The party was packed with hobbits, gentried and common, who had descended upon Great Smials in a boisterous wave. Everyone who resided there was invited as a matter of course, with special invitations sent to those beholden or who had familial connections outside the great burrow's boundaries, but many more showed up to Tuckborough than were in truth invited, which was greeted with good-natured, albeit occasionally exasperated, acceptance.

After all, it happened every year. And it was obvious that they came not only for the food, drink, and wagering, but to show their support for a Thain who wasn't, quite.

There were also the pony races, open to all. It was a fact that for over a century any large celebration at Great Smials had usually been accompanied by a race; since Paladin's birthday was in the midst of the yearly traditional set of pony races—and it was plain to every hobbit that had ever heard of Tuckborough that Himself loved his ponies—he'd made much of the tradition and expanded it. As a result the annual Ostara Race Meeting was no longer simply a small gathering of the local farmers and breeders; it had become an exhibition of the most excellent animals in the Shire, bringing in serious contestants from every Farthing.

Which was Paladin's true intent. After all, such a competition encouraged people to breed the best to the best for the win; ponies so consciously and painstakingly produced meant that the best mounts would be available for possible purchase, and thusly the Provost, and his plan—scoffed at by many—to protect the Shire against the intrusion of marauding Big Folk would succeed.

In the meantime, it was bloody great fun.

Tinkers and all manner of travelling folk were in abundance, populating the glens with their colourful tents and gaily-painted wagons; voices rising and falling as arrhythmic and persistent as the hum of a bee's nest; the smell of cypress taken from the forest and made into cookfires; the patchwork of field and dale and thicket surrounded a mob of hue both sombre and bright; the skirl of oddly-syncopated music… all of it rose like smoke and sunlight into the late morning, an eddy of sensation about the slender form of a hobbit tween standing on a small hillock overlooking the festivities.

Frodo remembered another marvellously sensate feast of a day, and with much the same press of feelings; surrounded by colours and smells and gaiety, clapping and dancing, shouts and laughter… yet it had been so different, too. He'd been so… timid—yes he had been, admit it and be done—timid and horribly overwhelmed by Hobbiton's peculiar combination of newness and familiarity, of the equal parts affability and wariness shown him. He'd been altogether relieved to be beneath the aegis of the Baggins name, but even more grateful to have a familiar presence at his back, Merimac's certainty shadowing him with a protective cloak.

Only now he stood here alone, the cypress-scented breeze riffling at his ears and through his hair, and while he still trusted that cousin to stand at his back if need be, he could now also claim his own certainty if he must; join in and take some pleasure in the happenings, or stand alone and observe with equal satisfaction.

He wondered if that old gypsy dame and her son were here. And then wondered with a smirk what he'd do if that red-haired lad once again made Merimac the offer of a tangle…

"And how fares my lovely observer today, then?"

"And you say I say the oddest things," Frodo said, turning to Merimac, who came to a halt beside him and leaned on his staff, puffing a bit at the small climb.

"Eh?"

"Well," Frodo said, "I was just thinking something about that. Well, not the lovely part," his cheeks warmed, "but the observing."

"Not odd. I just know when you get that look on your face that you've gone all faraway on me." Merimac kissed him high on one cheekbone. "And so here I am, to pull you from whatever star you're swinging from, just in case you've forgotten that you needn't keep your distance and watch all the time."

"I like watching," Frodo said, allowing himself to be pulled back against his cousin's broad chest.

"I like watching you," Merimac murmured into his ear. "Even when you're swinging from stars."

Frodo suspected that Merimac might even like that last aspect the best, but he kept it to himself, peering out over the throng. "I don't think I've seen the like of this even with Merry's last birthday."

"Well, Merry isn't the Thain, and he's quite a few years yet to go before he's the Master, poor lad."

Frodo snorted. "I have to agree with you on the 'poor lad'. I'm not sure Merry will find the Master's cloak a comfortable fit."

"Hm. Speaking of our young cousin—"

A raucous roar swelled from the east-most corner of the gathering, cutting Merimac off mid-statement. Frodo squinted against the sunlight, curious, and espied the source: a huddle of hobbits nigh to the ale pavilion. Two broke from the pack and started rolling on the ground.

"Are they fighting, or snogging?" Frodo wondered with a grin.

"Either. Or." Merimac chuckled. "But I'd wager on the wrassling. After all, what's a Tuckborough gathering without a brawl or five, eh? Though," he checked the angle of the sun, "they are starting early, at that."

Both of them watched the proceedings with interest. It didn't take long, and afterwards the victor helped his sparring partner up, gave him a resounding thwack between the shoulder-blades and bought him a drink.

"What were you going to say about Merry?" Frodo asked.

"Eh, nothing important," Merimac shrugged against him; Frodo started to push the issue, was diverted by another topic.

"And what are you doing hobbling up here, then?" Frodo eyed his cousin. "You're going to be on that leg all day as it is—"

"Fussbudget."

"—and last time I saw you, you were in the yard taking the piss out of Paladin—"

"Another fussbudget, that one." Merimac tugged at Frodo's ear. "How I stand both of you in one place is beyond me."

"He was only trying to caution you. And then you going on about the race, just to devil him… stars, but I can't believe he's that nervous about these races. He's only ever done them hundreds of times, at least."

"He's got twelve ponies going to the start and he's riding one of them in the first race. Poor dear, I hope Lanna gave him a stomach powder this morning." But there was no hint of sympathy in Merimac's grin. "He really is a big baby about those ponies. I understand he forbade you the football field until after you rode."

Frodo had to chuckle, but not so teasingly, for he had his own little gut-hollow of excitement when he thought of that ride, this very afternoon, across the start line with River. "So did you really come all this way just to see me, or to escape the throng? Though," he eyed the commons with not a little dismay, "there certainly are a lot of hobbits here."

"Mm. And more coming." Merimac fell silent as he too looked out across the common. Frodo peered at him, felt another small dip within his stomach and was unsure if it was due to enjoying the very comely sight of his cousin's profile against trees and sky, or the sudden, pensive light in Merimac's eyes.

Then Merimac said, "I'm afraid Bilbo's here."

Frodo tried to stop the involuntary tense of reaction the words provoked in him, failed miserably. "I should have known," he finally said, purposefully flat. "Shouldn't I?"

Merimac was peering at him, regret further clouding the eyes that had seconds before been crystal clear against the sun. Still? they said, and Yes, Frodo had to acknowledge just as silently, although the admittance soured his stomach.

Merimac's arms tightened about him, and he said into Frodo's hair, "I'm here. I'm at your back, and with you… bloody damn but we all are. Lanna, Pal… bugger me, but Esme or Sara would trout him just on principle and you know Merry would kick the old hobbit in the knee if you but said the word."

Frodo smiled. Because Merry would, without a qualm.

"At any rate, I just wanted to tell you this: if he gives you the least bother, I'll see him turfed out so hard his ears will ring. And you don't have to see him unless you want to."

The promise warmed Frodo, almost impossibly so, enough that he could reply with a shrug, "I'll have to see him eventually, won't I? Come Midge-day I'll have to, and you can't exactly be at my heels then."

Merimac laughed softly. "It might prove a bit dodgy, yes. I'd not put it past that Gamgee lass to trout me if I got cheeky at her expense. But," he gave Frodo a gentle shake, "for now you have Gillyflower and Smials both at your call. If Bilbo Baggins has any sense of conscience, he'll give you the approach should you want to make it. And anyway," he held up his staff and gave a winsome smile, "you have to stay beside your gimpy cousin somewhat, or the crowd might crush him."

For seconds Frodo missed the tease within the words; petulance flared briefly then died beneath contrition, then he saw the grin upon his cousin's face and irritably quelled all of it.

"I do have to ride the race, you know."

"And I've been invited to sit in the Royal Box," Merimac said. "So we'll have to part for a while, that much is certain."

"The Royal Box?" Frodo cooed teasingly then chuckled. The appellation was a fair one—he'd seen the area adjacent to the stands, all cordoned for the Thain's family. "If I didn't know better I'd think you had connections."

"Not I." Merimac feigned innocence.

"So that fancy embroidered shirt that Paladin gave you for his birthday is of no consequence." Frodo thought fondly of his own blue silk waistcoat, given to him by Merimac. Until lately he'd not known the accepted significance in the West of such a gift, male to male, of expensive adornment—and until lately Paladin making such a frank lover's claim would have had him writhing with jealousy.

"I didn't say that," Merimac smirked, leaned over and bussed him on the mouth. "I'll be in even fancier company, no doubt. I hear even Dear Cousin Lalia intends to heave herself from her demesne for the event."

"At least Vinca won't threaten you with her bath-chair, then."

"Smart arse," Merimac said affectionately. "No, I'll be hobbling to those choice front row seats, I fear. And I've more than a few marks wagered on that filly of yours," he added. "So don't beggar your poor cousin, eh?"

* * * * * *

Bilbo was quite content; he'd a mug of Brandy Hall's best ale, a plate of savouries on the plate before him, a comfortable chair in the shade and a dear friend beside him.

Rory had been, when Bilbo found him, chatting with both his sons. Both those sons had given Bilbo a jaundiced glance when he'd strode up; Merimac had simply made excuse to his father and hobbled away without a word to Bilbo, and Saradoc, while greeting him pleasantly enough, had bowed away as quickly as he could.

"Have you plague, or something?" Rory said wryly as they'd taken seats beneath a huge old oak on the periphery of the Common.

"Or something." Bilbo managed a grin, but it did pink him to be so snubbed. What was wrong with them, anyway? First Hobbiton, now the Hall and Smials and no doubt the River if it came down to it, and all for an orphan lad that six months ago only a few wanted to lay claim to, and those few for dubious reasons… pah, it was unconscionable! "Never you mind, old son," Bilbo furthered. "Sit here and I'll find us some eats and drinks; I still need to do my duty to our hosts."

Rory grunted assent and claimed a couple of chairs beneath the spread of an old oak while Bilbo went on the hunt. He found Eglantine and extended both his hand and his thanks, found that Paladin was at the stables—of course—but Eglantine promised to tender his greeting. She escorted him to the tables, promising dinner would be excellent and that the snacks were up to her cook's usual high standards and would keep everyone until the afternoon, then left him there with a slight smile and graceful inclination of her red-gold head.

But Bilbo hadn't missed the hint of steel beneath her pleasantries, was once again amazed at what unlikely places protective instincts were surfacing, and for whom. Botheration, one would think he did have plague. Or had suggested sacrificing the lad to some Southron fire-and-blood ceremony.

And felt a sinking sensation in his gut —adding to the strange knot already there—at the line that was being so obviously drawn.

The source of said line was not present, and he suddenly kenned that he'd been hunting for that, as well. More than it pleased him to realise.

Bilbo determinedly met and chatted with acquaintances, relatives and a few people he only knew by chance meeting; on most occasions he enjoyed his notorious reputation, but now it seemed to be merely getting in the way. In the way of what, he wasn't sure, only that where usually he revelled in it, today he was, admit it, petulant.

Perhaps this hadn't been a good idea after all.

He made his way back to Rory, balancing a goodly tray of eats and two mugs of ale; Rory had found a little table and placed it between the two chairs he'd claimed, and they settled in for some drinking and eating, conversation and the occasional pleasant quiet.

Or as quiet as anything could be in the midst of a Tookish party. Granted, the gathering had been remarkably calm so far.

Ah, well. It was morning, yet.

Sure enough, not half an hour went by before a small brawl broke out over—well, Bilbo wasn't exactly sure what it was, but it was near the ale tent so he could make a guess or two. When Rory proposed a wager over who would win, Bilbo gladly accepted; he had noticed that one of the brawlers was a young by-blow of Flambard Took—Flambard being well known for not only his inability to keep his trousers buttoned, but the ability to sire his considerable strength upon his inevitable get—so Bilbo chose him.

Another fifteen minutes, and he was collecting his winnings from Rory with a smirk.

"Always too lucky, you are."

"I just always know my odds," Bilbo claimed, and Rory snorted, pressed him to explain.

They debated the wisdom of Flambard's proclivities against the undeniable fact that those proclivities had given the Shire a few more excellent and sturdy youngsters—and more than a few satisfied lasses who were anxious for a strapping bairn yet unwilling to put up with a husband. Rory made his usual arguments of duty and marriage-claim, while Bilbo countered with his own arguments about how every hobbit didn't need to be clapped into the irons of marriage, thank you very much. It got quite heated before it was done, then suddenly Rory laughed heartily, reached forward and clipped Bilbo on the knee.

"Forty years ago," he boasted, "'twould be you and I brawling next to the ale tent by now, wouldn't it?"

Bilbo joined the laughter, cherishing both the sting of debate and the truce afterward. "I think it might, at that. Now we wave our tongues instead of our fists. And," he waggled his eyebrows, raised his mug, "speaking of tongues, mine is dry as dust. I do believe it's your turn to snag the drinks."

Rory grunted acquiescence, then looked toward the ale tent and smirked. With a sudden burst of agility he heaved himself from the comfort of his chair; Bilbo looked over towards the tent and saw Eglantine's helpmate Ruby seeing to the pavilion's supply. He chuckled; Ruby and Rory, both happily wed for years, had nevertheless spent many of those years in a light-hearted flirtation.

"Don't take forever, you. And bring more of these… these whatever-they-are… meat pasty things!" Bilbo called after him; Rory waved an impatient hand and made his way through the crowd. Said crowd, upon seeing who it was, gave respectful pass and it warmed Bilbo's heart to see it.

Then he saw Frodo.

And cursed the further sinking of his stomach.

The boy had obviously just visited the drink pavilion himself and was standing, drink raised to his lips, amidst a pack of well-dressed lads his own age. One of them—the ringleader, it seemed, and obviously a Took to boot—was telling some yarn, hands broadly illustrating his speedy words. Frodo lowered his mug and licked the foam from his mouth, a cheeky grin appearing on his face… what of his face Bilbo could see, that was, because while his hair might at one time have been neatly combed back and confined by the tie at his nape, unruly curls now defied such constraint and hung insistently in his face. Frodo was clad no less grandly than the others, but the loose, cream blouse of his linen shirt was cinched at his waist with a belt, not properly tucked into his trousers with a landshobbit's braces, and his blue silk waistcoat hung askew, unbuttoned.

Was the boy so insistent upon making some bizarre fashion statement, or what? All right, there were several of the lads who had their waistcoats unbuttoned, and a few shirts tucked less than neatly, and even if Frodo did seem finally and somewhat amongst his own kind, complete with the leggy, too-slender stamp of a tweenish Took, there was still an indefinable air that set him apart, some air of… something—for all his vast vocabulary Bilbo couldn't come up with a word for it, blast it!—and the boy's insistence upon a riverhobbit's rakish togs only furthered that air, and not in a good way as far as Bilbo was concerned.

Nor did Bilbo miss the fact that another similarly-dressed hobbit was nearby. Merimac was but several lengths away from Frodo; he was talking congenially enough to Milo Burrows, yet his grey eyes occasionally raked Bilbo from prow to stern, serving notice that Bilbo was being noticed.

It irritated Bilbo, as much as it irritated him that his stomach kept churning as if it needed one of the Widow's powders, and said irritation grew by several leaps as he realised he was nervous. Nervous!

He must be out of his mind.

Rory came ambling back, clearly pleased at yet another playful sally with Ruby; he was wielding a tray with more goodies and, with a flourish, settled it on the small table. "That'll do us for the while, anyway."

Bilbo's grin was genuine this time: Rory had cadged from Ruby a substantial pile of the delectable meat pasties. Happily they both fell to; after his fifth slice of cheese and his fourth pasty, Rory leaned back in his chair, took a large quaff of ale and belched with satisfaction.

"You didn't happen to see Hiram Fastburrow on the way to the tents, did you?" Bilbo asked, somewhat muffled—he was still eating.

"Himself the Mayor?" Rory shrugged. "Not a speck of him. Why? You've some business to see to? And at a party… shame on you, Baggins."

"Hm," Bilbo said. "Well, you know how it is, business natters on even when you'd prefer it didn't. Besides, I did expect him earlier than this."

Rory shrugged again. "Mayhap some delay, then. It happens. Ah, he's a good fellow, Fastburrow, but I do miss Goodhill. Fair in Farthing-court as an autumn morn, and quite the trencherhobbit, at that."

Bilbo chuckled. "I'd say so, since it was choking on a piece of potato that did him in."

"Well, we all have our time set and measured, might as well go doing what we enjoy."

"And what would yours be?" Bilbo winked. "Flirting with Ruby?"

Rory laughed. "Might be, at that." He sobered, thought for a moment. "You know, I think I'd like it to be all quiet. Just go to sleep in my Gilly's garden, never wake up."

Bilbo reached out, laid a hand upon his friend's.

Rory gave a cough, said gruffly, "And you? Wait, let me guess. You'd want to be pulling some dragon's tail, I'll wager, and then the bugger would whirl and gobble you up. There!—the final Ballad of Bilbo Baggins, who at the end couldn't tame that last dragon."

A snort of laughter replaced Bilbo's pensive fondness. "Now that would be a tale to sing about the hearth-fire." He pretended serious thought, then nodded. "I like it."

"You would, you old wart," Rory grunted. "Particularly the tale bit. Your own little bit of immortality, no doubt."

"But don't we all want that?" Bilbo riposted.

"Huh," Rory grunted again. "You've made no bairns to carry on after you; so much for your immortality. Who will you leave that fine smial of yours to, those cussed Sackville-Bagginses?"

"Oh, no," Bilbo said. "Not on your life. You see, dear Rory, there's always a—"

A huge burst of laughter resounded from a short distance away; both Rory and Bilbo looked about to find as its source the same pack of lads, Frodo still in their midst. At present Frodo was hunched over, convulsed with giggles and, it seemed, ale coming out his nose. The ringleader of the boys was thwapping him on the back, still laughing.

"I warned you!" he was hollering. "I warned you that you shouldn't be at your pint when Everard's telling that joke!"

Bilbo found himself worrying that Frodo was, between laughing and choking, going to expire on the spot.

"Eh," Rory said suddenly, "but there's one worth more of your Bag End than any upstart from Hardbottle. You were a bloody fool, the day you let that boy go."

Add one more to the tally of Bilbo Baggins' Accusers. "Mm?" Bilbo turned, all innocence, to his old friend.

"You heard me," Rory said mildly.

Bilbo rolled his eyes and gave it up. "All right, so I did let him go and what of it? He seems well enough here, and your youngest bit of immortality watching over him like a hawk."

Rory snorted. "My youngest is as set on avoiding what legacies he might have as you. If only he showed half the attention to his son's mother as he does to young Frodo…" he shrugged. "Eh, he's been good to the boy, and cousins are best for a first playmate, after all, older being hopefully wiser." He slanted his eyes towards where Frodo was recovering his breath. "The lad's grown into himself, eh? Knows what he's about, even if he is queer as a bent ha'penny."

"Rorimac Brandybuck, that's your sister's boy you're maligning—"

"I'm maligning nothing, old one. I've eyes in my head, and I can see what Frodo Baggins is made of, and while he's all too full of contrary sass and there's no doubt Mac's learnt him more of that in the same breath as what to put where, it's sure as a shot from the Thain's bow that the lad fancies those books and scribbling of his. Same as you."

"Yes, but—"

"But nothing." Rory favoured Bilbo with the gaze that had once cowed River brigands. "You should step up to the table, Bilbo, and do as you ought. As you were thinking when you came to the Hall and quizzed me dizzy—and you might think you pulled one over on me but I knew what you were about." He leaned back in his chair, half-masted his gaze. "Or did lovely Esme rout you yet again?"

"No one routs me, Rory-my-dear, and you know it."

"Tell me another, old son, but I doubt I'll swallow it, either. On my oath, it's purely entertaining the way you and Esmeralda come to be after the same things yet remain so totally arse over tit in how you go about it."

That one did pink, and Rory no doubt saw his slight flinch because damned if the old pillock didn't give a short bark of laughter. But just as abruptly Rory sobered and insisted, stubbornly, "The boy wants a place of his own, Baggins. And I want to see him happy."

"Well," Bilbo stated, tossing back his drink. "How many of us get what we want in life, eh?"

"Says you, you spoiled old toad," Rory groused, taking a hearty gulp of his own mug. "Sitting all pretty under your Hill, just like a king."

"No, my dear," Bilbo riposted. "You are the king, and Brandy Hall but proves it."

"Well, my daughter-in-law has done my Gilly proud, and my eldest boy a marvel with the business, so the kingdom's doing well enough without me. As it should be." Rory pulled at his drink, wiped his mouth and reiterated, "I'm no fool, Bilbo, and I'm not fooling. The boy did well with you. He's queer, yes, but I love him as my own. Just as I loved his mother and father. And Merimac's looking after him well and proper, no question there, but I'd not like to see my sister's son become a River gipsy." He peered sideways at Bilbo. "Then, I've said all this before, haven't I?"

"You have," Bilbo agreed, still smarting from the well-aimed words.

The lads, with much fond name-calling and promises of who-knew-what, were dispersing. The ringleader was curiously looking Bilbo's way; he gave Frodo a playful nudge then, as Frodo grinned and shrugged, sidled closer and spoke in Frodo's ear. Frodo's dark brows drew together in a frown; he hesitated, then cut his eyes sideways to meet Bilbo's own.

Bilbo looked down, then cursed himself for tens kinds of fool and forced himself to look up.

The other lad was walking away, and Frodo had turned his back on Bilbo, was retreating—was it a retreat?—over to where Merimac stood, still chatting with Milo Burrows. In a matter of moments Frodo had achieved his cousin's side and snaked an arm about his ribcage; Merimac laid his arm across Frodo's shoulders and gave him a quick—was it reassuring?—squeeze, all without interrupting the conversation. In fact, the ease to it raised Bilbo's hackles for reasons he wasn't sure he wanted to explore, yet also gave him a warmth that he was no more anxious to fathom.

Milo reached out and knuckled Frodo's head; the lad ducked under it in a sheepish and irritated gesture universal, somehow, to tweenerhood. Milo chuckled, shrugged apologetically then departed.

Frodo and Merimac also left, but not before Frodo shot him another surreptitious glance, and certainly not before Merimac sent his own very clear look of warning.

Who are you, the lad's keeper? If Bilbo could have shot the rancorous thought across the courtyard in some mythical manifestation of Tookish faery Sight, he would have. As it was, he had neither Sight nor sound but nonetheless Merimac read him with startling accuracy, flung back his own message. It had little to do with claiming any rights, imagined or otherwise, but it did clearly suggest that Bilbo take action, preferably bent over and with some jagged object.

Beside him, Rory chuckled. He had seen the entire thing. "Oh, my. Esmeralda and Merimac. You haven't a chance."

Bilbo glared at him, but Rory only kept chuckling.

"And what do you want inscribed on your cairn, dear Bilbo?" he asked, reaching for another pasty.

* * * * * *

"The stands are full, and overflow all along t' rail," Mick stated with satisfaction and a grunt as he tightened the girth of the grey pony beside him. Atop that pony, reins looped over one arm, Paladin gave a distracted nod and tugged at his gloves. The grey switched his tail in protest of the girth pressure and danced sideways; a quick press of knee to ribcage and a stablelad's firm hand at the bridle stayed him.

"Turpin," Paladin said, shortening rein, "the time?"

"Nigh to post. But they're not likely to start without you, m'lord."

Merry, standing beside Frodo—both of them also in their riding togs—watched as Frodo put a hand to his mouth to hide a sudden smirk. The Thain blinked, peered at his trainer, blinked once more then chuckled.

"Well, Turpin," he said with a shrug, "I do believe you have a point there." This time Merry's uncle cut a wry look in their direction and winked, then grinned and leaned forward, gave his mount a fond slap on the neck. "They're all laughing at me, Prince," he told the young stallion. "We can't afford to lose, now."

"Just mind yer promise, m'lord," Mick said slyly. "Off t' pavilion once your own race be over."

This time Merry heard Frodo laugh, if quietly, and Merry had to giggle himself. He and Frodo had quickly found out that the stable crew did their best to chase their nervous master away from the stableyard during the races. In fact, Merry had also heard that Aunt Eglantine was in on the conspiracy and would descend upon the yard with perfect timing to escort her husband to the Thain's pavilion.

Now that Uncle Paladin was on his pony, however, much of that nervousness had disappeared. Merry grimaced—he hoped his would do the same.

The call to post sounded, a high-pitched rat-tat of a hunting horn. Paladin's grey shook his head and reared back on his haunches; he knew what it meant. Paladin pulled his cap further down onto his brow, gave the hobbits surrounding him a quick nod, then trotted from the yard, the stablelad at his left stirrup.

Merry squirmed in a fierce mix of delight, nerves and anticipation.

"My Dada will win," Pippin came skipping over, also decked out in riding gear. "And so will I. And you too, Frodo." He slanted green eyes toward Merry. "If you don't get in Acorn's way too much, Merry, you might at least show."

"You little—" Merry started forward; Frodo grabbed him by the arm.

"Leave it for now," he said firmly then, to Merry's approval, glowered at Pippin. "Your Dada will have your guts for garters, Pipsqueak, should he find that you put Merry off his race with a few unkind words."

"I was just—"

"I know what you were doing," Frodo said severely. "And," he snugged Merry's arm tighter into his own, muttered, "you shouldn't let him do it."

"I loathe him," Merry whispered back, "I swear, I loathe him and I hope he—"

Frodo tightened his grip. "Enough, lad."

Merry gave a small wince and drew his arm from Frodo's grip, rubbing at it. "Do you have to call me that?"

Frodo blinked. "What?"

"Lad. It makes me feel like a—"

"A lad?" Frodo's grin was contagious, and Merry realised that he was, perhaps, being a tad unreasonable.

"The Brandybuck temper." Frodo nudged him. "Gets the better of us every time, doesn't it?"

Merry chuckled.

"Do we have time to watch Paladin race?" Frodo called to Mick.

"Aye, should. Ask t' guv'nor all t' same."

Merry ran the few strides over to where Turpin was overseeing the saddling of Acorn, asked permission and received it. Ignoring Pippin's "Hey, wait for me!" he sprinted from the yard, followed by Frodo.

* * * * * *

"What a charger you would make," Paladin murmured approvingly as Prince curvetted beneath him. "You're too much for the young ones, aye?—so you'll carry this not-so-young one into the fray."

Black-tipped ears twitched agreement, and the young stud blasted air through his nostrils as he saw the other ponies converging on the track: a challenge.

"That's right, tell them who and what you are. One such as you shall sire me a lot of stout-hearted lads, won't you? Proud as any Big Person's war-horse but with more heart and bone, ready to brave a hail of arrows if need be..." Suddenly Paladin bit his lip, looking across his land and seeing, instead of green, fecund fields and magnificent forest, a grey and parched landscape, smoke and ashes and…

Prince whistled another challenge and leapt sideways, nearly unseating Paladin and firmly reminding him to keep his thoughts to the business ahead. Relegating the bleakness to a small, dark corner of his mind, Paladin shut a sturdy door on it, all of it: future and past and any possibilities save what existed now. Now was the race and damp emerald turf, glossy, excited ponies and a rainbow of stable colours displayed on hobbit shoulders, the wind on his cheeks and his beloved ones watching from the stands.

He sought out Eglantine's dark eyes, and Merimac's crooked smile, and felt their regard warm him to the tips of his toes.

But he still had the taste of ashes in his mouth.

* * * * * *

Paladin had won his race, Pervinca and Pippin had both come in second, and Frodo hadn't raced yet but Merry still felt the keenness of his own expectations and hopes—it couldn't be he that broke the cycle of glory. He couldn't let Uncle Paladin down. He wouldn't be the cause of Acorn's defeat.

He wasn't going to be Frodo's inadequate baby cousin.

As they went to the track, Acorn's strides were long and smooth and aggressive, as if the determination in Merry's breast was travelling down the reins like lightning drawn from sky to ground, sparking in the pony's already-great heart.

"No more baby cousins," Merry said between his teeth and took a wrap on the reins.

And oh, the clamour and the shouts when he came trotting back to the winner's circle; Acorn champing his bit and blowing his victory to the skies, the hugs and laughter and kisses as he'd dismounted at the Thain's box. His mother's gleeful embrace and the mirth in her eyes that reminded him she too had once piloted Tuckborough ponies to many a win; Paladin hugging not only his neck but the pony's; Merimac's affectionate cuff to his temple and Eglantine's kiss to his forehead and Pippin's grudging admittance that "Well, you surely rode that race like a Took, Merry Brandybuck", the way his father had laughed, gathered Merry in his arms and swung him, as negligently as if he were ten, back up on the pony for his victory lap. But this moment, this now, was incomplete without…

And then the moment, shining like Acorn's wet coat, filled as Frodo came walking up, eyes gleaming with a pride that sent Merry's throat to aching. Frodo laid a hand to Merry's knee, looked up at him, said quietly, "What a ride, eh?"

* * * * * *

Nine races behind them, and four of those won by riders wearing the claret and gold. One more, then he and River were up, and unlike his precocious cousins Frodo had no firm expectations, good or bad. Anxiety had given way to dread, then excitement, and in the wake of all that had come determination, blanketing his tight-strung nerves like a warm cloak.

Now there was only the wait, and the strange shelter of serenity that always came with the waiting.

Frodo was already mounted, and for a marvel River was quiet between his knees, as if she kenned that this moment—this now—would never be repeated, and needed acknowledging.

"Have you ever wondered at something as simple as the passing of a breath?" he murmured to her, tangling his fingers in her mane. "But no… you're a pony and I'm a hobbit and we're both here, aren't we? Only here, nothing more, and I want to hear what you hear, see what you see, be lost in the moment of what exists, not what might be, or could have been, or could be."

River's sides expanded in a huge breath; she let it out with a soft sigh, still content. In fact she was so placid Frodo wondered at it. Against his calf her breath was measured and steady.

"Do you think," he bent over and murmured into her mane, "that Paladin will have our portrait painted if we win?"

A roar of voices told the story of what was going on, up the hill and on the gallops; the race had started. But still River stood quiet beneath him, her ears perked toward the upward path as if to say: "My, my, how interesting—has it anything to do with me, then?"

A stablelad came over to him, accompanied by Mick. "Almost time, master Frodo," the old groom said.

Time. What had time to do with them? The lad took hold of River's head while Frodo snugged on the gloves Mick handed to him. His hands were altogether steady, yet the breeze blew at his cheeks, cooled the heat of them that betrayed his anticipation.

A sudden gust of wind whirled through the yard, curled midden dust and straw around River's hoofs and up Frodo's breeches; she danced sideways and the stablelad hung grimly to her bridle. Angrily, she shook her head.

"Let her go," Frodo said tersely. "I have her."

Another roar from the gallops—the race was done, won.

River quieted at his touch, turned, nuzzled at his foot.

Long moments, uncounted. Blue sky overhead, voices raised in shout and song, the smell of his own sweat and heated pony hide.

"Go on, t'en," Mick said. "Warm 'er up. Guv'nor's waitin' for you up t' hill."

And Frodo wondered how it was on this day that time seemed not to be chasing him, but to be running before him, like the ponies he would have to overtake in the race.

* * * * * *

"Next race is the tweener's Maiden race," Paladin said, his voice tight, and Merimac thought to tease him for it, even made the attempt, found his own voice so tight it wouldn't work.

Maiden race, for fillies who had never won a race or, in River's case, fillies who had never raced before. And there were a lot of them. And Frodo was riding a green filly in her first race with all those riders who weren't about to let up on that filly because she was a threat, pure and simple. Merimac had seen the other races today, in fact had over the years seen far too many races, many of them with Paladin riding and he'd felt just as bloody sidelined then even without the leg and as far as he was concerned the sodding Strait was less dangerous than being astride forty-odd stone of wriggly, well-muscled and wilful instinct.

Why couldn't the lad have fixated on something safer? Like being a mercenary?

"She'll be fine," Paladin reached out, laid a hand on Merimac's knee—and had Paladin been in full possession of his wits he wouldn't have squeezed so hard, because it was the bad leg. Merimac winced; Eglantine peered at him with some concern and leaned over, tried to remove her husband's hand.

Paladin was oblivious. "She'll be fine," he repeated. "She won't blow. But if she does… Frodo can manage her, you know."

I know, Merimac tried to say over the pain shooting sparks behind his eyeballs.

"We know," Eglantine said, and she was peering at Merimac and trying not to grin because she knew Paladin's grip hurt, but, well, bloody damn it was funny. In that sick and perverse sort of way, true, but…

Merimac found his voice—it was either that or scream and give the draperies behind them a climb. "Sod-all, Pal, would you let go?"

Paladin jumped, blinked, looked at his hand that Eglantine was so intently trying to dislodge and realised to what it was attached. "Oh, bugger!" he exclaimed and released Merimac.

Several of the matrons surrounding Lalia developed prunes-and-prisms faces over the language their acting Thain was using. Pimpernel, attending Lalia, rolled her eyes to Pervinca, who was seated behind her father with her hair still mussed from riding, and mouthed, Old biddies.

Merimac wondered if the sudden release of blood would rush to his head and make him hurl like… well, like Paladin on a boat.

"I'm sorry, love, really I am," Paladin was saying.

Eglantine rose, gave orders that the prunes-and-prisms dames were to be served more wine, then brought Paladin and Merimac a good shot apiece of uisge.

Saradoc and Esme were both gaining far too much satisfaction from their siblings' attack of nerves, as far as Merimac was concerned. As to his father… why did the old hobbit feel that he had to invite buggering Bilbo Baggins to the buggering Thain's box, anyway? Both of them smirking like bastards named primary in a will…

Merimac gave Bilbo a filthy look.

The ponies came onto the track, prancing and skylarking. As they approached the start, one kicked out at another and there was a gasp from the crowd, equal parts dismay and titillation. Both kick and noise set off a chain reaction of antics; several ponies ducked their heads and tried to rush the start; others bucked; one skittered sideways and almost crashed into the outside rail.

"I don't see him," Eglantine said from behind Merimac and Paladin. She wasn't as calm as she seemed; each of her hands were fiercely clenched on an equally-tight male shoulder. "They're beginning to line up; where could he be?"

"There he is." Saradoc pointed.

Several lengths back from the milling herd was a chestnut filly with too much white, and on her back was a whip-slender lad, dark hair spilling from beneath his hat to hang between his shoulder-blades. Both filly and lad seemed slow compared to the antics of the others.

"She's too quiet," Paladin said. "Whatever could be—?"

Then a stocky, rough-coated bay came careening towards River, bucking like a fiend. Her rider let out a warning shout and Frodo snatched up rein, trying to get out of the way. It was all too much for River; she whirled and gave a huge leap into the air. Frodo shouted something distinctly uncomplimentary at the bay's rider; the bay careened past River's haunches and she kicked out.

Another cry of excited dismay swelled in the crowd.

Paladin gave a relieved sigh and slumped in his chair. "That's better."

"Better?" Merimac demanded.

"She's acting more normal."

Oh, for the love of… "Hoy!" In lieu of smacking silly his oldest and dearest friend, Merimac shouted at the bay's rider. "Watch yourself next time!"

Seated to Merimac's left, an elderly gentlehobbit chuckled and murmured something to Ferumbras, who was tied into a chair beside him. Ferumbras also chuckled.

All right, he'd had enough. "What's so funny?" Merimac snarled at them.

The gentlehobbit patted his shoulder. "Nothing, dear boy. Nothing at all."

"Drink your drink, love," Eglantine said in his ear and retreated to her place beside Paladin.

Merimac tossed back his drink and considered that if he had one more condescending… whatever from… whoever, there was bloody well going to be damage done.

"Bloody bush ponies," Esmeralda said disgustedly to her sister Periwinkle—she'd tried to say it to Paladin to no avail.

"My wife," said Saradoc to Periwinkle, "is all Took when it comes to the gee-gees, I'm afraid."

"As it should be," Periwinkle stated approvingly, giving her overwhelmingly-posied hat a firm tilt against the sun.

"Buckland should stick to football and forget about bringing ponies here," Esmeralda insisted. "Give me that spyglass."

Saradoc relinquished it, cocking an all-suffering eyebrow to Periwinkle. See, what did I tell you? Periwinkle tugged at her hat again, giggled like a maid.

Merry came running up, his hair flat with hat-sweat. "Did I miss it? I came as fast as I could!"

"Not yet, you haven't," his mother said, putting the spyglass to her eye. "Blast the starter; is he out of his mind? He's putting that bay crowbait next to Frodo!"

The ponies were almost all lined up to the start.

Paladin grabbed Merimac's knee again. This time Merimac didn't feel a thing.

* * * * * *

Frodo wasn't sure who he wanted to curse more: the bay pony and her inept rider, or the starter who put him right next to the beast. Rather he be on the far outside—a longer way, to be sure, but at least without this particular interference.

The bay once again started hopping up and down; her rider looking over and shrugging. They were from Buckland, for the rider wore the green and brown…

Oh, bloody damn.

Frodo and Girry recognised each other at exactly the same moment, and if animosity could have shot through the air and turned into arrows, they'd both have been slain on the spot.

"I'll be buggered." Girry regained his powers of speech first. "If it isn't the runty Baggins chit."

Frodo wanted—oh, he really wanted—to come up with some withering retort. Then, as he looked down at Girry on his hairy, ill-tempered and unfit bush pony, he realised that he didn't have to say anything. The fact that he was astride River, all sleek and tall and obviously well-bred, said it all for him.

And Girry knew it, from the covetous look in his eyes as he peered at River.

"On the mark the noo!" shouted the starter. "Don't waste 'em, ride em!"

"Who'd you bend over for to get that filly?" Girry hissed.

"You have to bend over just to find your pony," Frodo retorted. "Don't you feed her, poor thing?"

"On the mark, I say!"

"Mine has to work for a living!" Girry sneered. "Unlike that overbred piece… just like Tooks, good for nothing, particularly a—!" His words slid upwards into a yip as the bay twisted, gave a few crowhops. Girry gave her a yank and a spank; she objected by rearing up so suddenly and high that she nearly fell. Girry went sailing, the bay filly slammed into River, who slammed into the filly beyond. Pinned, River went up on her hind legs and Frodo slid sideways, stirrups flopping as he lost them.

It all happened within a matter of seconds. Unfortunately and just before those same seconds passed, the starter shouted, "Go!"

The ponies leapt forward almost as one, a mass of muscle and gleaming hide, thundering hoofs and shouting riders.

The bay squealed and leapt forward, leaving Girry cursing and sprawled in the dirt.

Free of that particular impediment, River shot forward with her customary rocket of a start. It sent Frodo, already chancily seated, nigh backwards over her hind end; he held on only by the grace of sheer willpower and both arms clamped about her neck. His legs dangled back at her flanks, reins falling slack, one looping down dangerously close to her driving front legs.

Paladin and Merimac both leapt to their feet with a shout. Merimac's staff fell with a great hollow clack! to the flooring. Eglantine was still attached to their shoulders, but the sudden surge forward hadn't taken her by surprise; she had done the same thing.

Merry would have gone over the rail and braved sixteen sets of pounding hoofs had not his father grabbed him by the seat of his trousers.

"Get back up!" Esmeralda shouted, one hand wielding the spyglass like a sword.

Bilbo had lurched forward in his chair, started to holler his own entreaty but Rory said it for him. "Come on, Frodo-lad!"

The filly, reins flopping, was skittering back and forth about the track, losing ground for lack of guidance. A good deal of air kept appearing between Frodo and the saddle, but as if he heard the encouragement he dragged himself forward, pushed upright. Another agonising span of seconds, then River steadied out, fell back into line once more, sure sign that he'd taken back the reins. Frodo's feet found the irons and he rose in the saddle, shoved his hands forward to ride.

"That's my lad!" Merimac crowed and shoved at the old gentlehobbit next to him. "See?"

The hobbit merely gave him a scarcely-patient gaze and held out the fallen stick.

Heart thudding up into the roof of his mouth, Frodo sucked in huge gulps of air, willed his shaking hands and knees steady and… ah, there it was… River steadied as well. Her jagged pace slowed, finding itself; Frodo spent precious seconds letting her gather up then shoved his hands forward on her neck, hunched into her mane. "Go!"

So many ponies would flatten out, become shorter and longer beneath a rider; River was one of the ones that got bigger, extending her whole shoulder into the effort. He knew she was going her fastest when she rocked back into his face, when she seemed to not be running, but floating, as if she held time still while she caught up with it.

He'd left five behind at the start despite the mayhem of it; he spared a passing merciless chuckle for Girry then left it be, focusing every bit of his determination upon the eleven sets of hindquarters bunching and expanding before him. Every stride River made was bringing them up on those straining, hard-muscled haunches; he had to overtake them somehow, but to pass on the outside was asking just too much after such a poor start.

He'd never expected this. He knew—and Paladin had said, time and again—that River's explosive start should free her from any crowding problems at the line. But the inevitable bad chance had tripped him up and here he was, and he had to do something… and do it before River nipped one of the ponies before her in the arse; look at her, pinning her ears and crowding them from behind!

Frodo laughed out loud; River struck out—play, keeping her stride all the while—then blew a firestorm of challenge through her red-rimmed nostrils and surged forward. Let me, she pleaded, a snort with every stride, Come on, let's run them down!

They were amidst the pack before either of them knew it, surrounded by an explosion of hoofs, slap and squeak of leather, bellows-fire breathing and riders hollering encouragement, curses and invocations. Two ponies to Frodo's right skittered sideways, nearly colliding, and the three ponies right in front of Frodo shouldered out, blindly following the arc their racing-mates described.

It left a River-sized hole right before her nose; even before Frodo slapped her neck, she had leapt into the opportunity like a veteran racer and stuck her nose amidst the front-runners. Free turf before them, nothing but green grass and brown earth and white rail as they rounded the curve; Frodo didn't want the same creeping outward tendency to happen to them so he slapped at River's neck once more, called her name.

Up she came, up into his hands and her crest smacked his nose so hard he saw stars, but then he was already seeing stars, wasn't he, because she was floating and so was he and the ponies about him dropped to her shoulder, then his leg, then her heaving haunches…

"Go it, Frodo, go it!" Merry danced on the rail like a poppet on a stick

Paladin leapt to his feet with a piercing, exultant cry, Eglantine with him.

Merimac tried to leap to his feet, failed miserably and instead swung his stick in a huge circle over his head, shouting Frodo's name.

Bilbo and Rorimac were drumming their fists on their chairs.

Esmeralda let out a whoop; Saradoc nabbed the spyglass from her just before she accidentally smacked him in the face with it.

And the finish line swept beneath River's white-stockinged feet three full lengths before any other pony even nosed it.

* * * * * *

Thirteen races all told, and the Tuckborough ponies showing their usual mettle. Surely there were a few grumblings, but a fast pony was a fast pony, and which of those made it over the line first was not subject to favouritism or elitism or, indeed, any 'isms' save the nepotism of sound breeding.

Merry, Frodo, and ten other of Great Smials' riders including Pervinca, Pippin and the little Banks lass who'd won his race, stood with the other forerunners as Eglantine handed out the prizes. Gilt cups with intricate knotwork at base and rim were given to the winners; medallions with the Thain's seal stamped on them were awarded to the seconds. And all were accompanied by a thick bundle of carrot and swede—after all, the ponies had done most of the work.

Frodo and Merry immediately ran to the stableyard to parcel out treats. Pippin wore his medallion about his neck and his little cousin wore her cup on her head, both of them prancing and preening and snorting like rascally ponies until dinner was called. As the sun began retreating in the sky and the huge, coloured glass lamps were lit, everyone was shown to their seats. The forerunning riders once again gained recognition by having their own table just below the Thain's, even Pippin and Frodo and Merry were seated there. Lalia decided that she had lingered in the background for long enough and stepped forward, made the speeches and would have sat in the Thain's chair had not Paladin already been there, surreptitiously wielding a fork in the area where her behind would have descended. With ill grace she gave in, even more grudgingly accepted the chair at his right hand.

It seemed very odd to Frodo that Merimac was seated with the scions of Brandybuck instead of up there with the Tooks—and odder still that he would think such a thing—and downright irritating that Merimac couldn't sit with him, either. It would have been the perfect ending to a blissful day, Merry on one hand and Mac on the other.

There were only two worrisome pairs of eyes upon him. Girry looked as if he'd like to stove his head in on a whim, and Bilbo…

Bilbo kept watching him. He only did it when he thought Frodo wasn't watching, but Frodo knew even so, and it made him squirm.

Frodo finished dinner in record time, decided that he was going to escape those eyes by secreting his cup in his room, arrange to meet with his friends for some dancing then, as a matter of course, Merimac for other things. He met his playmate's eyes across the room; Mac smiled at him, blew a kiss his way then turned as Rorimac tugged at his arm, queried something. But the kiss wafted over Frodo's cheek as if a physical thing, promising: Later.

"Frodo, the dancing's started." Merry was tugging at his sleeve, and had a face like a thundercloud; Frodo realised that he'd probably seen that blown kiss. Not good.

"Come dance with me?" Merry's surliness had changed to a winsome ingenuousness, and Frodo suddenly kenned what a huge predicament it was going to prove, managing that ingenuousness for the foreseeable future.

"I'm going to my smial, first," he told him then, when the thundercloud threatened to return, said, "I'll be there straight away, promise. I want to put my cup safely away. And I want to dance."

"Well, and I know that," Merry said with a grin. "You always want to dance."

Frodo grinned back.

* * * * * *

The Main Hall had turned to golden, firelit shadows, was deserted as he passed it; already Frodo could hear, from outside, the sounds of instruments tuning, of people dispersing to varied places about the Common. Of course the main circle of Smials would be empty; the party was but starting.

The cup winked from gilt to a dark gleam as Frodo passed into the dimly-lit tunnel leading towards his and Merimac's smials; he thought it looked like River's coat and gave a throaty chuckle—if he'd said such a thing about a lass it would have sounded sappy beyond belief, but River was special.

And she knew she was special; she'd lipped his fingers free of treats and blown warm breath against his cheek, a twinkle in her eye that all but said, We did it, didn't we? and he told her yes, and that Paladin had said they were to have a portrait all their own.

He fairly danced into his smial, humming a tune that the revellers had begun as he'd spiralled into the family wing; he cleared books from a shelf and placed the cup there with appropriate ceremony, stood looking at it with what he was sure was an inane grin upon his face and didn't care that he was surely the silliest, soppiest prat in the Shire.

The racing, and perhaps a good game, and certainly the dancing, and some drinking, and even later something that he truly wanted right now, and if Merimac happened to wander in at this moment they'd be locking the door, wouldn't they?—and the dancing could wait for a little while, and if the football was missed, well, the sex would certainly be worth it.

He stood there, wishing that Merimac was a little more 'Tookish', because then he might just See what Frodo wanted…

A laugh escaped him at the thought of it, he determined that whether or no such a thing was even possible was a question he needed to ask Paladin—and felt his ears heat—then gave his cup one last affectionate touch and left the room.

He was still humming as he headed back towards the Main Hall, his thoughts as fluid and swift as the Brandywine beneath Gillyflower's prow and as assuredly ungovernable.

Frodo burst into the alcove, nearly collided with a short, well-dressed hobbit, managed by an improbable and gangly motion to not fall, either on his face or on the hobbit. He started to form an apology, looked up, froze.

"Frodo!" Bilbo said. "I was hoping I'd find you here!"

All exuberance skittered, slipped and thumped down into the pit of Frodo's belly.

The ungovernable aspect, thankfully, remained. "What do you want?" he asked curtly.

Bilbo's answer was altogether too cheerful. "Why, to speak with you of course. It's been a while since we've talked, you know."

Frodo just peered at him, eyes at half-mast.

The steel-grey head cocked to one side; Bilbo seemed quite nonplussed and the very fact was an affront. But before Frodo could do what his first instinct told him—to just walk past him and out, back to the party—Bilbo tutted, "Come now. Surely you can spare a few moments to speak with me?"

Frodo didn't want to acquiesce in any fashion, found in horror that Bilbo had reached out and lightly taken hold of his arm and—more horror!—that he was letting him.

"Only a few moments, I promise," Bilbo was saying. "And then we'll return together to that lovely party. Yes?"

No! he wanted to say, then Mac, where are you? and the sudden interior whine of that shamed him so that he could feel his cheeks flame.

So he was alone. So he was uncomfortable. Well, he'd been both of those for much of his life and Mister Bilbo Baggins might have faced down dragons but he hadn't faced down the Hall, had he?

Well, I've faced down the Hall. Frodo lifted his chin, deliberately manoeuvred his arm out from Bilbo's grasp, and crossed his arms. So I can face you down, too.