Highday, 23 Rethe, S.R. 1389

The room was nearly ready. The Gaffer and Bilbo were on stepladders putting up shelves and hooks that would be high enough to hold Gandalf’s long robe and cloak. Bilbo had sent Frodo and Merry with the Gaffer’s hand-waggon to fetch the bed coverings and things from the Widow Grubb.

They had picked them up, and Frodo had given her the pouch of coin Bilbo had sent. The linens and coverlets and the huge pillow and the curtains fairly filled the hand-waggon up. The cousins turned back to Bag End, Frodo pulling the waggon, and Merry skipping alongside putting a hand out every so often to keep them from tumbling in the road.

They had reached the bottom of the hill, and Frodo had stopped for Merry to get a breather before they tackled the uphill climb. Suddenly he heard the last thing he wanted to hear.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t cracked old Bilbo’s pet Brandybuck. And who’s the sprat?”

Frodo turned. “Lotho.” He shook his head. Lotho had been the bane of his existence since as far back as he could remember. “I see you still haven’t learned to keep your brains from falling out every time you open your mouth. This is my cousin Merry Brandybuck.”

“You’d better learn to watch your own mouth. As if I should care what the baby thinks,” Lotho was four years older, and considerably bigger than Frodo. But he was mostly threat and bluster.

Merry had bristled at the first sound of his voice. “You’d better leave my Frodo alone.” He planted himself in front of Lotho, feet apart and little fists ready.

Lotho’s hand shot out, and he shoved Merry hard. Merry went down flat on the road. He sat up, shaking his head and tears in his eyes, but he did not cry out.

Lotho on the other hand, did. He did not even see Frodo move, but Frodo had tackled him and measured his length on the roadway. He lay there with Frodo on top of him, Frodo’s knees in the road to each side of his ribs. He gave Lotho a blow to the nose with a hard fist and said in a cold voice “You will not touch my cousin again.”

“You’re crazy!” said Lotho, holding his bloody nose.

“Maybe. And maybe you are. What do you think the Master of Buckland will say to your treatment of his grandson? Merry‘s father is the Son of the Hall.” Frodo stood up and deliberately turned his back on the bully. He picked up Merry, who whimpered a bit, but still had not cried. “My brave Merry.” He stood him up, ignoring Lotho, who took that instant to get to his feet and flee. He checked his little cousin over--the back of his shirt was torn and his elbows and the palms of his hands were bloody and scraped, and there was dirt and gravel in them. Bilbo would not be happy with Lotho, oh no. He put Merry on top of the bedding in the waggon and headed up the hill to Bag End.

“My stars, lads!” exclaimed Bilbo, horrified at the sight of Merry’s injuries. “What happened?”

“Lotho.” Frodo said it grimly and coldly. He was still trembling inside at the fierceness of his anger. “I gave him as good as he gave Merry,” he said with satisfaction.

Bilbo took Merry in his arms. “Come on now, let’s get you cleaned up. And I think I’ll send the Gaffer down for the healer, just in case. We don’t want any infections.”

A short while later, a nice looking lass in her late tweens, or perhaps just come of age was at the door. “Hullo. Mistress Salvia is out delivering a babe. I’m her apprentice, Lavender. Can I be of some help?”

Bilbo explained what had happened. There was a grim set to her mouth when she found out who had hurt the little one. That Lotho was a menace.

She took a look at Merry, who was quite taken with her. Gently she checked the scrapes. “Mr. Baggins, it looks as though you have done a nice job cleaning out the dirt. I’m going to use an astringent on them just in case. It will sting a bit at first, but after a few minutes it will deaden the pain. I’ll bandage them lightly for tonight, and tomorrow Mistress Salvia can take a look at them. I would imagine that she will take off the bandages if they have scabbed over nicely.”

Bilbo nodded. “Do what you think best. You seem a capable sort.”

She blushed at the praise. She turned to Merry. “The stuff I’m going to put on you will sting at first, but then in a few minutes it will feel much better. Is that all right.”

Merry bit his lip. “Umm-hmm,” he nodded. He liked this lass. He would not cry out in front of her.

“Here Merry,” said Frodo. He stood behind him and wrapped his arms tightly around his little cousin.

He flinched, and tears leaked from his eyes, but he did not make a sound. She applied the soft bandages, and ruffled his head. “My, but you are a brave lad!”

She took from her satchel a sweet and popped it into his surprised mouth. He managed a grin at the unexpected treat.

“Mr. Baggins, here is some powder to make willow-bark tea. If he’s in a bit of pain, it will help; it also may help him to sleep.”

“Thank you, my dear. How much do I owe you?”

“Take that up with Mistress Salvia tomorrow.” She looked at Frodo. “So you gave him a bloody nose, did you?”

“I did.” Frodo said it with some satisfaction. He had never raised a hand to Lotho on his own behalf, but Merry was something else again.

“Good for you. I would place a wager that Mistress Salvia gets a summons from Mistress Lobelia before the day is out. I’ll make sure she knows the full story.”

They had a late tea or early supper, Bilbo said maybe it was “tupper” which made Merry giggle. He drank the willow-bark tea, making a face, but drinking it down.

Frodo undressed him and put him in his nightshirt, as he could not easily manage it with his bandaged hands. “Just for tonight, Merry-lad, I’m going to go ahead and put you in my bed. But it’s special. Tomorrow night you must start out in your own as usual.”

“Uh-huh,” said the sleepy child, as Frodo drew the covers up.

Frodo went back out to the sitting room, where Bilbo was reading. “Well, Frodo, is he all tucked up?”

“Yes, Uncle Bilbo.”

“I don’t know what Sara and Esme are going to say to me for allowing this to happen to their only chick while he was in my care.”

“They won’t be angry at you, Uncle Bilbo. But I would not want to be Lotho.”

“No,” said Bilbo, “being Lotho is not a fate I would wish on anyone else. It must be awful to be such a toad. And to think, he has Lobelia and Otho for parents.”

Frodo laughed. “You have a point there, Uncle Bilbo. But I cannot find it in me to feel sorry for him.”