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Sam caught sight of Brandy Hall, rising imperiously above the hedges and well-tended formal flowerbeds, and gave an inward sigh. There were some things that he had given up by falling in love with Frodo Baggins, and high on that list was the ability to avoid visits to the Brandybuck ancestral hall. Family relationships, on their last visit here, had been a bit on the dodgy side. That had been last summer, when Pippin had gone missing, and had been fetched back, unwillingly enough, by Frodo and him.

As a matter of fact, when Frodo had received the rather plaintive letter from Merry, asking him to come for the grape harvest, and the ceremonial uncorking of the latest batch of Old Winyards to come of age, he had made the offer to go by himself, if Sam would rather not. But Sam had begun to learn the various nuances of Frodo's expressions, and the look on Frodo's face when Sam had shook his head, and declared that he wouldn't dream of Frodo having to face Brandy Hall on his own, was ample reward. By late that night, a satisfied Sam, holding a very happy Frodo in his arms, was positive that he had made the right decision. It was only now, even with Frodo's hand clasped firmly in his, as they surveyed from afar the general bustle about the front courtyard of Brandy Hall, that doubt began to creep into his heart once more.

It was the betwixt-and-between-ness of it all that bothered him the most, he had decided. Obviously, Esme Brandybuck did not see him as family, and resented the sight of him among the other gentlehobbits. Yet Frodo stubbornly refused to let him fall back into the role of a servant, and Sam knew quite well that there was more than just his relationship with Frodo involved in that battle of wills. But the worst of it was that he felt useless. At least at the Great Smials, he felt free to lend a hand wherever it might do a bit of good, and Frodo didn't seem to mind at all. He was not cut out for the life of a gentlehobbit, he concluded gloomily. He had to be doing, or the days were long indeed.

Frodo surveyed the great stone and timber home, half built up and into the high hill behind, and felt anxious as well. His hope was that this would serve in lieu of a visit at Yule, but he was afraid that that was a faint hope. Actually, he had primarily come because of Merry's letter. When he had last seen his Aunt Esme, it was obvious that friction between Esme and Merry was running high, and guarded comments that Merry had made, during his visits to Bag End that summer, whether with Pippin or alone, indicated that the situation had not improved. But neither Frodo nor Merry had wished to discuss it, retaining Bag End as a safe haven from such troubles, and so the matter lay.

Merry's letter, however, had been written with such obvious forced cheerfulness, that it had made Frodo anxious indeed about his cousin. Pippin was unable to come, since he had come down with a nagging cough, and his mother had been quite insistent on his staying home. Fredegar Bolger, better known as Fatty on account of the fact that he was lanky and lean indeed, had promised to come, but it seemed as though Merry was in need of a little more support than that. Frodo would not have been surprised if Sam had accepted his offer to go alone, for he was well aware of how distressing these visits were for him, but he had been filled with more relief than he could ever have expected when Sam had insisted on accompanying him. Somehow, he vowed to himself, he would give his cousin support without allowing Sam to be hurt. But it was unquestionably going to be a stressful experience.

The wind at their backs had become quite chill, and the sun was beginning to lower into the gold-streaked sky, as they approached the great door, still open with all the commotion of a large estate bedding down for the night. Ponies were being led, through the front yards, to the stables and their stalls, and the cattle had just been brought in down from the hills for the barn as well. The large torches, that were lit as of an evening next to the main door, until all were in for the night, had just been caught aflame, and smoke was rising steadily into the clear early evening air from the kitchen chimneys, where dinner preparations were at their height. Sam sniffed the air appreciatively. The one consolation of visiting Brandy Hall had always been, in his private opinion, that the kitchen definitely knew what it was on about.

As they approached, and Frodo was recognized, the cries of welcome began, for Frodo had become, at least in the latter part of his years at Brandy Hall, a great favorite with the staff. One of the smallest serving lads cheerfully offered to tell the Master of their arrival, and was off before a smiling Frodo had a chance to agree. He was a perceptive lad, too, for it was Merry who was in his wake as he returned.

"Frodo!" Merry cried out, upon seeing the pair of travelers, and sprinted toward them. Grabbing Frodo hard, he wrapped his arms tightly around him and buried his face against Frodo's shoulder.

"There, there," Frodo soothed him affectionately, stroking his back. "You know we'd never desert you, Merry-love." With a noticeable sniff, and a hasty wipe of his eyes against Frodo's jacket, Merry lifted his head up and gave Frodo a rather teary smile.

"I knew you'd come," he replied, with an attempt at a careless tone. And then, to Sam's surprise, he turned to him next, and gave him a hug just as tight.

"We'd be here for you, no mistake," Sam muttered, slightly awkward, as he returned Merry's embrace, but gave him a warm smile as Merry straightened up again, his hands still on Sam's shoulders.

"Well." Merry gave them both a more genuine smile then, as he reached out for Frodo's hand, the other hand still on Sam's shoulder. "Guests have been arriving for the last several days, but they're mostly Father's business guests, and they won't notice if we're about or not at dinner tonight. Fatty's not due until tomorrow. You're both in your old room, Frodo, as you like, so I thought, if you wouldn't mind, we could have a small dinner up there, just the three of us."

"That sounds wonderful, Merry," Frodo agreed, unconsciously shifting the light pack on his back, and smiling with genuine relief. Sam gave Merry a grin and quick nod, leaving no doubt as to his approval as well. So, unnoticed in the rest of the activity, the three mounted the staircase up to Frodo's upper room left from his childhood, high under the rooftop of Brandy Hall.

The serving lasses had just headed back down the staircase, later that night, bearing trays of well-emptied dishes, as two of the hobbits made themselves comfortable on the rug before the fire. The night had become quite cold, and the warmth of the fire was very welcome. Merry sat cross-legged before it, stretching out his hands to warm them, and Sam sat further back, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his back resting against the one bed in the small room. Frodo stood at the small table at the foot of the bed, where a couple of bottles of Old Winyards had been awaiting them, engaged in opening the first. "Here we are," he announced cheerfully, as the cork was urged upward with a resounding pop. "Drink up, lads, we must have some basis for comparison when it comes time to taste the latest vintage." Handing each of the other two a sturdy glass, he poured a generous amount in each, doing likewise for himself. Placing the bottle back down on the floor, he returned to his place next to Sam, dragging the plate of nuts and cheese that had also been left behind to within reach of all.

"As if I'd be able to tell the difference," Merry scoffed, taking a liberal swallow nonetheless.

"Easy, Merry, easy," Frodo laughed. "Like this, sipping it, you know." He demonstrated and then grinned at his cousin. "Can't taste any of it when it goes down too fast. But not a bad way at all to take that batch two years ago, actually, although I'd never tell your father that."

Merry tried to follow his lead, but glumly shrugged his shoulders after swallowing. "Pretty much tastes like wine," he admitted. "Can't tell any of it apart. Although I do remember that lot, now that you mention it. I think we ended up drinking a lot of beer that year. Foisted it off on some poor sod down in South Farthing. Won't be seeing him here this year, I expect."

Frodo turned to Sam then with a smile. "You're more of the beer expert, Sam, I know, but what do you think?"

"My tongue'd be beginning to get used to it," Sam admitted. "Not bad, once you'd be gettin' a taste for it. I remember that year, too," he added thoughtfully. "Made a fine dressing for the salad, it did, and put up a right nice pickle."

Merry burst out laughing at Sam's comment, finely spraying the other two, and causing Frodo to quickly come to his side and solicitously thump his back. "I think that's a fact best left known to only the three of us," Merry choked out, once he was able to speak again. "Although I'd give anything to see my father's face, if he ever heard it."

Sam couldn't help grinning as well. "I'd not be a'that amazed, if the cooks in your kitchen'd not be knowin' that, likewise."

That sent Merry off again, and this time Frodo as well, and the fire was nearly burnt out before the rest of the wine bottles were emptied, and the nuts and cheese were quite polished off.

"Ah, Frodo, Sam," Merry finally said, rising reluctantly to return to his own room, and turning wistfully to them. "I can't tell you how happy I am that you came."

Frodo had risen as well, and walking over to Merry, wrapped him in a warm embrace. "Don't you fret now, Merry, love," he murmured. "Just because you're not in my sight, that doesn't mean you're not in my heart, you know."

Merry gave him a final tight squeeze, and left quickly.

It was quite dark when Sam awoke that night, and it took him several moments to get his bearings. It was Frodo in his arms, of course, and still fast asleep. There was no mistaking that familiar steady breathing, and their long walk that day, as well as other factors, should have had him fast asleep as well. But he wasn't, and slowly he realized that was due to voices he was hearing faintly from outside.

That was certainly curious, for there could be no one outside the window, as high up as they were, and Sam knew that, as much as he would hate to disturb Frodo's slumber, he needed to investigate. Very carefully and very stealthily, he withdrew one of his arms, from where it lay, stretched out under Frodo's neck, and slowly lifted the other from Frodo's side and chest, around which it had been wrapped. He had been lying on his side, against the wall in the narrow bed, and Frodo was quite covering him, so removing himself was difficult indeed, but his interest had been aroused by what was going on outside, and he simply had to see.

Finally, he was able to wriggle to the foot of the bed, and up to his feet. Fortunately, Frodo's breathing continued to be steady. Shivering in the frigid night air, for the fire had long since gone out, and of course he had nothing on, he walked quickly, with his arms wrapped about himself, to the round window and peered out into the dark night.

There was some sort of commotion down in the courtyard below, with folk coming and going from the smial, even though it certainly seemed to be the middle of the night, but what really caught his attention were the lights out in the fields. Here and there in the darkness, he could see flames springing up, until there seemed to be a sort of grid of golden lights below in the night. What that could mean, he had no idea, and continued to stare, heedless of his chilled body, until he was suddenly startled at the sound of Frodo's voice.

"They're smudge pots," he heard, behind him, and turned to see Frodo gazing out over his shoulder. "I rather thought they'd be needing them tonight."

Sam turned towards him, his bewilderment obvious, and Frodo wrapped his arms around him, standing close behind him, and giving him a light kiss on the cheek nearest to him. "It's the chill," he added, in explanation. "They'll need to be harvesting the grapes as quickly as possible, if this chill settles in. The frost can blacken them in one night, if they don't keep those fires lit. The smoke, you know. It helps protect them. But only for so long."

Gently, he pulled Sam from the window, his eyes shining in the light of the stars that glistened in the frosty clear night sky. "But tonight, my Sam, that is not our concern. Tonight, there is only your chilled skin, and an empty bed to take care of."

Sam smiled, and turning, wound an arm around Frodo's waist. "Aye, me dear, and your Sam knows just what to do about that."

"How well I know," Frodo breathed, tugging Sam toward the bed. "Come and warm me then, love."

It was late in the morning as Sam descended the staircase, bringing the first breakfast tray with him. He felt guilty about the kitchen lasses having to go so far out of their way to set it in the hallway before their bedroom door, and felt that the least he could do was to bring it down for them. Frodo had said that he would follow him down in just a moment, and he had left him washing his face in the chilly water in the basin in their room.

The kitchen was unusually busy this morning though, even for Brandy Hall, and Sam wondered at the commotion. Carefully setting the tray on a table with those from the rooms of the other guests, he was just turning to leave when he heard an imperious voice behind him.

"Gamgee," it said sharply, and with a guilty start, although for no particular reason that he knew of, he turned around to face its owner. Esmerelda Brandybuck was giving him a piercing look, her hands set on her hips, as the kitchen maids scurried quietly around her, cleaning and casting surreptitious glances in their direction. "I expected to see you about." Her eyes narrowed a bit, and she added, "You've a strong enough back, if nothing else, and that's what we need in the vineyards today. We've no time to waste on the harvest, so you may as well be useful."

Sam privately felt that Miss Esme could use a bit of review of the old lesson regarding flies, and the best means of catching them, but he nodded his head quickly, and declared, "I'd be that glad to give a hand, Miss Esme. Just let me tell Mr. Frodo where I'd be, and I'll be right out."

"Don't you bother about that," the mistress of Brandy Hall declared decisively. "I'll let him know. That's no concern of yours. The foreman is just leaving for the far vineyard now," and she pointed out the kitchen door to a group of workers gathering just beyond in the courtyard.

Sam had no choice then but to meekly turn as she had directed. He was annoyed at not being able to say anything to Frodo about it, but Esme's command wasn't entirely unwelcome. At least he wouldn't have to worry about his place in this oppressing household for the rest of the day, and it was a chance to actually be useful. The other hobbits welcomed him with smiles and hasty greetings, and they started down the muddy path to the farthest vineyard, rubbing their hands together and huffing on them to warm them in the frosty morning air.

Frodo was down not long after, but Sam was nowhere to be found in the kitchen. Puzzled, he headed for the family dining room, thinking that perhaps Merry had spotted him, and had taken him there for second breakfast. However, a relaxing second breakfast did not seem to be in the cards this morning, for there was a general confusion and even a bit of chaos, as opposed to the normal leisurely pace of life at Brandy Hall. He did, however, spot Merry in the midst of hobbits that he mostly did not recognize, and made his way toward him.

"Merry," he called out, accidentally bumping and nodding politely to a rather wide hobbit with a waistcoat studded with a quite amazing number of brass buttons. Great-Uncle Tobias, he remembered, just a bit too late to greet him promptly, but Merry came up to him just then, looking distinctly harried.

"Sam," Frodo mentioned quickly, as soon as he got within range of his cousin. "Have you seen him anywhere? He was heading down to the kitchen to return our tray, but that was the last I saw of him."

"No," Merry replied, his brow knitting into an expression of consternation. "Do you suppose the gardening staff has waylaid him? Perhaps they need some tips on pruning the wisteria, or some such."

But before Frodo could respond, a familiar voice was heard from behind, and Fredegar Bolger suddenly wafted, through the sea of hobbits engaged in trying to snatch a quick bite, into view.

"Frodo Baggins. As I live and breathe," came the thin drawl of a voice, and its owner materialized next to Frodo, languorously shaking his hand.

"Fatty. It has been awhile, has it not," Frodo returned the handshake in kind, and tried not to be too conspicuous as he gazed about the room for a glimpse of Sam. None was to be seen, however, and he returned his attention to Fatty.

"Possibly." Fatty stopped short and scratched his head. "Yule before last, wasn't it? Well, it's been entirely too long. Say, old thing, you wouldn't happened to have noticed where that platter of fried tomatoes and bacon would have happened to have wandered off to, now, would you?" Fatty was legendary, among his acquaintances, of owning the most perpetually empty stomach in all of the Shire, no matter the quantity of food that slid down his throat. Even Sam had to admit that Frodo appeared positively chubby next to the heir of the proud family of Bolger. Merry tended to be thrown together with him fairly often, since the Bolgers were one of the very few first families of the Shire with which Esme Brandybuck felt it proper to associate, but Fatty was considered harmless by all his acquaintances, as long as one was not between him and the tea table.

"It's probably gone," Merry admitted with a grin. "Mother's been positively grim this morning, rounding up anyone she can to help with the harvest. Last night's frost means it's pretty much got to be done in the next day or two, and Father's already told me he's going to need me around the press this afternoon, directing things. He'll be out in the vineyards all day himself." Turning to Frodo, he suggested, "Cook might have seen him about, she's always got an eye out for what goes on around here. And she might even consider fixing up a special plate for you, Fatty, you know how she appreciates a good appetite."

Cook had indeed news as to where Sam was, and recounted, with no small amount of sympathy for the young visitor, what had transpired between Sam and the mistress of Brandy Hall to Merry and Frodo, as Fatty stood behind them, stealthily cramming rolls in his pocket from the table behind them. "Marched the poor thing right out the door, she did," she huffed at the memory, "without not so much a chance to get his jacket, and right brisk it is out there this morning, if I do say so, and Mr. Fredegar, if you'd be wantin' a bite, you just say so now, and not be makin' more work for the lasses as do your washin'."

Fatty paused in the act of reaching for a dish of butter, that was apparently about to join the rolls, and coughed politely. "Well, now that you mention it, I must have missed second breakfast, or possibly first. Being on the road and all of that, you know."

"Well, it wouldn't have mattered if you had missed it or not, I've never seen a hobbit with a stomach to match yours, Mr. Fredegar, and that's sayin' something," she chuckled, swiftly taking up a plate, and loading it quickly with the remains of breakfast. "But, as I was sayin', Mr. Merry, she just told him as he would be workin' with the harvest, and wouldn't even let him send word to Mr. Frodo as to where he was, and would you be likin' a bit more bacon, Mr. Fredegar? I thought as much, yes, even when he asked, said as it was none of his business, and she'd take care of it. And a bit more toast?"

Merry took a quick look at Frodo's face, at this piece of news, and realized that removing him from the kitchen as rapidly as possible would be prudent indeed. Firmly grasping his elbow, he muttered, "Don't say anything, yet, Frodo. Come along then, this way," and hastily steered an unresisting Frodo from the kitchen and out through the courtyard, as the rest of the serving staff got a glimpse of Frodo's expression and wisely found a task that needed to be done on the opposite side of the kitchen. Fatty followed amiably behind, his mouth cheerfully occupied.

"Bollocks! This is too much!" Frodo hissed, as soon as Merry had managed to steer him to the kitchen side yard. There were no others about, save for Fatty, who had followed them unnoticed, and a flock of chickens milling about, scratching hopefully in the dirt for stray grain. "It's bad enough that she refuses to see him as anything other than a servant, although she would have to be entirely blind to still think that, but now apparently, she seems to think of him as her servant as well!"

"Frodo," Merry pleaded, placing a calming hand on his shoulder, "I really don't blame you about being put out about this, but maybe Sam agreed to help out. He doesn't like to just sit around, you know that, and it sounds as though we really need everyone out helping who can, today."

"If it had been Sam's idea, then he would have told me, and you know that as well as I, Merry." Frodo turned on him, still livid. "No, it's this attitude that he isn't as good as you and I, and especially not her. I know she's your mother, Merry, but I must say that that sort of dreck really makes me want to disown any part of me that's remotely related to her, and stay at Bag End forever, where we're at home, and folk treat Sam with the respect that he deserves."

Merry steadfastly, though, kept his hand where it was. "She knows better, really she does, Frodo. It's just that, well, it's a bit of an emergency today, and you know that neither one of us could do the full day's work that Sam can do."

"Really." Frodo's voice became flat at that statement, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Well, if it's as desperate as all that, then I say that I should be working in the vineyards as well as Sam. If one guest is to be commandeered into service, then all should be."

"In principle, of course," Merry continued to argue. "But we'd never make it through a full day working the harvest, you and I. Sam's just more fit, that's all."

"If he's there, I'm there with him," Frodo's voice had begun to take on a hard edge.

"You couldn't do it, Frodo," Merry couldn't help an amused smile at the notion. "Those hands of yours were never meant for that sort of work."

"Bet I could," Frodo's response was swift and clipped.

"Bet you couldn't," Merry answered instantly. "But I bet I could."

"The harvesting, the same as Sam. Not supervising, the real work. Are you still on?"

Merry's hands were now on his hips, and they were glaring at each other, ignoring the occasional chicken investigating their foot hair.

"Oh, I could do it all right. Right up until the harvest is done, too."

"Your mother would never allow it, and you know that."

"Maybe it wouldn't be her choice."

"Very well, then. You're on."

"Fine. And if I can do it," Merry shot back, "then I get to spend a month with you and Sam at Bag End. If you can do it, then I won't ask you to come here for Yule. Agreed?"

"You heard this, right?" Frodo whipped around to Fatty, who, unhurriedly munching on a crust end, was watching the proceedings with mild interest.

"Believe so," was his laconic reply. " 'Course, you know, except for this bad hip of mine, I wouldn't mind…" But a quick glare from the other two was enough to cause him to quickly bury the rest of that statement in the sudden crunch of a pear.

"Good enough for me," Frodo bit his words off firmly, turning back to Merry. "Let's go find Sam."

Sam was more than a little surprised to see both Merry and Frodo arrive in the vineyard where he was already hard at work, but that was nothing compared to the astonishment of the foreman, when Merry announced his and Frodo's intentions to him. A muffled surge of incredulity swept out through the workers, like the ripples from a pebble carelessly tossed into a stream, and at the farthest ends of the vineyard, speculation ran quite rampant as to What This Might Mean. Nearer the two gentlehobbits, of course, the murmurings were kept at a minimum, and even Sam, after one discerning look at Frodo's expression, forbore any questioning for the moment.

But the foreman was glad indeed for the addition of two more able bodied hobbits, whatever their station in life might be, and put them to work with a will. The urgency of completing the harvest, in as little time as possible, was foremost in his mind, and he quickly decided that whatever repercussions there might be from the Master, they would be secondary to the more rapid completion of the task at hand.

So it was that Sam found himself dexterously cutting the ripe bunches of grapes from the vine and tossing them into the basket Frodo held. He hastily offered to trade tasks, but Frodo shook his head. "You're more skilled than I, I'd only manage to cut myself," he muttered briefly, and Sam said no more. The sun had risen to the highest point when the crew came to a brief halt for a hurried lunch. Sam seized that opportunity to haul Frodo inconspicuously to a shade tree at the edge of the vineyard, and question him.

Frodo was still taciturn, but briefly outlined what had happened to Sam, as they sat down on the frost-bleached fall grass, and began to quickly eat the working lunch provided to them. Sam listened carefully, hearing the note of anger still in Frodo's tone, and did not voice his own opinion that Frodo really did not need to have done this. It was clear enough that Frodo had felt the necessity of establishing that he and Sam were guests here together, and that anything that might be required of one should be asked of the other as well. In addition, he had seen Merry hard at work, and he was even now not far off, having a private word with the foreman. The foreman was shaking his head in disbelief at whatever it was that Merry was telling him, but there was an involuntary grin on his face as well, and Sam had a suspicion that no matter the outcome of all this, Merry's popularity among the working hobbits of Buckland had just taken a sudden jolt upwards, whether he was aware of it or no.

But all too soon, the lunch break was over, and they were back at work, cutting the grape clusters from the vines, and lifting and hauling the heavily laden baskets to the waiting pony carts, to be hauled to the press. The work was repetitious and wearisome, straining the arms and the back, and hard on the legs as well, but both Frodo and Merry kept up with the rest of the harvesters, never stopping, and never taking advantage of the lighter task of riding with the ponies to load and unload the crop. By the time the sun began to sink below the hills to the west, a large portion of the vineyard had been stripped bare of fruit, but the task was far from being complete, and the chilly wind that had begun to swirl about them as the afternoon wore on promised another night of frost.

"That'd be all for this day, lads," the foreman finally called out to the relief of all. "We'll just take this last load in tonight, and finish the rest in the morning. 'Tis a good day's work that you've done." Proud of their accomplishment, the workers started to trudge back through the fields to the Hall, stretching out cramped muscles and rubbing aching arms, and looking forward to the warmth of a comforting fire and a hearty meal. Sam, Frodo, and Merry walked towards the back of the throng, but all three were silent.

Frodo's old room was in what had once been the family's wing of Brandy Hall, before more luxurious quarters had been dug out of the hill within the last generation; thus one of the luxuries that he had always enjoyed was a private bath, as long as he was willing to lug the required water up the stairs. That had always seemed, when he lived here as a teen, small payment indeed for the extravagance of an hour alone in a steamy bath, free to daydream and wonder what his life might someday become.

As he and Sam plodded up the stairs to his room, having missed tea and with an hour or two until dinner, that room was at the forefront of his mind, and sinking into hot water was all he could think of. Sam knew that, and led Frodo silently there, planning on sitting him down, and going back down to fetch the water himself. But apparently, the staff had been keeping an eye out, for a kitchen lass was just exiting as they approached the door, bearing an empty bucket in either hand. "Oh, sirs," she exclaimed, automatically giving a curtsey. "You might just want to be waiting a moment, the water is that hot still."

Frodo looked up, and gave her a sudden thankful smile, causing her to unexpectedly turn rather rosy, even in the dim light of the one candle lit in a sconce at the top of the stairs. "Thank you so much, Pansy, and I suspect Miss Florent was behind this?" Miss Florent, long the housekeeper of Brandy Hall, had always had a noticeable soft spot for Frodo. She, too, had been orphaned at an early age.

Pansy nodded with a grin, and turned and was gone.

Sam stepped back then, and murmured, "I can wait, me dear. You probably need a good long relaxing soak."

Frodo shook his head, giving Sam a quick wry smile. "That's not really what I need, not quite. What I probably do need is a good shaking, too, but that's not all. Come on, Sam. You know what I really do need is you."

"Now, dear," Sam protested, but following him into the small steamy room anyway. "You'll be feelin' this tomorrow, you know you will. You best be takin' it easy now, love."

"Oh, I plan on doing that, never fear," Frodo responded, closing the door behind them. He held up the candle that he had brought with him, which had been lighting their way up the hallway, and lit another that stood at the ready on a small table near by. In a moment, his clothes were off him and he turned to Sam. But before Sam did likewise, he gently grasped Frodo's hands and held them up to the light of the candle.

Never had he seen Frodo's hands like this. They were reddened and blistered, dirt ground into the short nails, the knuckles split, and one nail torn and bloody. "Frodo," he whispered sadly, looking up at Frodo's suddenly dark expression. "You'd not have the calluses that I'd have, love."

"I don't care for feeling useless, any more than you do," Frodo replied, shortly. "Sometimes, I really feel so worthless, Sam. And to see someone as decent and kind as you treated so badly, it just…"

But whatever the end of his sentence would have been was lost in Sam's mouth, as he swept his arms around Frodo, and kissed him intently. "Worthless, you?" he muttered as his mouth broke apart from Frodo's. "Frodo, how can you think such a thing? We're not all meant to work in the dirt, me darling, and it don't make those of us as do any better than anyone else. Just you hush now, for you're not makin' a bit of sense." He pulled gently away from Frodo's yearning grasp for a moment, and quickly tugged his own clothes off as well, letting them fall to the floor with a carelessness that was entirely uncharacteristic of him. Soothingly, he guided a subdued Frodo to the tub, and stepped in first himself. Then, carefully, he tugged on Frodo's arm, and Frodo sat down into the tub as well, in front of Sam, and leaned back exhausted against him, as Sam's arms enfolded him.

"Lie you here with me," Sam whispered huskily in Frodo's ear, lightly kissing his neck as Frodo twisted and turned his face toward him, his eyes closing. "Nothing outside this room matters, me dear, 'tis only you with me."

"Oh, Sam," Frodo sighed, bring up his hands to cradle Sam's, heedless of the pain that had shot through them at the touch of the warm water. Right now, that really wasn't as important as what his hands held.

"If this weren't the way it should alus be," Sam muttered, burying his face in the crook of Frodo's neck, his kisses becoming longer and more insistent.

"Maybe we should leave everything and go far away," Frodo pushed back against Sam, and the feel of him hardening against his back caused a matching reaction in himself. "Just the two of us," he murmured. "We'd be happy then."

"Ah, me dear," Sam answered, his voice warm and rich in Frodo's ear. "We're happy now, love. Don't you ever be forgettin' that." His hands had slowly begun to stroke up Frodo's chest, and Frodo involuntarily curled back against him, pushing against Sam until he felt Sam's legs draw up on either side of him.

"Why, we are, aren't we, my dearest Sam." He felt Sam's breathing quicken in his ear, and turning toward him, ran his tongue lightly along the side of Sam's ear, tasting both the salt of Sam's sweat that had dried upon it, and the indescribable taste of Sam himself. "How did you ever become so wise, my love?"

"Not wise, never that," he felt Sam's hands slowly descending now, down his ribs, across his stomach. "But I am very happy, Frodo-love, whenever I'm with you. There'll never be anything better than that, never, in all my life." And his hands had now found Frodo, and closed around him, and with a sharp cry, Frodo pulled up his knees and arched his back, pushing hard against Sam behind him.

But Sam chuckled softly. "Ah, no, me dear. You'll be feelin' today enough tomorrow, you won't be needin' that too. Just you lie gentle now, and let your Sam be takin' care of you."

And with a soft moan, Frodo did. He gave himself over to Sam, Sam's gentle hands, so strong and yet so caring, stroking him expertly. Sam's arms were around him, and he lay back against that sturdy chest, and thoughts of anything other than the pleasure that vibrated through his body quickly left his mind. Hazily, he arched his back even higher, flinging his head back against Sam's shoulder, his own hands, all hurt now forgotten, closing around Sam's, caught up in the rhythm Sam had set, rocking against him and with him until there was nothing at all but the feel of Sam's hands matching his want, and that beloved voice whispering his name in his ear, until he gasped and let himself flow.

Sam held him close and said nothing more, until Frodo finally turned around with an effort. "What about you, Sam?" he questioned him, trying to find his voice again.

"No, me dear," Sam murmured at his question, his voice low, his eyes shining golden in the candlelight, and a warm smile lighting up his face, as he tenderly stroked the steam dampened curls from Frodo's forehead. "That was just for you, dearie. Just you rest now a bit with me, 'tis all I want."

Frodo did not see Merry that night, nor anyone else, for that matter. He had lain down, just for a few moments, as Sam had gone back to rinse out the bath, and the next thing he knew, it was late, and Sam was gently shaking him awake. "You'll be needin' a bit of supper, Frodo-love," he said quietly, smiling at Frodo as he sat on the side of the bed, a tray in his lap. "I just went down and fetched something for you. Saw Merry leaving the dining room early, too, I think he was headin' for his bed as well."

"Sam, you're a wonder," Frodo sat slowly up, still rather groggy, and joined Sam, who had moved the tray over onto the small table, pulling up a couple of chairs. But he had not eaten that much before his head began to nod down again, and he had to keep forcibly snapping his eyes open.

Sam laughed again, and murmured, "Well, we'll just have to make it up at breakfast, won't we?" Helping Frodo back to the bed, and laying him down carefully, he stripped his clothing off, and covered him up. "One more thing," he murmured, and gently reaching for one of Frodo's hands again, he picked up a small pot that had been, unnoticed, on the supper tray. "Got this from Cook," he explained. "Those hands of yours will never be healin', no ways, without a bit o'salve." Tenderly, he massaged the fragrant oils into Frodo's wounded hands, as Frodo watched him silently from under heavy lidded eyes.

When he was through, he laid Frodo's hands lovingly back on the coverlet, and stood up, carefully straightening his own back. "Let me just take this tray back down then, and I'll be right back. Some sleep is sounding right good to me, too, and no mistake."

"I can't tell you how much I love you, Sam." Frodo suddenly murmured, still watching Sam, his voice unexpectedly husky. "Hurry back."

Sam's smile widened as he looked down on Frodo. "Aye, that I will."

The air was frosty when the laborers assembled in the courtyard again the next morning, and the ice-rimed grass was evidence that the smudge pots had been necessary once again. They had all eaten a hasty first breakfast, and stuffed their pocket with a bit of something to serve for second breakfast. It was understood that there would likely be no breaking for a meal until the harvest was complete.

Sam had not seen Merry about, as he stood with Frodo at the back of the workers, but as they all started to walk down the road to the vineyard, Merry came quickly out from a side door and joined them. Neither he nor Frodo said anything to each other, but Sam, walking in between them, suddenly reached out and caught up Merry's hand, and stopped. Merry stopped as well, at first startled and puzzled, and then gave Sam a small sheepish grin, as Sam turned his hand over and examined it. And as Sam had surmised, it looked much as Frodo's had the night before, crossed over with blisters and small cuts, reddened and cracked open. Frodo had stopped as well, and at the sight, looked up at Merry's face with a wry grin of his own. "Sam found some salve that worked rather well," he mentioned softly, holding up the palm of his own hand, which had definitely improved from the night before.

Sam gave both of them a swift look as he let Merry's hand drop. "You'd both be still on this, then," he said, and it was not a question.

Merry's chin unconsciously jutted out at that. "I can finish this," he muttered briefly.

"I assume your mother does not know yet?" Frodo asked, with a certain amount of amusement.

"Oh, you'll know it when she does, I suspect," Merry commented dryly, and then glanced after the workers ahead of them. "Hurry up, then, they're leaving us behind."

The morning seemed endless to both Frodo and Merry, but just as they had started working on the last row, then was a sudden commotion, and Merry looked wearily up to see his father riding toward them on his favorite pony. "Meriadoc," he called out imperiously. "Come here."

With reluctance, Merry handed over the basket he had been holding to another hobbit, and, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, walked over to where his father was waiting. Frodo and Sam were nearby as well, and both unconsciously slowed down, unashamedly listening, although they did not glance that way.

"Meriadoc, I believe that your task was to assist old Burt in the pressroom, not to be here getting in the way of those who know what they are doing," Saradoc Brandybuck's voice was low, but clearly angry. "What is the meaning of this?"

"There was nothing for me to do there, Father," Merry faced his father courageously, with only his hands twisting together unseen behind his back as a sign of his nervousness. "Old Burt doesn't need my help, and I thought every hobbit was needed here. Or at least that's what Mother said when she demanded that Sam join the workers here, even though he is a guest of mine," he added, a trace of anger beginning to creep into his voice as well.

"That was uncalled for, I grant you that," Saradoc's mouth became a little grim. "And I assume that is why you are here as well, Frodo," he added, addressing his former charge, as the two visitors turned around and made no more pretense at working. "We normally do not impress our guests into our working force, as well you know. I do apologize for that."

Frodo bowed slightly at the brief apology, and steadily held his gaze.

"All the same, Meriadoc," Saradoc added, turning back to his son, "when I expect you to be somewhere…"

But the sentence remained hanging in the air, for just then, Fatty appeared, at a pace fast enough that for Fatty, it was positively a dash. "I say," he exclaimed, panting for a few moments before he could continue. "I just thought that the lot of you ought to know that milady Brandybuck is on her way over. And if she doesn't look half put out, why, then I'm a Proudfoot." He continued to pant from the exertion, but now rather in the manner of a brave but tragic figure.

His performance, however, went to waste as Saradoc and Merry turned to look at each other at that news, and Sam could swear that the same expression was in the eyes of both, a quickly hidden moment of pure panic. But there was no more time to react, for the upright figure of Esmerelda Brandybuck, regally perched upon a finely bred pony, could now clearly seen to be descending upon them.

She stopped directly in front of Merry, gazing down at him with obvious scorn, as he stood, scratched, begrimed, and weary, yet still proudly defiant, before her. "Meriadoc, I have rarely seen you look worse," she said coldly, and then looked back up into the eyes of her husband, level with hers as they both sat on their mounts. "So I see this is how you would train our son to be Master," her words were clipped and frigid.

But Saradoc gave her a piercing look and said firmly, "We will speak of this later, Esme. This is neither the time nor the place." Giving Merry a last look as he turned his pony to leave, he added, "And we are not yet through either, Meriadoc." With that, he left, but Esmerelda remained, her expression at the rebuke wrathful.

With a swift graceful movement, she dismounted, and approached the three younger hobbits. The rest of the harvesting crew had moved on by now, eager not to be noticed by the lady of the manor, and even Fatty stayed as discreetly as possible in the background.

"I blame you for this, Frodo Baggins," she hissed, advancing toward him with an expression full of genuine hatred. "It's you, who has tried to take my son from me, ever since that cursed day that you came to this smial. Not are you only content to defile the name of Baggins, such as it was, by taking a peasant into your bed, and even worse, flaunting him continuously before all decent folk, but you have led my son astray as well. He would follow you in anything you do, and it does not matter to him that you are the lesser son of a lesser family, and he is to become the Master of Brandy Hall. No, he thinks all Frodo Baggins does is worthy, and he seeks only to follow in your footsteps, no matter what his mother might say. He would follow you to the ends of the earth, and never think twice of it, that I know full well. I curse the day I ever saw you, Frodo, for you have brought nothing but grief to me."

Frodo watched her helplessly, aghast and not knowing how to answer, but aware that Sam, standing next to him, was clenching his fists at his side. He dared not to glance in his direction. But Merry, whose face had been swept pale by emotion, moved toward her and lifted a hand. For a moment, Frodo had a horrified thought that Merry meant to hit her, but then Merry's hand fell softly onto her shoulder, and his voice was soft as he said, "Mother. Stop, and come with me."

Esme's eyes fell tightly shut as Merry gently led her some distance away. Then, placing both hands on her shoulders, he stared at her as she bowed her head, and unwilling, let the tears slide down her face. It came to him, as he watched her, that quite possibly he was the only person, in all of the Shire, whom she loved. And that she was desperately afraid of losing him.

"Mother," he repeated softly. "I know that you think that you are trying to protect me. But I am nearly grown, and I have a right to choose who my friends will be. I love Frodo dearly, no matter what you might think of him, and Sam too, for that matter. I will continue to do so, and I expect you to tolerate, if not enjoy, his presence on the rare occasions he's here."

Esme said nothing, and her head stayed bowed.

"Don't make me make a choice, Mother," Merry continued, watching her closely. "Don't drive me away."

Slowly, very slowly, she nodded her head, and still without looking at him, quickly remounted, and left. Merry stood still, watching her leave, and there was anguish on his face.

The first bottle of the latest season had been opened, and had been toasted as a fine vintage, much the best of at least the last ten years, as Merry, Frodo, Sam, and Fatty gathered around the back fireplace of the vast dining room of Brandy Hall. Saradoc was still trading banter with the various buyers who had been invited for the occasion, and Esme was looking her finest, with a lovely new dark rose dress that set off her dark grey-blue eyes, so much like her son's, to their finest effect. Graciously, she entertained the buyers' wives, and none of them could see the pain that was still behind that elegant and courteous appearance.

"Well, Frodo, I suppose you are off the hook," Merry muttered, seated in a low chair, and stretching his legs out in front of him. He was looking decidedly neater than he had only a few hours before that. "After all, I never quite made it to the end of the harvest."

"Well, I don't believe I did either," Frodo responded graciously, stretched out on the rug before the fire. "So I suppose you can expect us for Yule this year, assuming of course, if your mother can stomach us once again."

"She will," Merry said briefly, staring into the fire, "at least for my sake. But I guess the month at Bag End is out. Well, it would have been impractical, anyway, for so many reasons."

"That's nonsense, if you don't mind me sayin' so, Merry," came Sam's voice suddenly, as he sat, nearly hidden in the shadow, at Frodo's side. "After all," he continued, with a wry look toward Frodo, "if you'd not be mindin' a bit of noise from time to time, we'd be that glad of havin' you about, no mistake."

"Sam!" exclaimed Frodo, delighted at his invitation. He smiled warmly toward him, and turned to Merry. "It was but a silly bet, Merry-love. It might not be a bad time for a visit, after all."

"Oh, wouldn't I love to," Merry sighed, with obvious reluctance. "But there's nothing to distract Mother until Yule, and she really does get lonely…"

But with that statement, Fatty suddenly unwound his lanky self, and rose from the rug on which he had been sprawled. "I trust you will remember this, Merry," he said with emphasis. "For you really are a decent sort, and I would never dream of doing this for anyone else."

Bewildered, the three watched him walk away, and straight up to Esme Brandybuck. "Aunt Esme," they could hear his drawl, "my mother has been positively pining to see you. You couldn't possibly manage to give up a few weeks of your time, now, could you? It would make her ever so happy. And Estella would be absolutely beyond words. Do say you'll come, now, won't you?"

"My goodness, that certainly does sound like a lovely idea," they could hear Esme's pleased voice. "I will have to check to see if my obligations will allow it, but that indeed would be very enjoyable."

And as Fatty politely awaited, as she began to collect up the rest of the visitors to retire to the drawing room, he turned slightly, and gave the others a noticeable wink. "Desperate times, lads," he whispered in their direction with a wry smile, before turning back and graciously taking her arm to escort her there. The other three, with broad grins, raised their goblets in tribute to the indomitable, and heroically brave, Fredegar Bolger.