Frodo sat up with a bolt, clutching at his hammering heart, the sickening realization that the dream had returned forming a hard knot in his stomach. The sensation of fighting to stay afloat in the pounding water was still strong, and it took some moments to fully understand he was nowhere near the river at all—but sitting in the soft mossy bed he had made in the crotch of the old elm tree that stood next to the Hedge.

He realized with dismay that he'd been there all night, there in his secret place, where he often went when he wished to be alone. A tree-climber all his life, young Baggins never considered the fact that his "spot" might be a bit precarious. Forty feet up and nearly as thick as one of the many round doors found in Buckland, the limb of his elm crossed the Hedge and intermingled with the more ancient limbs from the other side, their spring-leaves intertwining. They beckoned him as always to explore further, but there was no time for that now.

What will Uncle Rory think? he worried, sliding down from his perch. Stupid dream! He dropped lightly to the spongy turf and sprinted through the woods towards home, his mind racing. The old dream had returned with a vengeance and had become all but a nightly occurrence, yet he did not realize it was but part of an overall, growing restlessness dogging him, strengthening as the closed-in days of winter had dragged by.

He had taken to wandering afield on all but the nastiest of days, coming back to Brandy Hall after dark, half-frozen, and making his supper on whatever cold fare he could find in the pantry. He just couldn't seem to quench his wanderlust in spite of his best efforts not to worry Uncle Rory—dear Uncle Rory, who had taken such effort the last few months to keep a better watch on his orphaned charge. Frodo had indeed been ill during the summer approaching his19th birthday, but now he suffered nary a cold or sniffle, and was as healthy as any hobbit in Buckland. True, he was a wiry lad compared to most boys his age—slender of frame, one might say. Whenever he passed the looking glass in the grand entry hall, he saw the reflection of a lad with ruddy cheeks, his face framed by a shiny (though usually disheveled) mop of dark curly hair.

And more than healthy, he was happy now, or at least content, more so than at any time since the loss of his parents. Despite the return of the dream, Frodo was sure that he was not mourning again. Something else was stirring in his blood. But there was no time to think on that now—he was late!

Frodo leaped over a fallen tree and ran the faster as a pink blush began to spread in the east. I just might make it, he thought, hope spurring his feet as he shot around the corner of the yew-row and headed for the bedroom window.

ooo

"See, I told you he was out all night again," said Posco, one of two youths who watched Frodo scurry through the window from the secrecy of the barn loft.

"What of it?" asked the other, Grigory, with an obvious smile of admiration meant for the returning vagrant.

"He's sure to catch it now," Posco answered. "Watch." He didn't try to hide a smirk as he turned back to the drama that played itself out below. From their lofty vantage-point they stared expectantly as Frodo began to pull down the sash. They saw him freeze for a moment, then finish lowering the window. The spell was finally broken when Frodo moved away from the casement and out of their sight. Posco turned away, his smile widening.

"What have you done?" asked Grigory.

"Let's just say that Frodo is about to find out what it is like to have ol' Rory warm his back side."

"You didn't tell the old hobbit!" said Grigory in disbelief.

"I did, and serve him right, too! Ol' Master Rory's been a might high-handed with our lot lately, but I've never seen him so much as throw a twig at Frodo Baggins!"

"Aw, you're just jealous 'cause the girls have started makin' eyes at him, that's all!"

"Who's jealous? Ain't no handsomer hobbit this side of the Hedge than me!"

Grigory laughed. "Well, since you spend most of your time in front of the looking-glass, I don't reckon you've seen much else to compare yourself to!"

Posco grunted in reply.

"You think you know everything, don't ya?" Grigory continued. "Well, you're wrong this time. Whatever Master Brandybuck does to Frodo, it won't be a beatin'."

"How do you know?"

"Cause I heard tell that Rorimac whipped Frodo once and only once, and has never touched so much as a hair of his head since!"

Posco grunted again, staring stubbornly at the now vacant window, watching in vain for movement.

"C'mon," urged Grigory, pulling on his friend's sleeve. "We'll be late for breakfast and ol' Rory'll punish us by forbidding the second one. Besides, maybe we'll find out what happened between him and Frodo while we eat!"

Posco stared at the window another second or two, shrugged, and allowed himself to be led away.

ooo

Rory Brandybuck was a force to be reckoned with not only in Brandy Hall, but in all of Buckland. Though no tyrant, he managed affairs in the large, multi-homed dwelling with a strong hand, and he had no cause to doubt that any responsibilities he delegated would not be carried out.

Through the Hall's history, there had always been single parents and orphans about, simply because of the variety of families that had lived there for generations. Rory left their affairs in the care of other folk living in and around the smial who managed—after a fashion—to see to their needs. Or so he had done until recently when he realized, almost too late, that caring for broken families required a more hands-on approach, for his part.

Two winters have passed since then, he thought with a grimace as he walked down a small, winding hall that led to Frodo's room. Doesn't seem that long.

But much had happened in that time, since the 'Maggot Farm Incident', as he thought of it. The events that took place then had not been made common knowledge (a fair accomplishment by hobbit standards), and Rory was glad, for he had not wanted it made public that an orphaned boy had been beaten by two well-known, substantially-fixed elders who hadn't bothered to get their facts straight. There had been rumors here and there, of course, but since Frodo had gone to stay with his cousin in Hobbiton for a few weeks after the incident there hadn't been much to fuel the flame.

Though Rory had since been more diligent in providing proper care for the broken families in the Hall, he still felt somewhat inadequate in providing the same for one Frodo Baggins. There was the disadvantage of the boy's having had total freedom for nearly six years after his parents had died. The patriarch had been pleasantly surprised at the good report Farmer Maggot had given him on the boy, but equally dismayed by the realization that he, Rory, had done nothing to encourage such behavior. Another disadvantage was his inability to find specific misconduct to go after. Since Frodo's return from Bag End eighteen months ago, the lad had obviously made attempts to improve himself—helping with the younger children, running errands for the cooks and housekeepers, helping in the fields on harvest and planting days, and tidying himself up a bit. There were gaps in the lad's efforts, however—times when he would disappear for a day or more, wandering around in all kinds of weather while subsisting on a few pieces of fruit and stale bread. Rory knew this because Frodo had taken to asking the cook for food—forsaking his old habit of just taking what he wanted—and then leaving through the kitchen door for one of his excursions. Rory felt that this Tookishness exerted itself too strongly upon occasion, but was at odds with himself about how to rectify it. He was pleased that Frodo usually carried a book around with him, no matter what he was doing, thankful that Prim had taken much care in introducing the lad to his letters at a young age. Sometimes, however, he wondered if Frodo indulged too much in reading when he should be applying himself to hardier work. But Frodo was no farm-hand; he was the son of a couple who themselves were of genteel background. It wouldn't be proper to send him out to apprentice in the fields.

"How 'm I supposed to give the boy a proper upbringing when he's gone and done most of it himself?!" he muttered, as he approached Frodo's door.

He knocked softly and waited a moment or two. Getting no response, he knocked again, and harder. "Frodo?" he called, knocking again.

But still there was no answer. He turned the handle and pushed. Unlocked, the door gave way, revealing a neatly made bed and a cold hearth.

"Where has that boy gone to now?" Rory fussed, looking around the small room.

Frodo's things were tidily put away on shelves. A stack of volumes sat on a little desk under the window, all bookmarked. The narrow bed took up one half of the room and a wash stand occupied space near the door. Frodo had managed to squeeze a table next the bed which held a vase of flowering laurel and tiny silhouettes of who could only be his parents.

The elder Brandybuck drew a breath and held it, spotting a tablet on the desk which showed a few lines of writing. Frodo's hand looked a lot like Prim's...

Rory felt a fresh incursion of guilt. It was wrong that Frodo was in this back room, so far from everything and everyone. Being on his own so much had to encourage the boy's predilection for wandering and a certain oddness that some of the older hobbits had commented upon. Some believed it was the memory of the deadly accident; others believed his cousin, Bilbo Baggins, had influenced him in some way. But Bilbo was several hours' travel away and there had been no visiting between the cousins since Frodo had returned to Buckland near Yule a year and half ago. There had been many letters, however, and Rory suspected the sheet he had spied on the desk was an unfinished one.

Thinking back, Rory had very few recent memories of Frodo actually socially engaged with boys his own age, spending most of his time instead with adults or the little ones—when he wasn't alone. Even so, Frodo had not quite shed the reputation of a rascal, and some of the tales Rory overheard must have had an element of truth. The boy's own recent adventure with Maggot proved it.

An idea began to form in Brandybuck's head—one that was interrupted by Frodo's arrival, but soon finalized by it.

ooo

Frodo wanted to wash up, change his shirt, and at least make an attempt to tame his hair before sitting down at table. It was one of several changes the youngster had made within the past two years. He began to pay closer attention to what the adults had expected of him, namely presenting himself at the expected meal and bed times. A greater willingness to lend a hand with the younger hobbits followed (despite his preference for solitude), and just recently had he begun to note his appearance, making improvements as needed.

But there would be no immediate need this morning. For Rorimac Brandybuck was leaning cross-armed against the door to the hall, an enigmatic expression etched across his face.

Frodo's eyes were still adjusting to the dimness of his room as he climbed in through the window, but the outline of Brandybuck's form was unmistakable. He froze a moment, then continued to lower the window sash, feeling something shriveling inside him.

"Good morning, Frodo," said Rory, his tone unreadable. "You're cutting it rather short, aren't you?"

Frodo nodded and walked over to the washbasin, next to where Brandybuck stood, and poured some water into the basin. "Yes, Sir. I was out in the w— ."

Rory turned and opened the door. "Breakfast is in five minutes. We'll talk after that, shall we?"

"Yes, Uncle."

Frodo stood for a moment after his uncle left, looking blankly at the closed door, somewhat amazed at the restraint the Patriarch of Brandy Hall had exhibited. He plunged his hands into the cold water and splashed his face before dipping his fingers into the soft soap next the basin. The shrinking sensation slowly grew—he had a sinking suspicion that the outcome of this after-breakfast conversation would not be one to his liking.

ooo

Frodo picked up the big bowl of steaming porridge and squeezed his way through the crowded first dining room, where early-risers were vigorously engaged with their breakfasts.

Entering the second dining hall, he paused a moment, looking around. There were less hobbits here, at least temporarily, and many were heavy-eyed and yawning—the not-so-early-risers. His eyes brushed across the features of one of his acquaintances, Posco Saggot, sitting with his cronies. Posco winked and grinned at him—neither gesture appearing very friendly to Frodo—and nudged the hobbit next to him, muttering something Frodo could not make out. The whole table burst into boyish sniggers and Frodo knew he was the subject of their mirth. Ignoring them, he continued to look through the noisy crowd until he spotted Merry and Allie in their usual corner. Pushing through the crowded benches, he squeezed into the spot they had saved for him.

"Frodo, Frodo, you're here," said Merry with glee, bouncing with exuberance.

Frodo tousled the brown curls of his seven year old cousin, "I'm just a little late this morning; you know I wouldn't miss breakfast with my favorite hobbit in all the world."

"Your fav'it two hobbits in all the world," corrected Merry, patting Frodo's arm with his chubby hand then motioning toward Allysum, the girl who had been Merry's minder since he had grown old enough to leave his mother's arms.

"Yes, Allie too," said Frodo, meeting her eye with a look that was half embarrassment and half earnest familiarity.

It was no secret that Allysum Holdfast could have been one of the most eligible hobbit-lasses in Buckland. An orphan of twenty-two years, she had not yet developed the roundness of her peers, retaining a more girlish figure than most. The auburn-haired lass had to work harder than most, too, chasing after various young charges throughout the day—young Meriadoc Brandybuck being the most prominent (and the biggest handful). Her hazel eyes were like the waters of the Brandywine—brown, green and gold by turns—and they sparkled as though hiding some hidden delight. At least they did whenever she was with Merry or Frodo.

But the young lads her age, who usually teased and flirted a bit with the other lasses, had little to do with her. She was not of their class, not of their peerage.

For Allysum, whom they called "Allie", was not just an orphan. She was not like Frodo or Posco, or Grigory Soundbottom—children who were related somehow to the Oldbucks or the Brandybucks either by blood or marriage. She did not bear one of the old, proud names as did the others; she could not claim kinship with one single hobbit in Brandy Hall, indeed in all of Buckland or even the Shire. She could not, because she was a foundling, an infant left on the kitchen doorstep for one of the cooks to find. Holdfast was the surname that was given her because she had gripped her tattered blanket so tightly they had to pry her tiny hand away from it.

It was in Allie's capacity of Minder for the infant Merry that she met Frodo Baggins. She was only a lass of fifteen then, but years of servitude and a bright spirit had earned her the position at such a tender age—at least that was what Saradoc, Merry's dad had told her. But if truth be known, it was when she offered to take an unhappy, teething eight-month-old from her harried mother's arms, hushing him as expertly as a Nanny of vast experience could have, that Esmeralda decided Merry would have no other Minder but Allysum Holdfast.

Frodo, only recently orphaned when Allie met him, had been a bright lad of indifferent disposition, often getting into trouble, often going on 'rambles' that kept him out for days. She'd even heard he ventured into the Old Forest once, though that was just idle talk. But there was something about him that she liked—it was hard to pinpoint, because he often infuriated her with his pranks and wild behaviour—but there was a way about him that was solid and good.

Then, in the early fall of 2987, just before Frodo turned 19, he had gone away from Brandy Hall for a couple of months. Rumors were that he had gotten into some mischief yet again and had suffered severe consequences for it, but the details were vague. She had known at least that he went to stay with his cousin, Bilbo Baggins. For awhile everyone thought it was a permanent arrangement, and so it was a bit of a surprise when Frodo returned to Brandy Hall just before the Yule season. But folks were busy with putting up the vast provender from harvest and getting ready for the end-of-year holidays, and young Baggins' adventures were soon forgotten.

It was after his return to Brandy Hall Allie began to see that Frodo had changed—and for the better. There was a certain seriousness about him, now. One had to look for it, of course, because Frodo had lost none of his wit or love of food, a good fire, and laughter. Rather he had mellowed in some way, aged like a fine ale. Allie marveled at this new depth of character that—despite his boyish failures and mistakes—had grown steadily during the last two years. Indeed, he was only 20 years old, and she must make some allowances for him.

He was the only close friend she had in Brandy Hall, after all.

"Finish your breakfast, Merry," said Allie, giving Frodo a wink. "Now's your big chance to beat Cousin Frodo at table." She passed the basket of cooling bread to the older hobbit. "Do you want the jam, too?"

"Of course," Frodo said with a broad smile, as Merry set to his bowl with a speed that, barring his usual penchant for talk between every bite, would indeed bring him his first victory.

"Were you out again last night?" whispered Allie.

"I didn't plan to be; I fell asleep and didn't wake up until dawn."

"Well, at least you got back before you were missed."

The look of concern in her eyes did more to reprove him for his waywardness than the confrontation with Rory had done. "Not exactly," he confessed, bound for some unknown reason to bare his shame before the girl. "Uncle Rory was waiting for me in my room; he says I'm to have a talk with him after breakfast."

Allie reflected for a moment then nodded. "Good, I think it's time you two talked."

Frodo was baffled by her reaction. It had certainly not occurred to him that anything good could come of his talk with Uncle Rory. He was about to ask her what she had meant when. . .

"Hallo, Frodo!" Posco interrupted, slapping the back of Frodo's head. "Heard you had a little run-in with Master Rory this morning," the youth added, looking around at the other youths who had followed him to Frodo's table.

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Frodo answered quietly, picking up his toast and examining it. Allie took Merry into her lap and said nothing.

"Of course you do, Baggins! I happen to know you had company waiting for you when you sneaked through your window this morning."

Allie saw Frodo tense, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they softened momentarily when he met her gaze, then he grinned impishly, looking much like the scoundrel she'd met seven years ago. He turned and looked full into Posco's face. "I'm one up on you, Saggot. As soon as I saw Uncle Rory in my bedroom I knew you'd sent him."

Grigory, who was standing behind Posco, grinned in spite of himself. This was more like the old Frodo who'd wandered the woods and halls with him and his friends just a few years ago, getting into mischief and having the full run of Buckland. He tried unsuccessfully to smother a giggle.

Posco shot Grigory a withering look before turning back to Frodo. "Maybe I did, but you deserved it. You've put on airs since you came back from Mad Baggins—think you're too good for us now."

Frodo rolled his eyes and turned back to his breakfast. "That's ridiculous, Pos. I just have other things to do."

Saggot turned a cunning eye on Allysum, who felt his gaze before she met it. "I can see that," he sneered.

Frodo's hand clenched around his spoon, knuckles white. He slowly stood up and again turned to confront the other boy. Grigory and the others unconsciously moved back a little. In a voice so low Allie had to strain to hear, Frodo said, "You leave her out of this, Saggot. If you have a problem with me, fair enough, but you will not meddle with Miss Holdfast, who, I'll remind you, is Official Minder of Master Merry, here—an office of standing in this smial, whether you want to acknowledge it or not."

Posco bristled but said no more about the young lady. "You talk well enough, Frodo, but I think the reason you don't go about with us any more is because you left what little pluck you had back there in Hobbiton."

Frodo crossed his arms. "Bravery and bravado are two entirely different things, Pos," he said, not unkindly. "I think you've just got them mixed up."

This reply did nothing to elevate young Saggot in his friends' eyes and he knew it. He sensed they were waiting to see what he would say or do and blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "We're going down to Buckleberry Ferry tonight," he said. "We're going to sneak past the ferry-hobbit's hut while he's sleeping, take the ferry over to the other side, and leave it there for him to have to fetch back."

"You gonna swim?" piped young Merry, who had remained wide-eyed and silent during their entire discourse.

"You know any other way to get back across, brat?" sneered Posco, who did not much care for little ones.

Merry glared back at the big boy and stuck out his dimpled chin. "I don' like you," he declared. Allysum shushed him, but he continued to scowl defiantly.

Ignoring the child, Posco pressed his point. "You coming, then? Or are you too cowardly to get into the water?"

Frodo knew Saggot was reminding him of how his parents died, knew that the boy had seen him in the water many times, had himself thrown Frodo into the river once or twice. Posco's friends knew this, as well, rendering his position weaker by the minute.

"I c'n swim," Merry piped, sticking out his little chest, and Allie hushed him again.

"I'm not about to pull such a prank," Frodo answered. "We could damage the ferry for one thing, and it'd be a great injustice to make old Tandy have to fetch it back across the river.

"Look, sorry to cut you short," he continued, ending Saggot's retort before it could begin, "but I have to be somewhere." Frodo turned his back on the gaggle and bent over the table, grinning at little Merry, who was still shooting daggers at Posco. "I'll see you later, young hobbit. You take good care of Miss Holdfast until I get back, will you?"

"I will," piped the youngster. Frodo shot a grin at Allie, then pushed himself through the crowd of boys and out of the dining hall. He had an appointment to keep and he wasn't going to be late for it.

ooo

"Sit down, lad. I'm not going to bite your head off."

Frodo grimaced, recalling the last time he had been in the Master of Brandy Hall's library, and as he sat, his eyes darted involuntarily to the long reed cane lying on the mantle.

Rorimac Brandybuck sat behind his desk and played with a dry quill, turning it in his fingers for a few moments before looking up at Frodo. He put the pen down but remained silent, which was agony for the lad sitting across from him.

"Uncle Rory, I never meant to stay out 'til this morning," Frodo blurted, unable to stand the quiet any longer. "Truly, I—"

"No matter, no matter," Rory remonstrated, holding up a hand to silence the youth. "I expect I pulled a few all-nighters myself when I was your age," he said, unsuccessfully hiding his smile. "The teen years are never easy, Frodo, for anyone. They certainly weren't for me and, in truth, I couldn't have expected them to be easier for you. Believe me when I say, the early tweens hold no better promise on that score."

He paused and cleared his throat.

"The reason I wanted to talk to you isn't because of the past, Frodo, but what lies before you. I know thirty-three seems a long way off for a lad your age, but the day will come when you'll turn the corner and wonder where the time has gone.

"Coming of age is more than just accomplishing a number of years, Frodo. It is fundamentally taking on a mantle of responsibility, of accountability, that is usually shored up by long years of a father's instruction and a mother's guidance—something you have been deprived of."

"Sir, it's not your fault I haven't exactly been—that I haven't. . ."

"It is my fault you've been left to your own devices for eight years, lad. No getting around that, and to my shame." Rorimac got up from his chair and began to pace, casting an eye on Frodo occasionally and sighing, which made young Baggins more uncomfortable by the minute. Was his uncle about to take drastic measures, put him in some way of work to teach him responsibility—send him away from Brandy Hall? He felt a sharp pain in his thigh and realized he was gripping the material of his trousers so hard the nails had pinched the skin.

"I should have taken a hand in your education long before this," Brandybuck continued, getting his steam up. "Manners, deportment, mathematics and literature. . ." He seemed to be ticking them off in his mind, those things that boys despise and youths dread. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and looked at Frodo full-on. "Frodo, have you been in school at all since..."

"Of course I have," Frodo answered, bristling a bit at yet another reference to his parents' death, still a matter of gossip in the Hall and a sensitive spot for him. "I sat with the other children my age, and have done since—since my mother could no longer teach me. I finished last year."

"Oh," Brandybuck said, at a loss. He really had let things slip with this child. "Well." He hemmed. "The point of seeing you today, Frodo, is your inheritance. Or a lack of it, I should say."

"What?" Frodo perhaps should not be excused for his rudeness, but there had been many times he had thought of the small but comfortable home his parents had owned near the border of Buckland and Tuckborough. Except for dreams, he had never been back there, and assumed it sat empty and decrepit, waiting for him to return and reclaim it some day. But now his uncle was saying something about it not being his.,.

"Frodo, there is no way to tell you this but plainly. There was a—a hole—in your father's will. I won't go into the details; I don't pretend to even understand it all. Suffice it to say that due to a technicality in the wording of the will, your parents' home passed to the Sackville-Bagginses."

Frodo's chin dropped as the full meaning of his uncle's words became evident.

"The Sack—"

"I am sorry, Frodo, but I realized that if am to play a larger—and I hope a better—role in the last years of your bringing up, I need to be completely forthright with you."

"I... I appreciate that, Uncle," Frodo whispered, still in shock at the revelation. He sat up straighter in his chair, trying to get a grip on himself. "Then, I am not... I mean, I won't..."

"You are an heir to your parents' memory, Frodo, and if I may say so, that is a great deal, for you are much like them. But no, you are not a hobbit of property." Rory, standing in front of Frodo now, put a hand on the lad's shoulder. "But you are a gentle-hobbit, born and bred, and it's time I saw to it that you act—and are treated—thusly."

"Whatever for?" Frodo said, his face blank as he rose from his chair and away from his uncle's hand. He walked to a side table and fingered the carved-work around the edge. "If I've no income..." Frodo turned suddenly, staring at his uncle. "You've been supporting me all this time?"

"Not I, but from a portion of the interest on a small investment your father made in your name the year you were born. You are not without means, Frodo, but your parents were not rich and neither are you."

"Oh." Frodo turned away again and crossed his arms, thinking hard. It had finally come to this, where the child must become the adult before his time. There was nothing for it but to do the best he could. He wasn't, after all, the first orphan who had to make his own way. There was Allie, for instance, who had been supporting herself long before she ever entered her teens, and now possessed a position of importance and great responsibility. She was independent, smart, and well-spoken, possessing a kind and generous spirit. If she could manage, never having had the benefit of parents, then he, Frodo, could do just as well if he tried.

"It's enough to provide you with something to live on when you grow old, at least, if you leave it alone," Rory was saying, but Frodo heard him only vaguely. He kept his back to his uncle, his eyes prickling suddenly.

'Come off it, Frodo,' he thought, angry at what he perceived to be self-pity. Truthfully, he was only missing—not for the first time—his dad or mum putting an arm around his shoulders and telling him it would be all right. Collecting himself, he turned and walked over to Brandybuck, who had wisely kept quiet. "I don't think it's so very important that I learn to be a gentle-hobbit, Uncle Rory," he said. "If I'm to do for myself, I should start now. Can you help me find work? I don't mean here," Frodo hastened to say, for somehow he knew he would always feel his uncle were still providing for him if he remained in the Hall.

Rory studied Frodo's face, searching the blue eyes deeply, and saw something that both surprised and pleased him—for they were Drogo's eyes, and in them was resolve, for all the lad's dearth of years.

"I'll have to study on it," he began, scratching his chin. "Maybe Farmer Maggot would have a place for you."

Frodo paled, but said nothing, holding his breath.

"Yes, Frodo, I do think there is merit in your beginning to earn some of your own wages. There's no reason you can't buy your own house and property some day, if you work hard."

Frodo had his doubts about that, but kept silent as Rory continued to speak.

"But you must agree to submit to my tutelage as well, let us say twice a week, shall we?"

"For what, Uncle?" asked Frodo, uncomprehending.

"Your further education, of course. You have in fact finished your under-education, correct?"

"Yes, as I said, over a year ago, but. . ."

"Then it's settled. There is far more to being a gentle-hobbit than perhaps you perceive, and I won't have it any other way—for your parents' sake if nothing else. Now, let's see." Brandybuck scrabbled on his desktop for a blank piece of parchment. "I must first make some arrangements. Let us say, beginning Monday next." He picked up the quill and dipped it into the well. "We'll meet Monday and Thursday mornings for elevenses. No need for this to be entirely hateful for us, eh?" Rorimac winked at the youth, and for the first time during their interview, he saw the ghost of a smile on Frodo's lips. "And don't worry about work. I'll find something for you within walking distance, so there'll be no need to spend the night."

With that, Frodo did grin, and some of the weight he'd been feeling during the first part of their interview fell away. He'd worry about Maggot later, if it indeed came to that. But for now, he would allow himself to think only upon their lessons. The future would have to take care of itself.

ooo

"Where are we going?"

"Keep your apron on, Allie, it's not far."

"I tired, Allie."

Miss Holdfast stopped in her tracks and reached down for Merry, picking him up in her arms and hurrying after Frodo, who was setting a fast pace on the path. He turned and saw that she now carried her little charge, and was hampered by the uneven weight on her hip.

"Here, let me take him," he said, reaching for the child and shifting him onto his back.

Merry grinned and promptly wrapped his arms and legs around his dark-haired steed. "I'm sorry, Allie," Frodo said, slowing his pace and walking beside Miss Holdfast. "You should have said something."

"Oh, I would have if you'd kept up that infernal pace. What can be so important to see in this direction? There's only the High Hay and we can't go beyond that."

"You think not?" Frodo asked, his eyes glinting, and continued: "We're going to the wood that borders the Hay, and—I say, are you afraid of heights?"

"No more than I am of water," she replied, reaching behind Frodo to hand a blueberry to her young charge. Merry accepted and promptly squashed the hapless fruit before popping it (accompanied by a few fingers) into his mouth.

"That's not an answer," Frodo said, looking at her sidelong. "We will just have to wait and see. Come on, we're almost there!"

Frodo took off at a run, Merry giggling and screaming with glee upon his back. Allie, though not first upon the mark, was agile and young and filled with jubilation to be on a rare outing, and was soon upon Frodo's heels.

They ran full out, like two children turned loose after a long lesson, and their laughter blended with little Merry's chortles. They passed under the branches of the first trees, and their joy blended with the sunlight filtering through the leaves.

The wood deepened and the two older hobbits slowed their pace, nursing stitches in their sides and holding Merry's hands as he walked between them. Not long after they stopped beside the smooth bole of an ancient elm. The High Hay was just beyond, only a few yards away, dark and unbroken by any cleft or gate. Sounds were hushed here, for the breeze was diverted by the yew and boxwood that formed a solid, twiggy wall many times higher than a hobbit's head.

Allie looked around, wondering why they had stopped. "Well, where is this special place you wanted to show me?"

"You might not like it," Frodo said, looking suddenly hesitant. "If you cannot climb, you won't even see it."

Allie, perceiving at last, looked up the trunk of the giant tree, her eyes narrowing. "We're going up there, then?"

"Yes. Don't you want to?"

"What about Merry? I'm afraid he'd fall off, even if you carried him."

"I'll tie him on. Like this--" Frodo pulled a large, thick towel from his rucksack and handed it to Allie. He placed Merry on his back again and showed Allie how to wrap and tie the towel around the child and Frodo so that Merry was cradled, so securely that he could ride without holding on if he wanted.

"Are you scared, Merry-lad?" Frodo asked, reaching over his shoulder to touch the child. "May I carry you up to my special place in the treetops?"

Merry, fearless in his innocence, whooped with glee and kicked Frodo's sides. "Yes, yes, giddy up, Frodo!"

"All right, then. Allie, I know all the best hand and foot-holds. I'll go slowly and you just do what I do, all right?"

"Lead the way, Squirrel," she said, wondering if she would survive this questionable jaunt, and rejoicing in their adventure all the same. She was, after all, quite young, and adulthood was still so very far away...

At least it was for today.

ooo

Frodo stretched and scratched his neck, hissing as pain from his sunburn flared. He checked the rope again; satisfied it was secure, he ran down the embankment and turned a somersault right into the river.

The water closed over his head and the stinging on his neck receded. He surfaced, turned over on his back, and lazily paddled back to the bank. He held on to tough tussocks of grass as he hauled himself out of the water, dripping. No matter his clothes were soaked through, his knees muddy—for he wore his old things, a bit too small for him anyway and soon un-wearable.

There was a freedom in wearing garments that no stain, no tear could damage. He could wet himself as often as he liked, curl his toes in the cool mud in the shallows as much as he liked, with no fear of reprisal.

For Frodo was the new deputy ferry-hobbit, assistant to old Tandy, who was getting a bit stiff in the joints and welcomed the help (not to mention further nap time). Two weeks on the job and already locals called him by his first name, exchanging shouted pleasantries as they waited for him to pole the ferry over. The lad had yelled himself hoarse the first day and squeaked alarmingly for a couple of days after that, but now near the end of his third week, his vocal cords had managed to overcome the initial insult and he was quite back to normal.

He kept forgetting to wear the wide-brimmed, floppy hat Tandy had given him and had consequently twice suffered sunburn on his unprotected neck and face, but he was learning to stay in the shade or in the water whenever he wasn't ferrying or checking the ropes or harness.

To say that Frodo enjoyed his work would not give justice to his feelings. The boy was outdoors most of the time (excepting his tutelage with the Master of Brandy Hall), either alone or in Tandy's good company. So far the weather had been fair, with only a morning fog or two, and Tandy's widowed daughter-in-law brought them their elevenses and nuncheon every day, which they enjoyed sumptuously and at length (for no hobbit in his or her right mind thought of crossing a river during mealtimes).

Saturdays and Sundays were "off" days—where journeyers hauled or poled the small ferry themselves if they must make their way to the other side. Frodo spent these days and evenings after supper with Merry and Allie, entertaining them with descriptions of his passengers, newsy gossip, and tales of minor accidents which naturally occur when working around water.

Monday and Thursday mornings were vastly different, though not hateful, for Frodo. Six weeks of meeting with Brandybuck had taught him that being a gentle-hobbit was nothing he had supposed. He was set to keeping records of his income and expenses—small though they were—in an account book provided by his uncle, using a hard-lead pencil which he sharpened faithfully with the pocket-knife Bilbo had given him on his last visit to Bag End. He was also required to walk over to Rushy every other week, there to consign the greatest portion of his earnings (he went the first time with Rory, who introduced him to the proprietor and signed the necessary papers, giving Frodo sole access to his tiny inheritance). Rory told him that, in time, he would also be given the responsibility of managing additional annuities for other hobbits in Brandy Hall who found themselves in similar circumstances as his own, but were yet too young (or too old) to manage their accounts.

"This, Frodo, is what a gentle-hobbit must know how to do. Often he finds himself benefactor to subordinates for whom he finds himself responsible."

"But Uncle," Frodo had replied as they walked to Rush on his first day of Further Education, "just because I may help other hobbits with their affairs doesn't make them subordinate." He soon learned, however, not to broach this particular subject again, as Rorimac immediately went off on the responsibilities of the 'nobler' families, the lot of the working-class and poor relations, etc.—to the point the boy was ready to scream. It caused young Baggins to think of Bilbo who, while a gentle-hobbit in every way—likewise possessed of an inheritance and untold treasures of his own (so some said)—was himself a bit hazy when it came to 'class differences'.

Dear Bilbo, Frodo thought as he slapped at an insect bite. What would he say if he knew what Uncle Rory was trying to teach me? He frowned, realizing the letter he had started over three weeks ago still lay unfinished upon his desk. He would finish it tonight and hand it over tomorrow to Toby, the post-deliverer, who would put a stamp on it for a ha'penny while Frodo poled him over to the banks of the Eastfarthing.

The frown disappeared when he heard two voices behind him, preceding their owners who were yet hidden by the hill. He shook his head like a dog, droplets of river water falling around him like rain, wiped his hands on his sodden breeches, and ran to meet his visitors.

He was met at the crown of the rise by a bundle of energy that wrapped itself around his legs in a fierce grip, and only managed not to fall on top of the dynamo.

"Hallo, hallo, hallo!" Merry sing-songed, leaning back and swinging from Frodo as if he were some kind of May pole. "You can't 'magine what we been doin'!" he said, beaming up at the larger boy. Allie stood nearby, smiling upon the scene. Frodo shot her a grin, then returned his attention to the child.

"Good heavens, Merry! I'm far too famished to try to imagine anything except lunch. What'd you bring me, eh?" Frodo grabbed Merry under his arms and began tickling his ribs. Merry immediately released his hold on Frodo and collapsed into giggles and squeals.

"I think you should consider a good wash while I spread out the nuncheon," said Allie, walking toward a large tree that leaned out over the water and provided a grassy, cool spot to eat. "Do you ever dry out, Frodo?" she teased, beckoning Merry to follow her, though the child would far rather have gone down to the water with Frodo, who proceeded to do a better job of getting the mud and grass stains off his hands.

"The walk home takes care of that," he called, wiping his hands on a towel hanging from a nearby tree branch. He hurried back and plopped down on the blanket Allie had provided, practically smacking his lips over the good food that lay before them. "And," he added, puffing himself up grandly, "I don't have to take a bath—since I'm in one practically all day!" he finished, leaning over and ruffling Merry's hair.

"Frodo Baggins, you know that is positively an untruth, and to tell it before my innocent and highly receptive charge! For shame!" Allie shook her finger at him, but her smile told him it was all right.

"I don' wanna take bavs either, Allie. Nasty things," Merry said, crossing his arms.

"Oh, they're all right, Merry-lad," Frodo hastened, noticing a slight frown fret across Allie's features. "Especially at the end of a long day—hot water soothing sore muscles, clearing away all the cares of the day—and when you get out," he tossed a muffin to the child, who caught it easily, "you're all clean with hardly any trouble at all."

"No trouble that a handy cloth and some soap won't put right," Allie answered, securing a large napkin around Merry's neck.

"Well, that too, yes," Frodo admitted, winking at Merry.

For some time afterward there was little talk as the threesome partook of the excellent meal Allie had brought. It was a nice arrangement for the last day of the workweek, allowing Petal, Tandy's daughter-in-law, to shorten her day's work. Frodo felt he would be sorry not to have these picnics to look forward to, despite his love of the work and Petal's good cooking.

The meal finally over, Frodo shook out the blanket while Allie and Merry put away the remaining food (a small matter). He placed it under the tree again and lay upon his back. Merry soon found his usual comfortable spot, his head resting upon the crook of Frodo's arm, his tiny fingers interlaced across his stomach. Allie sat a little to the side, her back against the tree, and pulled out some bit of sewing to work on while she and Frodo talked.

"Tell me about your lessons with your uncle, Frodo," she said. "You'll have finished...what, twelve of them by now?"

"Eleven, actually," Frodo said, catching a faint scent of lavendar from somewhere. "We spent one day over in Rushy—I told you about that. They haven't been too bad, really." Frodo shifted his arm a little. Merry, now fast asleep, was heavy. "I still don't see the need, but Uncle insists upon it."

"Do you spend all your time with your account books?"

"No, usually an hour or less, now that I've grown more used to the work. The rest of the time Uncle and I talk while we eat."

"What do you talk about?"

"Well, eating for instance. How to 'comport one's self at table'," he recited. "What the two-tined fork is for, what the three-tined fork is for, when to use the inside spoon and when to use the outside spoon, that kind of thing. I thought it would quite take my appetite away, but our elevenses are quite excellent."

Allie grinned, realizing Frodo was using his 'gentle-hobbit' speech for her, and played along. "I have always preferred nuncheon to elevenses, Master Baggins, as it settles more delicately upon the palate."

"Aye, I can fancy nuncheon as well as any," Frodo drawled, his accent suddenly rich. "Long as it's fresh and tasty, is all."

"Don't let Mr. Brandybuck hear you talking like that, Frodo Baggins," Allie admonished.

"Oh, I won't," he promised, easing Merry off his numb arm and pushing up into a cross-legged position. "It would break his heart, I think."

"What else do you do?"

"Well," Frodo paused, looking out over the river, "there's no set schedule, you see. We just talk about things that he thinks are interesting, or relevant. We discuss them in great detail, usually in the form of his own experience, and sometimes mine. But he reminds me frequently that my own experience is either faulty or totally lacking, especially in such things as..." He brought himself up short, darting a glance at the girl.

She merely raised her eyebrows.

"Um, deportment—how you conduct yourself, how you address others, how you behave at social gatherings, like—uh..."

"Dances?" Allie looked down at her work, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

Frodo cleared his throat. "Yes, um—certainly, among other things," he finished hurriedly. He was feeling decidedly hot around the collar, despite the shade and breeze.

But Allie did not pursue that particular topic and the threesome spent another lazy hour under the tree before a passenger or two broke up the party. Merry begged a ride and Allie waited while Frodo took him to the other side and back, the child chattering away all the while. Frodo kept a close eye on the boy and grabbed him by his braces more than once to keep him from toppling over the side. When they made landing Merry began telling Allie about everything he had seen and done (never mind that she had watched him the entire trip, prepared to jump in after him if necessary).

"Such lots of fishies, Allie, silver and grey and pink! I a'most had one, but Frodo pulled me back. I bet I could catch lots of fishies!"

"Well, perhaps we can try our hand at fishing next week," Frodo said, tying up the raft and helping the child onto the dock. "But Merry, you must never go into the water, or even close to the water, unless one of us is with you."

"Why?" Merry fiddled with a button on his braces, his brown eyes stubborn.

"Because the water is very deep, and the banks are crumbly. Do you understand, Merry?" Frodo knelt before the child, placing his hands on Merry's shoulders, an odd sensation coming over him. "You must never go near the water unless you are with us or your parents."

"A' right," Merry muttered, looking away.

Frodo exchanged a look with Allie which said 'we shall have to keep a sharp eye on this one'.

The moment passed, Allie and her charge were soon on their way back to Brandy Hall, and Frodo went back to work, looking forward to the weekend and its luxuries.

Upstream, near a curve of the river when the trees and bushes crowded the bank, a hobbit crouched in the shadows behind the cover of thick leaves. Posco Saggot had watched Frodo as he visited with Allie and Merry, confirmed to his own satisfaction Frodo's strong attachment to the child, and began to form a plan which would take Rory Brandybuck's protégé down a step or two. It had rankled when Frodo had more or less given up his irresponsible habits; it positively galled now that young Baggins enjoyed the attentions of the Master of Brandy Hall. Posco, though misdirected, was no fool, and he knew the rumors and tales that rattled around the huge smial must carry some measure of truth—that Frodo Baggins had crossed Farmer Maggot two summers ago and came away from the experience not unscathed. Saggot determined he would use this knowledge to best advantage, and soon.

ooo

"Where's Merry?"

Frodo looked up from his book and soon had the child in view. "He's over by the pie table, Allie. You can just see his eyes over the edge of the board."

"I see him, now. I'd best help the child before he upsets the whole table," Allie said hurriedly, throwing down her sewing and reaching the lad just in time to help him with the piece of pie he coveted.

She ushered her charge back to the shade and handed Frodo a plate with his own slice of pie, and they ate in silence, enjoying an occasional fretful breeze. The day was sultry and the summer picnic, though pleasant for all the residents of Brandy Hall, was somewhat subdued after several weeks without rain and climbing temperatures. Only a few hardy souls ventured out into the sun, most being content to talk or play quiet games, sipping cool drinks while their food settled.

Merry, his pie finished and feeling just a bit too full (for this was not the first time he had visited the pie table today), grew restless. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and squirmed uncomfortably. "'m hot," he fussed. "Can't we go swimmin', Allie?"

"Not today, Merry," Allie said. "It's getting late and it looks as though it may rain."

"It won' rain," the child said, obstinately. "It won' rain ever again. Posco said so."

"When did he tell you such a foolish thing as that?" Frodo asked, still half-engaged in his book but finding his attention diverted by the mention of his former fellow mischief-maker.

"Today," Merry said, pushing up his sleeves, which promptly fell down again to his great irritation. "He said he'd take me swimmin' if you wouldn't."

"Merry, Posco didn't mean anything of the kind. He never does anything with the children here; he doesn't even like them," Allie reminded the boy, who turned a deaf ear.

"He likes me," Merry said, his upper lip curling. "He said I wasn't 'fraid of the big boys, an' I tol' him I wasn't 'fraid of anything."

"Well, of course not," Frodo said, putting down his book and looking hard at his cousin. "What's the matter? Has Saggot been worrying you about anything?"

"No-o," Merry drawled, but he ducked his head and began pulling at a tuft of grass.

"What's he been on about?" Frodo asked, his tone a little sharp now. Posco had never been anything but surly with the child, and his overall dislike of little ones was known all over the smial. If Saggot had been talking to Merry, it had been with nothing good in mind.

Merry, hot, cross and tired that he was, misinterpreted the tenor of Frodo's voice. His chin began to tremble, and his eyes glistened. "He tol' me, Frodo," he said, large tears trembling on his lashes and letting go unhindered. "He tol' me you were 'fraid, an' that I should be 'shamed to call you Cousin."

"What on earth?" exclaimed Allie, who reached to comfort her little charge, but Merry pulled away.

"He tol' me you wouldn't work for Farmer Maggot 'cause you were 'fraid to cross the river."

"Merry, Frodo crosses the river every day. You've been with him in the ferry yourself," Allie said quietly, her face registering alarm at Merry's distress.

"He doesn' swim it," Merry said, scrubbing at his face and sniffing loudly. He raised his brown eyes to look into Frodo's blue ones. "Are you 'fraid of the river?" he asked, his lips white.

Frodo stared at him, a million thoughts colliding in his head.

"Are you 'fraid of Farmer Maggot?"

"Merry..." Frodo felt his chest constrict. If a proper answer were given, it would take hours...

The child's jaw dropped, and his eyes grew wide. "You are," he whispered, his face paling. "I didn'..." Merry's face crumbled and he broke into loud sobs, running blindly for the smial.

Allie grabbed her sewing and rushed after the boy, leaving her napkin and unfinished pie lying on the grass. Frodo stared after her and the child, who had disappeared inside, then noticed Saggot and a few of his friends lounging against a tree not far away. Saggot was grinning and the other boys muttered and laughed among themselves, casting sidelong glances at him. Frodo picked up Allie's things along with his own and walked by the group of teenagers, returning their stares without speaking, and went into the cool darkness of the smial.

ooo

Frodo sighed and wrapped his arms around himself, looking out over the river on a wet and chilly afternoon.

Allie's prediction had been accurate; a tremendous storm broke up the picnic. It stormed all that afternoon, blowing limbs from trees, turning paths into small, muddy streams, and keeping everyone inside by the fire. Overnight the storm subsided into steady rainfall which lasted throughout the following day and night, proving miserable work for hobbits who must venture outside, Frodo included.

This morning had been better, what with his work with Uncle Rory—drier, anyway, though troubled. Frodo had broached the subject of Merry with the elder hobbit, telling Rory what had happened at the picnic. Rory was one of the few hobbits in Buckland who knew the true (and entire) events of two summers ago, when Frodo had worked off his theft debt with Farmer Maggot and nearly died in the process.

But Rory was not disposed to be too concerned. "Merry's a baby, Frodo, and subject to the whims and misunderstandings of babies. He'll have forgotten about it entirely by now."

But Frodo knew that was not the case, as Merry hardly talked to him at yesterday's breakfast, despite Allie's encouragement. And today neither Merry nor his Minder had been at breakfast at all. The note folded in his pocket assured him that Merry was only suffering from a slight cold and that Allie was keeping him in his room today, but Frodo could not help but think there was more than a cold keeping his favorite cousin away. He would like to have talked to Rory more about this, but Rory was not Bilbo, and that was who Frodo wanted to see most of all.

Bilbo was not due to visit until fall, and that was nearly two months away. His letters were frequent, full of news, and approving of Frodo's work with Rory, but they were not the same as a quiet hour settled in a chair by the fire with a cup of tea at hand, talking with Bilbo about anything that came to mind.

Frodo sighed again, and shivered. The rain was still coming down in sheets, and the river fairly roared in its course, its waves lapping at the buttresses of the ferry landing. Tandy had been glad to see him after lessons, and hurried back to his cottage, anxious to get out of the wet. Frodo had spent the afternoon alone, watching for passengers that never came. The rain had deterred traveling and Frodo had spent the afternoon watching the level of the river grow higher. He looked after the ferry, checking the lines especially, not wanting the ferry to cast adrift.

Here and there Frodo saw bits of embankment break free and disappear into the already muddy river, and there were more and more bits of bracken, scrap wood and other things that floated in the water now. If this rain kept up, it could cause real damage overnight. Frodo resolved he would come all the earlier on the morrow, in case Tandy needed his help. He only hoped the rain would have come to an end by then.

For now, he was anxious to get home—to get dry and warm, to be sure—but mostly because he had made up his mind to visit his little cousin after dinner. The child was young, but intelligent, and Frodo couldn't bear to have Merry think ill of him. Perhpas he would tell him the story of the week he worked for Farmer Maggot—the week he worked to pay the good hobbit back for stolen mushrooms. The week he began to grow up. If Allie were there, he'd tell her, as well. She was a fair listener, and knew how to keep her own counsel, and—next to Bilbo—one to whom he knew he could confide almost anything. Funny that he was just now realizing it. But this realization only made him miss Bilbo all the more.

There was only an hour left in the workday when Frodo saw someone hurrying along the path across the river, hunched under a bit of oilcloth in a vain attempt to stay dry. He wiped the rain from his eyes and untied the ferry, using the pole to push it across the river to meet his passenger. It had been a long, uncomfortable day, and even now Frodo's thoughts were of Bilbo. I'll write to him about Merry, he thought, fighting to keep the ferry straight in the river as he poled back across with his passenger. Bilbo will know what I should do about Posco, too.

Despite the rain, the chill and the discomfort, Frodo's face lit up with a warm smile, and he hurried all the more to get his passenger safely to the other side of the roaring river.

ooo

Frodo returned to general uproar in Brandy Hall. Young Meriadoc had given his Minder the slip and all the common (and not so common) areas were turned upside down in the search for him. Still dripping, Frodo soon found himself standing in front of Saradoc and Esme, Rory Brandybuck and Allie Holdfast close by.

"Are you sure you didn't see him today?" Saradoc asked again.

"No, sir," Frodo answered. "I was with Uncle Rory all morning, then after lunch I went straight to work. I haven't seen Merry since yesterday morning," he added, glancing at Allie, who stood to one side, twisting her apron in her hands. The other adults followed young Baggins' glance and Allie met their looks.

"It's my fault," she said. "I left him only for a moment to fetch his willow bark tea, but the honey jar was empty and I ran to the kitchens to pick up some more. And when I got back. . ." She bit her lip and looked down at the apron, which was becoming more creased by the minute in her nervous hands.

Esme stiffened when Allie spoke, but did not chastise the girl. Saradoc spoke for them both: "We do not hold you to blame, Allie. We were both here; you had stayed long past your time, and were only helping us. How were any of us to know Merry was only pretending to sleep?" Esme nodded her affirmation and patted Allie on the arm.

"How long has he...been..." Frodo stopped, a cold niggle of fear creeping between his shoulder blades. "Has he talked to Posco since the picnic?" he blurted, looking hard at Allie, who shook her head.

"Why, yes," Esme said, a smile flitting across her face. "He came in this afternoon for a visit. I was surprised," she continued. "A great boy such as himself, and quite a mischief-maker, I've heard, though I can scarce believe it now."

"He is a mischief-maker, and more so than you've heard, Esme," said Rory, darting a glance at Frodo. "I've tanned his jacket more than once."

"I admit I'm surprised, too, for he's no friend to the little ones, Miss Esme," added Allie. "He must have come when I was running errands."

"He did indeed," Mrs. Brandybuck answered, somewhat defensively. "He brought Merry a little toy boat and a peppermint sweet for his sore throat, too. They talked for a good while and I must say Merry was in much better spirits when Posco left. He had been pining after you, Frodo, especially when you didn't come to see him last night," she finished, looking troubled.

Frodo felt something twist inside him. He had meant to see Merry the evening before, but the rain and extra work with the ferry had kept him late and he had arrived back at the smial after Merry's bedtime. Now he wished he had come anyway, and waked the boy up. Children couldn't reason the way adults could, and Merry only could have thought that his favorite cousin in the world hadn't bothered to come and see him when he was ailing—the cousin whom Merry had only known as wise and fun and brave—perceived now as flawed and afraid. Suddenly Frodo guessed where his little cousin might be. He drew a sharp breath and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Allie asked him.

"I don't think we're going to find Merry in Brandy Hall," he called, breaking into a run. "Send help to the ferry crossing as quick as you can!"

ooo

Merry shivered in the early twilight, but set his jaw and walked steadfastly on. The boat that Posco gave him was tied to a long string, as Merry meant to float it at the ferry crossing, using the string to draw it back if the current did not carry it the way he wished.

Though he could have played with the toy anywhere, including several large puddles outside Brandy Hall, he was determined to go to the ferry. That was where Frodo held him back the other day, wouldn't let him play in the water as he'd wanted. Now, of course, he knew why Frodo was afraid to let him near the river—it was because his big cousin was afraid of the water himself. It must be true; Posco had told him, the great boy who had decided that Merry wasn't so little after all and may be as brave as any of the big boys in the Hall.

Merry stifled a sob and lifted his head. He'd show Posco that he could do this, that just because he was Frodo's cousin didn't mean... He'd show them all, and maybe then Frodo would show them, too...

He'd seen Frodo of course, on the path, but had hidden in the bushes as his cousin hurried by, and now he could see the ferry tied up at its dock, riding strangely high in the water that lapped at the edges of the riverbank. In the waning light of dusk, Merry could not see the deeper part of the river nor the debris it carried along at an alarming rate.

He walked to the edge and unwound the string from the boat, tying it carefully to his wrist, and cast it off. Moments later the toy was out of sight; the grip of the string on his wrist was painful and jerked his arm with amazing force. Merry began pulling the boat in, hand over hand.

He could just see it in the gloom when he felt the bank give way beneath him, and the cold water closed over his head before he could draw breath.

ooo

Frodo ran full-out, jumping over puddles and gullies cut in the road by the fast-falling rain, half-blinded by the water and fast-fading daylight. He called out for Merry, keeping one eye on the river as he ran beside it, but knowing in his heart where Merry would be. He struggled up the last incline of the road, slipping on the muddy surface and nursing a stitch in his side, and paused to look down at the ferry landing.

There was Merry, standing on the very edge of danger, pulling on a string that was attached to a tiny boat that had become entangled in a floating branch. Frodo started to call to him when he saw the bank crumble and the child topple in.

Horror-struck, Frodo yelled and tore down the hill, fell on the slippery surface and was up again. He looked downstream and caught a gleam of white—Merry's shirt. Without another thought, he dived in.

ooo

Rorimac and Saradoc led a contingent of 20 sturdy hobbits carrying rope, blankets and lanterns. Spread out between the road and the riverbank, they scoured the land for any sign of Merry or Frodo all the way to the ferry landing. By the time they reached the ferry the fear among them was palpable.

One of the advance spotters called out in the dark, waving his lantern, and the group converged on him as he braced himself against the wind.

"Look! He shouted, and pointed to the bank next to where the ferry was tied.

A large section of the bank was gone, a gaping, bite-shaped hole all there was to show for it.

"Do you think they went in?" Saradoc asked, his voice hitching.

Rory only looked at him. "Come on," he said, finally. "Let's keep looking."

The group spread out and moved again upstream, and were soon surrounded by the dark and the great sound of rushing water.

ooo

Frodo struggled to keep his head as high above the water as possible, fighting to keep Merry in view. The child wasn't moving, and had become entangled in some uprooted bushes that slowed him down, dragging his body out of the main current.

Frodo stayed as close to the bank as he could, hindered by debris and roots jutting out from washed-away banks. Slowly he grew closer to his little cousin, though the time seemed to crawl. Frodo was beset with memories brought on by the smell of the river and the cold, black water—whether real or dream, he could no longer remember. He had lost his parents to the river, that much was true, and had watched, helpless, as they floated lifelessly out of his reach.

Spitting out water, Frodo concentrated on the outline of the child who drifted just beyond his outstretched fingers, and kicked harder. Desperate now and tiring, he was swallowing a lot of water and knew if he could not save Merry there would be no saving himself, either. With one last great effort, he snagged Merry's braces and pulled the child to him, turning and paddling one-handed for the bank. The child was limp and heavy in his grasp, and cold. Frodo struggled along the embankment, trying to find a place where there was less overhang, but the river had undercut the bank and he could find no purchase.

Frantic now, the teenager tried to pull himself up by a large root jutting out of the embankment, but he was too exhausted, too cold, to do anything but hold on. He realized, almost disinterestedly, that it was just a matter of time before his benumbed fingers would lose their grip, and he and Merry would be carried off.

Frodo found his thoughts wandering, and he suddenly saw—so clearly it hurt—his mother and father standing in the shallows in the warm sunshine, playing with their little boy as he splashed and paddled in the water. It wouldn't be so bad, really, to just open his fingers, and go to them. Leave behind the loneliness, the adult responsibilities thrust upon him. And Merry would go with him, Merry would...

"What are you thinking?" Frodo said to himself, his teeth chattering. "I've got to get us out of here," he continued, finding a measure of strength in hearing himself speak. "Somebody's got to help us!" He shifted Merry in his arms a little and nearly dropped the boy when he felt him move. "Merry?" Frodo shook the child and called to him once more. The child moved again and began to retch, bringing up alarming amounts of water, and Frodo shifted again to try to support the child better. Astonishingly, his foot landed upon a large rock which held his weight, and he brought up the other leg, still holding fast to the root. When he tested the rock and it did not shift, he put his full weight on it and rose up out of the water, freed from the waist up.

Now he could make out the line of the bank, and knew what he must do. Cradling Merry tightly, he braced his legs and turned his torso backwards as far as he dared without losing his balance, then swung around with all his remaining strength, letting go at the last moment and allowing momentum to do the rest. Merry sailed out of his arms and landed heavily on the bank beyond the water's edge.

Frodo rallied for one more attempt and clumsily flung himself at the bank. Somehow he held on, grasping at tufts of grass, scrambling wildly for a foothold, and then found himself sprawled beside Merry on the sodden turf.

He leaned over the boy and listened. The wind was dying down a bit now, and though Frodo's ears were ringing, he could both hear and feel Merry's breath. Merry was alive, but still very much in danger, and must be attended to immediately. Frodo pulled the child into his arms once more and rose unsteadily to his feet. He headed directly away from the river, knowing he would hit the road nearby. Old Tandy would be at his daughter-in-law's house some distance away, and homes were scarce along this part of the waterway. He would find help sooner by going back towards Brandy Hall.

He made his way doggedly, grieved because he could move no faster. His legs were like blocks of lead; his heart laboured as he walked, and he began to fear he might not be able to make it all the way back. When he felt he would soon be unable to continue, he became aware of lantern-light approaching, then the voices and faces of people he knew. Vaguely he felt someone taking Merry from him, felt a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. There were people walking beside him now, supporting him and talking to him, but he couldn't understand what they were saying.

The vagueness grew, as did his weariness, and at long last he found himself in his own bed. The rain had stopped, and a new moon was peeking through the window of his room. Blissfully, he welcomed the nothingness that surrounded him, and fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

ooo

Coming awake again was something of an effort, a hand roughly shaking his shoulder and a loud voice in his ear. He turned away from the motion, trying to bury his aching head in his pillow.

"Frodo, please get up! You're wanted in the Master's study right away!"

Groaning, the dark-haired hobbit rolled onto his back and opened bleary eyes to stare at the hobbit child who had obviously been sent to wake him. "Wha' time's it?" he mumbled, noticing not a few aches in his body as he stretched and tried to coax his lids to stay up.

"Almost time for second breakfast," piped the youngster, who was already heading out of the room. "Scones!" he said, grinning, and slammed the door as he left.

Frodo winced, his head feeling twice its normal size. Hastily he washed up, pulling the muddied sheets off his bed and throwing them onto the pile someone had made of his wet clothes on the floor. He wondered if he had undressed himself or if one of the hobbits who had escorted him back to the smial had done so. Either way, he was grateful he hadn't slept in damp garments.

He poured what was left of yesterday's ewer into the basin and scrubbed himself, shivering in the unheated room. His hair was a sight; he took a minute to wrest a brush through the worst of the matted tangles, dislodging not a few leaves and twigs before he finished.

Though not clean, he was cleaner, and the promise of a long hot bath later put heart in him, and he hurried to Rorimac's office as quickly as his aching limbs would allow.

When he arrived Rory was seated behind his desk, and Saradoc was with him. Frodo's eyes widened at this, and a dart of fear nicked his heart before Saradoc broke into a wide smile.

"Frodo, my lad," he called out, rising from his chair and embracing the young hobbit, his cheek fast against the top of Frodo's head. Frodo felt the older hobbit's body shake and realized that Saradoc was weeping. "Thank you, boy, thank you," Brandybuck whispered, patting Frodo's back and pulling away to look into the boy's eyes. "You saved our Merry, young Baggins, and there's nothing I can say or do to thank you enough."

Frodo looked into those swimming brown eyes and blushed, smiling crookedly. "He's all right, then?" he asked. "May I go see him this morning?"

"My dear, you may do anything you like," Rory said, speaking for the first time. He stood and placed an arm around Frodo's shoulders, pride in his voice. "You've earned my trust, my boy, and I see I was a fool to have thought you needed more careful bringing up."

Frodo opened his mouth to protest, but Rory held up his hand and continued, "Never mind, never mind, we'll talk about things later, shall we? You need something hot in you, I'll warrant, and the cooks are wanting to cluck over you—which you don't need, so off you go to see little Merry, and I'll have 'em bring some breakfast to you by the boy's bed."

"Off you go, now," Saradoc added, and they shooed the youth from the study.

Frodo hurried to Saradoc's apartments, his emotions in turmoil as feelings of pride, embarrassment, and fear took turns pummeling his heart. He knocked on the door and was greeted by a smiling and tearful Esmeralda, who squeezed him so hard his ribs protested as she escorted him into Merry's bedroom.

"Merry, Merry, dear. Look who's come to see you!"

Frodo noticed that Allie was in the room, but she moved away from the bed and for a long, uncomfortable moment, Frodo and Merry locked eyes. Then the child's chin began to quiver, he held up both arms and wailed, "Oh, Frodo!"

Neither hobbit heard or noticed the two female hobbits leaving the room as Frodo hurried to the little boy, picking him up in his arms and holding him close as he sat on the edge of the bed. Neither hobbit was aware of anything more than holding each other, Frodo most of all, as he breathed the scent of the child whose little arms encircled his neck.

After a few minutes, Merry drew away and looked up at Frodo. "'m awful sorry I said those mean things to you," he said, hiccupping. "You mad at me?'

"Merry, at this moment I don't feel I could ever be mad at you again, though I'm sure—given some time—you will rectify that."

The child stared at the older hobbit seriously for a few moments before a fleeting smile crossed his features. "I did a bad thing goin' to the river aside myself."

"Yes, you did. I know you were upset with me because I hadn't been to see you, but you must promise me you will always come and talk to me if I've done something to bother you, all right? Please don't ever go off by yourself again, dear, and never go near the water without me or Allie—you remember me telling you that before, at the ferry?"

"Ye-es," Merry answered slowly, pondering something as he played with the buttons on his nightshirt. "Now I know why you're scared of the river," he whispered, shivering suddenly, his brown eyes far away. "It was so cold."

Frodo's breath caught in his throat, feeling once again the chill of both the water and the fear that had enfolded him last night.

"It's all right," Merry said, reaching to pat Frodo's cheek. "Papa says you was the mostest brave to come after me in the water. I'm sorry I said you were 'fraid."

"There's nothing wrong with being afraid of something, especially something as wild as the Brandywine," Frodo said, easing Merry back into his bed and pulling the covers up under his arms. "But there are other kinds of fear that are wrong, even dangerous. I..." He looked away, quieting himself with a will. Merry was very young to have gone through the peril of the previous night, and too impressionable to burden with his own tale. Frodo shook his head slightly, realizing that the story of Farmer Maggot was not one to be told to such a young one, not yet...

Maybe never.

ooo

Frodo walked alone near the High Hay, forgoing a climb into his tree and choosing rather a familiar winding path, letting his thoughts make their own way, as well. He smiled ruefully, finding it ironic that he, a hobbit nearly twenty-one, held no fear of water but was mortally afraid of Maggot's dogs, and worse, Farmer Maggot himself. It was a deeply-held embarrassment for him he doubted he would ever willingly discuss with anyone, not even his dear Uncle Bilbo.

At least Merry's confidence was fully restored in him, and the boy had promised Frodo over and over again that he would not go near the river or other places off-limits, despite the encouragement of any of the big boys.

Big boys like Posco Saggot.

The thought dropped into Frodo's mind like a stone, and he was brought up short, his features hardening into angular lines beneath the dark hair, the blue eyes narrowing.

"Saggot," he breathed, his fingers curling into fists. "I've got a few things to say to you."

ooo

Allie hurried down the path, clutching her shawl to her shoulders. The recent storm had broken the sullen heat and freshened the air—not quite fall-like just yet, but clean and dry under a sky of blue. For the past hour she had been looking for Frodo in his familiar haunts, but she could not find him. She had been running an errand for Esmeralda when he had left, and was surprised to find Merry quiet and subdued as she tended to him. The child, normally a chatterer, had dried up and said he was tired. No doubt Frodo had talked to him long about the dangers awaiting little boys who ran away from home. But there were dangers awaiting not-so-little boys who were caught unaware, too...

She was near the hay-field when she heard voices, and moved from haystack to haystack, keeping out of sight as she neared the boys who were standing in the curve of the road that swept around the edge of the field.

"Stay out of it, Grigory," she heard one say.

"Pos, he's just asking you to leave the lad be. You're lucky he wasn't killed. . ."

"I told you to shut up! I don't need you telling me anything I haven't already heard from Mr. Brave Baggins here."

"Using a child that's little more than a babe to suit your own ends is the lowest thing I've ever seen you do, Saggot. And Grigory's right, Merry could be dead right now, because of you."

Allie's breath hitched. Frodo's voice was lower than normal, and quiet, though it cut through the crisp air like a knife.

"Well, he isn't dead. And what do you know about my own ends, anyway?"

"Pos, no!"

"I told you to shut it, Grigory!"

Allie could not stand it another minute. She fell to her hands and knees and peered around the base of the stack where she made her hiding place. Saggot was strong-arming his companion out of the way, turning to face Frodo, his features sullen and menacing. Frodo stood his ground, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, the freshening breeze blowing his curls away from his face and accenting the more angular lines of his features.

"It's like this," Saggot continued, a smirk playing across his face. He leaned forward, putting his finger on Frodo's sternum. "I was using him to break you."

Frodo blinked in amazement. "What?"

"I'm saying that you think you're such a much, that you lord it over the rest of us because you've somehow got Uncle Rorimac twisted around your finger. I'm saying that if his precious grandson had died in the river the other night, you'd be out on your ear—or worse—and you'd be no better off than the rest of us orphans that live on the charity of others!"

"You wanted Merry to fall in the river? You weren't just hoping I'd follow him and fall in myself?"

Allie noticed that Frodo had paled drastically, his lips bloodless. Grigory had backed away, shaking his head soundlessly, looking at Saggot as if for the very first time.

"I wanted to hurt you, Baggins, really hurt you. I knew that better-than-us noble streak you've got would sink just like the boy did when he hit the water!"

Frodo did not remember throwing himself at Saggot, or falling to the ground with the bigger and heavier boy suddenly on top of him. All he knew was that he was yelling something and hitting with his fists every part of Saggot's burly body he could reach. Posco tried to pin his arms with his knees but Frodo pushed with his own and pivoted the boy over his head, hearing with satisfaction his 'umph' when he landed heavily on his back. Frodo scrambled up and saw Allie and Grigory standing next to each other with matching expressions, but Saggot was getting up, too—winded but not hurt.

Saggot stood a head taller than Frodo and weighed at least two stone more, but Frodo had the advantage of speed, honed by long hours in the fields and woods. The hobbits watching the fray learned this early on, for as long as Frodo could keep his distance from the bigger boy, Saggot took a beating. But whenever Posco could manage to grapple with Baggins, the tables were turned. In just a few minutes, both boys were bloodied and bruised, but Saggot was tiring fast, his breath whistling as he circled, watching for another opportunity to pull Frodo into a bear hug and land a kidney punch or two.

Frodo saw the bigger boy falter, but knew he was reaching his own limits. His left eye was closed and he tasted salt from a split lip; one more good punch to the head would fell him. Absently, he wondered which of them would go down first.

But it was nature that brought Saggot down, a false step tripping him up over a fallen branch, and he landed hard on his back for the second time, breath driven from his body. He was too busy trying to draw air into his lungs to get up when Frodo stood over him, taking care to stay out of arm's reach.

"Posco Saggot," Frodo began, found his voice was shaking, and cleared his throat. "If you ever so much as look at Meriadoc again I shall give you a beating that will not begin to compare with the one you got today. Do you yield?"

Still defiant, Saggot tried to snort but only succeeded in showering his shirtfront with blood.

"I mean it, Saggot! I swear it on my own blood, do you hear? You know I mean it, too..."

Frodo knelt down so no one but Saggot could hear him now. "Because, like you said once, I'm just an orphan, and I don't have anything to lose."

ooo

"Does that hurt?"

"I'd be lying if I said it didn't."

Allie continued to dip her handkerchief in the stream and sponge her friend's face, worried more about his aloofness than his injuries. Those would soon heal, but Frodo was troubled.

She took his hand and began to gently bathe his split knuckles, thinking hard as she worked.

Two years ago, when Frodo had returned to Brandy Hall, having been away for two months at his cousin Bilbo's, an accidental revelation and some sharp observations had made it possible for her to put some things together on her own. She pondered these things now as she worked, realizing it was only right that she tell him what she knew.

She took a deliberate breath before raising her eyes to look at him. "Frodo," she began.

"Hm?" He didn't look at her, his hand lying limply in hers as she bathed it.

"Two summers ago I was in the kitchen, fetching an apple, when Master Rorimac came in. I was startled and stayed in the pantry, not making myself known."

Frodo said nothing, but his fingers had grown stiff in her grasp.

"He was crying, Frodo. Something had upset him very much. And soon after that, you went away – to Hobbiton." She glanced at Frodo, who still looked away.

"I heard rumors, Frodo, and I heard snatches of Mr. Sara's conversations with Mistress Esme. I – I know you were punished for stealing something from Farmer Maggot, Frodo. I know you were very ill, and both Master Rory and Mr. Sara felt themselves to blame."

She felt Frodo move and glanced up at him. His eyes met hers and darted away, but not before she saw they were bright with unshed tears. She reached to touch him but he stood up and walked a few paces away, out of her reach. He turned slowly to face her, speaking so quietly that she barely made out the words. "I never meant for anyone to find out about that," he said. His face, which had first been pale, burned bright now. "I acted like an ass."

Allie leaped to the defense he would not take, going to him and taking his injured hand back into hers. "But you've no cause to be ashamed. It was nothing that all the other boys haven't done. . ."

"Boys like Posco Saggot?" Frodo asked raggedly, turning his eyes away again.

"You're not at all like Posco, and neither is Grigory for that matter. Posco has burned himself into a wicked rage with his jealousy, Frodo. You have always been the one to have adventures—roaming the countryside, spending nights out by yourself. And though you're not the biggest or the strongest, you can climb the highest tree and swim, and..." Her upper lip curled. "And cuff boys like Posco Saggot."

Her attempt at humor was lost on her friend, however, as he continued his inward struggle. She tried again. "Posco sees that you are different—that the young ones look up to you – that Master Rory sees something special in you." Frodo slowly turned towards her again, swallowing hard.

"But I never wanted to be different," he said haltingly, his eyes searching hers. "A boy... a boy... with no parents just wants to be liked, you know? To do things with the other boys..." His face hardened. "All that changed when the fun turned to thievery, and what followed was what I deserved."

Frodo paused, fighting the growing ache in his throat. "I'm no different than Posco, Allie, or wouldn't have been if Maggot hadn't caught me with his mushrooms."

"That's not what I see," Allied replied gently, looking down at his bruised hand. "I see a lad who is trying a bit too hard to grow up, perhaps." She smiled gently and looked into his eyes. "But I also see a boy who is brave, and smart and kind, too." She raised his hand to her cheek. "And I see the way that you love our little Merry."

Frodo stared hard at her for a minute, exploring the depths of her almost golden eyes. Again he caught the scent of lavendar as he leaned in, his dark curls brushing her auburn ones, touching his lips lightly to hers for a moment. Then he quickly pulled away and turned to face the sinking sun.

But he kept her hand firmly in his.

ooo

August ended without incident; September marched on and with the passing of days, Frodo's heart became a little lighter. Uncle Bilbo was coming to visit!

They had corresponded often, Bilbo ebullient over Frodo's act of bravery in saving his cousin Merry (it was Saradoc who had written to Bilbo, effusive in his story-telling and his praise—which was just as well, as Frodo had never written a word about the whole affair). He would arrive on the 20th, celebrate his birthday with Frodo, and stay on an undetermined number of days after that.

Frodo loved his uncle and rued the short number of days they would be together, but he understood Bilbo was an old bachelor who found it hard to change his ways—forged by years of habit. Frodo had been disappointed and saddened when Bilbo brought him back to Buckland after he had convalesced, but he had reconciled himself to it as best he could and relished all the more the times they could be together. Still, he often found himself wishing things could have been different.

But life was full, nevertheless. He had talked with his Uncle Rory, expressing the desire to continue with his studies and his work in Rushy, and the consequent work was beginning to keep him over in the barrister's office, deciphering old wills and annuities. It wasn't so much the tedious work he liked as the good that often came of it as families were availed of bequests, properties, and sometimes united with long-lost relatives. In fact, some of the local folk were actually coming to him with requests for help in these areas. Because of the extra work, Frodo finally had to concede that he couldn't keep up his job at the ferry and complete his other duties, too. Grigory gladly took up the post and was soon adept in the work, not to mention his elevation in the eyes of a certain lass who lived across the river.

Merry was growing like a weed, well over his adventure in the river, and often accompanied Frodo and Allysum whenever the two young hobbits could find time to get away from their increasing responsibilities. Today they walked toward the High Hay, though there would be no tree-climbing. Frodo considered it better to err on the side of caution and save exploring the heights for another time when Master Merry was not with them.

Allie had been keeping a careful eye on her charge, so she didn't seem to notice Frodo's broken glances in her direction. He drifted closer as they walked silently behind the child, the sounds of Merry's chatter a background to his thumping heart. Taking a deep breath, he reached across the small gulf between them to take her hand as it swung lightly at her side. Allie stiffened and turned wide eyes upon him. Then relaxing, she blushed and smiled before looking up the path again at Merry.

Relief and pleasure flushed Frodo's face and neck as he realized that Allie felt it, too. Often they had taken hands as they walked, thinking no more about it than when they took Merry's hand, for they were children themselves. But everything was different now. Who could have known that a kiss would change so much?

Merry bounced out of the brush and skittered toward them at a great pace. He veered around Allie and came up from behind, breaking the grip of their hands and inserting his own chubby, dirty hands in each of theirs. He heaved a sigh, then looked up at them sheepishly.

Frodo laughed. "What's got you in such a fright, Master Merry?"

"I—I'm not afraid," stuttered Merry. "I jus' sawed something I didn't like."

"There's no harm in having a little fear, Merry, we've talked about this before," Allie gently admonished as Frodo swung the child to his shoulders.

"I know," said Merry sagely. "I'll just stay up here 'til my fear is jus' a wee bit littler."

Frodo looked over at Allie, who smiled at him before returning her gaze to the path ahead. It was a beautiful day with no hint of cloud, the sun had taken on the first hues of early fall, and his pockets were full of apples for walking. Uncle Bilbo would be here in just a few days, and he was currently keeping company with two people (save one) he cared most for in the world. He stole another glance at Allie, who walked beside him with an easy stride, and realized with a start that she was taking up more and more of his thoughts every day.

His heart tumbled in his breast as he pondered this new idea, a strange, turning-over sensation he was not unused to since the days of his fever in his 19th year. But this time he wondered if it were something more than a heart murmur, for it made him feel strong and alive and carefree as he had not felt since the days his parents were alive.

"Did I ever teach you Bilbo's walking song, Allie?" he said, handing an apple to Merry and fetching one for the lass walking beside him.

And as the three hobbits moved further into the forest, a clear voice rang out in the shadows, and the High Hay that loomed nearby listened intently and long.

ooo

"Sara, Frodo has entirely too many responsibilities for a boy barely in his tweens!"

"I absolutely agree with you, Bilbo, and if it were in my power to have done something about it, I would have, but Frodo is happy with this arrangement."

"Nonsense!" Bilbo pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to the fireplace, his color high. "I've never heard such balderdash—work at the ferry, work in Rushy, sharing duties in nursemaiding babes..."

"It is hardly that, my dear Bilbo. The boy no longer works at the ferry. And Merry and Frodo are nearly inseparable; always have been since Esme first laid the boy in your cousin's arms."

Bilbo's face softened and he waved a conceding hand. "I know, I know. Don't think me unkind in my hasty words, Sara. I know he loves Merry. But dash it all!" he exclaimed, jamming his hands into his pockets. "The boy's got to have some fun—he's still a child!"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, Bilbo. He doesn't act like a child. Hasn't since the day he came back from his visit with you two falls ago."

Bilbo stopped his pacing and looked at Saradoc in disbelief. "I don't follow. What—what do you mean he doesn't act like a child?"

"Surely you must have noticed it in the letters he's written you? His turning away from his old associations with the other mischief-makers, his wanting to help more with Merry, his lessons with the Master of Buckland himself. Didn't he write you about these things?"

Bilbo sat down heavily, staring at the fire, recalling the many letters he'd received from his young relative. They had been light-hearted and full of news—mostly news about other doings in Buckland and Brandy Hall—not much concerning himself, now that Bilbo thought on it. What a fool he'd been not to notice!

"I've been away too long," he muttered. "When does Frodo usually get back from Rushy?"

"Not until nightfall as a rule, though he'll probably get back a little early tonight, wanting to get ready for your arrival. He doesn't expect you until tomorrow, you know."

"I know," Bilbo said half to himself. "I wanted to surprise him."

ooo

Frodo sat on the steps of the Barrister's cottage, his mouth open in amazement, the letter dangling from his hand. Slowly he brought it up to read it again and grasped the parchment with both hands.

They were shaking.

ooo

Mouths were wagging almost before Frodo reached Brandy Hall—news traveled in an alarming way in the Shire and he had to find Allie before she heard it from anyone else. He found her in a side yard, taking in some laundry for Merry, and pulled her down onto a nearby bench.

"Frodo, what on earth! What's the matter, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Frodo lied, trying to feel happy for Allie, trying to deny the panic that gripped him. "Nothing at all. I've just come from Rushy. You know I've been working with old deeds and wills..."

"Why yes, of course. But what's gotten you so upset?" Allie saw emotions flitting across Frodo's face as fast as the swallows in the twilight, and felt her own heart quicken.

"It's just..." Frodo held his breath, wanting to postpone the moment when everything would most likely change forever. He sighed and reached into his weskit pocket, pulling out the letter he had received earlier that day, the letter he had read so many times he knew it by heart.

"You had better read this."

Allie took the letter from his hand, laundry forgotten, and began to read. Frodo walked away some distance and watched her silently, his hands jammed deep into his pockets. But her face was closed, her lips pressed tightly together as she read. When she reached the end, she turned the letter over in her hands as if trying to glean more from the ink-covered pages, then read it again. Finally, she lowered her hands into her lap, the pages of the letter fluttering in the breeze, and slowly turned her head to look at Frodo. The only sound around them was the quickening wind and the snapping of Merry's shirts on the line. Frodo could not even hear his own heart – in fact, right now it felt as if it had stopped beating altogether and lay like a cold dead thing within him.

"You're going with him, then," he heard himself say, his voice unnaturally calm.

Allie held his gaze, her eyes large and shining with tears, and slowly nodded. "I have to, Frodo," she stammered, her lips trembling. She held up the letter in her trembling hand. "Family, Frodo," she whispered, showing the parchment to the boy standing so near, and so far away. "Family..."

He saw her try to control the conflicting emotions that were engulfing her, and the cold lump in his breast snapped like fast-thawing ice. He walked toward the bench, his shadow overlapping hers, and put his hand on top of her curls, burnished red-gold by the setting sun. He sat next to her and pulled her to him, stroking her hair, feeling her tears wetting the front of his shirt and the trembling in her body slowly subside as he held her.

"I know what you're feeling," he said, his voice strangely thin, his throat aching. "You feel torn in two, but it won't always be that way..." She straightened and pushed away from him enough to look into this eyes.

"Truly?" she breathed, and Frodo was suddenly very aware of how close she was, how lovely she looked, how she smelled of lavender...

His heart racing, Frodo kissed her, savoring the sweetness of her as she returned his embrace, and holding her close as if he would never do so again. He looked at the purpling sky over the treetops and sighed. "Truly it won't," he repeated quietly as his heart betrayed him with doubt. It cannot, he thought desperately.

The two young hobbits sat on the bench while the sun set behind the hills, not speaking. They held hands and waited, wondering what would happen to them on the morrow, the day Allysum Holdfast's half-brother would come to meet her for the first time, and return to the Southfarthing—taking her with him—to meet the rest of her family.

ooo

Dear Frodo,

Where has the time gone? Here I am, resting after a long morning with Mr. Gamgee in my garden, realizing that nearly six months have passed since I last visited Brandy Hall.

That is not to say that you have not been much in my thoughts, my boy, but I find that even our frequent letter-writing has not begun to make up for the time we could have been spending together.

This brings me to a point I have longed to discuss with you for over two years, something I think – had I given you opportunity – you would like to have talked about long before this. You see, I've been an old fool, Frodo. Yes! An old fool who thought that he was too set in his ways of doing things to make room for the changes a younger member of the household would bring. An old fool who convinced himself that the responsibility of raising a youngster was too great and outweighed the company of a loved one. It is easy, Frodo, for me – a hobbit who enjoys privacy and comfort far too much for his own good – to justify his aloneness, his allowing communion with others to go only so far. In short, it is easy to be lazy and not work at relationships. Far easier to maintain a distant benevolence while pouring my efforts into writing or losing myself in the writings of others, in places and events of long ago...

But as time goes on I am haunted more and more by the expression on your face when I left you at Brandy Hall after your illness. I told myself it was a passing fancy of yours, that you would be far better off among your peers, with the Brandybucks, with your own kind. And now, as I come to recognize my thoughts and feelings on the matter, putting aside at last those silly arguments I've written about in the lines above, I see that in fact it is you and I who would be better off with each other.

I know this because I can see that you are troubled, Frodo, deeply troubled, and you are in pain of a nature that I have never known, but can perhaps understand, at least in part. You tried to hide it when we threw our joint birthday party in Brandy Hall last September; you labored at spending time with me those few weeks when I could tell you only wanted to wander in the woods and climb your favorite tree overlooking the High Hay – oh, yes! I know about that. You may not remember who showed you that tree in the first place, it was so long ago and you were so young. But you remembered it all the same and I have it on good authority that it has been a place of retreat for you since your parents died. But you hid your sadness when I last visited, as best you could, and fooled most everyone except myself, though I suspect little Merry, too. He was of course devastated by the leaving of his Minder, and don't think I didn't notice how you comforted him and spent extra time with him. However, I saw something extraordinary in a child so young, in that he sensed something was wrong with you, and wanted to make you feel better. I witnessed his loving pats and hugs and eye-contact between the both of you, full of compassion.

Do not think me blind to your heartache, nor insensitive to what you are feeling, though I know not the cause. No matter what is breaking your heart right now, it will get better over time. I do not say it will pass, for that is a cold philosophy and without feeling. Better to say it will remain a part of you as you grow older, to keep your heart tender and your hope strong against future heartaches, if you will but let it.

So, as the summer of your 22nd year approaches, I find Bag End has become too big for me, and too quiet. It needs life, Frodo – it needs to be lived in. It needs sprucing up, and cleaning out, and putting to rights. A bit like the life of the old bachelor who lives among it's cluttered rooms, perhaps? I know I said it in an off-hand way at our birthday party last fall (and yes, I was a little in my cups) so perhaps you did not take it as seriously as it was meant, so let me repeat it, and in writing this time: You had better come and live here, at Bag End, Frodo my lad, and then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together. No more long morning trips to Brandy Hall for me, no more wondering when or if you will be invited to Bag End for you.

My dear boy, I have so much to make up for. Summer is a lovely time to spend here, and there will be plenty of new things for you to experience and to do. You will never be too far away from your cousins, especially your beloved Merry, to be able to visit them as often as you wish. Do say you will come, come to stay forever and a day, and truly become the nephew I so long for.

Say you will come. Put your affairs in order, of course, but you name the day and I will personally come to fetch you. When our birthdays come around again, I wish with all my heart that we share it at Bag End, and we will toast the memory of your mother and father, and look to the day when we will see them again.

May Ilúvatar guide your heart, your happiness, and your journeys...

Uncle Bilbo

Frodo folded the letter, soft and creased from many readings, and looked at his surroundings. The cart moved slowly in the early afternoon, its driver sparing the pony after a long morning's march. Bilbo had offered to pick him up, but Frodo knew he could not bear to stay at Brandy Hall very long after he had said goodbye to everyone. In the two weeks it had taken to inform everyone he was going to live with his Uncle, give up his work in Rushy, and go over some legal affairs with Rorimac and Saradoc, Frodo was barraged with questions and well-wishes from everyone he knew (and some he didn't), 'til he found himself, despite the homesickness he had begun to feel, wishing he were already away.

Why did goodbyes have to be so painful? Just thinking about Buckland, about the old hall, his aunts and uncles, cousins and old playmates, made his chest ache. And Merry. Dear little Merry, who threw his stuffed oliphaunt at Frodo when his older cousin told him he would be leaving Buckland and moving to a far-off place he'd never seen, who screamed in anger and stamped his foot and told Frodo he would never, ever speak to him again, and then threw himself into young Baggins' arms, sobbing so hard it wrenched tears from his older cousin. Courageous little Merry who was often too brave for his age, whom Frodo had several times saved from his own rashness though secretly admiring the child's fierceness of heart. Tender little Merry who had tried to comfort Frodo over the long winter after Allysum had gone away, though his own child's heart longed for his Allie.

Frodo stifled a sob, looking around to see if Tad had heard him. But Tad, one of the Crickhollow villagers, and more than willing to give up a day in the fields to drive young Mr. Frodo to Hobbiton, was humming to himself and munching an apple, and took no notice of any little sounds his passenger made.

Frodo knew that he would see Merry again, and often, and that he was right in his choice of going to live with his uncle, but he felt as torn in two as Allie must have felt when she learned she had relatives who not only acknowledged her as one of their own, but wanted to bring her back into their family and give her their name. The month was May now, and she had been in the Southfarthing since last September. Her letters were frequent at first, full of longing for Frodo and Merry, missing their jaunts and adventures, and expressing a vague hope that there may be some kind of future for them after they had come of age. Frodo's letters were similar, though shorter. But as time went on, their letters became more general, telling of the goings-on of their respective homes, their separate lives which, it was evident, were heading in vastly different directions. Frodo realized that this kind of thing happened, and not infrequently, to people who would never have thought they could live a day without the other but, when finding themselves in such situations, adjusted without too great a pang other than a certain wistful memory that faded as the years went by.

At least that was the impression he got from Allie's most recent letters. She was ensconced in a reputable, long-established farming family – much like Farmer Maggot's household – and was not only learning new skills but allowed to indulge in such things as music and drawing. Her letters were happy, her writing much improved and confident, and she was unmistakably thriving in a family of hobbits who loved her. Clearly Allie deserved this, and Frodo would never tell her that his own heart still yearned for his lovely Allysum Holdfast, whom he would have asked to marry him when he had come of age. So many things had changed when she left: he would never more work to learn the trade of a barrister, never more harbor hopes of buying back and fixing up his parents' old home. His life would play out in a different way now, as a gentlehobbit of the Shire, heir to Bag End and wanting for nothing.

Frodo breathed deeply, savoring the scent of Mayflowers and growing, green things. He straightened his shoulders and climbed up onto the front seat with Tad, asking questions about the lad's family and where he grew up. When they pulled into the lane next to Bag End, his Uncle Bilbo would see him fresh and eager for his new life in Hobbiton, and he would do everything within his power to be a blessing and not a burden to his older cousin. As they passed the mill and the old tavern and made their way up the winding lane toward the smial under the hill, he felt a growing sense of being where he ought to be, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth when he saw the garden already laid out in neat rows.

It was right that he come here, he knew it, despite the partings and the heartaches and the changes that must come. He grinned widely and threw up his hand as he saw Bilbo come out onto the porch in front of the round, green door, and gladness filled his heart.

But deep inside of him – there where his innermost thoughts lay – was the secure knowledge that no matter where he went or what he did, he would never be able to put the memory of Allysum Holdfast away from him.

And whenever he smelled the scent of lavender, his heart would immediately answer with that strange, turned-over cadence that would stay with him all the days of his life.

The End