"I hate him."

The whisper sounded into almost-darkness, lifted to meet the hearth-light's fading flicker, dancing on the ceiling of their smial.

They'd lain there, mostly silent, for a long time. Frodo was nearly limp in Merimac's arms, as if drained past reason. No surprise, considering what they'd gone through this evening, yet Merimac had not yet heard the sound he was praying for: the regular, soft breaths of his cousin's slumber.

And now, this.

Merimac tucked his chin against dark curls, considered carefully his words. "He deserves your ire," was his quiet response. "That and more. If the old hobbit appeared in this room right now I'd knock his teeth down his throat. But, love, you have to think carefully about what hating him means."

Frodo shifted against him; Merimac wondered if he'd pull away, was oddly gratified when instead Frodo held closer. "Look,' he continued. "He hurt you—"

"I don't care what he did—"

"If you didn't care, you wouldn't say that you hate him. You wouldn't be so angry."

The lad twitched, said, ever so slowly, "That's what… what he said."

"Well." Merimac hesitated, then ventured, "He's right in that, at least. And your anger's well justified. But hate? I'm loath to see you tread that path, love. It would bind you to him more than any need or want, can't you see?—bind you hard and fast and take you down."

Frodo closed his eyes, and Merimac saw tears glitter there. Gently but firmly, Merimac shook him. "Listen to me. He's hurt you, and you have to own to it. But not by hating."

Frodo lay silent in his arms for so long that Merimac began to grow uneasy; then the lad let out a small, grim laugh that sliced Merimac's composure no less than any dagger. "It's ironic, isn't it? Because I want to hate him after what he's done, after what he's… He said that it… well, that things mattered, yet he would have just stood there and let me be marched out his bloody green door like a hostage and taken back to the Hall, but…" He trailed off, looking down at where his fingers were biting into Merimac's arms and leaving pale streaks against brown, loosed him and turned his face into the bedclothes, plainly humiliated.

"But?" Merimac prompted softly, propping himself up on one arm.

"Do you want to know what's particularly funny?" Frodo said into his pillow.

"I can see you're laughing fit to kill. Tell me."

"It is funny, in a sick sort of way. Because even now, after all that's happened, all I can think of is what I had there, what I lost: the skylight in my room, the window sill broad enough to sit and feel the cool morning on my cheeks, the way the stairs wind down like a dragon's maw into the cellar, the bathroom lit by candles and smelling of wood and wet, all dim and peaceful; the way the wind creaks and shivers through the branches of the roof tree, inviting you to climb it so you can see the whole Shire… " The quiet voice had turned almost reverent, Frodo's eyes shining almost as much as they did when he stood on Gillyflower's deck on a clear night, watching the water reflect fathoms of starlight. "I had a study, Mac, my own place—all my own—where I could hide away for hours. I had my desk and my papers and quill, my writing and my sketches and more books than I could read in ten years—and that only if I read a book a day."

"You know," Merimac reached forward, tucked a lock of dark behind Frodo's ear, "I'll wager you could read a book a day. But—assuming you'd remember to pull your head out of parchment long enough to eat, of course—you'd just end up all fat and lazy sitting on your arse all day." Frodo turned to him, mouth quivering in a tiny smile; Merimac fancied leaning forward and kissing it fuller, instead he traced one finger along it, encouraged it with a smile of his own. "No, lad, I can't see you being satisfied with just hunching over dusty old tomes like some… well, some librarian monk from a Big Person's chancellery who vows all their energies to whatever arcane knowledge they claim to have. You'd have to give up sex, for one thing, and," he shrugged and smirked meaningfully; Frodo had to chuckle, "that's not bloody likely, eh? You like putting a good sheen of sweat over that lovely body of yours, play or work, too much to waste completely even in your own study. No matter how much you enjoy holing yourself away."

"I know. Sometimes the walls drive me out; I don't like being penned in for too long."

"One of the things I do understand about you, eh?"

Frodo's smile deepened then faded just as quickly, and the soft lilt to his words also disappeared, became hard-edged. "But it was a lie, wasn't it? It wasn't my own study, not really. He took it away once—and he acts so smug, the bastard, pretending to offer me something to keep, but he could take it away just as easily and Mac, I don't think I could bear it again—"

"You don't have to," Merimac murmured. "You can stay with me. I want you to stay with me." Frodo quivered against his hand and Merimac bit the words off; in all fairness he shouldn't have said them, not here, not now. He tempered them with more fact. "Bilbo accused me of keeping you with me, of giving you no choice. That's not true. It's never been true and never will be. I want you, but only if you want to stay with me."

"I want to," was the whisper. "I do."

"Then we'll return to the River, won't we? As soon as we can and never looking back, and better so, considering—"

Again his words were ill-spoken—he was so unsure at this point in time what was fair or unwarranted or even if his words were anything but cluttered by his own unexpected and unwelcome turmoil—unfortunately, Frodo's quickness hadn't suffered beneath the past hours. The body against his tensed. "Considering what?"

Merimac hesitated, then sighed. He'd thought to leave this until after a good night's sleep, but it was hanging between them almost deceitfully and perhaps he was being selfish after his own fashion, holding it back. He sat up, watched Frodo also rise to a seated position, quiet and intent and sensitive—and all of them more than the lad was comfortable being—and Merimac wondered, not for the first time, if he'd indeed gotten away and far over his head.

"Mac?" was the question, the questioner limned against the fire's light: a slender, copper-dark ghost.

Far too many ghosts, this night.

"There's more, love. More than just Bilbo's offer, because I'm afraid all your fears are sound and he's once again thrown you a rotted line."

And he told Frodo what had happened, all of it: from his own confrontation with Bilbo to Lobelia and Otho crashing the party and the demands made in consequence.

"How many days do I have?" was the lad's first, rather-numb question.

"Three. It's set for Trewsday."

"And Bilbo's… still here? He hasn't just left?"

"Not that I know of. But then, the old hobbit has always revelled in thwarting the Sackville-Bagginses… and he's a mastiff with a bone when he gets an idea."

"And I'm," Frodo said, still numbly, "the 'idea'."

Merimac didn't know what to say to that.

"Three days," Frodo murmured, and he once again sat silent, this time for such a long time, so still and turned inward upon himself that Merimac's skin began to itch.

"So that's it, and it's done, isn't it?" Frodo suddenly voiced. "I knew it. I knew it. All those promises; they were for nothing, weren't they? And this Farthing-court will put the finish to all of it. I mean, Lobelia is out to prove I'm illegitimate, isn't she, even though I can't believe she'd think me any threat, is she mad? But she'll prove it, won't she, and she'll get what she wants and humiliate me out of spite more than anything, like Lotho was humiliated but he deserved it, deserved everything he got because—"

"Hey," Merimac soothed. "I know he did, I know—"

"And no one can disprove it, can they? So once and for all it shall be settled, wrong or no, and since it's so plain that Lobelia would rather sow Bag End's ground with salt than see me tread it, I really was a fool to even hope—"

Merimac had expected it, but nevertheless it pinked—no, it hacked and hung in bone, sawed and yanked and he had to look away to hide his expression. But not before the damning words uttered themselves, "Did you so hope, then?"

Frodo was silent for long breaths; Merimac cursed himself then peered cautiously at his young cousin. As if that glance loosed something in Frodo, his face crumpled and he looked set to lurch forward and bury his face in Merimac's neck. Instead every muscle in his frame tensed, denying the impulse; Frodo's jaw set and he looked down at his hands where they were twisted in the bedclothes, turned away and, when Merimac reached out to him, pulled away.

Silence, long and unremitting. Then Frodo spoke, with an abject misery that made Merimac want to kick himself about the smial several times.

"This is the worst of it. You're right; no matter what I do, what I think about even when I don't want to think about it… it hurts, doesn't it? It hurts you and it hurts me and I don't see Bilbo hurting, not one bit and why I should even…" He trailed off, looked away, and Merimac could see the muscles in his jaw leaping and straining, heard the sound of teeth gritting.

"It seems that Lotho was right."

"Frodo, I doubt anything that treacherous sod had to say to you was—"

"No, I do believe that he did have this much right," Frodo murmured. "He said I was nothing to Bilbo other than a tool to thwart the Sackville-Bagginses."

"I can't agree," Merimac found himself saying, and abruptly damned his sense of fair play. Because it was obvious that Bilbo didn't care if he won by any means, fair or foul, and that was only one of the things wrong with all of this.

"But—"

"Frodo, I've said more than the once that the old hobbit cares for you, in his way, and I still believe that."

"In his way," Frodo said dryly. "And under his own conditions."

"Very true. But listen." Merimac reached out and firmly covered one of Frodo's restive fists with his own, stilled it. "Believe me, right now I certainly don't want to be defending Bilbo Baggins. He's acted a proper tosser over all of this and deserves whatever cock-up he's made for himself. You certainly don't deserve to be caught up in it. But if you're to guard yourself in this, you need to tread carefully, and that means thinking carefully as well. I think you've the wrong slant on it."

"What other slant can be taken?" Frodo demanded.

"Use that clever brain of yours. He could come up with much easier ways to annoy those daft relatives of his than letting a tweener cousin stay a few seasons. Whatever he's about, that's not it. The old Baggins isn't cruel. Thoughtless, yes. Oblivious to six furlongs, much too often. And while those can make him dodgy because he mightn't clock it when he's done you a mischief, heartless he's not."

"Then what does he want?" Frodo demanded.

"Truthfully? At this point in time I don't think he knows what he wants out of the situation any more than… well, any more than you do."

And so saying, Merimac could only hope that the knock-down-drag-out they'd had only hours before had also knocked loose the lad's ability to hear it.

The fists beneath his jerked, clenched tighter, then Frodo shook his head and smirked—but the expression had a jagged, bitter edge. "And that," he said softly, "is what got us where we are tonight, didn't it?"

"I suppose it did," Merimac answered, just as softly. "But I've always said that a good fight clears the air, eh?"

Silence.

"Did you know," Frodo suddenly whispered, "you're the only person in the entire world who has ever even bothered to fight for me? I know I'm an absolute prat about what to do with it; I've fought my own battles for so long, but can you even understand what it means to me? To have someone stand up before the world, if necessary, to not just be at my back but… be there. Not for an 'idea'; not from some design that has nothing to do with what I want or care for, not because they thought I was something that I wasn't, not even because I'm the big cousin and I've always been there, but… just… just for me." His hand wormed from the coverlets, gripped to Merimac's so tightly that bones ground together—a pain unheeded beneath the sudden twist of Merimac's heart. "Even… tonight. You were angry with me because I wasn't… me."

Speaking was impossible; even breathing was somewhat difficult, as if Merimac had indeed fallen into water over his head. For here they were again, from furious storm to odd, intense calm, and here again, what Merimac had determined to be unattainable for either of them was suddenly falling into place.

Perhaps it was merely that his normally-taciturn cousin had somehow witched the power of speech from him, because quietly, doggedly, Frodo kept on.

"Bilbo said I was 'giving up myself' for you, but in the same breath he's suggesting that I do it for him. And he doesn't even know what that is, does he?—either the giving or what makes me, me. He smiles and makes grand promises, but those promises have to be all on his terms…" Frodo looked down; for moments Merimac thought he saw a glitter of tears against half-closed eyelashes. But it was a different sort of glitter, betraying itself as Frodo turned to him: determination, resolution.

"I won't be an 'idea'. I won't be some poor relation dragging myself from door to door in hopes that someone might give me… whatever it is." He drew a sharp breath. "And I'm not Drogo's poor fatherless bastard and no matter what, they can't make me into that."

Finally, his voice obeyed him. "I'd like," Merimac said, raising a hand to Frodo's cheek, "to see them try."

Silence, broken only by the soft hiss and pop of the hearthfire. Then Frodo said, with a strange hesitation, "Perhaps Bilbo's done me a favour, doing as he has."

"How is that, love?"

"If nothing else," Frodo said, with a sudden, wistful maturity that cracked Merimac's heart down the middle, "it gave us… tonight." Then he curved his face to Merimac's left palm, kissed it.

And there was no longer any question whatsoever as to whether Merimac was in over his head or not. It was distinctly possible he'd drowned in the Strait after all.

* * * * * *

"Can't sleep?"

Paladin looked up; the firelight revealed Eglantine, rumpled soft from sleep and thusly in his mind too beautiful for words, leaning against the arched door leading to their bedchamber.

He should go to her, take her back to bed and rumple her further. Instead he resignedly gathered another coal from the fire and tried, not for the first time, to light his pipe. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Well, 'tis a certainty I'm surprised either of us is awake, considering the drinking we've engaged in over the past hours."

He shot her an amused look over his shoulder, was warmed by the return grin, then turned back to his pipe. From above, a broad skylight let the cool, crisp light of the full moon spill itself into a misted rectangle about him, vying with the soft copper of the fire.

Which light should burn brighter, then? Either would wax and wane; either could be used yet not controlled.

Either could be the sole light slanting across gutted fields: fires that laid such waste, or the stars to gleam palely amidst the ruins…

The pipe fell from shaking hands; only with a quick snatch and grab did he save it from dashing to pieces on the hearth. Pipeweed exploded from the bowl, drifted in a particulate cloud about his feet and he was glad he'd not managed to yet light it.

"Love?" his wife said from the doorway, concern rife in the singular word.

"I'm fine," he told her lightly. "Just a bit clumsy; still nursing the effects of drunkenness, no doubt." Drunk with dreams and time, more like, and why those dreamings were choosing now to appear, and so strongly, he had no clue, and unfortunately the drink had broadened them, not quieted them as was usual, so pipeweed had been the next choice to send him to sleep.

For he needed his sleep. Sleep, and his wits about him for the next several days and what it would bring. He needed sleep just as surely as Frodo would need his intellect and judgment, and both unimpaired.

Paladin started to refill his pipe, gave Eglantine a small shrug and a smile. She had learned not to press. But she knew, and he knew that she did, yet of all they shared this could not be part of it, and the hard, cruel irony of it was that this was the one thing, more than almost anything, that he wished possible to share…

"'Tis a poor way to spend your birthday night. Maybe the smoke will help you to sleep without the dreams," she said, very softly, then disappeared back into their bedsmial.

Sometimes dreams are just that, he told himself. Dreams.

Even though Paladin knew there was no comfort to be had, even in Merimac's arms. Not for this.

* * * * * *

He couldn't remember the dream, but it woke him from a shallow sleep, heart pounding and chest heaving, lurching upward, kicking frantically at the covers twining about his legs. His breath rasped into the smial, a dragon's bellows absorbed and gentled by earth and wood.

Memory teased then flitted away, retreated back into the dark. Frodo didn't pursue it. Instead he squeezed his eyes shut, dug the heels of his palms into the sockets, spent the scattered moments of waking in regaining his equilibrium and his breath.

A hand, warm and gentle, came to rest upon him yet didn't make him flinch—he recognised it almost before it alighted on his spine, welcomed it as it curled around his waist. Even in the dark he could see the ebon dragon circling him; sensate shiver and soothe, all at once; the ghost of Ancalagon inked upon Merimac's forearm was, as ever, reassurance yet reminder, avatar of an inner dragon with whose passions Frodo did not so effortlessly twine.

"Easy, love." Merimac's voice was sleepy, yet easing as warm milk. "Just a dream."

Had Paladin said that to him, once? Because it was Paladin's voice that sidled its way through the clouds of ill-remembered nightmare to calm him, just as surely as Merimac's touch.

Lulled by the voice-memory that had come to mean identity and confirmation, curled up against the solid presence that meant security, reality and, ultimately, his own acquiescence to such, Frodo regained control over the flight of his thoughts and the pounding of his heart, once again slept.

* * * * * *

Pounding, there was a distinctly-unpleasant pounding in his head, and he felt as if he were spitting feathers—he could even smell them—and no more than he deserved for getting so squiffed and holding forth with poorly-timed words and good but ill-aimed intentions…

Bilbo woke slowly and creakily, found a pillow in his face and bedding snarled about his frame, and furthermore, found that the pounding was not only in his head but making a regular presence at the door of the room he'd been given at Smials.

"Hhn orn," he said, and to no great surprise the knocking did not abate; he yanked his face from the warm bedclothes and into the air, cleared his throat, said loudly and hopefully clearly, "Hang on!"

The knocking ceased. With no little effort Bilbo untangled himself from the coverlets, untwisted his nightshirt from its strangling hold about his waist and neck, then lurched toward the robe hanging from the bedpost. He spent a few seconds picking up his pocketwatch from the night-table—good heavens, was it that time already?—a few more looking in the mirror above the washstand and grimacing at the pale countenance there, and a few more besides dipping his hands in the water and combing fingers through his hair to at least be that much more presentable. Late in the morning or no, it was morning, and the morning after a Tuckborough revel at that, and what lout came about knocking guests up at this time of—

Another knock, this one sharp and obviously brooking no more delay.

"All right, all right," Bilbo growled, hitching his robe closer about him then marching over to the door and yanking it open. "What could possibly be so—"

The Thain and the Mayor stood there, both very solemn. And both somewhat dishevelled. Paladin was dressed and appropriately groomed, but he didn't look either well-slept or well-fed; Hiram was dressed in travelling clothes, with those still showing signs of the road upon which he'd obviously come—and, just as obviously, with some speed.

"Good morning, Bilbo," Paladin said, with extreme politeness. "I do apologise for disturbing you, but Mayor Fastburrow informs me that he has some unfinished business with you."

"Oh. Right!" Bilbo perked up considerably. "Come right in, Hiram, and we'll…" he trailed off, suddenly aware that Paladin's presence meant more than just that; the Thain would most certainly have not played herald or message lad for another hobbit's personal business.

"Yes," Paladin said, and the smile he gave was somewhat haggard. "I was going to send for him today, yet this morning I was made aware that he had arrived, with apologies for missing the party. It seems that not only is he to be congratulated as a new grandfather—"

"Marvelous!" Bilbo grinned.

"—but he also had a matter that couldn't wait. A matter concerning you." Paladin cut his eyes towards Bilbo. "And once I told him that I too had important business for him, and informed him of what that was—"

"I decided that it would behove our Thain to share in this as well," Hiram interrupted, waving a leathern document roll at Bilbo. "Considering it all."

Bilbo hesitated, then realised that Hiram was, as usual, bang on with his assessment. "Ah… right."

Paladin sighed. "I've had enough surprises for one birthday, if you both must know. Shall we come to cases? I fully intended to spend this morning surrounded by my wife, not your business."

Bilbo had the grace to flush. "Of course," he nodded, gesturing into his smial; as the other two entered Bilbo hesitated again. "But… if it's possible… could I have some breakfast before we dive in?"

"'Tis coming as we speak," Paladin said, rather grimly, and shut the door behind him.

* * * * * *

It was nearly mid-day when Frodo finally crawled out of bed. He tried to be silent as possible, leaving Merimac half-asleep, and that not out of any awkwardness from the previous day's confrontation—although now that he considered it, his very lack of such was all at once comforting and odd—but more out of consideration. Merimac had indeed overdone the activity yesterday, and since part of that activity had been knocking sense into his younger cousin—as well as having some knocking applied in the other direction; Merimac was now in possession of a spectacularly-purpled jaw—it was only fair that same younger cousin should let him rest. And, perhaps in a few hours, bring back a tray of goodies so he could stay off his leg.

The kitchens and dining hall were quite barren; it seemed that most of Great Smials was following Merimac's example. If it hadn't been for the growling of his stomach, Frodo also would have just rolled over and gone back to sleep—he remembered the pale, ill-slept countenance that had greeted him in the mirror when he'd washed up. And he was sore. All over.

Chewing away on a huge mouthful of cheese-and-venison pasty, a mug of spring-chilled milk firmly in the other hand, Frodo headed for the out-of-doors. Only once he'd almost dropped his feast in his—he counted… seventh!—dart into an alcove when he heard someone approaching, did he realise that he was behaving like an absolute git.

What was he afraid of?

He took a vicious bite of his pasty. It wasn't what… more like it was who. Not that he was afraid, no, though perhaps he was being ridiculous, but he also realised it wasn't out of the question that Bilbo should seek him out again. And he just didn't feel up to the task, not now.

But did that mean he had to behave like this?

And promptly was furious, not only at Bilbo Bloody Baggins for plumbing this reaction, but at himself for allowing it to be plumbed.

There was something to be said for anger, however. Abruptly, he absolutely had no more desire to avoid anything. In fact, quite the opposite.

Come find me, then, he vowed silently. Maybe if I throw a pasty in your face, then you'll get the message.

Childish as the thought undoubtedly was, it made him feel even better. With a firm upward lift of his chin, Frodo took another bite of his cobbled-together lunch and strode through the front entry.

The sun was almost painfully bright, making him squint and lower that chin he'd just picked up. But the feel of those rays warming his skull and shoulders gave him a delicious shiver; add the grass soft beneath his feet, and the heady scent of wood-smoke from the dying bonfires mixed with the baking from the kitchens and the ever-present hint of evergreen… well, it soothed into nigh-nonexistence any remains of frayed composure. By the time he'd reached the stable-yard, he had filled his belly, finished his ale, and didn't feel quite so much like he'd been dragged across the cobbles all night, by his wrists and sans apparel.

The yard was as subdued as the main circle; a few stablehobbits were moving about—slowly—and the ponies were quiet. River was down in her box, dozing. Only a flick of her ears betrayed her notice of Frodo unlatching the door; he came quietly in, murmuring to her, knelt down next to her and stroked her neck. Again her ears twitched; she sighed and kept her eyes half-closed, content. Very slowly, so as not to disturb her any further, he sidled closer, slid an arm over her back, laid his cheek against warm hide and closed his own eyes, timing his breath with the rise and fall of hers.

Trust. Contentment. Of the admittedly few places he'd found such things—or allowed himself to find such things, perhaps—the strongest examples sprang up in the most unlikely places, filling the small hollows in his heart. Like here, now, with this animal whose every instinct bade her run from danger, to stay on her feet lest a predator should come upon her… yet here she was, quiescent at his approach, letting him touch her, daring to slumber in his presence. This was trust, and a contentment only to be found here, in Tuckborough, in River's box. Here, and nowhere else.

Trust. How odd was it that he should, here and now, amidst the very real hurt and offence and anger, once again contemplate that smallest sliver of gratitude he had towards Bilbo? For if it wasn't for Bilbo's airy assumption of still possessing something that Frodo had regretted and withdrawn…

For here, also in Tuckborough, had been tested the temper of the trust which bound him to Merimac… and neither had it broken. Battered, yes—he could still feel the bruise on his cheek, touchstone to that labyrinth of uncertainty which had wended its way through lies and truths and finally, somehow, made sense.

Not even the faint memory of unpleasant dreamings could take this from him, this almost-numb sense of release. He felt as Gillyflower, had she the soul Merimac credited her with, must have felt upon bursting into calmer water from the whirlpools of the Strait, her hull ragged but intact, her captain crippled but alive.

River's head lowered; her sides expanded in a huge sigh. Frodo sighed as well, breathing in the scents of straw, manure, warm and furry pony.

For the first time he not only saw, but was beginning to understand what trust he could bear… no, not could, perhaps, but should.

Some things were worth the pain, after all.

* * * * * *

Merry, strangely devoid of other boy-type companionship, was entering the yard just as Frodo was exiting. He almost didn't seem to notice Frodo, eyes to the ground, preoccupied, and when Frodo spoke his name Merry looked up, dull expression brightening for a moment. But as he kept peering at Frodo, a crease appeared between his brows.

"Frodo," he said, "you look as if a cat dragged you in. And your cheek's all swollen up—did you have a fight, too?"

There was no chance that Frodo was even about to explain that one, but he couldn't help raising his hand to his cheek, or flushing as he remembered how he'd gotten it, and what had come of it. "I drank too much and ran into the door," he made excuse, then pointedly looked at the swollen lip Merry was sporting. "And you? Did you mix it up with Bran again?"

"Yes." Merry's cheeks also went scarlet. "I just don't understand why he doesn't like you."

"He doesn't have to like me, nit," Frodo said, reaching out to cuff, lightly, the side of Merry's head. "He just has to like you. And," he continued, "it would help if you like him."

He was intrigued as Merry's cheeks tinted further. "I… guess I like him well enough," the lad admitted, then, almost shyly, "I was going to see Acorn, then go to the west pool. Maybe swim. Would you come?"

* * * * * *

Something was on Merry's mind, that was sure, and Frodo was also sure that if they hadn't encountered each other in the yard, Merry would have come searching for him.

Frodo didn't swim—the prospect of chilly water upon tender bits and tight muscles was not at all appealing—but he waded and watched Merry dive and roll through the water like an otter. He also kept his guard up. It wasn't unlikely at all that Merry would try to dunk, splash or otherwise devil him, but to his surprise and, somewhat, chagrin, no such attempts were made.

Well, it only made sense that things were changing between them. But, considering his own growing pains with issues of trust, such a realisation made one of the heart-hollows, thought well filled by this individual, begin to reluctantly ooze out.

And realised how much he'd taken it for granted, that Merry had always been with him…

Determined to not follow that any further, Frodo bent over, picked up a stone and set it skipping across the water. A second one caught Merry's attention, for it sailed quite close to him.

"Hoy!" Merry said, and sloshed out of the water.

Frodo eyed him, raised one eyebrow, hefted another stone and held it out, a challenge. And one he knew to be irresistible.

In sixty seconds flat Merry was back in his breeks and shirt and searching for a suitable stone.

Some time later, the score was tied. And the reason for Merry's hesitation was revealed.

Merry twentieth stone skated the water's edge twice then plopped and sank. "Bugger!" Merry stated.

Frodo raised an eyebrow, spun his own stone. It skipped five times.

"Bugger," Merry said again. He spent some time picking up another stone, rose, started to aim it. As it hit the water, he ventured, "Pippin says there's to be a Farthing-court in two days."

Frodo slid his gaze sideways to take in Merry. Merry didn't meet his eyes, was searching for another stone with apparent casualness.

"Pippin says," he went on, "that it's about you."

Frodo felt his jaw set. "Pippin says too much. He should mind his own business."

"So should I, then? Mind my own business?" Merry gave a violent throw to his next rock, not even trying to skip it.

"I wasn't trying to keep anything from you," Frodo said, bending down as much to hide his expression as to find a suitable stone. "It only happened yesterday, and I've not seen you since—"

"You haven't said anything about it yet, though, have you?"

"Merry—"

"Frodo, I hate finding out things from Pippin. Especially when they're about you."

"Pippin," Frodo threw his stone into the water with no little venom, "should keep his gob shut. But then even if he was told something was not to be shared he'd probably not understand why and blab it anyway."

"I'm never sure when he's lying or telling the truth," Merry said, and there was a furtive look in his eyes as he peered at Frodo, as if he were testing something. "I think he says things just to make me mad."

"Well," Frodo shrugged. "It does make you mad. And it makes you notice him, doesn't it?"

Merry went still, obviously stewing it over.

"Merry," Frodo said gently, "You're right. I probably wouldn't have said anything, because… well… I'm not sure I should say anything, really."

"Even to me?"

Frodo took careful aim, both with the stone and his words. "Do you tell me everything?"

The stone only skipped thrice, but the statement hit its mark and then some. Merry flushed and looked away.

"Well?" Frodo prompted.

Merry was silent.

Frodo knelt down, searched for another stone—one lighter, flatter than the last. He found one, let it loose across the water with a practiced flick of his wrist—ah, yes, better. It skated lightly across the water, leaving a wake of ten tiny splashes. "There. Beat that one, master Brandybuck."

Merry, however, didn't rise to the challenge. "Frodo, we used to. Tell each other everything."

With a soft sigh, Frodo knelt on his haunches and peered out across the pond. The ripples were still visible, there; quite apropos, for it seemed lately that everything he did or said in Merry's presence had its own ripples. But where the pond was still, too shallow to have currents beneath its clear surface, his dealings with his younger cousin were mere hints, outer manifestations of the undertow.

"Did we, really?" he finally said, and turned to peer at Merry. There was a gloss of awareness in Merry's eyes, a subtle and sullen acknowledgement:

Keep your secrets, it said. Because you always have, haven't you? You like it that way.

It was too much an echo of what Merimac had thrown at him; it had hurt then, and it hurt now, because it wasn't necessarily that he liked it, but more that he had come to prefer it because he didn't really have a choice, somehow.

"We all have secrets," Frodo said quietly. "Some things can't be spoken. And I think you're old enough to understand that now."

Again, unaccountably, Merry flushed.

They were both silent, uneasily so, for long moments. Then Merry padded over, hunkered down beside Frodo, laid his head against Frodo's shoulder almost, it seemed, in resignation.

"Pippin said Lotho's mother came uninvited to Uncle Paladin's birthday night, and they were spreading lies about your father," he said softly. "Only… they aren't lies, are they? That was another something you kept from me, but you shouldn't have, because it was important. And when I found out… when you and Mum had that… quarrel. In the library, when I was there…" he trailed off, pressed his temple harder against Frodo's shoulder, and Frodo's stomach gave a fierce lurch of realisation.

Merry still thought the gossip and lies were truth. And this one thing was something Frodo should have said, should have thought of from the moment he himself had found the truth… and he remembered the letters, written in the winter, ostensibly to Merry yet stashed away, perhaps forever, because they held too much of things unspeakable. Yet, within the unspeakable had been things that perhaps should have been laid open.

He suddenly didn't care whether he should or shouldn't talk about the Farthing-court. "Merry—"

"It's no different, Frodo. Now, or then. I don't care about it and I never will."

"Merry—"

"Only they're going to drag it all out, aren't they, and I remember what happened when it all… came out the last time and, oh, Frodo—"

Frodo snaked an arm about his cousin, snugged him hard and close. "It won't happen again."

"But—"

"It won't happen again because it isn't true."

Merry stiffened against him. "Stop it. Stop saying things just to placate me. I'm not a bairn anymore and I know what I heard Mum say, what you said!"

Frodo refused to let him pull away. "I'm not saying it to placate anyone. I'm saying that your mum was wrong. I was wrong. All those rumours… they're wrong. "

Merry's eyes slid sideways to meet his; it was plain he wasn't thoroughly convinced.

"In the winter, when I was so sick…" This, unfortunately, was something unspeakable—and it gave his senses an abhorrent jar that Bilbo had been even a small part of that… intimacy. He continued, voicing what he could. "The Elves came to Bag End, and they told me the truth."

"To Bag End? To see Bilbo?"

"No, to see me. They… they remembered me, from when I was in the Old Forest… do you remember when I ran away, and went to the Forest?"

"I remember Pippin knew about that before I did, too," was Merry's aggrieved statement, and Frodo had to bite his tongue hard to stop a sudden chuckle.

"I think both of us are going to have to rise before the dawn if we want to keep up with Pippin."

"He's a sneaky little ferret."

This time Frodo had to smile, and Merry caught the expression, gave a wry grin of his own, protested, "Well, he is." Merry fell silent again, but he was no longer so stiff against Frodo's arm. "So it isn't true. But if it isn't, then how can that Lobelia person call you into court about it? And why would she, anyway?"

Hard to answer, when he wasn't even sure of the questions in the first place. "I think—I'm not sure—but I think it must have to do with Bilbo."

"Bilbo?"

"He… wants me to move back to Bag End. I guess Lobelia must have found out somehow. I'm sure you remember how much Lotho hated me at the Hall; well, he still does and passed it full-force to his parents, and it seems they don't want me anywhere near Bag End." Voicing it so matter-of-factly soothed the sting of it, gave him a much-sought distance; as if in explaining to Merry he was also explaining it to himself, and without any nightmares, any resentment, any inexplicable machinations or 'answers'.

"But Frodo, do you even want to go back to Bag End?" The query was soft. "You said… you said to me that you didn't, that it was over."

"It was over," Frodo paused. This seemed to be, somehow, another unspeakable thing. "It is over. But now this has come up, and I'm not sure I have any choice over what happens next and…" Frodo paused. "It's… complicated."

"This entire thing is bollixing complicated," Merry suddenly said, so pragmatically that Frodo had to smile. "I just don't understand why they can bring this up if it isn't true. Or why they'd need to."

"I think they've found a way to humiliate me, and thwart Bilbo, and I'm not sure there needs to be anything else for them," Frodo answered quietly. "As to truth… I'm not sure there's any way to prove it's not true."

"Oh…" Merry suddenly hugged close to him. "This is really serious, isn't it? Because if they can't prove it's not true, then all the rumours… they'll be given more weight, won't they? No matter what happens, it'll all start again."

"I don't care." Frodo realised, saying the words, that it wasn't just to reassure Merry—though voicing that reassurance was filling him with a resolution he'd somehow been unaware that he had.

For the first time, he had some sense of belonging, of here. Of abundance, of possibilities laid out before him. He had said it all to Bilbo, hadn't he?—and even though it had been in anger, his heart had known the reality even before his mind had caught up to it.

Whatever came from the next se'nnight, he could meet it, could hold to those possibilities. He could fulfil his promise to the Hobbiton Ploughing from here—he was, after all, still in the proper Farthing—and in the process he wouldn't have to cede his trust to one who had already betrayed it. It had already been made obvious that he was welcome at Smials, that he could stay with Merry for as long as Merry was here, stay with Merimac who might not hold him, but would hold to him; Frodo could glean from Paladin all he could ever want to know about the strange legacy that obviously was his and how it had come to be, and come mid-summer perhaps Merimac would be well enough that they could go back to Gillyflower, for oh, but he missed that life.

As to the rumours about his parentage… proven or no, they would most likely always be there, settling perniciously into the background. But what would have devastated him even two seasons ago had faded into a faraway regret. He remembered—and for some reason right now the memory didn't anger or hurt him—that Bilbo had once told him knowledge was power. He hadn't understood it until now.

"Frodo?' Merry asked hesitantly.

"It's all right, my lad," he answered softly. "I don't care what they do, or what they say, because it's a lie and I know it's a lie. I know who my father is, and no one can take that from me. Not rumours, not nasty-minded relatives, not even…"

"Well," Merry nudged him, then pulled away; Frodo wondered what he was doing then realised as Merry rose and cast about that he was searching for another stone to lob. "I believe you, and that's all there is to it." He found a stone, hefted it, then warned Frodo, "I'll catch up with you yet, you know."

And once again, Merry's matter-of-fact, innocent conviction put everything in its place.

* * * * * *

"Paladin came while you were away," Merimac said to him later that evening. "He wants to see you."

They were sitting by the fire. Frodo was curled up, knees to chest, in the rocker and Merimac was sprawled on the divan, leg propped on several pillows, smoking a pipe

The creak of the rocker as Frodo shifted his weight, back and forth, was the only sound for long moments. He wasn't sure what to say. What to do.

"Paladin told me," Merimac said after a few moments, "that he needs you to come to his office tomorrow. After breakfast."

"The Thain's office. I don't think I've ever been in there." Finally Frodo slid his eyes to Merimac. "It's about the Farthing-court, isn't it?"

"I believe it is. He wouldn't say." There was a thin, barely-discernable line of tension threading itself through the words.

"Did he say anything else?"

Merimac's eyes lowered, then rose again, met his. "He asked me did you dream last night."

A small, wary frisson of… something tickled at Frodo's spine. "And you told him—?"

"I told him that was between the two of you, did you so choose, and I wasn't one to carry pillow-tales." Again, the words were curt.

That wary something wrapped about his ribs, settled heavily and longingly in his heart; Frodo rose and went over, knelt beside Merimac and laid his head against his knee. In response Merimac raised a hand, stroked his curls.

"I tried to stop this," he said slowly. "Tried to convince him…" he shrugged and shifted, in the process rolling Frodo's head slightly sideways; cupping the movement, Merimac stilled it with the hand that never ceased its soothing motions. "I should have known better. Paladin Took has a great heart. The Thain… well, he's a bit of a cold sod."

"Don't be angry with him," Frodo whispered. "Not because of me."

"I'm not… well, perhaps I am. And likely unfairly. He's only doing what he has to, and I'd not be in his place for anything. Not if it meant choosing some imaginary sense of justice over what my heart knew was right." A grim chuckle. "He never wanted to be Thain, you know. Just as I never wanted to be Master. And now he is, and before his time, and all the while he isn't, not really." He sighed, kept up the soft rhythm of his fingers through Frodo's hair. "I'm just sorry it's all played out as it has."

"Even last night?" he whispered against Merimac's hand, which quivered.

"No, love. Never."

Frodo scooted closer, was silent.

Finally, Merimac said, "Put another log on the fire, will you?"

He rose and did so, spent some time poking the new wood into a suitable arrangement, waited until it had caught.

"He really doesn't know what he's done, does he?"

"Paladin knows all too well what he does," Merimac answered grimly.

"No, not Paladin. Bilbo."

Merimac blinked—obviously he hadn't expected the question, but there was little hesitation in his answer. "That one? Not a sausage. As I said, Bilbo has his own share of woolly-headed Tookishness. They don't readily clock consequences."

"You just said Paladin knows what he's doing," Frodo said warily. "And you call me a Took."

"And you know why," was Merimac's answer. "Both you and Paladin were taught consequence all too early. Some never learn."

"Bilbo will learn." Sparks flew as Frodo poked, a bit overzealously, at the fire. "He'll learn why he can't just think to push me into a corner."

Merimac suddenly laughed. "Oh, my. Why am I, all of a sudden, feeling sorry for the pretentious little sod?"

A grin touched one side of Frodo's mouth; he put the poker aside, came over, looked down at his playmate. "I'd rather you felt sorry for me."

"Eh," was the soft reply as those grey eyes swept upward, clung to his. "Call me woolly-headed, but I'm thinking you need no one's pity."

* * * * * *

"I want," the Thain informed him from across the broad expanse of well-lacquered desk, "to make sure there are as few surprises as I can possibly afford you, come the morrow."

"The Thain… well, he's a bit of a cold sod." Frodo had never truly experienced Merimac's observation at first hand… not until now, at any rate. The hobbit who'd held a broken-hearted lad in the top caverns of the Spiral was nowhere to be seen; this fellow had kept his distance, aloof from the moment he'd let Frodo into the high-ceilinged formal hollowness of the egg-shaped outer office, and only the clutter and the book-lined shelves of this, the private sanctum, put Frodo at any ease. Paladin was immaculately turned-out in snowy stock and a dark woollen frock coat that gleamed in the lantern-light; much more than Frodo would have thought necessary for a meeting with his tween cousin. Though that might have been as much from the morning chill of the smial as any formality, nevertheless the Thain looked as one to be immortalised with the other formidable framed and painted Presences hanging about that ceremonial outer office, or perhaps stitched into one of the full-length tapestries there, hanging between the well-spaced lamp sconces, a ring of light and shadow that circled the room.

Frodo was glad he'd tucked in his shirt and buttoned his waistcoat.

"I would imagine that you've never had to stand in court, young as you are, aye?"

The statement about his youth, no matter how impersonally delivered, nevertheless rankled. Frodo lifted his chin and answered with faultless, clipped politeness, "No, my lord, I have not."

The "my lord" made Paladin blink.

"I have read about the process, however," Frodo continued, still painfully courteous. "I am no expert by any means, nor have I any wish to be, but I am not totally unfamiliar with the basics."

"I… see." A faint spark of gilt made promise toward a thaw in those icy eyes, but as Paladin twitched a paper to meet that gaze, his demeanour was all business. "This is how the matter stands: Bilbo has admitted to the intent of once again requesting your fosterage to Hobbiton, and the Sackville-Bagginses are adamant that such a thing is against their personal interests. Because of that, the matter of fosterage itself cannot be of primary importance right now, whether you wish to stay with Bilbo or not——"

"I do not," Frodo said, a bit curtly. "I want no more empty promises."

Paladin's eyes flickered again, rose, truly met his for the first time since his arrival. A tiny smile was touching one corner of his mouth. "I see," he said again. "Well, that notwithstanding, Bilbo is quite set upon you having the right to stay with him. To that end, he means to fight the Sackville-Bagginses with all the power he has." He paused, then added, "And while he does have considerable power—in Hobbiton, anyway—it mightn't be enough. The main factor you have to understand, Frodo, is that you could indeed pose a legal threat. Otho is perhaps closer kin to Bilbo in familial fact, but if Bilbo died while you were in residence and legally fostered to him, then," he shrugged. "There is precedent for you having some claim upon his legacy. That is what they fear."

Frodo looked down, ruminated on this for a moment. Paladin was silent, obviously giving him that moment.

And, softly sibilant, hope and doubt both flicked its tongue through his thoughts, what if you gave them no cause to fear a claim?

"Sir… if that's the only reason…" he fell silent, uncertain.

"If you have any questions, lad, speak them. 'Tis why we're here, to make things clear to you." It seemed the Thain's cloak could prove a chafing fit; Paladin was no less remote, perhaps, but his manner seemed to warm with every word.

"If I understand you correctly," Frodo spoke slowly, trying to make sure he said exactly what he meant—the situation was twisty enough without his tongue tying it further, "if Bilbo wasn't willing to answer their challenge, if he wasn't determined to pursue this…" he trailed off, tried again, "He can't prove it, he can't prove the gossip isn't true, can he? So why would he do this; why doesn't he just… leave it?"

Because you're 'the idea'. Acid, etching into new-forged steel.

"Because he can't," was Paladin's answer.

"But my… 'being in residence'… is the issue, is it not? And if I am not to be in residence, if I have no intention of staying there…?" He trailed off, looked at Paladin hopefully.

"I wish it were that simple, Frodo. But once something like this has been called into question it has to be seen through. Inheritance Law is multi-layered and necessarily complex, to be sure, but quite inflexible in its turn. Particularly on the paternal side. After all," a slight, wry smile, "there's no male alive who can be absolutely certain he's fathered his own offspring, and why should it be otherwise? 'Tis why the claim-father's rights are so important to us."

Frodo appreciated anew that his cousin was intimately acquainted with that statement.

"Regardless of Bilbo's past mistakes, Frodo—and I agree that he has acted in less than an acceptable fashion—I can say with certainty that he did not mean for this sort of circumstance to come to pass. And if he could halt it, he would. He has no wish to cause you this sort of grief, no more than any of us."

"That's what Mac said," Frodo murmured, looking down.

"Hm. When Mac does hit the mark, 'tis always in the black. But I can see you're the sceptical type, so let me reassure you with hard fact. Bilbo has, until now, said nothing of his intentions regarding you to anyone save Esmeralda and Saradoc, whom, I believe, he spoke with about a fortnight ago—"

"—and also the Mayor, with whom he drafted papers, some of those papers which were in regards to this matter. Sara, Esme and Hiram all corroborate this. Given that, 'tis plain that Lobelia came to her conclusions solely through gossip and her own suspicions; to those ends she went to Michel Delving, made an annoyance of herself to Hiram and did as much research as was available through the public records. He told me that much of it was concerning you: genealogy, birth and death records, such things.

"So. Not only do they want Bilbo disallowed from fostering anyone who could be a threat to them, they want you, as the main and present threat, disallowed. The question has been formally called, and we must, by law, answer it."

The sudden sting of tears behind his eyes was humiliating; Frodo set his tongue between his teeth, bit down hard to halt them.

"Frodo." There was no hint of coolness in Paladin's voice, now. "None of us approves of any of this, believe me. Please understand. Legalities all too often prove annoyingly complex, and spare no hobbit—particularly when some sort of vengeance is fuelling them. As acting Thain I have no choice but to rule in this, just as your Uncle Saradoc and Mayor Fastburrow will have to. The complaint has been lodged and my personal opinion as to whether the complaint is ridiculous or no has nothing to do with what must, by process of law, be done." He suddenly and angrily tapped the parchment before him. "'Tis nothing more than a petty method of vengeance, this, and rest assured I know it. Mark me, any time a paternity suit comes to pass there is little consideration spared for the child's feelings; in the balance hangs considerable property and coin, nothing more."

"I don't want their property and coin."

But a home… Trickles of heat. Ah, but you would want that, wouldn’t you?

Shut up, Frodo ordered. I have a home here, if I choose. Or with Mac.

"Ah," Paladin was saying, "but you're expecting too much, expecting the like of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins to understand any motivations other than her own."

Frodo slid his eyes to meet Paladin's, was doubly reassured by the warm expression that met his.

"You might be experiencing the dubious pleasure of having enemies all too young, but take heart. You have allies, and considerable advantage here. While I have to rule without bias, you are nevertheless fostered to Great Smials, under the guardianship of myself and Eglantine. Therefore Shire Law dictates that while I indeed must sit in judgment, I must also act as your advocate. I'm ruling according to the Law, but I'm fighting for you."

And that dissipated any voices of treacherous ambiguity and promise into formless wisps.

Time to add another, Frodo Baggins.

The sting of tears was real, this time, and somehow not humiliating, but he ducked his head, unable to meet Paladin's eyes.

A brief silence, then a hand cupped his chin, tipped his face up to meet Paladin's. He was leaning on one hand across the broad desk and, oddly enough, though his eyes were warm and encouraging, his face was calm and dispassionate, his voice smooth, almost impersonal.

"I'll expect you, then, on the morrow. Eight of the clock sharp."

It was reassuring, somehow, that Paladin did not react to his own obvious disquiet; that the hand on his chin was firm, that the short nod that Paladin gave him was possessed of simple and unadorned understanding—not the oft-chafing or cloying discomfiture of overstated sympathy.

In fact, it was much of the same aspect that backlit the green gaze when Paladin was making a critical judgment about the performance of one of his ponies. It spoke of consideration, of distance, of the ability to stand back and think, to indeed arbitrate without partiality.

This was the Shire's Thain. No matter what injured relative might in actuality hold the title, this was the hobbit who did and would hold the peace of the four Farthings.

It returned to him, in full, his own self-possession. Frodo took a step back from the bench, gave a slight bow. "I understand, Sir."