The main hall might be empty, but the light in the hearth had no easy task to outshine the brilliance of the lights outside. In fact the celebration outside those tall windows was growing so steadily boisterous it could nearly be felt through the deep-burrowed earth, and excited voices carried through even the thick seals of Great Smials' frontis.

Frodo wished he was there, not here. He didn't know what he'd been thinking, agreeing to stay, to listen to whatever it was Bilbo had to say to him.

Bilbo, meanwhile, was peering mournfully at his hand, which held a nearly-empty glass. "Too bad Himself locks his liquor cabinet; I could use another helping of his excellent wine. Though," he said thoughtfully, "considering how often our relatives have the urge to pilfer, it's probably a sound decision."

As if he wasn't considering pilfering it himself. But of course, Bilbo Baggins was above the rules, wasn't he? Frodo bit back the words that surfaced to his tongue—Bilbo could chatter himself purple, but if he was waiting for Frodo to blithely chatter back, he was going to wait a very long time.

Arms still crossed, Frodo padded over to the fireplace. He wasn't cold, but at least it gave him something innocuous to focus on.

Bilbo came with him. "Mm, good idea, lad. The evening is so clear it's turning a wee bit chilly."

Still without speaking, Frodo turned, left the fireside and went over to the far wall, peering upward, applying his attention in particular to the large portrait of Paladin, Eglantine and their children.

Regrettably thwarting Bilbo's persistence was not going to be so easy. He wandered over, stood next to Frodo—albeit not as closely this time, Frodo noted with satisfaction—and looked upward as well.

What did the old hobbit want? For it was no great guess to ken that he wanted something.

"My, but they're an attractive lot, aren't they?" Bilbo said. "But then, the Tooks are known for their fairness of face."

Frodo felt his jaw, slowly and inexorably, clench. So Bilbo had brought him here to discuss family traits, had he?

"And so many of them redheads, just like the Brandybucks tend to golden hair. Of course there's exceptions—several of the Tooks, Esme included, have that odd frosty fairness to them, and Paladin's dark-haired as you, another throwback. My mother was one of those as well—I wish you could have met her, lad, she was quite the dame."

Yes, family traits was the article of the hour, it seemed.

"Often," Bilbo said quietly behind him, "it seems large families don't have the time they should for all their children. But Paladin and Eglantine manage it somehow—and they manage Smials, so their family is huge, in a manner of speaking. The older girls are a big help, I imagine. Except Pearl, of course. But then, it seems Esme is finally beginning to whip her into shape."

Now it was child-rearing. And here Bilbo was, full of advice on a subject he knew little about.

"I can't say I'm surprised; we both know how… ah… tenacious Esmeralda can be."

This was too close a reference for Frodo's comfort; he inched away, bit by bit, as Bilbo continued.

"Nevertheless, I do find myself wondering if some of the children fostered here don't find themselves lost in this great hole." The way Bilbo said it seemed to imply some deep meaning, but bugger if Frodo could figure it out.

Not that he really wanted to. He shot a suspicious glance at Bilbo, found the old hobbit peering at him and instantly averted his eyes, looking for something else to settle his attention upon.

Lalia's portrait. Yes. Frodo took the few steps to it; he still found it infinitely interesting; its divergence from the old harridan's present countenance suggested so much: choices, and time, and change.

However, Bilbo, resembling one of Smials' little terriers at a rat, wasn't about to let it go; he brought Frodo, will-he nil-he, back from any contemplative respite. "I suppose I should bring old Dora's portrait here; I know they'd hang it in proper state. Unfortunately they'd probably put it next to Lalia's," Bilbo gestured to that portrait, "and its very presence might curdle poor Dora's bones." He shrugged, twiddling the now-empty glass in his fingers. "Well, I can't seem to let go of it, at any rate. I'll have to put it in my will, I suppose, make sure some small-minded relative doesn't lightly dispose of it."

"You seem to be enjoying your stay here, lad."

Ah. It was beginning to get more pointed, more… personal.

Frodo didn't want to discuss anything personal, not here, not now, and most certainly not with Bilbo.

Not any more.

"You were a marvel on that pony. Had me on the edge of my seat when you ran into that bit of mayhem off the line, and then she came on like a bolt of lightning… a pretty piece of riding, and an excellent filly. Paladin was dead chuffed; between his own victory, then yours as well as with Pervinca, Merry and little Peregrin—and my can that child ride!—you soundly trounced the competition. I think Merimac hit several hobbits sitting next to him, he was waving his stick about so, and Rory was nearly apoplectic; gave me a start."

Frodo wasn't fooled by a seeming foray into the trivial; Bilbo was heading somewhere, he knew it.

But where?

"Speaking of Merimac—"

Frodo stiffened.

"—I must say that I'm very proud of you, lad. You certainly didn't have to stick by him, but you did, and it was a very grown-up thing to do."

"What else could I do?" The words burst from Frodo before he could stop them; immediately he set his tongue against his teeth and clenched his fists, determined to say nothing more, no matter the provocation.

"And that just proves my point," Bilbo softly said. "You've done the right thing, the only thing you could have done and you know it. Not many twenty-year-olds possess that sort of determination. It's one of the things I admire about you so, your… fortitude."

Admire? Hardly. Frodo gritted his teeth together, refused to rise to the proffered bait.

"At least Merimac seems to be on the mend," Bilbo continued. "I understand it's likely he'll be back on the Gillyflower, unruly as ever, come summer's end."

"That should be well after your obligation to the Bel-fires," Bilbo said, all too lightly. "Will you be returning to the Brandywine, then? With Merimac?"

Frodo shot a suspicious glare at him; was further uneased by the serious expression that belied the light words. "And if I am?" he shot back, and was immediately angry that Bilbo had once again extorted speech from him.

Bilbo's gaze quickly retreated beneath Frodo's own dark look; he walked deliberately over to the fireplace, set his glass on the mantel with a small 'clink'. "You once wanted nothing more than a study of your own, set in good clean earth and filled with books. Have you changed so much?"

Fury and outrage rose within Frodo so abruptly that he nearly choked on them. How dare Bilbo question him, take him to task for changing, remind him of what had been and what he had been cast from? And how could Bilbo saunter in here as if nothing had happened, have the… the balls to assume the right to even ask—?

Bilbo kept peering at him, brow furrowed; he kept shifting back and forth from toes to heels, obviously agitated but Frodo was glad of this sign of discomfort. It was about time that the old hobbit should feel awkward, should feel even half of what was snarling and snapping within Frodo: the turmoil, the fierce resentment, the shame at being in such tumultuous states over someone who had cast him aside like all the rest, who had betrayed him.

For several long moments there was no sound in the smial save the popping and hissing of the fire, the earth-muted rumpus from without.

"They're having quite the time out there, aren't they?" Bilbo finally ventured, looking toward the lantern-lit windows. "No one can party like a Took."

That was it. Enough, and more than enough; he'd borne all he could and if all Bilbo could do was discuss inanities in between fishing expeditions for… for whatever it was he wanted…

"It's been a fine birthday celebration, hasn't it lad? Our cousin Paladin, when he sets his mind to it, can throw a party as well as Brandy Hall." Bilbo grinned. "Or me."

With precise politeness, Frodo sketched the smallest of bows and said, firm composure denying any inner imbroglio, "I think I'd like to rejoin that party; I've friends who are no doubt waiting for me. If you would excuse me. Sir."

He got almost all the way to the door before Bilbo's voice halted him. Or, more likely, not the voice but what it said.

"You know, the smallest things can be disheartening. I so wanted for us to have a party for our mutual birthday last Halimath, yet…" A short pause. "It wasn't to be. Not then, at any rate."

Frodo whirled about, stared at him.

"I'm sorry; it's been nothing but a muddle, hasn't it? And I'm determined to make it right, that I am." Bilbo came forward a few steps, gave a cheerful smile and held out his hands, palms up. "So you had better come and live at Bag End, Frodo, my lad. That way we can celebrate our birthdays together, as we should."

The suddenness of it was what nearly took Frodo's breath away. Then the breezy confidence of it sucked that breath back into his lungs. Frodo had never believed people when they spoke of 'seeing scarlet', but now he knew the truth of it—it was indeed possible.

"You… arrogant… sod!"

Bilbo's genial expression fled. Whatever response Bilbo was expecting to his offer, Frodo was fairly sure that an explosion was furthest from expectation. But an explosion he gave him.

"How dare you? How dare you come here and… and—"

"Frodo—" Disbelieving. Disbelieving, as if he'd indeed expected that Frodo—poor, desperate Frodo—would leap at the chance.

"I cannot believe you! Waltzing in here as if you own the place, chatting me up as if the past months had never even happened, and then you stand there… smiling… and assume that you can… that you can just… just appear in my life again!" He'd refused speech before; Frodo was now so furious he could barely form words.

"My boy, you can't—"

"I am not 'your boy' and I never have been!"

"Look," Bilbo said, clearly intent upon gaining the upper hand, "I know that we've ended up at cross-purposes, but you have to know I never meant—"

"You never meant anything, did you? You never meant any of it, for you were willing to just… let it go! How can you say I know anything about you, when you—!" Frodo's voice broke on what he'd nearly said; he bit it back and continued, indignantly wrenching his emotions back under control and channelling them into biting sarcasm.

"So. Bilbo Baggins has finally decided that the orphan charity case must be in desperate need of him. How gracious of you, Cousin, and please don't think I'm not aware of the obvious honour you've chosen to bestow upon me, but in case it has escaped you, this unwanted orphan has found a place. Two places, if you count here at Smials where I'm welcome to stay if I choose!"

"Curse it all, Frodo, I've just said that you're welcome to—"

"Am I? Whatever welcome you tender obviously has strict conditions, and whatever promises you make are worth nothing, nothing! You agreed—behind my back!—to let the Hall take me, and they would have if I hadn't gone to the one place I knew I'd be free of it! And you would have just watched as they did it and done nothing!"

"I didn't think I had the right—"

"There are others who are perfectly willing to stand up for that 'right' even if you won't. Cousin Paladin has made it very plain that he won't pack me up like baggage and send me back to the Hall. Mac made a place for me and he has been with me, no matter what."

"And where was your Merimac this past winter?" Bilbo retorted sharply.

The words blazingly ready on his tongue went cold, chilling Frodo as surely as that winter had put the ice into his soul; the appalling urge to sob filled his chest and he had to turn away, clench his fists, bite his tongue so hard he thought that surely blood would break through. "That is not fair! He didn't know!"

"I knew. I was there," Bilbo continued mercilessly. "When you called for him, or Merry, and finally when you called for me, I was there. Yet you say that one foolish action on my part negates all that happened to us over the winter." He took several steps toward Frodo. "I was fearful for you. I made a mistake. I'm trying to rectify it, now, by inviting you back."

Resentment sent him further chill, and that reaching for burgeoning tears, freezing them. Frodo rallied, turned on Bilbo. "And you really expect me to believe you?"

Bilbo started forward, tried to speak; Frodo shook his head, backed away.

"You lied to me! For all I know you lied to me from the very beginning and we 'shared' nothing, nothing! I don't know why you even bothered with me—pity, charity?—or why you think you have to bother with me now, and neither do I care!" Frodo was cold, so cold and numb it ached, and surely if he was so cold then he shouldn't be shouting and feeling as if everything about him was on fire. "I don't care, do you hear me? I don't need you! I don't need you and I don't need Bag End and you can take your oh-so-generous offer to the poor little orphan lad, fold it into sharp corners and shove it up your—!"

"If you don't care, Frodo, then why are you so angry?"

The words, so sharp and reasonable, stopped Frodo in his tracks, stifled his shouts to a croak, flickered fire at frozen senses. He clenched his fists, staring at Bilbo, who was looking at him with a strange… was it regret?… in his eyes.

No. He wouldn't believe it. He wouldn't. "Why did you come?" Frodo suddenly demanded. "Why did you have to come here and… and cock everything up? I've decided what to do with my life. I've made my choice, I'm willing to abide by it—"

"Just abide by it? Why? Because you imagine it the only choice left to you? Or," Bilbo's words were like stones, falling upon the determined ice of Frodo's heart and leaving tiny fissures, "because you really want it?"

Desperately Frodo counterattacked. "If it is my only choice—and I'm not saying that it is!—then whose fault is that? If I had no other place to go, whose doing was that? Did you really expect me to just do as all of you bade me, yet again? Did you really think that after all that had happened to me I would just meekly return to the Hall, be content with being nothing more than trapped and miserable?"

"Frodo, if you would just—"

"You… you knew how it was for me there! But Merimac knew more, didn't he? He offered me a place, freely and willingly, and when I took it I was happy! Happy, do you hear me? You didn't want me, but Mac did, and does—and I want him, too!"

"It had nothing to do with not wanting you!"

"Pardon me, but I was always under the impression that getting rid of something means that you don't want it—"

"If you would just listen and think of something besides yourself for two moments—"

"And if I don't think of myself," Frodo lifted his chin, eyes flaring angrily, "who will? You?"

Silence.

With a small mockery of a bow, Frodo turned away.

Bilbo reached out and grabbed him by one arm.

Surliness gave way to agitation. "Let me go!" Frodo gave a great wrench, to no avail.

"No." Bilbo's face was grim. "I listened to you; now you're going to listen to me."

"I don't have to do anything for—"

"Do you realise," Bilbo interrupted, "how long I've lived alone? How much time I've spent in my own place with my own things, or wandering as I pleased with the roads under my feet and the wind on my face, with nothing to say me nay? No wife, no babes, and all of that not because I didn't have the opportunity, but because I chose it. I chose it, Frodo. I wanted to have nothing tying me down other than my smial and my occasional responsibilities to my landowners."

"I don't care!" Frodo tried once again to pull away; Bilbo's fingers dug in harder.

"And then one fine autumn afternoon you arrive, lost and torn in twain by so many things I couldn't even begin to understand, or list. You had nothing to hold to, and yes, I'll admit it was a heady feeling to think that I might be able to give you that something, that I might possess a few keys to whatever doors had been locked against what you really needed—"

"How nice for you, that I was so conveniently broken-winged on your doorstep."

"Curse it, Frodo, do you even comprehend how big a responsibility caring for a child is?"

"I'm not a child!"

"At present, that is highly debatable!' Bilbo growled back. "And the fact that you can't see any of this merely proves that you are still a boy—"

"No, it proves exactly what I knew all along."

"Bloody…" Bilbo yanked him closer. "You're twisting everything I'm saying."

"Let," Frodo gritted out, "go of me."

Bilbo blinked, seemed to realise what he was doing, let go; Frodo tottered back a few steps, raised a hand to rub at his arm, glaring at Bilbo. Then he turned and headed for the door.

"Frodo, do you even remember how close you came to dying while under my roof?"

Frodo didn't want to stop. He wanted to keep walking, snug tighter his cloak of defiance, deny the humiliation and—no, it couldn't be pain, he couldn't possibly care enough to feel pain—but nevertheless he halted, still rubbing at his arm. "I don't care," he woodenly repeated.

"I had to care," Bilbo continued, still quietly. "If I hadn't cared, it could have meant your life. It almost was your life. And that very fact did not give me much confidence in my ability to keep you safe from harm. You were attacked in my own garden, on my Hill, by one of our cousins; and your Merimac was correct—though it still galls me—when he told me I was an arrogant fool to believe that my reputation alone would protect you."

Eyes darting sideways to take in Bilbo, Frodo kept telling himself to go, leave, it was over and he shouldn't look back, never look back. But his body betrayed him, held still.

"So my conscience was altogether lacerated, and not at all willing to hold up beneath Esmeralda's very sound arguments regarding my lack of responsibility. She does want the best for you, even if she's thoroughly wrong-headed in the way she goes about it. Yes, I did know you weren't very happy at Brandy Hall, but you had safely bided there since your parents died."

"Yet now you've decided, after all this time, that you want to make a stand against the Hall?" Frodo retorted. " You're just a bit too late."

"Bloody damn, Frodo, I want to—"

"What do you want, Cousin Bilbo? For me to throw myself at your feet in gratitude? And all for what? So they can say 'no' and you can capitulate yet again?"

"The Hall," Bilbo quickly said, as Frodo paused to draw breath, "will consent if you do. Do you think I would have done nothing before I approached you?"

Frodo didn't know how to answer. In the place of anger was surfacing panic—not merely remainder of the reaction to the hand that had held so tightly upon his arm or Bilbo's subsequent demand for a hearing, but active apprehension at what all of it, combined and twined, might come to mean. "I've no idea what you've done or not done; I've had other and better things to occupy me."

Bilbo peered at him for long moments. "I'm not asking for your trust, Frodo," he finally stated, much calmer. "I must have underestimated what all this meant to you, so perhaps I don't deserve that trust, not now. I'm only asking you to give me another chance."

Ice, he was ice and the fissures beginning to crack and creak in that opaque layer of protection and scorn were no threat, no possibility of giving, or caring… "Another chance, you say," Frodo willed his voice steady, succeeded. "Another chance for what?"

Bilbo took a large breath, hesitated, then softly said, "How about your own study, lad?"

It hurt. It twisted within his breast, searing through ice and hard-won composure and numbed disbelief and Frodo stood stock still for long moments, wondering and writhing and, more humiliatingly, pining, and wishing on the moon would have been more reasonable at that moment than his sudden daft and irrational yearnings after what offerings had once been laid at his feet then taken away…

And they had been taken away, they had! How could he trust to them again? Give Bilbo another chance, not just to give him his own study but to turn about and yet again take it away? Give himself the chance to believe in what he thought to have from the moment he'd stepped over the threshold of that green door? To believe in the silence and sanctity of his own space; to think he could actually claim—all his own—room to breathe, to dream, to do?

No. No, it couldn't be true, and anyway, he had those things, given to him not out of charity or misplaced kindness, but love and willingness. Merimac had freely offered so many things—and some of them even more necessary than a smial of his own. Merimac had been there, given him asylum. Time. Freedom. Belief. Trust. A lover's arms, a companion's conviction, the knowledge that longings were not impossible things to subdue or fear, that passion need not always hold peril. Merimac had given so much to him, taught him so much, been not only lover but confidante, comrade, friend.

Merimac, who'd nearly died, and Paladin had been right, Frodo had somehow been the reminder, the lodestone that had brought him back, and Frodo knew all too well what it was like to not receive what you needed…

Merimac needed him.

Without warning, Frodo felt as if he was being rent into small, painful pieces.

He backed away, shook his head.

"Frodo," Bilbo said, "what are you—?"

"No," Frodo said, then again, "No. I… can't. You haven't the right to ask me this. I haven't the right to—"

"You haven't… what right?" Bilbo's face was puzzled, concerned… worried.

Frodo remembered that expression, remembered that it had been turned upon him many times before. During the winter.

No. He had to forget the winter. Instead, he had to remember winter's end. Solmath.

"No," he repeated. "You have no right. I don't believe you. I won't believe you. And I… I won't leave him. I won't… hurt him."

"Hurt… who? Merry?"

No, Merry didn't need him; the query but proved all the more how much Bilbo didn't understand. For now, Merry had the concerns and friends better suited to him; he was certainly better off without his older cousin. "I won't leave Merimac."

Bilbo fell silent, looking at Frodo. Frodo wanted to writhe beneath the scrutiny.

"I can't," he said yet again. "I won't." His eyes stung hot; abruptly Frodo spoke the first thing that came to his lips, no matter that it shamed him, betrayed weakness when all he wanted was to be hard as thrice-forged steel, fierce, resolute. "Why have you come now?"

"Frodo—"

"No! I can't leave him. He needs me and I won't leave him and you're too late, you have no right to ask me this, not any more!" He trailed off, closing his eyes: furious at himself for feeling so torn when he knew what he wanted, what was right; furious at Bilbo for putting him in this place of conflict and questions.

Silence. Again, only the hissing of the hearth and the revelry outside that surely should have died down by now, for certainly they had been here forever…

Forever.

Yet, of a sudden, forever seemed such a long time.

"I see," Bilbo finally ventured into that silence.

No, you don't see, I don't want you to see, leave me that much, at least. Frodo turned away, face burning, eyes stinging. He had to go, he had to salvage what pride he had left, he had to leave here, now, and never, never look back.

But once again Bilbo's voice stopped him. "Frodo, I can't help but wonder…"

Frodo lowered his eyelids further, shuttered from view any possible ambiguity.

"Do you really think that he needs you that much?" Bilbo asked him, very quietly. "What about what you need? For yourself?"

He didn't answer. Couldn't.

"Do you know what I think, Frodo? I think it would be a shame for you to just let that self go again, after you fought so hard for it."

"In Solmath," Frodo told him, quivering all over and refusing to look up, "you gave up your right to advise me on anything."

Again, silence. Seconds dragged out into moments, and he knew Bilbo was looking at him and Frodo knew he had to leave before he lost any semblance of self-control he possessed.

He turned, wanting to run; instead he strangled it into a swift walk, retreated—and it was a retreat and he hated himself for it—with head down, into the tunnels of Great Smials. Frodo nearly collided with something, barely noticed that something was a person and it had a familiar voice, which called his name; he kept going, unheeding, all but unseeing.

"Frodo!" Merimac couldn't help a pained grunt as he barely managed to avoid being bowled over; yet Frodo didn't respond, didn't hesitate, in fact Merimac wasn't sure that he'd even been seen and the lad's face had been, despite the shadows, obviously white, blank, beset.

Beyond, where Frodo had come from, was the main hall, a blazing fire…

And Bilbo.

Merimac felt his jaw tighten; with not a little deliberation he contemplated the figure standing by the hearth. Bilbo peered at him just as flatly, almost as if daring him to come forward, to speak.

Merimac never had been able to resist a dare, given in earnest or no. "What did you say to him?"

Bilbo turned away, stuck his hands in his pockets, hunched toward the fire.

"Blast you, Bilbo, what did you say?"

Still the old hobbit didn't answer. Merimac muttered an oath beneath his breath, started forward, then growled and gave it up for more important matters.

He turned and hobbled into the dark after Frodo.

* * * * * *

The only light in his smial was the slats of illumination from the open door and the dim glow from the fire; he shut the door and locked it, leaned against it, welcomed the flickering, concealing dark as friend.

Small gasps were lifting his chest; those stopped with a hiccup as Frodo looked across and saw that the door connecting his and Merimac's smials was ajar. In sudden panic he lurched toward it, closed it, bolted it fast, and propped himself against it, trembling.

Too much, all of it was too much to bear and he had to regain control over all of it, twine and plait it into some manner of substance, of understanding… contain it before it unravelled into impossible cords about his feet, bound him, tripped him…

Frodo twisted until his back was against the connecting door and rolled his eyes upward, breath still lifting his chest with ragged, arrhythmic gasps. The comforting substance of the ceiling met his gaze, a dark, warm cloak of earth and wood; slowly, haltingly his breathing steadied, quieted. Presently he realised that his fingers were numb from holding so tightly to the knob of the door behind him; he loosened it, flexed his fingers.

The room was all but dark; he'd allowed his fire to nearly go out.

It was something to spend outwardly focus on. He tottered over to the fireplace, hunkered down next to it, found with some relief that the firebox was well-supplied.

He spent purposefully-drawn-out moments re-feeding the hearth, coaxing dying embers into fresh and crackling flame; the purpose and routine of it eased the flight of his thoughts from wild arabesques into steady circles. He had just settled down before the cobalt-copper warmth, legs folded beneath him, when the inevitable happened.

A knock on the hallway door.

He froze, willed himself still and silent, as if it were true that the person on the other side of that door could hear him breathe, or perhaps see through the door.

Another knock, then a faint, barely-audible but recognisable voice calling his name. Silence, then Merimac called again, but the Smials were indeed solid; Frodo was reassured by the fact, yet still wrapped his arms about his knees and sat there, nervously peering at the door. At this moment the thought of any intrusion, loved or no, was anathema. All he wanted was to crawl in his hole and never, never come out because if he stayed here, stayed invisible, stayed within…

Please, he begged. Please, don't.

The knock did not sound again.

Frodo lowered his head with a small, soft groan then angled his face toward the fire, nestled his cheek upon his knees, felt both relief and remorse.

Yet he needed this, more than anything else; needed the dark and the solitude, the absence of any presence outside his own being, needed…

Unfortunately, in the depths of solitude, Memory could rise, unchecked.

I need you to go away, he snarled at it. After all, he was very good at fighting this particular enemy.

But in this instance, his enemy had clear and unfair advantage.

"Go," he gritted into his knees, "away."

No. Shut up. It isn't like that, it isn't that simple, you don't understand and you never will. Mac… he has given me so much and I… I love him, and how can I do any less than give him as much as he's given me? When you love someone you give yourself to them, don't you? Isn't that what it's supposed to be?

Suddenly even the smial was closing about him, another snare: a smoked burrow, a box hung with trip-wire, thin silver chain and mesmerising smoke…

Smoke. Mist. A dark and endless labyrinth of memory and untapped potential, reticent power… and deeper still, long thought tamed, quiescent, the dragon waited. Shifted. Flicked out a silent, asking tongue.

Need. Heated breath coiled through him.

No, he gave unyielding answer. Clutching his arms tighter about his knees, Frodo stared into the fire, rocked back and forth on his haunches, furry toes clenching against the hearthstones, fought agitation with reason. It was just too much, that was all; he'd simply endured too much upheaval and strangeness within the past year, small wonder that he'd be upset…

Oh yes, too much, and that past year was crowding about him, all those moments clamouring for recognition and himself set to fly, wings spread and glimmering like flame merely to foul and tangle in Memory as if Memory were thin, deceptive ropes snaking about his wrists and ankles… and those fetters not there to pleasure him, oh, no… they were transforming, molten, forging themselves from rough hemp into star-silvered chains, locked chains… helpless, his wings clipped, his eyes bound, trapped… and they wouldn't… let… go.

Merimac held one of the keys.

And Bilbo was reaching for the other.

Were the keys those to freedom… to flight, the dragon purred… or merely to lock the gaol all the tighter?

Why did he feel a trap closing in on him?

And why did he know, know, that no matter what happened from here, things would never be the same again?

Frodo closed his eyes against the firelight and finally let loose the tears, salt-hot and glittering beneath his lids.

* * * * * *

Merimac went back to the party.

Or, more specifically, he went back to the party via detour by the main hall, intending to wring either sense from Bilbo or his neck; he wasn't too concerned which.

Bilbo, however, wasn't there.

Merimac growled beneath his breath—several curses, aimed at the old hobbit's inability to see the difference between interaction and interference—and leaned heavily on his crutch, trying to decide what to do.

It was infinitely tempting to go back to the smial and bang on the door until either Frodo answered or the hinges gave way. Merimac knew, however, that such action would be pointless as bucketing an empty well. No one—including, he was sure, those mythical Valar lordlings—could drag sense or sound from Frodo when he was so obviously overwhelmed; the lad had the most disconcerting talent for retreating so far into his own head that it was as if he disappeared before one's eyes.

All Merimac could do, in plain truth and out of hard-won perception, was leave Frodo be.

But he was hardly going to allow the same sort of mercy towards the hobbit who had so obviously pushed Frodo into such a retreat.

It took Merimac a while, and not only because of his slowed gait; he was waylaid more than once by people expressing pleasure at his recuperation—one of those being Ferumbras' gentlehobbit friend who, beneath his rather crusty irritation with Merimac nigh whacking him senseless with his staff at the races, nevertheless made it plain that he was glad Merimac once more had the strength to do anything of the kind.

Merimac answered them all with a cheery but brief exchange of pleasantries; he kept hobbling through the crowd quickly but very carefully—thrice already that night he'd been nearly dropped by a careless brush against his leg—and all the while stayed on sharp and fractious lookout for a short and well-dressed old egotist of a hobbit.

Thankfully the lanterns made it almost bright as day.

A hand descended lightly on his arm, gripped firmly when he would have shrugged it off; he turned with an impatient yet polite rebuff readied upon his lips, which silenced itself as he met Eglantine's frown.

"Haven't you been on your feet enough tonight?" she asked quietly. "Yet you're tearing through the crowd as if you've lost your pocketwatch—and doing yourself little good, I might add. What are you on about now?"

"Looking for that old tosser Bilbo, is what I'm about," he answered shortly. "You wouldn't happen to have seen him, eh?"

"Mmm," she said. "I'm not sure I should tell you, seeing as how the only times I've seen that look in your eyes is when you intend damage of some sort. Despite the fact, I hasten to add, that you're scarcely up for meting out any sort of justice, imagined or otherwise, since a child of ten could drop you like a stone did he give you a kick in that leg."

"It might be worth it, considering."

"Considering what? And you aren't the one to judge any worth, seeing as how all our hard work will be set back and you're not the one who shall have to deal with your temper."

Merimac leaned closer, ire deflating in proximity to her reasonable—if sardonic—remarks, and tapped at her chin, extending his fingers to curl about her nape. "The old hobbit's on about something, and it has to do with Frodo, because whatever he said has Frodo holed up in his smial and refusing to so much as answer my knock. Bilbo bloody buggering Baggins has set my lad all adrift, and I'm going to find out why."

Eglantine blinked, peered thoughtfully at him, eyebrows aslant. "That is interesting. There's no doubt he's been curiously quiet tonight—which is odd enough behaviour for Bilbo at any gathering, be it two or two-hundred. And," she gave a rueful shrug, "I cannot deny I've been trying to find out what."

A smirk lifted one corner of Merimac's mouth. "I knew that."

"Hush, you. If I didn't have my ear to the ground or more than a few listening to the drums, how do you think I'd manage this great hole? At least I'm not some gossip-monger like that Sackville-Baggins harpy, or even as your father used to be—"

"You don't have to convince me, dear heart," he protested, smirking further at the success of his tease. "I know what your sources do and why you need 'em. Which is why I'm sure that you can point me in the direction of Squire Baggins."

She slid her eyes toward the drinks pavilion, where Merimac could see, off to one side and rather abnormally retiring, Bilbo topping off his glass.

"If you can find out what he's up to, I'll welcome the word," she said, taking his hand from her nape and kissing his palm. "But I'd also have you know before you do confront Bilbo that your brother and sister-in-law might have the wind up about him."

Merimac stiffened. "What?"

Eglantine shrugged. "I'm not sure. But when I expressed my puzzlement over the Old Cousin's behaviour, Esme was startlingly non-committal. Said something about she was sure his mind was duly occupied, then closed her mouth tighter than those clams you once brought us from the Western tidal-flats. Sara wasn't much more informative."

"Mm." Merimac contemplated his options for several seconds, then shrugged. "I imagine it'll be much more satisfying taking the piss out of the old Squire. Then I'll have at my Dear Relations for what they know, if necessary. Give us our hand back, love; I might need it."

With a quick, fond squeeze, she released him. "Do be careful with the old hobbit. I'd hate to have mayhem and bloodshed on Himself's birthday." She grimaced. "On second thought, we've already had both a-plenty today, and the last not half an hour ago when Merry and Ferdibrand got into it again. I think young Bran's nose is broken."

"Good show, Merry!" Merimac said, amused.

"And Peregrin," Eglantine added wryly, "got a split lip in his fervour to assist whomever it was he was assisting."

"Well done again! That apple's not fallen far from the tree, has it?"

Eglantine gave him a sour look. "All three of those particular apples have been crated for the night, believe me."

"Eh, boys are boys."

"Even when they're fifty," she said pointedly.

"I believe your dear husband is, as of tonight, somewhat past fifty," he retorted. "But you're correct, which means Himself would perchance enjoy the promising spectacle: the Gimp and the Ancient One."

Eglantine cuffed him across the ear; it hadn't the sting that it might, however, and her eyes were sparkling with repressed humour.

"All right, all right, I'll be discreet," he gave. "And I won't leave marks." This time her gaze was clearly sceptical; Merimac leaned forward and bussed her cheek, added, "Ones that show, anyway."

"Fie, RiverMaster," she said, then gave a jerk of her head in Bilbo's direction. "If he's done something to upset our Frodo, then you have my blessing."

* * * * * *

Bilbo was working on his fifth glass of wine—not bad, considering, speaking well of Smials' generous hospitality—and was contemplating six.

What in the name of the Valar had just happened? Other than it had gone so bloody and buggering wrong.

The night had fallen fast, yet the party endured and, no doubt, would endure well past mid-night. Not a length beyond him, a Chubb and a Took were loudly wrangling whether the Chubb had in fact wagered fifteen copper pence upon the winning footballers. Two tables over a couple of tweeners were indulging in some sort of kissing game—it looked to be one regarding the endurance of said kiss, since there were other tweeners either egging them on or trying to distract them. There was a fast reel being played over by the dancing green, hobbits whirling furiously to keep up with the music's pace. A game not unlike the kissing one—save that it was a drinking contest—was being played out not five lengths away. Everywhere were shouts and laughter, and usually Bilbo Baggins would be right in the middle of it.

Not this time. He hadn't even gone searching for Rory's company. He was too furious with himself.

The smooth confidence—all right, some might say 'arrogance', but it was nevertheless an attribute that he had been proud to be possessed of until just an hour's half ago when Frodo had slung it at him like an epithet—that outstanding trait which had so often saved his skin had instead proven his downfall. The realisation that he had been so thwarted and offset rankled; also this latest confrontation confirmed—no matter the precious revelations of a long and nearly-hopeless winter—that he was more ignorant of what took place inside Frodo's head than he'd wanted to believe, and what else should he have expected, the boy was deep as the caverns beneath his feet and wasn't that what had intrigued Bilbo in the first place? Only…

Damn.

Several victorious whoops resounded from the vicinity of the kissing table. The Chubb and the Took hitched their wrangling up a notch.

Bilbo took another generous sip of wine, swirled the remainder about in his glass and watched the lamplight slant and quiver within the deep red. There had to be some way to correct this. Some way, somehow; he was furious indeed, not only at himself, but at bloody Merimac Brandybuck for—yes, admit it!—being in his way and somehow becoming so important to Frodo—bloody sullen obstinate tween!—that the lad felt he had to hang at Merimac's shirt-tails… and how that had come about had him thoroughly baffled, for while Frodo's attraction to Merimac had been irritatingly evident, Bilbo had never thought it would lead to this.

He took another large swallow of his wine, emptying it, and wondered how Frodo had come to such a circumstance—and more, how Merimac had even allowed it.

Mirrored and twisted through the bottom of his glass, he suddenly espied the object of his frustration resolutely limping towards him. Not only that, but as he slowly lowered the glass and peered over it, he could see that Eglantine—a curse upon too-intelligent and interfering females anyway!—was standing some paces behind, watching Merimac's advance with a grimly satisfied look upon her face. Bilbo found himself realising, with no little dismay, that he was no longer in a position to avoid the inevitable. Particularly since Merimac had conscripted his usual allies.

Not for the first time, Bilbo doubted his own resources. The Hall had made it clear that their acquiescence to his intentions was dubious at best and now Smials, from what Frodo had told him—well, more like shouted at him—had seemingly made it plain where they stood… and of course there remained Merimac, who was slowly but surely advancing, a wealth of intentions mirrored in gait and expression and, as always, a wild card thrown into any possible conflict.

Too many hands refusing to fold, with a tweener's future in the balance of this final game. That it was final, Bilbo had no illusions. If he folded this time he would lose, permanently.

As would, perhaps, Frodo.

Or so he had bet his own future against.

As much as it took; that he had already decided. And he rarely lost the game when he'd set his mind so. Unless…

Unless—and the admittance and its possibilities pinked his pride—he had once more thoroughly misread what he'd seen in those rainwater eyes.

Bilbo poured himself another tumbler of wine, noted with pleasant surprise that his hand didn't even shake, and turned to face Merimac.

Facing Smaug would have perhaps been easier; from the flat, furious expression upon Merimac's face, Bilbo's demise by fiery breath would have definitely been quicker.

"Bilbo," Merimac's greeting was pleasant enough, but he came to a halt just that much too close to Bilbo for polite demeanour or comfort.

"Merimac," Bilbo answered with a stiff nod. "It's certainly good to see you up and about. We'd heard the worst in Hobbiton, but certainly it's bad news that flies the fastest, and I—"

"Kindly spare me your usual doling out of bilge," Merimac said, so level and quiet—and so unlike his normal volatile temper—that Bilbo felt a tremor of real alarm. "I'm of a mind to shake you until your teeth rattle loose, but then I mightn't get any answers, eh? And I am sorely in need of those."

There was a burst of noise from near the dancing green; several shouts and the discordant whine of instruments being interrupted.

Bilbo stiffened rather righteously, realised all too suddenly that his action still brought his nose barely to the open collar of Merimac's shirt. He considered that his visibly larger opponent also had a very visibly large weakness and at any rate would probably not trout him here in front of the entirety of Great Smials… then reconsidered that last. There had been a time when 'most every pub up and down the Brandywine had barricaded the glassware out of mere self-preservation when 'those bloody Brandybuck boys' went carousing, and since then things hadn't changed all that much; neither age and respectability—or lack thereof—would cause Rory's sons to back down from a good fight.

Damned impulsive, hot-headed and altogether too big Brandybucks.

He once again eyed Merimac's splinted leg as a possible last measure of safe escape, but held his ground, puffing up like a banty rooster. "That's just as well, isn't it?" he retorted. "For I've a few questions for you, RiverMaster."

Merimac's hand tightened, infinitesimally, on his walking stick. "What did you say to Frodo?"

"I don't think that's of concern to any save myself and the lad."

"When 'the lad' walks past me with a face white as chalk and is so discombobulated he locks himself in his room and won't open the door even to me, then I think it is my concern."

"I don't have to explain—"

"My concern, old hobbit, because of what Frodo and I share, yet more because he came to me when you turfed him out. You were quit of him by your own choice, in case you've forgotten."

"I had no choice in the matter, and you—"

Another outburst of shouting, closer this time, interrupted him; he was aware of Paladin's voice rising and demanding order from the din, while two voices rose, obviously trying to outdo his. A crowd was gathering to Bilbo's right, obscuring the table where the kissing game was slowly disbanding.

"Listen to me, you self-important little sod," Merimac growled above the din. "I once had some understanding for your situation, but no longer. The fact remains that you hurt him. You hurt him then and you've obviously hurt him now, and I no longer give a good damn why because the hurting is done with. You and I have a good deal of history between us, more than just the fact that you were my father's tweener playmate, but don't think any of that will stop me from planting you headfirst into your own bloody garden."

"Maybe you should look to your own 'garden' before you accuse me of being the one who's hurt that boy," Bilbo snapped back defensively. "You're asking me what I said to Frodo; perhaps you should be asking instead what Frodo said to me."

Merimac's expression went slack for several seconds, then tautened back into antagonism. "I hope he told you off, is what I hope he said to you, and it's no more than you deserve—"

"Bilbo!" came the cry, shrill and unfortunately familiar, from off to his right. "Bilbo Baggins, if you don't stop hiding away I'll—!"

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins shoved her way through the milling crowd and spotted him.

"Oh, bugger," Bilbo stated, and it rang out into the sudden silence.

Behind Lobelia, Otho wormed his way through the gathered hobbits. Paladin wasn't very far behind—although unlike the previous two, he was tendered a respectful space. He held a thin parchment rolled in one hand; his manner suggested it was a snake and might, at any moment, bite him.

"There you are!" Lobelia crowed and strode over. "You thought you'd outwit us, you old rascal, but we were right behind you and you'll find…" she trailed off, seeming to notice Merimac for the first time and snapped, "What are you doing here?"

"I," Merimac said nastily, "was invited. Can you say the same?"

"You watch your tongue, river-rat!" Otho blustered.

"Oh, shove up, you poisonous old trout," Merimac retorted; with some satisfaction Bilbo watched Otho twitch back at the menace beneath it. Then Merimac shot Bilbo an equally-menacing look that promised we're not finished, you and I, not by a long shot, and pointedly turned his back on not only Lobelia and Otho, but Bilbo as well. "What's all this about, Pal?"

Paladin still did not look best pleased. The surrounding hobbits in that larger group were whispering and muttering amongst themselves; behind them sounds of music and merriment had resumed, proving that not all hobbits would leave a good piss-up for mere curiosity.

Bilbo noted with some dismay that Lobelia and Otho, unlike the others, seemed altogether too pleased. Lobelia turned to Paladin with a barely-suppressed air of expectant triumph.

"Yes, please do, " she said. "It is your duty, good sir, to inform those present exactly 'what this is all about'."

"I know what my duty is," Paladin said, "and unfortunately it doesn't allow me to have you both locked in the cellars for interrupting a perfectly smashing party." Lobelia gave an astonished gasp and Otho started a protest; Paladin held up both hands, disallowing further debate.

"I know what my duty is," Paladin repeated, "and it does not include discussing this in front of the entirety of my holding as if we were gossiping about indiscreet neighbours. We will retire—we will retire," he repeated frostily as Otho started another protest, "to my offices and discuss this further."

"And please, good folks," Eglantine spoke up to the surrounding hobbits, "continue to enjoy the party, and we will return as soon as we're able. I've already ordered more food and drink from the cellars—don't let it go to waste when it arrives."

This was greeted by a burst of enthusiasm, the promise of food outweighing any possibility of gossip. The party began to disperse back outward into various pursuits.

"Find Sara and Esme," Bilbo heard Paladin say, low and urgent, to Eglantine. "Now."

She frowned, then gave a quick nod, retreated into the thinning crowd. Soon the only ones left were Paladin, Merimac, Bilbo, and the Sackville-Bagginses.

"Follow me," Paladin said, clipped, and they all did so without further comment.

* * * * * *

The Thain's Office was dark and somewhat chill. Paladin had taken his time helping Merimac up the wide stair—no doubt on purpose, Bilbo guessed, waiting for the others to arrive before giving Lobelia and Otho a chance to get started. That guess made its way into more factual territory as Paladin, once he'd lowered Merimac into a chair and tossed the parchment onto his desk, refused to heed Lobelia's attempt to attract attention; holding up a silencing hand, he turned from her. Slowly and deliberately Paladin bent over the wood-stove and opened it; finding it dampered to mere coals he tsked and, reaching into the nearby box, added more wood. Using a poker to stir up the coals, he tsked again and added yet more wood.

Not too far away from where Bilbo had come to stand, Merimac made a sound that was ostensibly a cough but was suspiciously akin to a chuckle.

Lobelia must have heard it as well; she said, "I must pro—"

Again the long-fingered hand was raised in negation, the Thain's signet ring glittering in the faint light. Not looking at any of them, Paladin reached upward, took several matches from a small tin holder on the mantelpiece and proceeded to wend his way, clockwise, to each of the wall sconces, lighting the lamps one by one.

Eglantine arrived just as he lit the last lamp, Esmeralda and Saradoc in tow. They didn't look very happy. All of them, Bilbo realised—including, no doubt, himself—looked a little worse for wear due to celebratory excess.

How like Lobelia to ruin a perfectly good shindig.

"Now," Paladin said quietly, running a hand through his dishevelled curls and taking a seat behind his desk, "that most of those necessary are here… please, be seated and let's discuss this."

Besides the one Merimac was in, there were only three chairs; Otho and Lobelia promptly commandeered two. Bilbo nodded priority to first his hostess, who shook her head and went to stand beside her husband's chair, then to Esmeralda, who also refused and elected to stand beside her spouse—Saradoc was looming behind Merimac's chair and glowering intemperately at the Sackville-Bagginses.

Paladin took up the parchment with a distasteful expression on his angular face and motioned to Bilbo, who came forward. Paladin handed him the parchment, which was weighted on one lower corner by the Mayor's seal; Bilbo blinked at this and took the document, fished a pair of spectacles from his coat pocket and began to peruse the slightly-crabbed writing of Hiram Fastburrow.

What he saw there sent his mood, already foul enough, spiralling blacker.

"Mister Baggins," Paladin stated unenthusiastically, "your relatives seem to have important business with you. Which business, in turn, they have deemed necessary to bring before your Thain. Their timing is, of course, deplorable," Lobelia took in an indignant gasp of air; Paladin once again held up a quelling hand, "but they do have this right."

"And this," Bilbo brandished the parchment, "is that business."

"I'm afraid so. As you can see," Paladin went on, more formally, "a disputation of action has been legally filed against you. Your cousins Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins claim that you have the intention of taking into your household the lad Frodo Baggins—"

Merimac let out a rather-explosive curse.

"—for fosterage. Is this accusation of your intent true, or false?"

"It is true," Bilbo realised his voice was rough, unsteady; he cleared his throat and furthered, "Though I've no idea how they came by their knowledge save, perhaps, gossip and wild speculation."

Lobelia started a hot reply; yet again, Paladin held up a warning hand. "The important point in this circumstance is that you indeed have the intent—an intent they declare as contrary to their own rights. They further state that you have no business taking any child in, let alone this one, whom they claim has no legitimate or legal right to the Baggins name—"

This time Merimac was not the only one that let out a forceful exclamation. Esmeralda's short but profane comment was the softest, but strangely carried the farthest.

Paladin's face was set, angry; wearily he continued, "And they claim to have proof of not only your unfitness to raise a child but that child's illegitimacy."

"What proof," Esmeralda said, deliberately, "do they think they have?"

"There's no 'thinking' to it, Esmeralda Brandybuck," Lobelia retorted. "We have it. And we'll produce it at the proper time. In Farthing-court."

There was a short silence at this.

Saradoc broke it. "Farthing-court? You can't be serious. Why go to such extremes when this can be settled without—"

"Farthing-court is not extreme," Otho said mulishly. "It's the proper way to settle such matters. Our request is reasonable—and legal. This fosterage scheme needs to be fully exposed, and its dubious merits fairly inspected."

"Fosterage scheme." It was a low growl from the direction of the brothers Brandybuck; Bilbo was in truth unsure whether it was Merimac or Saradoc.

Bilbo rolled up the parchment and handed it back to Paladin, internally seething.

"You do have the legal right. I advise against it—as the Master says, we can settle this without such measures—" Paladin raised his voice as Lobelia started to protest, "however, if you so demand, then I have no choice but to call a Farthing-court." Paladin paused, then added, "A closed Farthing-court."

"I want this proven irrevocably!" Lobelia announced with a stamp of one foot. "And that's best done in public, with no possibility for obscuring the facts!"

"Are you suggesting, Madame," Paladin leaned forward with icy politeness, "that I would allow Shire Law to be tampered with?"

Lobelia flushed and fell silent.

"And rest assured, I have full mandated authority here—that much my cousin Ferumbras has seen to. In the event," he smiled, but it held no humour, "any further questions should arise about the legitimacy or legality of my position."

Once again, stillness reigned.

"A closed Farthing-court, then, with only relevant witnesses. I would naturally request that the Master and Mistress of Brandy Hall, as the boy's legal guardians, be present—the Master shall, of course, perform his usual function as Bailiff, and the Mayor as Clerk, particularly since the Mayor's signature is on this document. I suppose we'll have to send for him, though frankly I was expecting him here, he was invited—"

"I expected him before this, myself," Bilbo said.

"And why is that, Bilbo Baggins?" Lobelia swiftly turned to him. "If—"

"If you please, I wasn't finished," Paladin said, flatly. "Any witnesses outside this group will have to be approved by myself… except of course for Frodo. Since this concerns him intimately, he will also attend."

"Hoy, hold up a moment!" Merimac spoke up in angry protest. "He's been through enough as it is. You've no right to drag him through all of this, and over something so bloody trivial—"

"This is not trivial!" Lobelia stated, loud enough to be heard in the bathing grottoes several levels down. "We're speaking of my husband's inheritance!"

"Which is your affair, and has nothing to do with Frodo!"

"If the child is in a position to perhaps claim some squatter's rights over what is ours, then he should have to stand for his presumption!"

"It's Bilbo's presumption and yours, you old beldame, thinking to put the lad in the middle of it all—"

"Who do you think you are, speaking to—!"

"Silence!" Saradoc bellowed.

The Sackville-Bagginses subsided; Merimac, however, was just winding up. He lurched to his feet, limped over to Paladin's desk, roughly brushing past Bilbo who backed a quick two steps, gritting his teeth.

"This is ridiculous and you know it! Why should Frodo have to suffer through your," Merimac wheeled on Bilbo, "inability to control your petty property squabbles? Or the fact that you're once again promising the moon without having even the gleam of it in your palm?"

"And you're so sure of that?" Bilbo retorted.

"Let's say that you haven't exactly proven yourself worthy of that particular trust," Merimac snarled, then turned back to Paladin, one hand spread in entreaty. "Pal. You cannot do this."

The Took lowered his voice to a pitch meant only for Merimac's ears, but Bilbo heard it nevertheless. "If he's old enough to court and choose a lover, he's old enough to stand to witness and you know it."

"I'm not saying he's not old enough or capable—I well know he's both or there'd be no courting and you know that," Merimac retorted. "It's hard enough that Frodo has been shuffled from place to place and Bilbo thinks to yank him about yet again; now they're all set to stir up all that old ridiculous gossip about his father and Pal, you know the lad well enough by now… don't you see what all this will mean to him? What it has meant to him? He's being thrown into a sodding tug of war!"

"Mac," Paladin replied, obviously troubled. "Do you really think I don't understand?"

"I'm not sure you do. That shrewish old bint," he threw a hand Lobelia's way and she stiffened even through she couldn't hear what was being said, "has called my lad a bastard and is set to prove it once and for all, and we won't mention the fact that Esme and Sara and even you have all questioned it these past years—"

"Mac—"

"And now you're giving the whole bloody thing credence by even allowing it to come to Farthing-court. Do you really expect him to not take it hard?"

"This is beyond belief!" Lobelia suddenly inserted into the hissed conversation. "You either have this discussion where we all can hear it, or—"

"Or what?" Eglantine spoke up. "We're not in court yet, and not everything is about you, Madame."

Again, Lobelia was effectively stilled.

"Paladin," Merimac said again, and Bilbo didn't want to hear the raw entreaty in that voice—didn't!—because it suggested that he himself was possibly remiss in the whole matter. But he hadn't been the one to challenge this, and he'd thought surely it would all be over and done with before anyone could do anything.

"Merimac, I have no choice, can't you see that?" Paladin entreated. "And as to what Frodo can or canna' take, whatever may come of this, don't you think he has the right to know what's happening? To take part, stand up for his own rights as best he can? Would you rather have him shunted aside in yet another decision that concerns him?"

Merimac took in a sharp breath and looked down, hesitated, then shrugged curt admittance of the truth.

"Go sit down, off that leg," Paladin told him. "We'll do the best we can with this, and that's a promise."

Shooting a venomous look at Bilbo, Merimac hobbled back to his seat.

Paladin straightened, once more pitched his voice to all. "It's settled, then. I call the Farthing-court for three days hence, Trewsday mid-day, to give all time to prepare and for those of us who thought to enjoy a splendid gathering," he gave a glower towards the Sackville-Bagginses, "time to recuperate. I suggest that you," he told them rather bluntly, "go back to your home and return no sooner than the appointed time. I would like to at least finish out my birthday in something approaching peace."

The snub was obvious even to Otho, who bristled. With more than a few insulted flourishes, the two departed, with a faultlessly-polite Eglantine showing them the door.

Another silence fell, uneasy and prolonged, then Paladin stood.

"Let's hie ourselves from this bloody cold office," he said, "and all get drunk."

No one disagreed with him.

Bilbo started to leave; a powerful hand grabbed his arm, stayed him. He watched the others file out, saw Paladin's backward look and lift of eyebrow as he waited—no doubt intent upon helping Merimac down the stairs. Sure enough, Paladin showed no sign of departing any further than the door lintel; he did, however, move just out of earshot, leaning against the doorway and throwing a quick, meaningful glance towards Merimac.

The Took before him, the RiverMaster behind; his uncomfortable status amidst all of them notwithstanding, Bilbo knew who, at this moment in time, he'd rather have his back toward and with a sigh turned to face Merimac.

"So this is what you had to say to Frodo," Merimac stated.

"And what if it was?" Bilbo said resignedly. "Now it's all over the Shire, no doubt, and the one to suffer for it won't be you or I."

"That's the first bald truth you've stated to me this day," Merimac spat out, his fingers pinching harder into Bilbo's arm. "And now you're to put that lad through another bout of claim and rejection—here you've told him you want him to come back, and here your daft relatives are to prevent you and if they drag Frodo's name back into gossip's gutter well that's fine with them, isn't it?—and what about the lad, Bilbo? What about what he feels, what about what he wants?"

The grip hurt like damn, but the quietly-furious words wounded even further, considering his own ambiguous admittance of what had transpired from all of this. Bilbo decided that he had, as of now, had enough. "You say that I don't know what Frodo wants," he challenged, low, "but I'm not sure you know any more than I!"

"I know that you've once again made more promises you cannot keep." The rebuke was scathing. "And yes, it's bloody well obvious that, at this point in time, I've a better grasp of Frodo's needs than you."

"Is that so?" Bilbo parried the sharp attack with his own blunt thrust. "Do you know what he said when I offered him a place with me?"

"'Sod off'?" Merimac suggested angrily.

"Oh, that too—the boy's a tongue like an adder when he pleases, believe you me. But in the midst of all the accusations—some of which I no doubt deserved—there was something else." Merimac's fingers tightened further on his arm and Bilbo tried to conceal a wince, instead shot more rancour into his words. "Frodo wanted to know why I had come now, that I was 'too late'. He said that he couldn't come to Bag End. Not that he didn't want to, but that he couldn't. He said he wouldn't leave you—"

"And what does that—?"

"He said you needed him," Bilbo said, cruelly. "He said he had no choice but to stay with you."

The blood literally drained from Merimac's face.

"How touching," Bilbo furthered, twisting the knife, "and how sporting of you, RiverMaster, to entangle a tweener so tightly he feels he can't leave your side. He's had no others but you and you've bloody well insured he'll have none, haven't you?"

He was fully expecting to get knocked silly and willing to pay the price for it, just to say the words; instead Merimac's grip loosened and he merely let go of Bilbo, standing there, staring blankly. Bilbo rubbed at his arm, knowing there'd be bruises there later, but taking some satisfaction in the fact that the metaphorical blow he'd just given Merimac made his own pain inconsequential.

Bilbo turned for the door. Paladin was watching them both, brows furrowed together, this time with puzzlement. He was watching Merimac more than Bilbo; however as Bilbo approached, slid his eyes to him, said, "I think you need to join us for drinks."

It was not a suggestion, but Bilbo answered it as lightly as if it had been. "I'll be glad to."

"And you too, Mac," Paladin said, albeit more slowly, then, concern becoming obvious, "Mac?"

The answer was just as slow. "I… think not, thank you."

The odd timbre of that voice made Bilbo's satisfaction began to congeal into something rather unpleasant. He glanced back, found Merimac still standing there, staring after him, and the expression upon the riverhobbit's face left Bilbo feeling, not gratified, but ashamed.

"Mac…" Paladin began, starting forward, but Merimac put up a hand.

"You've done enough, both of you have done enough," he murmured. As Paladin once again started for him, Merimac's face twisted and changed, from lost to livid. "Leave it!" he gritted from between his teeth. "Go have your port and your pissing contests and your machinations; just leave me out of it, will you?"

And he lurched forward, pushed past Paladin and hobbled out the door.

Paladin watched him go, somewhat helplessly, then turned to pin Bilbo with a flat, severe gaze. From the darkened alcove behind him came the ungainly, heavy sounds of Merimac making his way down the stairwell alone.

And Bilbo wondered if in his overweening need to settle scores—imaginary or otherwise—with Merimac, that he had, unwittingly and again, wronged Frodo as well.