A/N: Frodo is 34, Pippin is 12, Moro Burrows is 11, Mosco Burrows is 15, and Sancho Proudfoot is 12.

"Aren't you coming in, Frodo?" Pippin asked, anxiously hopping from foot to foot. The sun was shining brightly in the cloudless blue sky and he was impatient to finally be in the cool, clear water.

The weather had been abysmal since Pippin arrived for his annual summer visit to Bag End. It had rained steadily for the past five days, and Frodo certainly could not begrudge his cousin’s enthusiasm at being outdoors at last. In fact it seemed that all of Hobbiton and Bywater had had the same idea this afternoon. All along the Water and Bywater Pond were whole families and groups of friends, enjoying the suddenly pleasant weather.

“I’ll wade in, just a bit,” Frodo promised, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up the legs of his breeches until they were above his knees. “Go on, your friends are waiting for you.”

Grinning, Pippin dashed away. Frodo watched as his cousin ran into the water, stopped suddenly at the first bite of the cold against his feet, shivered, and then with a whoop, splashed the rest of the way in, met by calls of Hullo, Pippin! that echoed across the pond.

Standing up to his ankles in the water, Frodo shaded his eyes from the sun and squinted at the cluster of children. There was Sancho Proudfoot, just a month older than Pippin and nearly twice his size in height and weight, and a pair of dark-haired Burrows lads, along with several other children that Frodo did not immediately recognize. They huddled in a group, their heads close together as Mosco Burrows gestured around the perimeter of the lake.

Frodo waded out a little further. "Oi, lads!" he yelled. Eight heads turned to Frodo in surprise. Pippin was smiling hopefully, undoubtedly wishing that his cousin would join in their game.

"Don't wander too far," he said, pointing toward the center of the pond. It was not that deep at all, but was deep enough to cause a young lad trouble, especially if he was not a strong swimmer. While Frodo knew that Pippin was a good swimmer (since he had taught his cousin himself) he doubted whether the other children could swim at all. "No higher than your waists, all right?"

Being the Master of Bag End carried with it a certain authority, as Frodo had discovered – and learned how to use, at least a little – in the past year. Eight heads nodded quickly and there were shouts of Yes, sir! and We won't! Frodo continued to watch them, and let them know that they were being watched, as the children went back to planning their game.

Shouts and laughter rang out as the children split up, running in different directions. Frodo remained in the water (nearly up to his knees now), close enough to keep an eye on the children but far enough to avoid being thoroughly soaked by the rambunctious splashing of young, eager hobbits.

Rolling up his sleeves, Frodo dipped his hands in the water. It was shaping up to be a warm day, and felt even warmer after so many damp, wet days. Curiously he watched the children play, trying to figure out their game, which apparently involved two teams and lots of running, chasing, squealing and splashing.

Frodo shrugged; it was certainly more favorable than hearing Pippin shriek and scamper through Bag End, as he had done in the days before, when it had rained all afternoon. Frodo was not used to looking after such a young, energetic guest on his own for so long, and though it was exhausting he wouldn’t have traded away his cousin’s company for a quiet, empty smial.

Satisfied that the children were keeping their word – only a few ventured up to their waists in the water while the rest, including Pippin, were only hip-deep – Frodo let his attention wander momentarily, watching the other hobbits frolicking in the water and sitting on the shore, and waving to the people he knew.

The children’s shrieks grew louder whenever someone slipped with a splash into the water, and there was always a roar of laughter when that particular lad would regain his feet, curls dripping into his eyes and grinning. Frodo was pleasantly surprised that it turned out to be a good-natured game, lacking the pushing and dunking that might have accompanied another group of young hobbits. He smiled to himself, clearly remembering those games…and how he had frequently been the one to instigate them as a child.

Mosco Burrows was the swiftest of the group, and the rest of the children raced after him. Pippin and Sancho often lagged behind the others, and Moro alternated between trying to catch up with his brother and falling behind to stay with the two lads closest to his age.

Frodo was about to turn back to the shore when the accident happened. Somehow Sancho had managed to pick up his pace, and had put some distance between himself and Pippin, who was running alongside Moro. It seemed that Pippin and Moro decided to run in a different direction, in hopes of taking the others by surprise, and so they turned and dashed the other way. For the first time all afternoon Pippin was a few paces ahead of Moro, when suddenly his face twisted in pain and down he went with a splash, and did not surface right away.

Frodo’s heart leapt into his throat and before he could react Moro disappeared as well, though he resurfaced a moment later, struggling to pull Pippin up with him.

Racing further into the pond Frodo yelled at Moro to keep Pippin's head above the water. The other children turned back at his shout and raced over, reaching Moro and Pippin just as Frodo did.

Frodo had never truly known relief until the moment he realized that Pippin was conscious and breathing. His cousin was pale and shaken, and clearly in pain as he leaned heavily on Moro. Frodo lifted Pippin right up, anxious to get him out of the water. It was then that he saw the jagged cuts on the soles of Pippin’s feet.

“What happened?” he demanded, turning back toward the shore. A crowd of hobbits were gathered there, watching in concern.

Pippin clutched tightly at Frodo’s shoulders, sniffling a little. “Moro and I were trying to catch up with the others and I stepped on something sharp,” he said. “It hurts, Frodo.”

“I know,” Frodo replied, soothingly rubbing Pippin’s back as he set him down on the jacket he had cast off earlier. He turned to Moro, who had followed them out of the water and was now standing beside him. “Moro, will you find the healer? I thought I saw Mistress Longfoot before, sitting beneath the willow with her family.”

Moro nodded and went to turn away, but he did not have far to go. Mistress Longfoot of Bywater, having already noticed that something had happened, was already hurried along the shore and was approaching them now. She was a jolly, motherly sort, and she bustled around Pippin, clucking her tongue and fussing over him until Pippin blushed and quite forgot his pain.

“You must have stepped on some rocks, poor dear,” she said, inspecting his feet with a frown. She opened her satchel and retrieved a small vial.

Frodo crouched beside Pippin, his heartbeat struggling to return to normal and his hands still shaking. “Only you could manage to cut both feet at once, Pip,” he said. Although he tried to sound lighthearted, Frodo’s voice was tense and full of concern

“And not only his feet,” said Mistress Longfoot. She gestured to Pippin’s hands and knees, and Frodo noticed for the first time that there were smaller, shallower cuts there as well. No wonder Pippin had been unable to get to his feet quickly; the rocks were so sharp that they cut him repeatedly.

“What about you, Moro?” Frodo asked suddenly, turning to him. “Were you hurt as well?”

“Just my toe,” Moro admitted warily, glancing at Mistress Longfoot, who had just applied a stinging liquid to Pippin’s cuts, making him flinch.

“We have to keep the wounds clean, Master Pippin,” she said firmly, though with a smile in her eyes. “You were very lucky today. These wounds are not deep enough to require stitches, although I am afraid that you must remain off your feet for the rest of the day at least. As for you, Master Moro, I’ll see about your toe in a moment.”

Moro gulped.

“Are you all right, Pippin? Do you hurt anywhere else?” Frodo asked anxiously. He turned to the healer. “Mistress Longfoot, do you think he swallowed any water?”

“I already listened to Master Pippin’s breathing and his heart, Mr. Baggins. He’s a perfectly healthy lad – or will be, once I’ve patched him up,” she replied, winking at Pippin.

“I’m fine Frodo, really I am,” Pippin said, reassuringly slipping his hand into Frodo’s. He held still as Mistress Longfoot bandaged his feet, knees and hands, and listened closely as she told him and Frodo when the bandages should be changed and for how long he should wear them. Then the healer turned to Moro and cleaned and bandaged his toe.

“Thank you, Moro, for your help today,” Frodo said. “If it wasn’t for your quick thinking Pippin would have been underwater for too long before I reached him.”

“Thank you, Moro,” Pippin echoed, smiling gratefully at his friend.

The tips of Moro's ears went red, but he smiled and shrugged. "I didn't do much," he mumbled as Mistress Longfoot finished wrapping his toe and his brother Mosco held out a hand, helping him to his feet.

“I think we ought to go home now, Pippin,” said Frodo. “You ought to put your feet up and rest.”

Much to his surprise Pippin agreed quickly and said goodbye to his friends as Frodo helped him dress in his dry clothes. Then, after thanking the healer, Frodo lifted Pippin easily and started on the way home.

Already Frodo’s clothes were drying in the strong sunlight. He still felt shaken by the whole incident, not wanting to think how something truly terrible could have happened to Pippin today.

"Are you mad at me Frodo?" Pippin's voice sounded very small and uncertain.

"Mad? Of course not." Frodo peered closely at him. "Why do you think I'm angry with you?"

"You're frowning so much," Pippin pointed out, looking away. "You look like Da does when he's not happy."

"That doesn't mean that I'm angry," Frodo said. "I was only a little frightened, that’s all.” It was not until he said it that Frodo realized just how afraid he had been. Even now his heart seemed reluctant to return to its normal pattern and his hands trembled a little. Thinking about how much worse things might have been certainly did not ease his worry. Nonetheless Frodo managed to smile encouragingly when Pippin glanced up, still looking rather unsure.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Pippin said. Impulsively he threw his arms around Frodo’s neck and hugged him tightly. “I didn’t have any time to be afraid. Anyway, I didn’t have to be scared. You and Moro took care of me.”

At that Frodo’s frown disappeared and he smiled, feeling himself relax. Pippin was safe, and his wounds would heal. Frodo only hoped that this bad experience would not cause Pippin to become afraid of the pond, or water itself.

“Frodo?”

“Yes, Pippin?”

“When can I go swimming again?”