“Come on down, Frodo! It’s not as cold as you think.” Merry splashed at the water and large sprinkles of it danced through the air to land on Frodo’s unclothed upper body; he still had his breeches on. Frodo grinned widely and crisp chuckles escaped his rosy lips as he warded off the drops by flailing his left arm in front of his face. Frodo’s apparent shudders made it clear to his younger cousin that the opposite from Merry’s previous assurances was true regarding the temperature of the water.

“No, I will not come down!” shouted Frodo from the side of the small pond, sitting with his legs dangling into the water. “My feet tell me just the opposite. The water is freezing.”

“That’s because the other parts of your body are bathing in sunlight. That makes the water even colder.”

Merry swam to the shore with relaxed strokes, but he suddenly jumped out and grabbed Frodo’s narrow shoulders, taking him into the churning water. Frodo hurriedly leapt out to suck in much needed air and glared threateningly at Merry, whose face was almost cracked in two by his wide smirk.

“I’ll get you later, Merry!” snapped Frodo between his labored breaths.

Merry just kept on grinning. Frodo was much older than he was, but his cousin’s thin frame belied his age.

And that was exactly what was in Merry’s mind while his father, Sara, was busy lambasting him for his irresponsible actions. Merry did not really hear what Sara was saying. Instead, his mind went again and again to Frodo’s thinning, fragile form. Merry could not help sobbing a little. Where was Frodo?

“Right!” Sara growled. “Now you can only cry. Serves you right.”

“Sara, please,” Esmeralda, his wife, interrupted. To Merry she said, “You said Bilbo sent Frodo a letter telling him that he wants Frodo to stay with him?”

Merry nodded a little, rubbing at his nose.

“For good?”

“I don’t know, mama,” Merry replied softly,

“Without telling us first?”

Merry leveled his mother’s gaze. “I don’t know about that. Bilbo never told you about this?”

Esmeralda realized she had asked a wrong question. That, was supposed to be the adults’ business. And unbeknownst to her, that revelation made Merry feel something akin to elation.

“So Bilbo is not supposed to do that, is he?” tried Merry, though still softly. “and Frodo is not supposed to leave Brandy Hall at all?”

Esmeralda looked deeply at her son’s grayish green eyes, knowing all too well that Merry’s young age had not allowed the boy to see the world in grey hues. He still perceived it in black and white, either right or wrong, and nothing in between or one overlapping the other.

“And you think that what you did, sending Bilbo’s second letter is a proper thing to do?” Esme asked her son back, challenging the look in the green eyes. “Not at all, Merry! That’s very cruel to let Frodo think that he is an unwanted person.”

Merry returned his mother’s gaze innocently and even touch annoyed. Had he, in his own way, told Frodo that he was more wanted here? He had, right? Although that was not one hundred percent correct since it was only him, Merry, who felt that way. He was still staring at his mother. And which was crueler, to make someone think that nobody wanted him or to truly treat him as if he did not exist, just as what everybody had treated Frodo?

Yet Merry did not have the courage to say this in front of his parents. He could only listen what they had to say.

“So don’t think that you can get away with it, Meriadoc. We have to punish you so you can see what you have done is wrong.”

Merry’s eyes went wide. Now it was wrong, from a certain point of view! But what about seeing it as an effort to keep Frodo with them? But then…

“Get over here, child!”

Instead of approaching, Merry stepped back, shaking. Apprehension was clear in his face. Sara seldom gave him any punishments, but once he did, Merry had not been able to sit for days. And child? That was not a good sign.

Sara slid down from the bed and opened the top of the drawer beside the bed, producing a belt, a thick and wide one. Merry gulped down, his eyes shining more in horror. He retreated further.

“No, no, no, papa.” His mouth started to babble. “I… I’m sorry for everything I’ve done. Please, papa!”

Sara ignored him, reaching out and stilling his grasps at his son’s shoulders, eliciting a distressed cry. Esme stood and reached out.

“Sara! Sara, no! Remember, he’s your own boy!” Esme grabbed her husband’s arm, but Sara swatted his wife away.

“I know he’s my son!” snarled Sara. “That’s why I want him to grow up properly, which he hasn’t at all!”

“But he said he was sorry!” Esme pulled at Sara’s bed robe while Merry stood there trembling uncontrollably at the sight of hi parents’ quarrel and Sara’s threatening, swaying belt.

“He may be sorry but if I don’t teach him some lesson, he won’t be able to tell right from wrong. Merry!”

The poor boy jerked at the bark, his face completely ashen. He could not utter anything anymore as he crept slowly to his father’s direction. The pitiable little hobbit could only comply. And the heavy rain and roaring thunder that were still coming down mercilessly succeeded in subduing Merry’s piteous pleas and sobs as lashes of Sara’s belt struck him again and again and again.

* * *

It was exactly the same hard rain pouring down that had hindered his journey. At first he had determined to keep going when he thought the rain would not have been this awful, but soon had he found out that he could not even see his surroundings clearly because of the thick mists. Yet, as he fastened his cloak around his soaked body, he could make out some sort of a figure who, unlike himself- a bit protected by the dense trees, had to endure the wrath of the rain, thunder and lightning in an open clearing. He squinted, trying hard to have a clearer sight at the form but so far he could only see a curled up frame that was totally engulfed in the rain. It did not move the slightest.

But suddenly, lo! The form stirred and fought to get up. Come on, come on! He encouraged silently. Run and have a shelter! You can get terrible pneumonia from such exposure. The figure got to its hands and knees and started to straighten itself.

He was wondering at the slowness of the creature’s movement. It must have begun to get sick, something that was almost inevitable given this circumstance. Eventually the small frame – he had just realized this – could make it to get on its feet. Yet, all of a sudden, an agonized screech echoed across the clearing, through the thickness of the rain and bunches of leaves, reaching into his ears. He froze, tightening the hood around his head, trying in vain to get rid of the miserable voice still piercing into him. It dawned on him then that the creature had been injured somehow, and he cursed himself for having merely been watching the entire time.

* * *

The searing pain in his ankle was enough to make Frodo oblivious to his environment. He did not even know that a pair of eyes had been observing every single movement he made, up to the time when his legs gave under him. One of them was badly injured, and it would not be able to bear his body weight.

Frodo crumpled helplessly to the water-logged soil, unable to fight the nausea caused by the unbearable ache and retching violently, losing the small amount of nourishment he had taken earlier.

Frodo tossed himself to the side, his energy drained after vomiting and his head now feeling as if it were swirling around. Frodo clenched his eyes dead to stop the world from turning around, but it did not work. That and the slaps of the harsh needles of rainwater made him senseless. Quivering hard from the freezing temperature, Frodo began to lose grip of himself. He did not want to pass out in this kind of situation but he could not stand it anymore. Behind the already closed eyes, the world turned darker and whimpering feebly, Frodo had a feeling as if he were falling down, down into a whirling, bottomless chasm. “Halfling?” A voice full of concern went unheeded.

* * *

The moon was not hiding under the dark clouds here in Hobbiton. Its pale lights shimmered unhindered by the leaves on the trees and the curtains on the smial windows to rest gently on the smooth surfaces of the drawers or tables in them.

Having been busy scribing in his journals, Bilbo ceased at once as the rays of the moon sparkled on the back of his hand, so shy and beautiful as if coming from some unworldly place. Somehow they reminded him of Frodo, the merry glitters of the lights bearing a resemblance to the boy’s flickering eyes that could change amazingly quickly from those of mischief to the ones full of passion or even sorrow. And the paleness of the moon gave the very image of Frodo’s livid, translucent features.

Bilbo heaved audibly. This was all useless. It was clear for him that he could not seem to concentrate anymore. It had been four days since the elderly hobbit sent the letter and he could not think of anything save the day when Frodo finally took his first step to enter Bag End, Bilbo’s lovely hobbit-hole. Bilbo gave a soft chuckle. His first step! As if Frodo had never come to Bag End. No, his heart corrected. His first step to dwell here permanently was more like it.

But why two weeks? It felt like an eternity to wait for that long. But, Bilbo’s heart interrupted again. I need that time. It’s true that I love Frodo dearly, but I cannot deny that there are doubts in my heart. What if this is not a good decision, nor the right thing to do? I do need time. Just in case.

Bilbo threw his quill pen, letting the ink from its feathery end splashing to every direction. Frustration crept into his soul. There was no way he would regret ever inviting Frodo to come to stay at Bag End. This place would be ten times, if not more, better than Brandy Hall. Bilbo could be sure the orphaned lad would be happier as well. And to top all, he cared for Frodo as much as the boy loved him. That would be enough for both of them. Bilbo did not need a day of the two week deadline he had given himself.

The gentlehobbit rose abruptly, knocking over his chair backward in the process. He smoothed his waistcoat, tapping unintentionally at the pockets and feeling a solid, round trinket in one of them. The accidental contact with his most precious possession calmed Bilbo and convinced him more of what to do next.

Yes, Bilbo was faltering no more about the arrangement and there was another thing – he would not wait until ten more days to fetch Frodo from Brandy Hall. He was going now – or rather, the first thing tomorrow morn. Bilbo knew he had not mentioned anything about this to either Saradoc or Esmeralda, but he was certain he could manage to convince them should any problems arise.

TBC

AN: Grey Wonderer, thanks for the time given to review!