into the plants again, didn't you? No wonder they're looking so peaked—and you as well. You need the sleep and you know it, you old bear."

"All I do," Merimac said peevishly, "is bloody buggering sleep. Wine helps the pain without laying me out." A smile suddenly quirked at his lip. "And it wasn't the plants. 'Twas the chamber pot."

"Either you settle down with Frodo here and get some rest," Paladin threatened, "or I'll sic Lanna on you—and believe me, when she hears you've poured old Clivia's precious draughts into your piss-pot, my dear wife shall sit on you and force-feed you the next one."

Merimac's grin turned into a grimace. "I believe you."

"Then?"

Merimac growled slightly, then fluttered his hand in mock salute and turned his face into his pillow, saying, "Frodo, love, can you see Himself out? I'm afraid I can't quite do the honours."

Frodo wasn't the only one who heard the salt beneath the jest. Somewhat reluctantly, he followed Paladin to the door; the Thain turned as he set his fingers to the knob, opened it, and Frodo held his breath, retreated slightly, thinking this is it, at odds with both foreboding and respite.

"Good night," the Took merely said; with a small bow he disappeared into the gloom. There was a small chuff of air; light gleamed from inside the smial across the hall then went dark.

Frodo closed the door, put his forehead against it for a moment and let out the breath he hadn't been aware of holding. In the wake of it, a huge yawn claimed him.

"You look," Merimac said from behind him, "quite sleepy, dear heart."

Turning from the door, Frodo made his way back to the bed, managed to divest himself of his breeks on the way somehow and, clad only in his nightshirt, crawled in.

Merimac, on the other hand, seemed quite awake. "You also," he said with a smirk, "seem quite liquored up and pliable."

A chuckle worked its way up from Frodo's chest; he burrowed under the covers and scooted closer, hands seeking, then said, "Oh."

"Oh?"

Instead of clean linen, Frodo's hands had encountered bare skin. "You took off your nightshirt."

"I was hot," his cousin protested.

Frodo decided that could, rather abruptly, also apply to himself. Sleepiness had vanished.

And oh, this could prove much more worthy of his attention than what had previously claimed it.

Frodo sidled closer and slid his hand downward, traced his fingers against Merimac's belly, felt the muscles there twitch and tighten.

Merimac chuckled, warm breath against Frodo's temple. "You randy lad, you."

"You said I looked pliable."

"And liquored up… mm." This as Frodo leaned forward and kissed him. "Old Winyards. Dear Cousin Paladin is spoiling you rotten as well, it seems."

"I'd like to be spoiled further," Frodo whispered against his cheek, then hesitated. "If you're up for it, I mean."

"Tease those fingers a bit lower and you'll see how up I am."

Frodo did so, smiled in satisfaction as Merimac arched into his touch. "Then I'm not the only one all pliable and liquored up, it seems."

"Only pliable to a point," Merimac replied. "It's amazing, the things one can do when one tries, but I'm afraid if you're wanting anything different—"

Straddling Merimac, Frodo pulled his nightshirt over his head and flung it impatiently to the bed's foot. "I like it this way."

"And tens of other ways," remarked his cousin, reaching forward to trace his fingers up and down Frodo's torso, "including the upside down thing you insisted upon trying when we were on Gillyflower and I'm still not sure how we did it—"

"But it was good."

"Oh, no question, you topped me fair and hard and the blood rushing to my head wasn't all because of the oddness of my position—"

"Which head," Frodo wriggled down, smirked, rocked his hips, "are you speaking of?"

"Both, of course. Oh, that's good, and… bloody damn, will you settle yourself back down there, you little tease, do you know how long it's been?" This as Frodo lifted himself from Merimac's lap, leaning forward.

"I wanted to kiss you," he said, and did. Then he also did as Merimac had bidden him, arching back downward, lingering and deliberate. "And yes, I know how long it's been since you've topped me. I've been counting the days."

"And hours and minutes, no doubt… mm," Merimac hummed appreciatively.

"And while I'm also counting the days until I can top you into the next fortnight, I'm not complaining about this, this is particularly nice…" He pushed his hips forward as Merimac reached out, gripped him in both hands. "Especially when you—!" His words broke off into a small yip as those caressing hands gave him a quick, sharp pinch.

"Would you just shut up and get to it?" his cousin growled. "Please?"

Wordlessly Frodo reached back, found what he sought all rock-hard and slick-tipped, decided that he was done with waiting and his cousin was also ready to be ridden until they both came so hard their eyes would pop out; he angled himself into easier access, pushed down, sucked in a ragged gasp and wondered if it was possible to explode from something being just… too… damned… lovely.

Merimac's hands spasmed on him and his hips arched upwards, thrusting farther; Frodo threw his head back, pushed down and forward both, a whimper escaping his throat. Those hands slid into the rhythm, sharp and hard and sweet, that Frodo was beginning to set, and Frodo no longer wondered, he knew that he was going to explode from this particular position and its indulgence of his own greediness; it was as if he was being done to and yet doing to at the same time and oh, stars but this was… was…

"More," Merimac grated out; Frodo leaned back and shoved harder, the resulting sharp stab of pleasure sending him spiralling so far out of control that before he could try and pull back he was spilling into his cousin's hands and crying out; yet he kept lurching, forcing harder and harder against Merimac until he too shuddered, spent.

All Frodo wanted to do was collapse backward; mindful of Merimac's leg he instead hunched forward, panting, thighs quivering. He wasn't sure his arms could hold him up. He wasn't sure he could even see to move—if he could move, of which he was also doubtful.

"Mm," murmured his cousin, silky satisfaction deep in his throat. "That was worth staying up for."

* * * * * *

Neither sex nor drink had tired him enough, it seemed.

In the hours before dawn Frodo dreamed: of caverns dripping milky water into steamy, clouded pools, of tunnels rough-hewn that fell about him and trapped him deep below any hope of help, of having no choice but to go deeper, and deeper into the bowels of Great Smials, the seashell in his hands a light to guide him until he was halted by the wide Brandywine, all copper and glimmering dark… yet as he watched it began to slow, morphing into a thick-flowing river of fire and ash, and if he wanted to cool it enough so he could walk across, find the secret, he had to sacrifice the shell into the fiery spume.

And beneath it all, he could hear Lalia's voice, saying over and over: "Blood will out. Blood remembers."