The following sunrise, Frodo was very loathe to wake. Merimac called him several times to no avail, then resolved the entire problem by dumping a half-pail of very cold water on him. Frodo leapt upright, spluttering and cursing, and Merimac's look had none of its normal indulgence, only irritation. He also seemed tired and preoccupied.

"I said up, lad, for the last time," he said sternly—then, as he turned and started up the stair to the deck, ordered, "I want you on deck in fifteen minutes. And strip the bed while you're at it, unless you want to sleep on damp sheets."

"Damper than we make them?" Frodo growled as his cousin disappeared and the voice faded above-decks into a lot of barked orders that were becoming all too familiar. "Bloody slave-driver."

Dutifully but sullenly, Frodo divested the mattress of its bedding and hung it on the lines strung in one corner for precisely that purpose. He spent several blissful moments contemplating that stayline on the far side of the bed, a charmed grin on his face. Running curious and contemplative fingers over his wrists—which were, as Merimac had predicted, somewhat bruised—Frodo shivered at his own touch and closed his eyes. Never did he imagine that he would have ever let anyone do something like that to him, let alone that it would be so… so…

Another drift of snapped-out orders passed above him, and Frodo brooded over how the indulgent cousin who played so hard and wonderfully at night had once again turned into his day persona—one both infuriating and bewildering to Frodo. Forcibly tearing attention from his wrists and the bed, Frodo put on his clothes and did his morning duty of straightening the cabin, and suddenly realised that he'd slept through breakfast.

"Mayhap you'll wake next time as you should," Merimac told him on deck, quite tersely, when he asked about food. Frodo stared at him unbelievingly, but his older cousin was intent upon a piece of parchment unrolled in his hands, muttering to himself and paying Frodo absolutely no further attention. Citrine came over; Merimac let loose a few sharp comments, jerking his head toward the bow; she was unfazed by his manner, merely nodding as a frown furrowed her own brow.

"We talked of this last night, Cap'n. The Strait's trouble on a good day, to be sure. But this… the early thaw's ensured it to be in angry spate and I don't like it, not one bit. Surely there's another way."

"Believe me, lass, if there was another way we'd already have considered it," Merimac said flatly. "Someone has to spot the rocks and you know it; I'm the only choice and you know that as well. The only one who is more familiar with this passage than I am is Munro, and he's too old to go point."

As Citrine shrugged unwilling agreement, she noticed Frodo still standing by them and ordered, "On with you, boy. The day's wasting and doesn't need you gawking like a lubber. You can grease the blocks then you can start the mop, and the portholes need some spit-shining, to boot." Then she turned back to the chart in Merimac's hands. Merimac was peering at the parchment with tension and concentration both.

Frodo stared at both their backs, then clenched his teeth and went to do as bidden.

While he was doing the messy work with the oar blocks, Slow Tolly inched over to him and, with a gentle smile, pulled from his tattered coat a sizeable hunk of bread stuffed with sausage. "I saved it for ye," he said in his deliberate way. "Thought ye might need it, bein' a growin' lad an' all."

Frodo took it eagerly, not even minding his greasy hands, and wolfed down a bite. "Thank you," he said between chews. "Very much."

"Eh, it'll be fine, young master," Tolly said, and patted his arm. "Early days are always th' worst. I was dog-tired my first whole fortnight. Ye'll do fine."

Frodo smiled at the warmth the tiny riverhobbit's words gave him. He looked over towards Merimac, and found his cousin striding toward the bow with that same, tensioned purpose. This time Munro was beside him, walking with the rolling stride his one stunted leg gave him.

"Aye, Cap'n's bit of a bear right now, and will be for the next few days. It's because we're soon taking on the Strait," Tolly informed him.

"The Strait?" He'd heard that mentioned more than once.

"Aye. Nasty place. Rocks as big as Gillyflower herself. Capn' and old Munro's the only ones who knows it, like. Most of us've been through it several times—but Himself's done the Strait hunnerds o' trips. An' our Flower's survived 'em all with nary more than a rap to her hull. But now?" Tolly grimaced. "Now River's high for late winter—thaw's come early 'cause of the purty weather—and River's worse'n she's ever been. It's gonter to be quite a ride."

Frodo gratefully finished his impromptu meal, and Tolly patted him again, leaning forward with a childlike grin that betrayed several large and intriguing gaps in his teeth. "I wish ye'd hurry your shakedown, though. I hate it when Citrine makes me do riggin'. It's… hard. I want my mop back."

He was serious, too.

With such rather-odd encouragement, Frodo that very afternoon proved that he could climb, and climb well. Thusly, as the lightest of them—including Citrine, who was shorter but much more generously framed—Frodo was promoted to the high rigging, unfouling line and sighting ahead. The sighting was to become his favourite, clinging to the mast and swaying in the breeze, lookout up- and down-River for obstacles and other boats that might cross their path. He was miffed by Merimac's insistence that he wear a harness—none of the others did—but the one time he'd wriggled out of it, Citrine had merely sent a crewhobbit up to put it back on him, like some bairn.

He was not so good at the unfouling of the rigging. He'd faked a competence so far at it, but the nautical art of knots and hitches seemed far more complicated a language than Elvish ever was, and several times Frodo watched Tolly below, cheerfully mopping away at the decks Frodo was no longer bound to, and paradoxically envied him.

Now, however, he was working away at a knot with fingers, toes and teeth. It seemed that every time he nearly got it figured out, it would curl about itself in an even more complex patterning. It also didn't help that every time he espied a rope his wrists would tingle and he'd flush to the tips of his toes and think about things that certainly didn't encourage his brain to work very well. Gritting teeth against myriad fantasy, he tugged at the rope, one foot stuck firmly in the end to hold it taut, one wrist through and working one side, his other hand trying the near side.

It happened before he could even draw breath. A large swell sent Gillyflower rolling to one side; the air caught the opposite side of the sails and she nearly jibed, several crew hauling at the lines just in time. But it was enough to overbalance Frodo, in his precarious state; he went flying forward and hurtled down toward the deck with a sudden cry.

He was stopped, with a jerk that made his stomach lurch into his throat and his lungs empty of air with a sharp 'huh', by harness and roped-off heel and hand, barely a length from the deck.

Merimac came charging over from aft, stopping only as he made the realisation that his cousin was not splattered all over the deck but suspended arse-upward by tangled rigging rope and stayline. Giving Frodo a level stare, he barked an order.

In consequence two crewhobbits swarmed up the mast. One reached out and grabbed Frodo by the harness; the other took his foot and inspected the rope, tugging at it from several different angles—futilely, as it turned out. "Bloody damn, lad!" was his exclamation. "How'd you get it into this mess?"

Merimac strode closer; it was the weirdest experience, seeing him upside down like this, and the least bit of ship's motion made Frodo sway back and forth, making it seem as if his cousin was involved in some deliberate and odd dance.

"Making this a habit, are you?" he growled; Frodo started to protest then realised he was starting to become quite dizzy. And he abruptly remembered Merimac and Bilbo, talking about how he'd gotten caught in the rigging as a child…

"It's fast, Cap'n," said the hobbit inspecting Frodo's tingling foot. "I can't wrangle it out."

And sod-all but Frodo realised, dizzy or no, he was suddenly hard as a rock, hanging there right in front of the hobbit who'd tied him up and taken him almost to the stars and back… but there was nothing gentle or forgiving in Merimac's face, and Frodo was suddenly angry. Angry at himself for reacting like this, and angry at Merimac for not noticing that he was reacting like this.

Merimac stepped closer to Frodo, pulled his bronze knife from its belt sheath and held it up, right before his face. "A waste of good rope too, bugger it. Go on, cut yourself down."

Cheeks stinging both with embarrassment and too much blood to his head, with his free hand Frodo palmed the knife he'd gifted his cousin and bent to his foot, eager to get out of his awkward predicament. What he didn't realise was that the second hobbit up in the rigging with him had unsnapped his harness where it had gotten caught; once the knife cut through the rope there was no longer anything holding him up.

He hit the deck with a nice, solid thud, the knife clattering beside him. Merimac reached down, palmed his blade and quite unceremoniously hauled Frodo to his feet. Adding insult upon injury, Frodo was roughly passed to Citrine. "I've charts to find," Merimac growled, and stalked back into his cabin.

Frodo watched him go, feeling at sea both literally and figuratively.

"Munro!" Citrine called the old hobbit, who hobbled over and eyed her. She gave Frodo a little shove in his direction. "Looks as if you've another pupil. He can help you mend the rope he cut."

Munro grimaced, then jerked his head towards the boat's stern.

With a glance at the closed door of Merimac's cabin, then a more sullen one at Citrine, Frodo nevertheless had no choice but to obey.

* * * * * *

They'd laid anchor in a small cove, not wanting to make any closer approach to the Strait in the dark, and now it was fully night. By that time any untoward reaction to ropes or their effect on his skin had quite paled with proximity. Frodo's had several rope burns on the heel of his right hand, and fingers were sore and felt like scraped, bloated sausages as he finally opened and closed the door to the main cabin, trudging down the stairs.

Merimac was there, back to the door and bent over his large mapping table, several lamps holding down large charts there. A pipe was clenched in his teeth, and he kept muttering to himself.

Frodo dismounted from the stairwell and stood there, uncertain. The smoke, pulled his direction by the change in air current, wafted about his head and he snuffed it in with a sigh, closing his eyes as they stung. Old Toby—Bilbo's favourite.

For two seconds he was sorry for not saying anything to Bilbo about leaving—for two more was sorry that he'd left. He quickly shunted it away; Bilbo hadn't wanted him and it seemed, more and more, that Merimac really didn't, either.

So he was surprised when Merimac softly spoke. "Take some of that liniment paste for your hands, Frodo. The first time Munro put me to knots I thought I'd never use mine again."

That fear had been there, just as it had appeared after every harvest, wondering if he'd be able to put pen to paper ever again. Looking at his hands, Frodo's eyes filled—he'd not been able to even crack a book, much less write in any of them. Not since last night—and he'd been too tired to even read it!—or that magical, lovely night when he'd lain in bed with Merimac at the inn, sated and excited and too keyed up to sleep.

"Here, now." Merimac came over, put an arm about him.

"I'm… all right. I'm just tired." Frodo tried to worm from the embrace; Merimac didn't let him.

"I'm tired, too. You rather have that effect, you know… here. Sit down." With a gentle push, Merimac settled Frodo on the bed and reached over, taking the liniment jar from its cubby and then kneeling down in front of him. With some care, he opened Frodo's hands and started to rub the ointment into them. "Not as bad as it could be, I promise. The old hobbit isn't cruel, just efficient. Munro's forgotten more about knot-work and the ways of the water than I'll ever hope to know."

The liniment stung, but travelled soothingly up into his wrists. Merimac's fingers worked it in, a tender burr of sensation that made Frodo's stomach clench with sudden yearning. And then his cousin made his way up to where there were, indeed, small bruises and nicks of raw flesh about Frodo's wrists, sweet reminders of what he'd thought well dampened…

Merimac's lips suddenly quirked. "Shall I try this on your ear, eh?"

Frodo felt his cheeks warm, remembering how his cousin had teased him about being so easily roused, and why. Humiliatingly his eyes filled again, this time spilling over.

"Oh, no," Merimac said ruefully, and pulled him close.

Miserable beyond any anger at his cousin, or any lustful yearning for his touch, Frodo buried his face into the broad chest. It seemed so long ago, that night in Bag End after the Tithing where Merimac had teased him about rising to anything including a finger in his ear. Before everything had fragmented into overwhelmed chaos and he had literally fallen into his own eyes… and Merimac and Bilbo both had been there, one to cradle his body, the other to hold his spirit. Now one was gone, and the other was going, it seemed.

Frodo cupped his sore, liniment–smelling hands about Merimac's nape and tilted his face upward, pulling his cousin into a kiss. Merimac was rather slow in responding to the advance; his motion backwards was slight, but real as he started to speak. It seemed negative, and Frodo actively panicked.

"Please. Please." There was real insecurity in the appeal; he was mortified even as he spoke the words, but they were unstoppable. "Mac, sometimes you act as if you don't even care about me above deck, so please show me this now… mmph!"

Long silence ensued, then a damp parting of lips, then a low, vehement statement accompanied by angry grey eyes and pinching fingers upon Frodo's arms. "That's not true. Don't you dare to play that card with me, Frodo Baggins."

Frodo looked away, his chin quivering. Merimac lasted a good five seconds; he sighed and took Frodo's chin in his hand. "I mean it," he said firmly. "Don't be starting that."

"But it's the truth!" Frodo burst out. "You hardly pay any attention to me up there—the only time you seem to think I'm alive is when I'm down here and naked with you!"

Merimac stood. "You seem to forget it's you who is so blasted eager to get naked."

"Which proves my point, doesn't it?" Frodo protested hotly, his voice rising. "If I wasn't using every trick you taught me, would you be loving me, or no? Are you sorry that I came here?"

"Damn it, no!" Merimac had started to turn away in exasperation, but stilled as he heard the very real worry in his cousin's voice. "Frodo, no. I've never been sorry that you're here—"

"Then why are you doing this to me?" Frodo demanded. "Why are you treating me like—"

"Like everyone else aboard?" Merimac broke in swiftly. "Like I treat every new hire that comes onto this boat, no exceptions, no favourites?" He took a breath, let it out in a sigh. "Oh, Frodo, I'm sorry. I never thought of how it must look to you… sometimes you act so old that I forget how young you really are. And how often you've been just… dropped overboard, like old bait."

Gritting his teeth, Frodo lowered his eyes.

"Listen to me. You're my cousin. You're my lover. By those two simple things you're already boarding this boat with more privilege and difference than anyone who's joined my crew has ever been possessed of. And how many times have you told me that you don't want to be so singled out, so special and different?"

"I… don't. It's just—"

"It's just you're being a young lad thinking with his heart and his cock and not his brain," Merimac retorted sharply. "You have to understand this, dearest, if you understand nothing else: Gillyflower is a happy craft and I intend her to stay that way. This means that above-decks you have to prove your worth and work your own way. Even more than usual, I'm afraid, because you rank everyone on board by your connections to me and they realise it. They'll accept you now because they trust my judgment, but wouldn't you rather have them come to respecting you for yourself?"

Frodo met his cousin's firm gaze.

"If I coddle you in the rigging as well as between the coverlets, then I'm proving myself unfit and encouraging my crew—including you, now—to lose respect for me and my methods. If I treat my crew—again, including you—stark fair, then they'll give what they get. We have to work together out here, and oft-times it's hard, the work."

"I don't mind hard work!"

"I know that, love. You've worked your arse off these past days, and don't think I haven't noticed. I also know you're smart enough to appreciate that those who don't work or mind fair on this boat don't stay; that work, willingness and courage are what prove a riverhobbit's worth, not whose bed you were born to or how much land and coin you've acquired. That's the lay of the River, Frodo, and the sooner you take that to heart the better off you'll be."

"I…" Frodo almost swallowed the words, then let them come, along with another sudden, shaky rash of tears, "It's just I'm so tired, and Citrine treats me like dirt, and Munro thinks I'm some toff who's never worked an honest day in his life… and look at me, maybe I am because I can't stop blubbering like a stupid bairn and the worst of it is that you're always looking at me as if I'm doing nothing right, or lacking in everything. The only time you do treat me like… like you care for me is when we're in here. And I'm so… dazed by all of this, by you. I don't know what to do or even what to be, because sometimes all I want to do is look at you and touch you, talk to you and love you. But then… sometimes I can't stand it because it's just too much…"

He trailed off.  Merimac leaned forward, crossed his arms on Frodo's knees and just looked at him. The silence and the considering gaze, as always, gave Frodo control over his being and his voice.

"None of this makes any sense, does it?—and I'm not sure how to explain it, because I want to be with you, and thinking you might not want me here after all… well, I couldn't believe that it would hurt so damned much, but… but then there's the other things fighting even that… I want to be with you, but it's too close and I'm not used to it, d'you see? I haven't had any time to myself, not at all. There's always someone telling me what to do, or where to go, and then I'm so full of… whatever… that by the time I come down here and see you all I want to do is…" he trailed off.

"Yes," Merimac said wryly into the pause. "I've noticed."

A sardonic chuckle forced itself from Frodo's own chest. "Well, it is awfully nice," he admitted, cheeks heating. "But it doesn't stop the… the need for silence. I mean," he furthered as Merimac's expression flickered with puzzlement, "lately it's as if… well, as if I can't find my own place, and if I can't find it and just be there, be held sway by my own thoughts, I think I'll explode." The grey eyes were wide upon him, so concerned that Frodo couldn't hold beneath the weight of them. "Can you understand that? Everything is just too busy, and too cluttered, and my head feels crammed with thoughts that can't escape, and I'm not so lost to sense that I don't know daydreaming is not exactly something best done at the top of a mast, or the edge of a rail, so I've not had any chance to just be quiet… or read… or write…"

A telling silence, then suddenly Merimac's arms were about him and the deep voice was, if slightly touched with fond humour, more understanding than he would have thought his cousin would be—about this, at any rate. "If you've no time to read or write, perhaps it's because, as you said, you insist on topping or being topped every night. And then you fall asleep after."

Frodo wiped at his nose rather mournfully.

"But yes. I do understand. D'you think I have my own cabin just out of swank? I like having my own place to bide, too… and while we're doing fairly well sleeping all wrapped about each other, you're wearing me out. And it seems that I'm wearing you out too, just in a different way."

"I… guess so," Frodo said, leaning into the embrace.

"I know it all feels like rough water to you now, even though we've truly had smooth sailing for most of your shakedown.  But real rough water lies ahead, and I can't have my concentration taken from that. The River can take as much as she gives, and you know that better than most, eh?"

Frodo nodded slowly. "Is it the Strait?"

"Ah, you've heard about it, then."

"Only in passing. You and Citrine were talking about it this morning, weren't you? And Slow Tolly warned me that you're a bear when we have to broach it."

Merimac chuckled. "Tolly's slow, but he's not stupid. Heed him and you won't go far wrong.

"And heed me. I love you dearly, but my lady is a jealous mistress and she takes a lot of my time and energy. I don't mean to ignore you, and Munro and Citrine both are treating you no more or less than they treat any other snot-nosed and ignorant lad that comes aboard, and," he hesitated, gave Frodo's dark curls a lingering nuzzle, "as to the lack of quiet and space… I'm not sure how, but we'll attend to that as we can. All right?"

Frodo nodded again, then was possessed of a strange shiver as Merimac lifted his hands and kissed his wrists, one by one.

"You and I are quite the proper playmates, finding out all sorts of things about the other, eh?" This with a meaningful smirk. "But for now, we are going to sleep, and directly at that. There's enough action to be had tomorrow without seeking it between the sheets tonight, and I mean that." Again, he kissed Frodo's palms. "Get washed up and to bed. I'll join you presently."

When Merimac finally did roll up his maps, blow out the lamp and come to bed, Frodo merely snuggled close and closed his eyes. A chuckle, a soft kiss to his temple, then Merimac gave a sigh and burrowed in himself.

* * * * * *

Tolly might be slow, but he was sharp as a new-honed blade in his assessment of the Strait. Narrow, it was, with rocks thrusting up like jagged, vicious teeth from beneath the River, copper-cream froth glinting dully in the sunlight, built from the churning of the Brandywine. For long seconds Frodo couldn't manage to call down from the mast—the magnitude of it choked him. He simply hung there, wind tugging at his hair and tearing his eyes. Finally he made his voice work.

"Ahead!" he called down, somewhat hoarsely. "It's ahead! The Strait!"

He caught sight of his cousin's eyes for brief seconds, realised that Merimac already knew, was merely waiting for confirmation.

"Batten down!" Merimac gave the shout. "Batten down strong. On deck, Frodo, now!"

The crew scattered like ants across the decking, hurrying to do his bidding. Frodo hesitated, staring with bleak fascination at the roiling waters not very far ahead.

"Giddown, lad!" Munro bellowed up at him. "En't safe, there!"

Frodo started, tore his eyes from the scene ahead and clambered down the pole. He barely had time to unsnap his harness line before Munro came over to him and, without any further ado, grabbed Frodo by that same harness and pulled him over nigh to the door leading down to Merimac's cabin. Beside the door was one of the ever-present handles; Munro said only, "Hold t' it an' stay!" and turned on one heel, marching over to the rudder-wheel. Frodo obeyed without a word. It was frightfully serious, the whole business, particularly when seeing the tension in the crew, their determined focus upon the upcoming narrow passage of upthrust rocks.

As Frodo watched, Merimac shrugged into harness and stayline. Citrine made sure it was fast, nodded, and Merimac clipped the line to the bowsprit. Frodo watched with growing alarm as his cousin began to crawl out onto the hard wood. Letting out a small moan of protest, Frodo started forward, only to find that Munro had clipped his own harness and line to the handle. He was relegated to mere observation, not help, as Merimac settled himself down on the suddenly-small-seeming bowsprit, all but hanging from it. There was a glint of gold in one hand: a stopwatch. Holding it out in front of him, Merimac glanced at it but his gaze was also settled determinedly ahead; he seemed more focused than frightened, but Frodo was suddenly scared enough, he was sure, for both of them. Only one arm and both legs held Merimac to the bowsprit; if he lost his grip, or was lurched off, or his harness didn't hold secure, it would be merely a question as to which would take him first: the rocks, or Gillyflower's prow.

This was what had been meant by 'point': lookout for the rocks and rapids.

The galley was careening toward the Strait at a speed that was daunting, sunlight spinning and dappling over the deck, the oarshobbits taking up oar and the rigginghobbits hauling at rope and sail in preparation. Munro gripped the wheel, his eyes narrowed against the sun, focused sharply ahead. Tree branches clawed at the upper rigging; Citrine looked upward and gave a sharp curse as Gillyflower tried to yaw. She shouted out an order that was quickly carried out; the galley wobbled then straightened once more, was sucked through the swift, hungry water. "Cap'n!" she bellowed warning, pointing up.

Merimac's face filled with apprehension as he saw the upper peril; however he shook it off and quickly returned his eyes to the lower. Long seconds went by then he gave a sudden shout, a short directive that Frodo had no understanding of but obviously the crew did. With amazing speed the sails were trimmed, the burly oarshobbits along one side of the galley were hauling with all their strength, and Gillyflower heeled in the water.

Another shout; the galley lurched powerfully to the right at her crew's behest then abruptly sagged backwards, accompanied by the sound of breaking tree branches from overhead. Frodo lurched back under the overhang just in time; grey hunks of wood fell about him and a broken branch rapped his shoulder rather painfully. Sails ripped with a ragged, sharp growl; the masts creaked, popped. Citrine shouted something, Merimac gave a sharp yell and the crew, amidst curses and heartfelt pleas, gamely responded. In consequence Gillyflower gave a groan and plunged abruptly forward, sending Merimac hanging to one side of the bowsprit and several of the crew sprawling as her bow leapt from the water like a pony at the starter's shout.

"Son of a—!" Merimac swore, desperately righting himself, and screamed, "Hard a-port, now!!"

Munro spun the wheel and the oarshobbits strained; the sails luffed uselessly at the change, were quickly and desperately sheeted tight by the rigginghobbits so that they miraculously filled—but not quickly enough. There was another lurch from Gillyflower, then a brutal jolt that sent Frodo sprawling forward—he would have hit the decking if not for his harness—then a high-pitched scream. Dangling like a puppet from the end of his stayline, desperately trying to get his feet back underneath him, Frodo wondered in a panic if someone had fallen overboard—if Mac had fallen…

But no hobbit throat could make that noise. It was the ravage of wood and paint, both shearing from Gillyflower's starboard hull.

"PORT!" Merimac bellowed, hanging on for all his life was worth, and it seemed impossible for the hobbits were surely straining and sheeting and cleating for all their life, but Gillyflower kept wailing and it gave them all that last adrenaline-laced impetus. Shouts and curses were all but drowned beneath the boat's shrieks, then Gillyflower gave to their ministrations, fiercely pitched to port and quieted.

"Did she hole?" Munro shouted, but there was no time to answer, let alone find out, as Merimac barked another command. The crew obeyed; the galley lurched even further to port; Frodo banged into the wall and grabbed at it, seeking some sort of purchase.

Citrine, running past Frodo, reached out and snatched him upright, held him there for the precious seconds it took him to steady, then sped over to starboard.

"Did she hole?" Munro shouted again; Citrine leaned over the railing so far that Frodo feared for her balance, then shoved upright again, shook her head, eyes wide and fearful.

"Can't tell!"

Merimac had thrown a wild glance backwards; it was plain he was worried for his vessel, yet he only had that second to consider all the possible outcomes of what damage there was—steering loss, listing, a hole that even now was filling the galley's hold with copper water, how his crew could survive if Gillyflower suddenly went down—before the Strait once again demanded his full attention. He turned back to the River with eyes hard as flint. His voice was raw as he spat more orders; the crew responded with like determination. None of them could be spared to so much as go below and look.

Hours passed—or minutes, Frodo wasn't sure—only that he could all but feel and smell the tension and worst of all could only watch, feeling as ragingly helpless as he ever had, as the other hobbits, all straining muscles and sharp eyes, hung to their posts, as his cousin hung doggedly onto the front of his boat, shouting directives and guiding them through the treacherous waters that he himself had navigated so many times.

Then, suddenly, it was over.

Gillyflower gave one last tilt then righted and slid smoothly into the downstream current. She was once more graceful and steady, powered only by the wake of the Strait as it dropped away aft.

"Stand down," Citrine ordered, but there was a quaver in her voice. The oarshobbits racked their tools and collapsed forward on them, sides heaving; ropes were set for quiet running; Munro leaned heavily against the wheel, his hands shaking upon it.

At the bow, Merimac crawled backwards from his perch, twisted then slid to his buttocks on the deck, burying his face in his hands.

For long seconds, silence hung over Gillyflower.

Frodo wanted to call his cousin's name, say something—anything!—the sudden atmosphere of defeat and despair was that unnerving; but his own throat wouldn't work.

Suddenly Merimac raised his head and rocked to his feet. Gone was the momentary surrender and powerlessness; his mouth was drawn thin and his jaw set hard, his eyes storm-dark and set. With a quick, angry motion he unclipped his harness and strode determinedly to the galley's starboard edge.

Munro had left the wheel; he was leaning over the railing.

From over his shoulder Merimac barked at Citrine and Tolly, "Go check. Now."

Tolly was already halfway to the hole leading down; Citrine ran to join him and they both disappeared into the galley's hold.

Nip, one of the rigginghobbits closest to Frodo's own age, came over to Frodo's side and gave him a worried glance. That look was scrawled over the faces of every member of Gillyflower's crew. They all hung in wait—heads cocked to listen, Frodo suddenly realised, for the sound of water sucking into a vessel of wood.

Munro clipped another stayline to Merimac's harness; Merimac climbed the railing and shinnied down headfirst, Munro and one of the massive oarshobbits slowly deploying the line.

Silence hung once more, so heavily that Frodo wanted to scream.

All that was visible of Merimac was his broad, brown-furred ankles and feet.

"Mac?" Munro finally rasped out.

"Take me up!" came Merimac's voice; he was obeyed and swung back over the rail. He staggered for a moment as the blood rushed from his head, then said, slowly, "No breaks visible, but she's torn fair ugly and there's no telling..."

Then Tolly came running up from the hold, and Merimac tensed expectantly. Tolly, however, was smiling broadly.

"No sign, Cap'n—not even a trickle!"

It was as if a too-taut wire had snapped. Several of the crew gave a glad cry; Nip gave Frodo a grateful and hard clout on the shoulder, which Frodo gladly returned; Munro slumped against the rail and wiped a hand across his brow; Merimac strode forward and gave Tolly a hard, quick hug; Citrine came running up-deck, pumping her fists in victory.

It was only then Frodo realised that he'd all but stopped breathing, he took a dizzy gasp of air and leaned back against the cabin wall, trembling all over. His armpits were scraped raw from dangling in the harness, and his hands stung; he opened them slowly—they protested such movement with more pain—and found his fingers grey-white, his palms burned from the stayline.

He looked up, found Merimac's eyes upon him, tired and full of question. Frodo nodded, albeit shakily, was rewarded by a weary but approving smile.

* * * * * *

"Not tonight."

"Oh, please?"

Silence. Then, "By the Mother, but today's passage was a rough one. I think all my pointed intentions were used up today."

Gillyflower floated quietly, anchored in a small lee some distance south of the Strait. The next day or so would see them at a port where repairs to the ship could be made; for now the night held the tense quiet of a storm's aftermath. The captain's cabin was unlit, curtains drawn over the portholes, both of its occupants gladly enwombed so.

Frodo's voice rose again into the stillness, muted. "I was scared."

"You'd be a fool not to be," Merimac assured softly, "in that passage of water."

"I was scared for you."

A pause, then, "Go to sleep, love."

A rustle, a slide of fingertips on skin, and insistent kisses in the dark.

"Frodo. I appreciate the thought, truly and I do, but I'm thinking I'll just fall asleep before either one of us can be bothered to rise it."

Silence again. Then, very softly, "Please? I… I really was scared."

A low, inventive curse. Then, "Come here."

* * * * * *

Afterwards, Merimac fell into exhausted, sated sleep. Frodo had found some physical release, but his mind was rebellious, whirling in adrenaline-laced circuits. Outside he could hear the light plish of water against the hull, felt the ever-present soft roll as Gillyflower made her way through the night. He leaned over, pulled the curtain from the porthole, sucked in a breath of mist-laden air. Despite that low-lying mist, the moon had risen over the black-shadowed treetops, and its light ghosted through, tickling across his hand. He turned back to his cousin; the moon-silver swathed across their skin, making milk of one and dusky brass of the other. Frodo felt as if his entire being was a-hum, soft whispers in his mind, the fear and fury of the day not yet quieted.

At last Frodo slid down to the bed's foot—it was testament to how tired Merimac was that he didn't even budge—and climbed out.

He dressed quickly and silently in breeks and loose shirt, didn't even bother buttoning that shirt and padded for the door. Before he reached it, Frodo paused at the small netted shelves Merimac had given to him, reached out. By touch he found one of his books—it was a title that he hadn't read in some time, and the familiar comfort of Story seemed quite necessary this night. Secreting it into the waist of his breeks, leather cool against his belly, Frodo glanced back at his cousin, saw him still deep in slumber, then exited. Out the cabin door and up the narrow stairs, his tread light upon the smooth-worn boards; he opened the upper door and stepped out onto the deck.

It was still beyond belief. There was still the dull, distant roar of the Strait behind them, but it had been reduced in the incredible, sated silence to mere background noise. Frodo drank the silence in like wine, tasted it upon his tongue, held to it when some rampant imp within said to voice such happiness. Small lights hung here and there on the boat, illuminating her into the dark, commingling with the moonshine which dusted over the furled sails. Those lights also betrayed movement into the stillness—two crewmembers up and about, keeping the galley straight and clear on her course. The one at the rudder nodded politely to Frodo and the other, coming down from the mast, grinned and dipped his head as well, both silent as if kenning that the night—calm aftermath of the wild happenings before—demanded it. Frodo returned their greetings in a rather preoccupied fashion; his eyes were fixed to the front of the boat, where he'd hung countless times, enjoying the shimmer and froth of the main breaking before him. It was a big difference, that, from watching his cousin hang upon the bowsprit with every muscle fibre, sighting the rocks that had nearly holed Gillyflower in the span of a singular heartbeat.

More raw immediacy, and of a totally different sort. While Frodo wasn't sure that he would have minded being put to the point himself, he didn't at all like having to stand by helplessly and just watch someone he loved put themselves in the path of peril.

A lantern bobbed there, hanging just ahead of where Merimac had been suspended earlier; Frodo unhooked it from its place and set it on the deck then hunkered down, folding his legs and propping his back up against the bow-side. He took the small book from his pocket, angled it to catch the light of the lantern, and began to read.

A hand came into his field of vision and snatched up the lantern from the deck. Frodo started, looked up to see old Munro hanging it back to the bowsprit. Then he turned his squinted eyes back down to Frodo, taking him in.

"Aye, I t'ought as much," Munro said laconically. "Come wiv' me."

He started off. Frodo stared after him for a moment, heart sinking—what had he done wrong, now?—then, as the old hobbit turned and gestured impatiently, followed.

They went aft, to a small door that Frodo had noticed but never paid any attention to; Munro opened it and disappeared into it. Frodo dutifully followed, his steps dragging more and more, and ducked through the door to find a set of steps not unlike the ones leading to Merimac's cabin. Narrower, certainly, and deeper pitched, and the final step was a long one; Frodo stumbled into a tiny cabin, lit up bright as day with several lanterns. There was a narrow bed, a basket hanging beside it that held several pipes, a table and chair, all homely and comfortable.

That was not the amazing thing, though. What was incredible was what totally lined the far wall, in shelves carefully netted and inset to prevent the contents from falling out on rough main. Stacked vertically and horizontally, stuffed—albeit with care—into every cranny possible, old and new, tattered and polished.

Books.

Frodo realised that he'd walked forward to gawp at them, that he'd been holding his breath, let it out with a small sigh. Taciturn, grouchy old Munro… Munro who wouldn’t say more than two sentences put together if he could avoid it. Munro had all this.

"I tells yer cousin that should he sink our 'Flower, he owes me a cartload of rare books," came the sour comment from behind Frodo; he turned to meet Munro's smirk. "He jus' rolls his eyes t' me. Not one fer th' printed word, our Mac."

Frodo's lips quivered and he shook his head. "No. He's not."

"Nae doubt ye think he's other qualities, making up fer that lack." This time Munro actually chuckled, a wheezing, sly thing, then he reached past Frodo, grabbed a thick-bound book from the third shelf. "So when you needs somfin not tae scratch yer itches, but tae scratch up agin yer mind, come tae me."

He handed over the book to Frodo, who took it. It was heavy, and limned on the cover in black ink were the words: Nautical Terms and Necessities.

"Looks as if ye've yer own stories, like." Munro nodded at Frodo's own book. "Fey tales is good fer a boring watch. But this…" he tapped the cover, "will learn ye as ye needs tae know."

"Thank you," Frodo said, finally able to speak through his utter astonishment. Munro seemed to ken this, for his eyes glinted with sudden humour.

"Aye, an ol' wreck sich as I needs somefin to pass his days with. Many things I can na longer do, but yer cousin says I've a place here until I make my final trip down tae the sea." He nodded, smiling gently, this time. "He's a good lad. Th' boldest and best of my students. 'Twas the foinest thing those fool Bucklanders ever did, tossing Himself tae the River."

"It was, wasn't it?" Frodo answered softly, since the old riverhobbit seemed to expect it. "He belongs here."

"Nice tae have a place that keeps ye, where ye're bidin' at yer best." Nodding to the book, Munro said, "I 'spect ye read quick enough? I'll be askin' ye on what y've learnt in that, soon then. And there's others, as ye kin see."

Suspecting he was being dismissed, Frodo nodded politely then headed for the door.

"An' don' be using the bowsprit lanthorn." Just as he got to the door, Munro held up a thick, gnarled finger. "We needs that, boy, tae light up Gillyflower for t'other boats. Find one not bein' used for yer reading."

"Yes, sir," Frodo said, and meant it.

The old riverhobbit turned from him and reached for a pipe from the hanging basket, humming a tuneless lay beneath his breath. Frodo turned silently, and headed back upstairs.