Author notes:
Special thanks to Ariel for betaing.

Chapter One: Ward

It could have been a peaceful image; a motherly hobbitess cradling a sleeping child, but her heart ached for the one in her arms. Exhaustion had claimed him after many hours of heartbroken crying. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes swollen and his breathing was still choked with too many tears. It was the third time that week that her husband had had to look for the lad and, as usual, he had found him on his way to Brandywine Bridge and brought him back home. But this was not the boy's home - not anymore.

A fire flickered in the hearth, its soft, warm light a comfort to her aggrieved soul. The constant back and forth of her rocking chair, the raspy breaths of the child reminded her of better days long past. Fate could be cruel at times. She had often combed her fingers through the dark, silken curls or stroked her hands across the heated cheek, but now when she did, she felt tears well up inside her.

If only she could ease his pain. She felt it as distinctly as her own, his trembling causing her body to shake and his sobs, more forlorn than any she had ever heard this child utter, broke her heart. His despair was like a living fire consuming all joy and happiness, all the life she used to see in his eyes. Where once were cheerfulness and an open heart, now there was anger and bottomless despair. Fate, indeed, had dealt a cruel hand.

She looked up and met the eyes of her son and her daughter-in-law. Both sat on the comfortable sofa. Both looked sadly at the boy asleep in her arms. Saradoc and Esmeralda had agreed to be his guardians and though Menegilda did not doubt their competence she could feel their frustration. Over the past few days, Frodo had become difficult and neither of his foster-parents could reach him. Even she and Rory were locked out of the boy's heart, though she, for some unfathomable reason, had gained the child's trust, if trust it could be called. Every step had become difficult.

"You put a lot of responsibility upon yourselves," she said softly, careful not to disturb Frodo's sleep. "I hope you know what you have agreed to."

Saradoc and Esmeralda nodded. Her son looked tired. While her husband had gone to the bridge, Sara had taken the ferry. They knew where Frodo had been heading to and had searched every possible way to Bywater. Saradoc had only returned after nightfall. His face was pallid. Dark circles lined the green eyes which were now pale with pain and worry. Esmeralda hardly looked any better. She kept hold of Sara's hand, but whether to assure herself or her husband Gilda could not quite guess.

"I know what I agreed to do, mother, but he doesn't let me," Saradoc finally said, his voice as disheartened as the expression on his face. "He keeps telling me I'm not his father. He doesn't want me."

"He has a point in that, hasn't he?" Gilda answered without hesitation one hand covering the child's ear. Her son looked at her in confusion and she smiled to reassure him. "You must keep in mind that the lad had a father, Saradoc. If you try to replace Drogo, you will fail. Be to him as a father would and he will come to accept you in time, I'm sure."

"How am I supposed to care for him when he neither talks nor looks at me with anything but a glare?" He shook his head helplessly. "I don't recognise him anymore."

"With patience, my dear," Menegilda asserted. "Lots of patience and love. Time will mend his broken heart. It's been but two weeks, after all."

Saradoc sighed heavily, his sad eyes fixed on Frodo. The fire painted odd shapes onto his face and his hair shimmered gold. It almost surprised Gilda that he could still look so young and dependent. "Perhaps it was the wrong decision to keep him here."

"Don't say such nonsense, Saradoc," she admonished, giving him a stern gaze. Yet she could understand his concern as much as she could understand Frodo's behaviour. "Frodo has been through too much already. What would you do if you were in his place and barely twelve years of age? You lost your aunt and uncle. You hurt. So does he and his anger is the way he deals with it. Don't think he doesn't love you just because he doesn't show it."

Saradoc did not answer. His face was blank, his look became distant. Menegilda knew what he saw in his mind's eye; Frodo, his face defiant, his eyes flashing with fury, his fists clenched and his voice full of tear-choked hatred. She could still hear his accusation that he was being held like a captive in a place he hated, and his insistence that he could manage on his own and did not need either of them. But she had also heard his desperate and sad cries when his Baggins relations left for the Westfarthing without him. It was no easy task to understand Frodo, especially not for one who had not yet had any children of his own, yet she dearly hoped her son and daughter-in-law would not give up. It was grief that now guided Frodo's words not his belief, and Menegilda was sure, deep in his heart, Frodo was as pained by his behaviour as they all were.

Esmeralda again took her husband's hand in hers and this time Menegilda noted the uncertain glance she gave, not him, but Frodo. "You needn't be afraid of him, Esme dear," she said softly, causing the young woman to start. "He's a child and he might be a bit cool at the moment, but there is nothing frightening about him."

As if to prove her point, Frodo shifted in her lap and gave a small sigh. Menegilda was suddenly painfully aware of how much the boy had grown since she had last seen him. With a nod she beckoned Saradoc. "Take him to bed, lad, will you?"

Saradoc lifted the child gently. Frodo seemed to be aware of the change for he moaned quietly but he did not wake and when his cousin held him in his arms he immediately snuggled closer, sniffling.

"Hush, lad," Saradoc whispered quietly and Menegilda felt a fond smile growing at what probably was an unconscious gesture. Her eyes followed her son as he carried the child out of the room then focused on her daughter-in-law again.

Esmeralda certainly possessed the Took's pride and honour. She had a strong will but her inheritance now seemed as much a curse as it was a blessing. She was determined to be a good mother to Frodo. Everyone had seen that when she and Saradoc offered to take over guardianship. Yet there was something about Frodo that restrained her. It was fear but the longer Gilda pondered it the more she understood that it was not the child Esme feared. Did she doubt her ability to raise the lad?

"Dearest?" Menegilda got to her feet to came to sit beside her daughter-in-law. Esmeralda had her hands folded in her lap and she only looked up when Menegilda reached to cover them with one of her own. It was indeed fear that lingered in those blue eyes. "He needs you, and if you hold back your love, he will remain as fearful and withdrawn as he is now."

Once more Esmeralda hung her head, but Gilda gently laid her finger beneath her chin and forced the young woman look at her. "Don't show him you're afraid of what lies ahead of you. You're going to be Mistress of Buckland, lass. Frodo will be by far easier to manage than this land, or your husband for that matter."

Esmeralda, whose shocked expression had confirmed Menegilda's assumption, broke into a smile. "I wish I could trust your words, mother," she chuckled. "Frodo is so difficult. He knows Saradoc well enough, but me…" she trailed off. Swallowing, she looked away again. "How could I possibly be the mother he needs?"

"Do I really have to repeat what I have just tried to make clear to my son?" Menegilda asked sympathetically. "Be patient with him. Frodo will learn to love you and you will learn to listen to him. Not to his words, mind you," Menegilda pointed out. "There are other ways of speaking besides talk and Frodo makes quite frequent use of them."

Esmeralda nodded, but remained silent. She needed time as much as Frodo did, but Menegilda was convinced that her daughter-in-law would eventually manage the task. Saradoc would help her and perhaps one day even Frodo would oblige them.

Chapter Two: Enemy

Blasted uncomfortable chair! Merimac shifted for about the hundredth time, but there was no way to get comfortable enough to rest. Why hadn't he thought to bring a cushion? After all, he had been complaining about this involuntary duty for quite a while. He was sick of spending his nights in front of this door. If he hadn't feared his mother and brother would kill him for it, he would have just chained the lad to his bed and been done with it. Two doors down his wife was asleep. Adamanta was quite advanced in pregnancy. His mother had said she might give birth any day, and he was stuck spending the better part of his nights here?! Grumbling to himself, Merimac shifted again and almost slipped off the chair.

The first time Frodo had sneaked out of the smial in the middle of the night had been about three weeks ago. All Brandy Hall had been in an uproar and, as on so many other occasions, it had fallen upon him, Saradoc and his father to find the boy. Frodo had actually gone quite far. Saradoc found him north of Stock, freezing cold and pale with hunger and exhaustion. His brother had been beside himself with relief at finding him, but even Mac could see how much Frodo's repeated attempts at escape and his growing alienation tore at his brother's heart.

The Master and his sons had agreed to keep watch on Frodo's door every night since. The lad had been caught three times before he had seemingly given up trying to escape, but he had not given up his defiant behaviour. Whenever he could, he lashed out at Saradoc and Esmeralda. Merimac had been at the receiving end of a few of his outbursts as had his father and even his mother. But it was Sara who got the brunt of it and Merimac wondered how much longer it would be before his brother lost patience with the lad. Mac could not tell whether it was despair or anger that caused the elder to stare blankly into his mug on the rare occasion they found a moment to go to the inn.

A hiss startled him from his doze. Merimac almost fell from the chair again and cursed his awkward situation. The lamp, which had been the only light in the corridor, had gone out. Merimac sighed heavily and got to his feet. His back hurt, his right foot was asleep and his backside told him that he had been sitting for too long - again. What an entertaining way to spend the night!

Silently, he opened the door and peeked into the dark chamber to see if he could risk fetching another candle. The bed was situated against the opposite wall and though Mac could see poorly in the darkness, it looked as if his cousin was sound asleep. He closed the door with care and ambled to the storage room mumbling crossly to himself.

Scratching his head sleepily, he tucked the spare candles into his pocket and closed the door to the storage room. Just then, a fearful outcry roused him. His first thought was to run to Adamanta, but as soon as he darted down the corridor, he realised that it could not possibly have been her voice. He stopped short in front of Frodo's door, opening it just as carefully as he had earlier. Sure enough, Frodo was sitting upright in his bed, panting for breath.

Merimac hurried to his side. "It's all right, lad. I'm here."

"Mac?" Frodo's voice was confused and when Merimac touched his arm he felt a tremor in the small body.

Thinking that light might reassure the boy, Mac fumbled for a match and lit the candle on the nightstand. Frodo's face as full of fear as his cry had been. Damp curls stuck to an ashen forehead and glassy eyes, still heavy with sleep, looked wildly from one corner of the room to the other. "Don't you worry, little one. It was but a nightmare," Mac reached for his hand.

"No," Frodo hissed, his eyes still searching the room. "It was not. It was not!"

He tensed and pulled his hand from Merimac's. A cold glare met him, but Mac could also see tears shimmering in the hidden infinity of those blue depths. He held the child's gaze until Frodo broke away. The grim boy clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white and pressed his lips into a thin, tight line. Merimac found himself remembering the cousin whose constant babbling used to follow him and his brother everywhere. It did not seem possible that this was the same young boy.

"Do…" he asked hesitatingly. "Do you wish to talk about it?"

Frodo looked at him in silence. His expression unreadable in the darkness, but Mac could almost feel the resentment in him. In one quick movement, Frodo turned his back on him and crawled to the farthest end of the bed where he curled into a small ball.

Merimac sighed, unsure whether he should be relieved or disappointed at this obvious negative. Nevertheless, he was reluctant to leave. He possessed neither his mother's insight nor his father and brother's patience, but he didn't like the air of despondency that lingered over his cousin. The child needed someone and it broke his heart to be so close to him and yet so far away. He reached out to touch him, but stopped mid-movement. The small body shook with silent tears. Merimac frowned, hesitating yet again.

"You know what?" he said, more cheerfully than he felt. "This bed of yours looks much more comfortable than that chair I've been sitting on. I believe I shall just stay here the rest of the night."

With that, Merimac plopped down next to his cousin. He folded his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling, ignoring the boy so as to give him the distance he desired. A pale circlet of light danced above his head. If he had felt awkward outside, he felt even more so now. He became aware of his own heartbeat and growing uneasiness. It was sheer force of will that kept him from fidgeting. Frodo's increasing agitation did not help. The boy kept stretching out and coiling up again. One moment he shifted the next he seemed determined to crawl into the wall, but not once did he turn to face Mac. The older hobbit smiled grimly at the boy's determination.

"Why are you doing this?" The question was so sudden Merimac was caught for an answer. Raising an enquiring eyebrow, he turned to Frodo who had finally sat up to glower at him. "Staying here when I don't want you to?"

"Ah, but you do," Mac said simply. "You just don't want to admit it."

There was a flash in those eyes. Frodo's glare turned ice cold and if looks had been able to kill, Mac would have dropped dead then and there. "Don't pretend you know me," the boy hissed between clenched teeth, "you're…"

"… not your father," Merimac finished calmly, cutting him short. "I know that. You told me yesterday, and last week, and I think even the week before that. But, Frodo," his voice softened as he sat up to look at him, "I'm your cousin. I've known you since the day you were born and I can tell when you're in need of someone. And at this moment you most certainly do."

Frodo glared at him, his mouth working, but he seemed unable to find words to say. Merimac prepared himself for the storm that seemed to be brewing, but instead, Frodo turned his back on him once more and pressed himself against the wall.

"Go away!" he mumbled rather grumpily.

Merimac scowled at the boy, his own temper beginning to rise. Pigheaded Baggins, that's all he was. They were worse than any Brandybuck! He resisted the urge to shake some sense into the lad and stubbornly laid back down.

The situation was almost comical. Here he was, about to become a father, and acting the sullen tween. If Adamanta could see him now, she would give him a piece of her mind. He thought of Mantha, sleeping peacefully two doors down the corridor, and longed to hold her, to feel the swell of their unborn child under his hands. She needed him there, whereas Frodo…

He looked at the boy again. Frodo needed him too, didn't he? Wasn't that Merimac had just finished telling him? Anyone could see that the boy was deeply troubled. "Why are you trying to leave?" he asked with a suddenly burning curiosity.

"That's none of your business," Frodo told him grimly.

Merimac rolled his eyes. "Frodo…"

All of a sudden the child turned to him. His eyes glistened in the candle light and his face was morose. "Because I keep looking for…" Frodo seemed unable to control the trembling in his words. "I keep thinking that maybe they'll be…" He looked away and clenched his fists before repeating in a small broken voice: "I still hope..."

Merimac felt a sting in his heart. Frodo was a brave lad, fearless, but death was an opponent he could not defeat. He looked sadly into the teary eyes. "That's a foolish hope, little one."

"Don't you think I know?" Frodo cried with a thick voice. "I know and," a tear trickled down his cheek, "it still hurts so much."

Merimac reached out a hand, but Frodo pulled away. The death of Drogo and Primula had really shattered the boy. He was now afraid to love. Frodo was like a skittish, untamed colt; he feared closeness and the loving touch of a friend. The loss of his beloved aunt and uncle tore at Merimac's own heart but he couldn't even grasp what Frodo might be going through now.

"I hurt too, little one," he finally said. Frodo looked up at him, his eyes forlorn and empty, and Merimac suddenly missed the young cousin he used to spend so much time with. Frodo could become that boy again, if only he would stop locking them out. He could be such a wonderful playmate for his own child. "It pains me that you no longer see me as a friend but as your enemy."

Frodo's eyes widened, but then he looked away again, his body trembling. Merimac pressed on. Perhaps, there was a chance he might reach his cousin this time. "You're being unfair to me and even more so to Saradoc. He loves you dearly, Frodo. As does Esme. As do all of us. You're…"

"Stop it!" Frodo cried out in a shrill voice. "Go away! Leave me alone!"

The boy threw the pillow at him and curled up by the wall once more, sobbing openly. Merimac felt his heart sink. How could he make Frodo understand how much he was loved? What else could he do to prove it? By all the green grass in Buckland, didn't he remember his early childhood days? How could he forget the family in whose bosom he had been cherished?

With a heavy sigh, Merimac lay back down. He stared at the ceiling and touched the scar on his chin. He remembered the day he had acquired it. Frodo had wanted him to spend the night in his bed then. Merimac pulled the comforter up and settled in. Even if his cousin did not want him to, he was determined to stay. Come what may. He would not leave the boy alone with his tears.

~*~*~

You can read about how Merimac acquired his scar in Looking After which is part of my Many Aspects of Merimac Brandybuck series.

Author notes:
Warning for the very gentle hearted: Rating for first paragraph (up to the ~*~*~ ) is rated PG - I think. :)

Chapter Three: Confidant

"Mother?" There was a ghostly ring to his voice as it echoed through the cosy smial just outside Bywater. "I've come back, mother. I'm not going to leave again."

He ran down the long corridor, uneasy because there was no reply. His steps resounded as if he were in a huge hall like the one his Buckland-relatives always celebrated Yule in. There was a sinister mist surrounding him. The walls swayed and the pale, ethereal light of the candles flickered eerily. A chill was in the strangely humid air.

He almost slipped as he came to an abrupt halt in front of the open parlour door. The room was a dull grey as if it had been covered with ashes. Yet the only ashes he could see lay in the cold and empty fireside. A cool wind welcomed him as he stepped inside. "I'm home!" he called again his voice shaky from running. "Mother? Father?"

They were sitting in their huge chairs in front of the fire as they always did in the evenings. They had their backs turned to him, but he could see their arms on the armrest. He trembled, the chill creeping into his bones casting a shadow over his very soul. There was a low splash as his foot stepped into water. He looked down, for the first time perceiving the puddle there. Water was dripping from the ceiling and running down the walls, its smell reminding him of Brandywine River. He frowned when his breath suddenly came out as a swirling white cloud.

His voice was almost desperate as he called for his parents again. Why didn't they answer him? He grabbed for his mother's arm which was cold and slippery, and shrank back. Her face was white as snow, her hair had lost its brilliance and hung in filthy strands over her shoulders, and her eyes were wide open, a veil covering the green and blue which used to shine so brightly. His father's gaze bore the same deathly emptiness. Several blades of weed hung from his head hiding the grey skin and once dark hair.

He felt the scream build in his throat, a tight knot which seemed to pull all feeling, all blankness to that very spot. He could not breathe, he could not move. His heart faltered and then the scream burst through. So shrill and full of pain and despair was it that the walls crumbled and the weight of wood, stone and river-water buried him.

~*~*~

Frodo bolted upwards, awakened by his own cry. He was panting like a hunted animal and was drenched in sweat. Dark curls stuck to his forehead and tears streamed down his cheeks. He trembled violently. Even his stomach was churning and seemed determined to make him sick. His heartbeat drummed in his ears, his mouth was dry and his tongue was swollen. With eyes wide open, he searched the room, but there was only pitch-black darkness.

"It's not real," he whispered feeling a chill creep down his spine. "Not real."

He sank back into his pillow, coiled up against the wall, clutched one corner of his blanket and listened to his shaky breaths. It was not real. As Merimac had told him weeks before, it was but a dream. Dreams could not harm him. There was no water, no unexpected chill, no…

Frodo shuddered. His chest tightened and he had to bite his lip to keep from sobbing. There was no Primula, no Drogo Baggins either. They were gone and would never come back. He was alone, abandoned, forlorn, orphaned. He was the lone Baggins in a smial full of Brandybucks.

Darkness began to weigh heavily upon him. He was dead tired and yet fought sleep with all his might, fearing what other nightmares it might bring. He had grown used to the silence of sleeping all alone, but tonight it made him uncomfortable. Perhaps light would make the room feel less bone-crushing? Frodo reached for the matches, but hesitated, thinking better of it. Who knew what horrors awaited him in the darkness?

Frodo suddenly wished his uncle and cousins had not stopped guarding his door. He longed for the comfort of another voice, another breath - someone whose mere presence might chase away these fears. Saradoc and Rory had both comforted him when he was haunted by the dream, but only cousin Mac would stay with him until he fell back to sleep. He wondered if going to Merimac now would be an admission that he did need the companionship he had so violently rejected. Would it be that wrong to confess that he did?

Conflicted, Frodo crawled out of his bed and stumbled into the dimly lit hallway. He shut the door to his room quickly, locking in the darkness and every foe lurking there. Tears still glistened in his eyes, but he did not bother to wipe them away. His breath was shaky and his legs were weak from fright and sorrow. As if he was still unsure of this course of action, Frodo approached Merimac's door slowly and, not yet daring to knock, pressed his ear against it.

More silence. After a moment's hesitation, Frodo turned the knob. Little Berilac, cousin Mac's newborn son, chose that moment to start crying and Frodo nearly leapt out of his skin. He pulled the door closed again quickly, leaving it open slightly so he could still peek in.

There was movement in the bed. Then a very drowsy murmur of "Don't cry, dearest. I'm on my way."

Merimac sat up but was pulled back into the pillows before he could fully rise and Adamanta's voice mumbled: "Go back to sleep. This one is my call." Then she rose and shuffled to the cradle where she murmured to the infant before taking him into her arms and sitting down in the rocking chair.

Frodo swallowed nervously. How could he possibly intrude on his cousin now? He had other worries and surely didn't need to act as surrogate father and comfort a frightened boy when he had his own child to care for. As silently as he had opened it, Frodo closed the door and tiptoed backwards until he touched the far wall of the corridor. The infant's cries faded and once again he was alone in the dimly lit corridor.

It was out of the question that he go back to his room. He still could not face the prospect of spending the night alone. He could not go to his Aunt Gilda, either. Uncle Rory had fallen ill two days ago and his aunt would undoubtedly not be happy if he showed up in the middle of the night and disturbed them. But there was one more room he could consider.

Frodo glanced at the door opposite his. It was cousin Sara's and Esmeralda's chamber. He hesitated. In the past couple of months, he had come to fear the cousin who now called himself his guardian. Frodo did not need to be guarded. He needed his parents, his family. Brandy Hall had always been a place where he had felt welcome, but now so many things had changed. He did not like changes. He wanted stability, something to hold on to. Saradoc offered neither. His cousin had become very different now that he was what others called his 'foster-father'. He didn't seem to know quite what to do with Frodo. One moment, he would be over-protective, forcing his way bruisingly into Frodo's grief, and yet when Frodo rebelled against his cousin's uncertain affection, Saradoc retreated completely. He seemed anxious to see Frodo settle in at Brandy Hall and yet seemed to have no idea how to help the orphaned boy actually do it. Esmeralda seemed as unsettled around him as her husband. Merimac was the only one who still treated Frodo the same as he used to. Frodo would much rather have stayed with him than wake up Saradoc, but when he looked up he found that he had already entered his eldest cousin's room.

The huge bed stood several paces from the door against the wall. Soft, yellow light streamed from the hall illuminating his cousin's sleeping face. Frodo swallowed hard. It felt wrong to seek out Saradoc for comfort. He loved his cousin dearly, but where once there had been understanding, there was now confusion. Frodo did not know how to approach his cousin, guardian, foster-father, or whatever he was, any more than Saradoc knew how to handle Frodo.

He shifted from one foot to the other, weighing his options.

"Frodo?"

He jumped at the sound of his name. Saradoc sat up in his bed, blinking at him sleepily. Frodo's heart was in his mouth, sudden fear choking him though he was not sure what exactly he was frightened of.

"What are you doing here?" his cousin enquired sounding worried.

"I… I'm sorry. I didn't…" Frodo stammered helplessly, retreating. "I just… I didn't mean to wake you."

Frodo backed out of the room taking light and the half open door with him. Inside, he heard the mattress protest and a mumbled query from Esme, then the doorknob slipped from his fingers and Saradoc suddenly towered before him. "Wait!"

Frodo froze, and hung his head in shame as if awaiting a punishment. His muscles were tense and he suddenly felt small and helpless.

"Why did you back away?" Saradoc asked, concerned.

Frodo shrugged. "I don't know."

His cousin knelt down before him and gently lifted his chin. Frodo felt tears well up inside him and could not meet his cousin's green eyes. "What happened?" Saradoc asked, brushing the curls from Frodo's forehead.

Frodo hesitated. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I couldn't sleep and then there was water and they did not answer and I…"

Before Frodo could say another word, his cousin had pulled him into an embrace. The sob he had tried to choke back escaped his lips. He longed for this simple comfort yet dared not quite take it. Torn between rebellion and acceptance, Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and unwittingly gave in to his sorrow. Words he could not catch met his ear and brought back half-forgotten memories. All of the sudden, the new Saradoc faded and turned into the cousin Frodo once knew. Unable to silence the sad yearning any longer, the child sank willingly into the arms that held him. It seemed all too easy to trust his elder cousin now and Frodo clung to him not understanding what had kept him away so long.

Saradoc combed his fingers through Frodo's hair and murmured soothing words. It was odd to share this intimacy and Frodo was surprised how much comfort he gained from it. It was not the same as the love his father and mother might have given him, but it was enough to ease some of the pain and silence the voices uncertainty and longing. Tonight, at least, he belonged here. Tonight he needed his cousin.

"Better?" Saradoc slowly got to his feet when Frodo pulled away to rub his nose with the sleeve of his nightshirt. He nodded, still sniffling. Unsure of what to do next, he glanced up to his cousin and was almost relieved when a strong arm was laid over his shoulders. "Come with me, child. You don't look like you should be alone tonight."

Frodo was drawn into his cousin's room once more. Esmeralda had lit a candle and looked at him bleary-eyed but smiling nonetheless. Frodo could not find a smile to answer hers, but for the first time in months he didn't feel contempt for their clumsy affection.

Hesitantly, Frodo climbed onto the bed. His cousin's reassuring nod gave him the nerve to slip under the covers and there he curled up timidly. Saradoc smiled and lay down beside him. He squeezed his wife's hand as she laid down on Frodo's other side. The boy looked from one smiling face to the other and felt his uncertainty returning. These weren't his parents, but he would need someone to care for him for a while at least. His cousin stroked his brow and Frodo closed his eyes, remembering. For a fleeting moment, it was almost like being back at home, except that the smell was subtly different.

"Rest, cousin-mine. Sleep while you may," the elder whispered before extinguishing the candle.

Frodo did not answer, but felt tears of relief burn behind his closed lids as he settled into the warm bed. He inhaled deeply the musk of ink, honey, pipe-weed and the flowery smell of freshly washed hair. He still missed his parents more than words could say and even if this was not his home, right now it felt close enough to it. Perhaps he could manage to find a way to let Saradoc in just a little bit - to confide in him, not just as his cousin, but as his guardian. He might even come to let Esme mother him as she so desperately wanted.

Frodo gasped as his cousin's wife laid her arm across his chest. She was reaching to hold hands with her husband. She hesitated a moment, feeling his muscles tense, but when he relaxed again so did she. Relief filled him with a great tranquillity. Frodo even smiled a little as his cousin pulled the covers up. Perhaps he could give the Hall a chance after all.

~THE END~