Sunday, 25 Rethe S.R. 1389, Morning 

It was quite early, the three had just finished with first breakfast, and Cousin Bilbo was gently massaging the ointment Mistress Salvia had given him into Merry’s hands. As Apprentice Lavender had thought, her mistress did not leave the bandages on another day, but she had left the ointment, which would be some protection as well as help to keep the tender skin supple as it healed. She gave Merry many admonitions not to get any dirt on them, which was a major disappointment, as it rather curtailed his play.

There was a rap on the door, and all three went to answer. They were expecting the Wizard and the Dwarf any day now. But when they opened the door, it was Saradoc and Esmeralda.

“Mum! Da!” Merry leaped into his mother’s arms, but gave a little whimper when she squeezed him.

She put him down and looked at his arms and hands. “Merry! What happened?”

“Oh,” he said blithely, “mean old Lotho pushed me and Frodo knocked him down and gave him a splendid bloody nose!”

Saradoc looked grim. “Did he indeed?” He looked inquiringly at Bilbo, who seemed a bit abashed.

It was Frodo answered. “Uncle Sara, it really isn’t Uncle Bilbo’s fault! You know Lotho.”

Saradoc shook his head. “I would not dream of holding Bilbo responsible for anything that Lotho did. Lobelia and Otho, however are another matter altogether. Have you confronted them?”

Bilbo shook his head. “In light of the fact that Frodo took instant retribution, I felt that it was best not to stir the pot.”

“Well,” said Saradoc, “I am Merry’s father, and I am not at all averse to a little pot stirring.”

Esmeralda stood up, Merry in her arms. “Frodo, just how ‘splendid’ was that bloody nose? I should like to have seen that.”

Frodo blushed.

Bilbo nodded. “I am glad you came so early; I have some other matters of importance I need to speak to you on. I believe you know to what I refer.”

Saradoc took a deep breath. “Indeed I do. I have some things need saying as well.”

“Let us go to my study, then,” said Bilbo.

Bilbo closed the door to the study, something he almost never did. “Have a seat, Sara. This ugly business with Lotho has made me more determined than ever to move forward on adopting Frodo. In fact, I was only waiting until I spoke to you again before I put things in motion.”

Saradoc sighed. “Then there is something you should know. In hindsight, you probably should have been told years ago. From time to time, Frodo suffers from bouts of deep melancholy.”

Bilbo raised his brows. “Indeed? I have never seen any signs of it.”

Saradoc looked hopeful. “That is good. It makes me believe that it will perhaps stop once he is away from the sad reminders in Buckland and--” he hesitated, “from the River.”

“You think it is that serious? And not just the natural grief of an orphan?”

“Bilbo, there is nothing ’natural’ about being orphaned at such a young age. I will tell you that it was much worse in the time right after his parents died, and before Merry was born. We had to watch him constantly, lest he find the waters of the Brandywine too great a temptation. Even now, from time to time--”

Bilbo blanched. “Are you saying?”

“Yes,” Saradoc flushed. “I do not think he realizes we know. And Merry is the only one who can reach him at such a time.”

Bilbo was silent for a long while. Finally he said, “I wish I had known. I would have had him away from there long ago.” He looked at Saradoc astutely. “I daresay that is why I was not informed.”

Another silence. Saradoc endured it, knowing he deserved the older hobbit’s reproaches.

Bilbo continued. “Knowing how attached Frodo is to Merry, I had planned to encourage frequent visits. But with what you now tell me, how safe would it be for me to allow him to return to Buckland at all?”

Saradoc thought his answer over carefully; the future happiness of his son, and of one whom he loved as a son, depended on it.

“Frodo’s melancholy is always worse in the spring, near the thirtieth of Rethe, when it happened. It is one reason we have always encouraged these annual springtime visits of his to Bag End. If he is living here, then Merry can come to stay in the spring, and Frodo can come to Buckland in the fall after his birthday, which is usually a good time for him. And you have spent Yule with us for years. I see no reason to change that.”

Bilbo nodded. “Indeed. It seems like a sound arrangement. I must say I am quite enjoying little Merry’s presence, and Frodo seems more than content to have him here. And in addition, I am sure they will see one another frequently in Tookland, especially during Lithe.” For there were frequent family occasions held in the Great Smials  which all family connections were expected to attend. And the Lithedays celebrations held in Tuckborough were always eagerly anticipated.

Saradoc nodded. “Have you talked to him about it yet?”

“Not specifically, no. We have talked in vague terms for several years about his coming here to live, but never have discussed a specific time. Menegilda and Esme kept trying to convince me he was still too young. Since we have come to this agreement now, however, I will probably tell him today. I would like you all to remain a few more days, if you would until we can finalize the legalities.”

“Certainly; that is not a problem.” Saradoc shook his head. He was going to miss Frodo. “Now can we talk about Lotho?”

“Better than that. Now that you are here, why don’t we take a stroll down there?”

_______________________________________________________

Lotho himself opened the door, and when he saw who stood there, let out a squawk. His nose was huge, and his face was a glorious mask of black and blue.

Bilbo and Saradoc looked at Frodo’s handiwork with satisfaction. “Not bad,” said Saradoc.

Lotho stood there gaping, panic on his face.

“Lotho, my dear, don’t keep people standing.” It was Lobelia’s shrill voice; she hove into view. “Oh. It’s you, Bilbo.” she said, less than enthusiastically. “Saradoc.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Lotho let out another squawk.

She looked at him fondly. “You’ll have to excuse the dear lad. He was hit in the face by a ball while playing the other day.”

Bilbo raised a brow. So that’s why he’d not had Lobelia on the doorstep demanding Frodo’s blood. Lotho had been less than forthcoming with his mother.

“Is that what he told you?” asked Bilbo coldly.

Lobelia had a great many faults, but she was not stupid. One look at her son’s panic stricken face soon gave her to know she had been lied to. Still her first and last inclination was always to defend Lotho.

As was usual with her, she took refuge in rudeness. Moving forward into the doorway to keep her callers on the step she sneered “What are you implying? I suppose he got into a little fight with that jumped up little orphan from Buckland you have hanging about--”

“Excuse me?” said Saradoc dangerously.

She gave a start. In concentrating her ire on Bilbo, she had forgotten that the heir to Buckland stood in front of her as well.

“Lobelia! What is going on? Do we need to have our business on the doorstep for all the neighbors to know?” Otho pulled the door wide. “Come in Bilbo, Saradoc. Let’s go into the sitting room and sort this out.”

Most who knew only Lobelia, and not her husband, were under the impression that anyone married to her must be hen-pecked. They would have been quite wrong. Otho was just as greedy as his wife, and far more ambitious. But he knew how to be polite, and was much more conventional in his dealings, so people were often fooled by him. And he was more than a match for his wife. He also had no illusions about his son. He knew how unpleasant and unpopular the lad was. He didn’t much care about that, as long as he did not bring the trouble home. But it looked like he had done so this time.

As they were seated, Otho said “Now, Lotho, tell me what this is about. I take it you were not hit in the face by a ball.” Actually Otho had never believed that to begin with, but he had not said anything.

“Frodo attacked me,” he said sullenly.

“Why?”

“Well, I might have accidentally pushed his cousin down,” he mumbled.

Saradoc bristled. “There was nothing accidental about the way you shoved a seven year old child onto the roadway. It is a wonder he was not hurt much worse than he was.”

“Now,” said Otho, “perhaps Lotho didn’t know his own strength--”

“What would he need to know? A twenty-five year old shoves a seven year old? That is ridiculous. My son was hurt badly enough to need the healer. You had better do something about this, Otho. If I do not think you have punished Lotho sufficiently, I will have to see about bringing an action at law. If you do not keep him away from Merry from now on, I will bring an action at law.”

“And that goes for Frodo as well,” said Bilbo coldly. “If this young person--” he nodded in Lotho’s direction “did not find such amusement in tormenting my young cousin none of this would have happened in the first place!”

Otho looked at his family. Lotho looked as though he wanted to say something, and Lobelia was red in the face, and probably ready to start in on a tirade about Frodo, whom she detested. He gave them a quelling look. He could not afford an action at law. Why could they not keep in mind that they had to at least appear to be civil to Bilbo? It couldn’t be much longer to wait, he was ninety-nine after all, and then they could do as they wished. But if they antagonized him too much, he might do something drastic.

Otho stood up. “Send the healer’s bill to me. And I will deal with Lotho.” Lotho paled, and Lobelia looked rebellious.

He saw Bilbo and Saradoc out.

“Do you think we accomplished anything, Bilbo?” Sara asked.

“Probably not in the long run,” answered Bilbo, “but yes, in the short run, I think he will leave our lads alone. Why don’t we stop at The Ivy Bush for elevenses before we head back to Bag End?”