The next large port town saw Gillyflower docked for considerably longer than had so far, in Frodo's experience, been customary—the port had a repair dock not unlike the one at Buckland, complete with overhead winches and a massive wooden crane—they had berthed her, offloaded what they could to lighten her, then hauled her up from the water and set to repairing the damage to her starboard hull.

It felt odd to be land-bound again; certainly a watch was set, night and day, over their temporarily land-locked home, but that home had to be evacuated while she was being set to rights and Munro had found them rooms at the nearest inn. Hot baths were much requested, not only because of the rarity of such aboard ship, but because of the long days spent replacing shredded planks, sanding and filling, varnishing and painting.

Frodo swore that he left a small sapling's worth of wood dust ringed about the bathtub after each stint at Gillyflower's hull.

Merimac spent little time at the dock other than brief supervisory visits in which it was plain he was fretting over the damage done to his lady—and that he was less than happy about not being about to see to her. Instead he and Munro spent much of those days closeted in the nearest pub, doing necessary business with several hobbits including the town's leading merchant, the publican himself, several gipsy traders and—the last to arrive but the seemingly most welcome—a thoroughly disreputable-seeming character in an overloaded waggon pulled by two thick-furred draft ponies. It was Tolly who disabused Frodo of the theory that the character—merely called Harlon—was up to no good. In fact, he was quite of the good sort—particularly if 'goods' meant those he carried in his rattletrap conveyance.

The upshot of those lengthy pub discussions was considerable trade; warm, woollen garments and tapestries from the Shire's finest weavers, two barrels of the best Longbottom Leaf and a cart-load of seed grain were transported to the merchant's storage smials, while the publican's cellars took delivery of several tuns of Buckland cider and assorted racks of brandy. These items were paid for in hard currency. Frodo had watched in fascination as Munro and Merimac had sat up one night late in their room, going over the week's takings; Munro painstakingly entering the numbers as Merimac counted and tallied then stowed their considerable earnings not, as Frodo would have suspected, in a strong box, but in a wide, cleverly-pocketed leather belt that he wore beneath his trousers. The strong box would be employed, Merimac assured him, once things were back to normal and they were once again aboard ship—which wouldn't be much longer as Gillyflower had been skilfully rendered good as new—but until then the hard-earned pay was kept against Merimac's skin and when his knife wasn't strapped to his thigh it was kept beneath his pillow, close to hand. He insisted Frodo do the same.

The choicest of the hold items, however—including several dusty and fluted bottles from Merimac's own personal stash—were set aside for the disreputable-seeming Harlon. This special treatment confirmed itself as warranted; no cash exchanged hands during the tactile and extensive negotiations, but excitement buzzed through the crew as Harlon unloaded his waggon next to Gillyflower the day after she'd been lowered back into the River. Revealed one by one were several casks of Southern rum—which Nip gleefully informed Frodo was hard to get under the best circumstances—a box of well-honed knives and daggers and other useful utensils of Eastern make, all wrapped in oiled cloth; a long, flat box that by its smell could only be assorted spices, and several barrels, those so light-weight that, but for the bulk, could have been carried by one person. All of this was taken down to Merimac's own cabin—normal practice for special cargo.

Frodo had not, until now, been privy to the opening of such.

"Lanna shall like this—what a find!" Merimac crowed as he unwrapped a soft length of blue from its bolt—the barrels held fine cloth goods the like of which Frodo had rarely seen. "Raw silk, from Khând. Cost me a pretty penny, but we'll get it back, that we will. For one, Esme will give her eyeteeth for this sort of thing, and I just might make her do so." He grinned wolfishly. "Fairly, of course."

"Khând?" Frodo blinked and looked up from where he had been helping catalogue the spices—with a heavenly sniff of each one. "But that's—"

"Aye, farther South than either of us will ever go. Dangerous country, there; I've heard they wean their bairns on arrow points instead of sugar teats. You'll find," Merimac ran the silk carefully through his callused hands, "that the more out of the Bounds we travel, the more likelihood we have of finding such things. 'Flower brings a lot of foreign treasure into the Shire, oft-times even more than Bilbo's dwarvish friends." Suddenly he flicked the fabric over Frodo's shoulder; it curled about his neck rather sensuously. "It matches your eyes, lad."

"Oh, stop!" But Frodo didn't twitch away—the silk felt good against his cheek, soft as a rabbit pelt, and when Merimac pulled it away he was sorry. "When will we reach the sea?"

"Not this trip; we don't go so far on the winter running. The wind and weather are too unchancy to risk a long run back North," Merimac answered, wrapping up the silk in its plain muslin casing. He hesitated mid-action and gave Frodo a sideways look. "I think I will keep some of this back for you; a nice waistcoat to go beneath that indigo coat of yours, eh?"

"So now you're in charge of my wardrobe?" Frodo said wryly, though with a small, odd thrill. Clothes had always been more necessity than anything resembling fun; the knowledge that Merimac thought of him in such a fashion continued its strange mix of overwhelming excitement.

"We do have standards on this ship, you know," was his cousin's teasing response. "And that silk would do you justice, my dear. You're not that big around; only a clothyard 'twould do the trick, and strict Auntie Esme none the wiser that you're wearing the price of a good Tuckborough pony."

"Until she sees me wearing it."

"And that'll have it's own bit of fun, eh?"

Frodo couldn't stop the smirk that claimed his mouth. "And what will you steal from the shipment?"

"I can't be stealing what's mine," Merimac said severely. "And until it's traded it is mine. I've just a bit of personal credit into this little venture, you know."

"I saw you hand over some of your precious uisge," Frodo teased.

"That hurt," Merimac said emphatically. "No chance to get more for a while, you know." He uncovered and held up another bolt of cloth—a rich, gold-shot burgundy. "But this," he crooned. "This is just the thing, and mayhap worth the pain of going short on good liquor. Granted, that rum will help me through it—"

"You're more clothes mad than Bilbo—" Frodo shot out before he thought, then looked down.

"I doubt that," Merimac said after a pause. "No one could be as mad as Bilbo. After all, he let you go, didn't he?"

"He was, he said," Frodo said haltingly, angry at the sting behind his eyes, "doing what he thought was best for me."

"Which means he knows nothing, and that's what really hurts, is it not?"

Frodo shook his head. "No," he murmured. "It was that I thought he did know something."

"He didn't want to pay attention to it, then. Bugger that old hobbit anyway," Merimac said, tossing the bolt of fabric onto the bed then coming over and gathering him up. "I just wish you didn't mind so—"

"I don't. I don't care."

"Sell that bit of goods to someone foolish enough to buy. I know better."

"I don't—"

"Shut up," Merimac said, and stoppered any further comments with a fierce kiss.

* * * * * *

The misery and magic of Frodo's first hectic fortnight aboard Gillyflower had, over time, eased itself into well-understood routine. Each new skill learned took him further away from Tolly's preferred doings, although it was true enough that keeping the decks clean was a chore none of them truly escaped; Frodo once saw even Merimac putting hand to same. However Frodo's own innate, lithe quickness—as well as what dexterity the pen nib had given his fingers—translated easily to not only rigging and sighting, but hundreds of other small tasks, all necessary to the running of a merchant galley and all making him a valued complement to Gillyflower's crew.

Social untangling seemed to unsnarl the private and personal as well. More and more Frodo was finding that, beneath the hard work, beneath the oft-cramping companionship and welcome camaraderie, there was for the first time in his life the astonishing sense of owning his own soul. It was a cool, clean breath of hard-won freedom.

Merimac had no extra cabin to berth him in—and if he did it would have been irregular to say the least, berthing a new hire in such lavish state—but Merimac did set up a small space against one curved wall: a tiny desk and chair which had been unearthed, covered with dust, from a corner of the hold, a small rope hammock should Frodo choose to sleep alone, and a screen nigh for privacy. Unfortunately the screen had the disconcerting habit of falling over as there was no handy beam in that spot to secure it, and though the hammock was very comfortable, Frodo found to his own surprise that he much preferred sleeping beside his cousin; it was the desk and chair, ultimately that ended up most frequently used. Private?—perhaps not as much as could be, but Frodo discovered that he was not the only one who could make an empty room more so with his presence. Merimac also sank into his own occupations so deeply that it was as if he wasn't there.

Perhaps it was a survival technique left over from Brandy Hall, learned by the more unfavoured sons.

At any rate, the alterations fit and filled the need. Many evenings were easily spent thus; each to their own corner and meditations. However it was also often enough that Frodo would forego his studied efforts to write upon a surface that did not stay obligingly immobile—a skill he was but slowly and frustratingly trying to master—and would instead spend the evening wrapped about his older cousin. It was also often enough that he would look up from his writing to see Merimac smoking and settled in his favoured old rocker, grey eyes resting upon Frodo with their welcome mixture of heat and fondness. Such notice thrilled Frodo down to his furry toes—and said toes seemed to curl at the least amount of attention from his older cousin.

The sex was still fantastic.

Frodo wondered if he'd ever stop feeling like a starving hobbit let loose on a virtual feast of fatted things; most mornings he woke and thought it all had to be a dream, it couldn't be real, it wasn't possible. Then he would feel fingers in his hair, or breath upon his temple, and have a surge of inexplicable shyness and passionate longing all intermingled so tight as to make his breath stop—there was someone in the bed beside him, someone kissing or nuzzling him awake, someone here…

He had become so accustomed to his own company that he'd never imagined the pleasure of such an intimacy.

As gratifying as the offer of the writing corner had been, often it felt too closed in, and Frodo found himself inhabiting another place, oddly private—oddly, for it was near the bowsprit, the little 'cave' he'd found the very first day, and not necessarily off-limits to anyone ship-side. However his mien must have radiated "do not disturb", for most of the crew, after settling their curiosity, left him alone there without further comment. It surprised him, the acceptance; obviously Munro had primed them for the aberration of hobbits who read for enjoyment. There had been one surprise amidst the studied nonchalance: his third night settled by the bow, Citrine had been on watch. She'd spotted him and come over, and her response was not at all as he'd guessed it would be.

"Do you really know how to read that?"

Frodo blinked at her; there was a wistfulness to her tone that surprised him. The past month hadn't much altered his opinion of her—she rode him hard most days, put him up wet and didn't think twice of it—so such lax decorum was disconcerting. "Well, some of it. My uncle taught me while… while I was visiting." Stranger still, that mentioning Bilbo could still choke up his throat so.

"Me mam used to tell me stories when I was a bairn." She settled down on the decking next to him, another display of camaraderie that she'd never indulged in while he was on duty. "But she couldn't read a word, and I didn't learn much more than what my name looked like. I got a good head for figures, at least. But that—it don't even look like normal writing."

"It's Elvish."

It was her turn to blink, eyes growing wide. He felt no small satisfaction at managing to so dumbfound her. "Like the Fair Folk that sometimes we see on the River banks, with their whopping great horses and…" she looked at him suddenly and Frodo shifted uncomfortably beneath the directness of her gaze. "Aye," she said. "You've the look to you of someone who's not content to sit still—like but not like us, if you take my meaning."

He thought he did take her meaning, and it was so like to the yoke of accustomed stigma that he stiffened and looked away, flushing.

There were a few moments of quiet, then she spoke again, more softly. "I'm thinking that you've had someone be a mite too hard on you, lad," she furthered. "I understand that much. When my da was sober, he was a nice fellow—when he'd been drinking 'twas tough on us all. Makes you think that even the slightest correction is bigger than it is."

This time Frodo turned to stare at her. She was smiling, a gleam of white teeth in the lamplight.

"But you've no call to be fearing me. I've nothing against you. I like you, Frodo—you make Himself smile, and he's been all too serious of late. But I'll do what I have to an' make this ship run well for the Cap'n. I'd think you'd want that too, as much as y' love him."

She got to her feet and walked away, finishing her check of the rest of the ship.

Frodo watched her go with a smile quirking at his lips, then stood up and looked South, watching the bowlight reflect out and across the River.

* * * * * *

"Aft on the quarter deck our gallant captain stands,
"Lookin' out to windward with a spyglass in his hand,
"What he is a-thinkin' of we know very well,
"He's thinkin' more of shortenin' sail than strikin' the bell!"

"I'm thinkin' more of drinkin', my sweet!" Merimac lifted his mug in proof; there was a roar of approval from his companions and Citrine tipped her own mug to him, continuing her song:

"Strike the bell second mate, let us go below!"

"Below!" they shouted back.

"Look well to windward you can see it's gonna blow!"

"Blow me!" was young Nip's cheeky and somewhat drunken plea; Tolly smacked him and Citrine gave him the two-finger salute, kept singing.

Frodo sat on a tall barrel between Merimac and Citrine, swinging his feet in time to the music and joining in when appropriate—and when his mouth wasn't preoccupied with his own mug. He'd never had rum before—it was very, very good.

The others obviously agreed with him; this was turning out to be quite the party. There were hobbits in the rigging, on the forecastle, on the railings, on barrels like Frodo's own seat. The wind had died earlier that day, and after a stint of rowing Merimac had decided they'd furl up, set anchor and stop for the evening. This had been met with approval—but nothing like to the approval when he'd gone below and returned, balancing on one shoulder what he claimed was a reward for all the hard work setting Gillyflower to rights: a cask of rum.

Frodo swore his ears still rang from the combined whoops of joy.

He downed the rest of his drink, felt it burn sweetly all the way down, and smiled at the world, content.

Lanterns had been hung, adding their ruddy light to the silvered half moon. Pipes skirled up into the clear, star-studded sky; one of the lads accompanied on a small drum. All of the crew sang, some rough and loud, others more sweetly, but Citrine had quite the voice and could project it almost into the sky. Mugs clanked against wood, hands clapped loudly, all in approbation and entreaty, and the cook, Dav, had thoughtfully provided a table groaning with snacks.

"More!" Munro kept shouting, and Frodo giggled—he'd not yet seen the old hobbit this cheerful. Then Frodo realised his mug was empty and his own cheer evaporated. He stared at it rather forlornly, tipped it over to have only a few drops run down his thumb. He licked it dry and peered again, quite devastated.

"Oh, I do believe you need a bit more of this," Merimac purred at his nape, scooping up Frodo's mug. Frodo brightened at such prospect of rescue from his rum-less state—but having Merimac breathe in his ear also had several prospects—and those little to do with drink.

But Merimac merely turned away, Frodo's mug in hand. With a mutter that sounded somewhat like "hang on," Frodo reached out and grabbed at his cousin's shirt. Merimac blinked and turned curiously to him; about them the crew was winding down their song, but Frodo was paying no attention to that.

"I believe," Frodo reached out and twined a finger in the locks at Merimac's nape, "that I do. Need a bit more."

His cousin leaned close—ah, this was more like it. "Is there anything," he asked, rum-scented breath tickling at Frodo's cheek, "that doesn't make you randy, lad?"

Frodo lifted his chin with what he thought was adequate haughtiness. "I am just trying to appreciate," he paused grandly for emphasis, "exactly what it is you're offering."

The song had stopped and his words were not quiet. There was a spate of well-lubricated giggles.

"And what are you offering the lad, Cap'n?" Citrine teased. Tolly gave a suggestive hoot, and sure enough others all took up the cry.

"Eh, Sir?"

"Been too long has it, Cap'n?"

"And well past time our Rivermaster plunged his oar in the water—best watch yerself, lad, 'tis said he's a mighty powerful stroke!"

"An' a foine straight-up rhythm, I'll wager—no need t' bother callin' the catches!"

"Th' crew's been getting more than Himself—'til lately!"

"I've offered a few times meself, but no luck!"

"Now, just hold on a moment!" Frodo let go of Merimac's hair, shoved himself off the barrel and onto his feet for emphasis, addressing the last speaker in particular. "You're going to have to find someone else. He's mine."

Beside him, Merimac was doubled over with noisy mirth; the crew members were roaring, and Frodo forgot indignation and started laughing himself. One of the oarshobbits held up his mug and announced, with much effort and a singing voice that would have made good marks on a jongleur's circuit:

More boisterous laughter and catcalls. Merimac staggered—more with laughter than with drink—over to the cask, filled Frodo's mug and brought it back to him. "Here, love." He nearly had to shout over the noisy pleasure of their companions. "Drink first. Get liquored up and pliable and then we'll see what comes from that."

"Hopefully you. Sir." Frodo grinned back, unrepentant; Merimac snorted, flicked his nose with a forefinger.

"Wretch. You're too clever even when you're lit like a fat candle."

Frodo grabbed his collar, pulled him into a rather-sloppy kiss, then let him go with a sideways smirk and took a pull of his drink. There was another round of appreciative shouting.

Merimac raised his mug and gave a slight bow to his younger cousin. "This," he said, half to the crew, "is going to prove interesting."

"Good thing our 'Flower en't sailin' tonight!" Munro retorted good-naturedly, and lifted his mug, stomped out a fast time with his feet and sang, with much effort and little tune:

And the others took him up on it.

Merimac answered, in his rough baritone:

The others joined in, waiting for just that, Frodo singing as lustily as any of them:

One of the oarshobbits—Arlis, who was broader and taller than even Merimac—took up his own verse:

Nip had started dancing, lithely agile, tow-coloured hair gleaming. Another of the younger crewmembers, Jimsy, joined him. Munro answered the sung question with barely-concealed and scornful glee:

And they all shouted, "EAR-LYE IN TH' MORNIN'!"

* * * * * *

Grey-rose light was beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. One by one—sometimes in twos or threes—the played-out crew of Gillyflower wandered off the deck, some to sleep, some not to, most of them with a last libation in their mugs and a wobble to their walk. A few sat in one corner still singing, Citrine amongst them.

Frodo had returned to the down-hold cabin not fifteen minutes before—only after receiving a promise that Merimac would not be much longer—and a quick burst of the song travelled down as the door opened then muted as it snicked shut. There was the sound of steps travelling, a bit heavily, down the stair. Frodo grinned to himself and stood up, a bit clumsily, wrapping a blanket about him and walking forward to meet his cousin.

There was only one low-wicked lamp lighting the cabin, but Frodo homed in on the shadowy figure's approach, deciding that he'd waited long enough and being coy was not a virtue when one had been sporting a pair of too-tight breeches since said cousin had breathed in his ear some hours before. He'd taken care of the breeches part of it; now to the rest.

Merimac was obviously well into his cups, and just as obviously not averse to being approached by a willing and well-lubricated lad; Frodo snuggled up to him, tilted his head, closed his eyes and opened his mouth. Merimac tasted of liquor and spicebread, smelled of heat and light sweat; Frodo felt arms wrap him close, shivered delightedly as Merimac rucked up the blanket he still wore, trailed fingers down his hip.

"Oh, my," his cousin said, and the profuse satisfaction in his voice sent a thrill up Frodo's spine. "You aren't wearing anything under this, are you, dearest?"

Frodo knew the question was rhetorical, because Merimac's hands were suddenly quite busy beneath that blanket, trailing over every inch of bare skin.

"I know what to do with a drunken sailor," Frodo said thickly, snaking his arms about Merimac's neck. The blanket fell half off his shoulders.

"I do believe you might," was Merimac's answer, murmured into his ear. "What say you show me?"

Merimac's shirt was already open and hanging at his sides—he'd gotten too warm during all the singing and dancing—so Frodo began with what he personally considered the best part: trouser buttons. There was quite a handsome bulge starting beneath those buttons; he could barely wait to stroke it harder. Somewhat impatiently, Merimac yanked the blanket from him, letting it drop to the floor just before Frodo divested him of his trousers.

"Oh," Merimac said as Frodo's fingers quickly and eagerly fastened onto him, "that is nice."

"The room's spinning," Frodo said, running a gentle fingertip up and down the underside of Merimac's erection, which lurched in response.

"The many mugs of rum you consumed might have something to do with that… oh, my yes." Merimac kissed him, rubbed noses with him, whispered, "Prithee, do not sicken now, fair one. Keep on."

"Do you always fall into old tongues when you're drunk?" Frodo accompanied his query with another smooth stroke of hardening flesh, gently slid his forefinger across the slickening tip.

"Oh, yes. I use my tongue quite well even when I'm drunk." And Merimac knelt down, proceeded to prove his point.

It was a good thing they were somewhat close to the supporting beam in the cabin's mid-section; Frodo's knees buckled as that warm, slick mouth covered him, as one of Merimac's hands splayed across his belly. Frodo wobbled back, found the beam and leaned heavily against it; somehow that mouth went with him, lips sliding back and tongue teasing. Frodo groaned, tangled his fingers hard in his cousin's hair and pulled. Obligingly Merimac took him deeper, curled his hands about Frodo's hips and pinned him harder against the beam.

"Oh Captain, my captain," Frodo gasped, tipsily playing the game Merimac had started. "I prithee, take me now. Be gentle."

Unfortunately his timing was not very good. That incredibly agile mouth pulled away from him, leaving him wet and quivering, and Merimac peered upward at him, brows a-quirk.

"Gentle?"

"Well…" Antique dialect was thrown aside as too complicated, particularly when it wasn't getting him what he wanted. Frodo clutched his fingers tighter in Merimac's hair and pulled, trying to encourage him. "It… it sounded better than… than 'kindly drive me into this post so hard 'twould take a prybar to win me free'."

His cousin laughed. Frodo grinned and started to—then Merimac leaned forward once again and it choked into a hopeful sigh. Unfortunately, instead of directing his mouth where Frodo tried to steer him, Merimac gave his belly a kiss. Then another. And yet another.

Fine, not that he didn't mind having his stomach nuzzled, but there were better things to be doing. "Mac," Frodo groaned, "please? I think—"

"I think," Merimac traced kisses down, "that you need," a trace of breath along lurching, impatient flesh, "to shut up." He licked a slow line from root to tip, and it was only those hands on his hips that kept Frodo from falling down on the spot.

Teasing nibbles melded into caressing lips and swirling tongue, then suction; Frodo tangled his fingers harder, rolled his hips forward, then back. Merimac allowed the motion, moving his hands to cup Frodo's haunches, clenching and releasing with the muscles there. Frodo threw his head back against the beam, small whimpers voicing themselves in rhythm with each stroke… and again… and…

Merimac pulled away—instigating another whimper, this of protest—but he rose and leaned into Frodo, pushing him against the wood at his back, lined up belly to belly, thigh to thigh, his hands grasping Frodo's wrists and snaking them backwards about the beam. "So, my lovely," he purred, "how do you really want it?"

"Now," Frodo demanded, pushing up against him.

"Insistent and insatiable, that's my Frodo. But you really haven't answered my question."

"Do I have to turn about, or can you fuck me this way, here?"

Merimac chuckled. "Drink really unhinges that tongue of yours, doesn't it?"

"I like to look at you when we—"

"As do I." Merimac leaned closer. "As to place and position, I seem to remember a certain grange wall, in the rain, and all we needed was a bit of, shall we say, lubricant, and I would have been inside you then—"

"I want you inside me now."

"Patience." Merimac pushed away from him, padded over to the bed, came back with the innocuous-seeming jar that never failed to set Frodo's nerves all a-tingle. "Shall you do the honours, or shall I?"

Oh, let me, let me… and his cousin read it in his face, unscrewed the cap and let Frodo dig his fingers in. Barely giving Merimac time to recap it, Frodo reached down, curled his hand in a slick tunnel about Merimac's erection and pumped back and forth several times. Merimac gave a delicious shudder, looked at the jar in his hand, shrugged and lobbed it over at the bed.

"All right then… over here." Merimac shifted him about the beam a few steps, slid his hands down about Frodo's rear, with a grunt lifted him up. "You've gained half a stone, I swear; take pity on an old drunken sailor and help out. Look up."

Frodo did so, still not loosening his grip one whit, and smirked as he saw a projection from the beam—the beginnings of a large limb that had not been smoothed away. He reached up with one hand and grabbed it, shifted his pelvis against Merimac, slicked his fingers once more. "Come on. I've been patient—"

"That you have, and you deserve a bit of fun for that, don't you?" Merimac answered, reaching down and smoothing his hand over Frodo's belly, and down. Frodo gasped as those fingers took him firmly, slid back and forth; his own fingers relaxed on Merimac in shaky response. With his other hand Merimac trailed up to Frodo's hip, then down to the back of his thigh, and before Frodo knew what was happening his cousin had lifted that leg to settle over his arm.

Grey eyes fastened to his, teeth gleamed in the faint light. "Hang on."

Fingers, trailing from his erection and down over his testicles then even further, slicking into the cleft between his haunches and inwards… Frodo jerked against Merimac, gasped out his name.

"More?" was the whisper against his cheek.

"Oh, yes…"

Another slow twist of those fingers, the feel of Merimac's erection bumping against his own, lips taking his and tongue darting gently at his lower lip, tracing a heated line down to his throat; Frodo writhed with pure pleasure and frustration.

"If you don't fuck me, and now, I'm going to scream," he voiced hoarsely.

"Let's say I fuck you, now, and you still scream," was the soft reply. Frodo took in another gasp of breath; Merimac hitched him up higher, touched Frodo's slick hand that still wrapped about him, albeit loosely. "Where do you want me, love?"

Frodo wrapped his other leg about Merimac's waist and with his hand guided him. Merimac pushed forward, through Frodo's hand and slowly inward, deeper; Frodo juddered, sucked in a sobbing breath. His hand flattened, caught between buttocks and belly; he slid that hand out, reached up and grabbed at the protrusion above, shoved his hips forward, hard, remembering the last time Merimac had done him nigh like this…

Water was what he remembered, water and desperation and heated breath, a swirl of wanting that had taken his breath away…

His breath came out in a sob as a slow push slid Merimac further in, then back, then Merimac angled his hips upward and thrust again, hard. A jolt of lightning zig-zagged its way up Frodo's spine—he was sure it would scorch the wood—and he cried out.

"Not a scream, not yet," Merimac purred. "I'll work a bit harder, shall I?"

"Harder," gasped Frodo, "harder would be… oh… oh… harder would be… good… there. Oh… there…"

The wood scraped his bare spine, warm skin and muscle rippled between his thighs; he clenched tighter, throat tightened on the words more, and harder, and as Merimac obliged him, oh, please don't stop, don'tstopdon'tstop…

This time he did scream, against Merimac's fingers, as he came so hard that lights flashed behind his eyes and it seemed to last forever, forever...

An eternity later Merimac shuddered against him, groaned into his neck, and they both slid down the post into a pile of gasping breaths, and damp sweat, and limbs that no longer wanted to work.

Some time later they were finally aware of the fact that morning had fully broken, sending slats of rose-white light through the porthole. Birds were singing, the water sloshed gently against the hull, and Frodo lay on the floor atop Merimac who, flat on his back, served as impromptu cushion. Frodo had a damp cloth in his hand and was slowly drawing it over the sated, sticky remainder of what had so thoroughly taken him. Try as he might, though, it remained fairly flaccid.

"Only you could make an erotic game of wiping me clean," Merimac said drowsily. "Cheeky little prat."

"Hm. Do me next? And then, with just a bit more effort, it could be my turn to take you." Frodo leaned forward, gave his cousin a kiss with much intent behind it. "I like being on top as much as I like it the other way, you know. It's my turn. Only fair."

"Being drunk obviously doesn't interfere with your libido."

"It does yours, though." Obvious disappointment.

"We have tomorrow, randy boy. And the night after that. And the night after that."

"That's such a long time away."

"Only to a tween. Wank a bit if you have to, but let me sleep, eh?"

"Oh, all right."

And over Gillyflower, despite the dawn, all was silence.

* * * * * *

After a much-needed day of recuperation—most of the crew spent that day sleeping or staggering about looking like something the cat dragged in—there was a fair wind the day following and a rather heavy-eyed captain decided it was time to move on.

Party hard but also work hard; it was the way it was and always had been; the crew set to with nary a grumble.

Sun gave way to rain, which threatened on and off the next several days; the air turned chill and damp and no one, it seemed, could get warm enough. The wind was at their backs, at least, so they let Gillyflower run, the rain giving chase, her sails set wing and wing. At the end of the second day they had made enough progress to even make old Munro smile.

Munro had stopped Frodo more than the once—lately his books had been well-wrapped to protect them from rain, but books there had been, and Munro expecting Frodo to finish them in good time. They were all marvellous, through and through; Merimac had seen Frodo eagerly poring over them and he'd smiled.

"You must rate highly, love—Munro won't let me so much as get eye-tracks on his beloved tomes!"

Frodo grinned back. Unspoken between them was the obvious: Munro knew when something was valued and when it was not. Merimac wasn't upset; in fact he seemed most pleased that his old mentor had found a kindred spirit.

They made no stops those days, taking advantage of the wind; also, most of the Riverside establishments were mere clutches of dwellings, too small to offer anything including a deep or decent harbour. One mild afternoon Frodo was in the lower rigging, mending a small tear in one tied-down sail; they passed a small jut of land which boasted a well-thatched house that caught his eye, tugged at his heart with the familiarity of it. It looked enough like River Run, his parent's old cove dwelling—it was even half house and half hole. A hobbit was sweeping the porch, and a female from inside placed a pie on the windowsill to cool, and suddenly a gangly lad came running from the front door and to the landing, not waving as many did but obviously interested. His eyes met Frodo's for a long moment—he wasn't much younger, if at all, than Frodo's twenty years, and the two held gazes for long seconds—long enough for Frodo to see the abject yearning in wide brown eyes, long enough to feel such in his own breast. Yearning, and a sudden kinship he'd never thought to feel with anyone he'd just seen, only that the boy wanted what he had, and Frodo realised that he wanted what that boy had, as well.

If only… if only the River hadn't claimed his parents, and in the end hadn't claimed him as well… if only… well then he might still be in his hold at River Run, surrounded by family and in his own place… if only…

The wind and the pull of the Brandywine took him past all too quickly, breaking the odd, brief communication and leaving his stomach unsettled as he kept mending the slack sail.

It was no use to say 'if only', no use to contemplate what wasn't and never had been, or what might have been if… No, it was no use at all. He was here, and he was happy, and he felt necessary. Wanted. Needed. It was enough.

Why should he be ungrateful enough as to want more? It made no sense, even as it made no sense that he didn't know what exactly 'more' was.

* * * * * *

They had one more stop to make before they turned and headed back upRiver. No one seemed happy about either the stop or the turnaround.

That evening, lying next to Merimac with his breathing still laboured and the sweat drying on his skin, Frodo asked why.

"You'd think I'd be used to you getting all chatty in the afters," was the return mutter, and Frodo grinned, thinking how gratifying it was to know that his cousin was also having trouble getting his breath back.

"So. Why?"

"It's always more of a chore going back to the north this time of year," Merimac said, his gaze settling on the ceiling. Frodo was already watching there. Flickers of light—tonight it was the moon and the water's reflection of such—played across that ceiling in lovely patterns that Frodo never tired of. "More often than not the wind and currents are against us. We'll be delayed at the Strait until the wind shifts—oft-times we sit there for several weeks, because the only way we can go up-current in that nasty bit of River is with a fierce wind at our backs." He shifted, putting one arm behind his head. "Not to mention it's usually a more light-hearted trip when we're headed all the way down to the harbour mouth—there's not a one among us that doesn't long for the sea air."

"I wish we could go on, too," Frodo murmured. "I don't relish going back."

"Fear not," his cousin said. "You needn't go anywhere near the Hall unless you want to. And I mean that." The last line was delivered with a firm kiss.

Right now, Frodo wanted nothing to do with land, be it Brandy Hall or Hobbiton; he was through with those for good. However… "I don't want to," he said softly. "It's just… Merry."

"I know, lad. You've quite a conundrum on your hands and I don't envy you that."

"I'd rather," Frodo said dryly, "that you had some solution rather than just commiserating with me."

"I wish I had as well. We can both sort of work on it, eh?"

Quiet reigned for long moments, moonlight ghosting through the cabin.

"One more thing," Merimac stated softly. "This last stop before we make our bearing back North… it's a wicked one. I want you to stay in the cabin while we're there."

"Mac!" Frodo sat up and glared down at him. Merimac was undeterred.

"This has nothing to do with how capable you are, lad. You've proven that to me and everyone else on board and if you don't know it, you should. This has to do with your age and your looks, pure and simple. There are two others on the crew who'll be confined to quarters for the same reasons."

"But why?"

Merimac glowered at the ceiling for some moments. "I'm talking about a township that trades its coin in young lads and girls. The fairer the better, and there's those who think hobbits are even sweeter game, that we're 'child-like and precious'." He spat these words in obvious disgust, paused, went on. "While Gillyflower's reputation is fearsome enough, I'm not so foolish as old Bilbo to think that my mere name will protect you. Especially from the likes of these folk. They've little sense of honour and even less of decency."

"Then why stop there?"

"Profit, pure and simple." Merimac shrugged. "There are other, more wholesome goods to be had. In particular there's a type of stone here that is much in demand for building in the Shire—a slate blue, I'm sure you've seen it—lovely to look at and strong as any rock twice as thick. We'll lade up as much as 'Flower can carry and still not have enough to meet demand when we return to the Shire proper. Which," he reached out, ran fingers down Frodo's arm, "is all the more reason to be careful, finding necessities in such a place.

"Heed me, lad." Frodo had started to speak again; his throat closed as Merimac sat up. "They'll look at you or Nip or Jimsy, lick their lips and contemplate how best to snatch such fine little morsels. They won't care that you've wit or soul; you'll be nothing but goods for the block, do you understand? Less rights than cattle or ponies. And I'll not take even the tiniest chance of losing you, particularly not to such a fate as that." The words were hard, but not so much as Merimac's face. "You'll do as I say and not stick that lovely nose of yours outside this cabin while we're there, do you understand me?"

Slowly, Frodo nodded. It was more than plain Merimac meant every word he said, and the picture his words painted, albeit sparse, sent a chill along Frodo's spine with the words: "…so stupid as old Bilbo to think that my mere name will protect you." Frodo thought of Lotho, and what he'd wanted, and his imagination took over quite adequately at the thought of a town of Lothos, all set to take what wasn't freely given… Frodo lowered his head, shuttering his eyes to prevent Mac from seeing what revulsion must be reflected in them.

His cousin's hand gripped at his arm, giving him a tiny shake. "Look at me, Frodo. Do I have your word?" Merimac insisted, and when Frodo did clench his teeth and look up, those grey eyes were boring through him, anxious.

"You have my word," Frodo answered, and meant it.

The light of anxiety faded; Merimac gave a satisfied grunt and lay back down, pulling Frodo beside him. "All right, then. As to now…" he smiled and shrugged, "you've quite worn me out. Let's get some sleep, eh?"

Frodo snuggled down gladly. Merimac might doubt his ability to keep Frodo safe, but there was nevertheless a security here that was unassailable. And even more important, it didn't weaken him as he'd always imagined such need would, but strengthened.

Strengthened.

Frodo ran light fingers over his cousin's moonlit face, kissed the smile that formed there, and wondered.

* * * * * *

Sure enough, Nip and Jimsy—two of the younger of Gillyflower's complement—were given the order even as Frodo had been. The slight embarrassment of being so charged was mitigated by the deadly seriousness with which the less-youthful remainder supported Merimac's directive. Munro's face was particularly hard-set.

Munro, in fact, handed Frodo a new book and muttered, "Tae pass th' time." It was no ledger of shipmaster lore, but a chaptered book of seafarer's tales. There was a mermaid—with long hair and plenty of bounteous attributes barely hidden by same long hair—traced upon the cover in worn silvery gilt. Frodo gave Munro a pleased smile and the old hobbit shrugged and coughed somewhat embarrassedly.

It was quiet and dark down below; Frodo had one lamp burning to read by, but found himself unable to concentrate. The book carried fascinating chapter headings on its flyleaf: ghost ships and merpeople, serpents as long as ships and treasure hiding on sandy bottoms 'neath the weight of fathoms of water… however all Frodo could focus on was the creak of Gillyflower's hull, the lap of water all about him as she hove to, thumps and creaks of footsteps from above, voices of the crew and answering hails landside.

Frodo put his book down, lurched up from where he'd curled on the bed and padded across the cabin to the starboard porthole. It was firmly shuttered; Frodo for seconds debated opening it just for a quick peek but desisted as his stomach gave an outraged and fearful quiver. Instead he firmly turned from the porthole and did a small circuit about the cabin: stairwell to the door, bed, damp laundry hung on lines corner-to-corner by his desk, the wall of cubbies and shelves, the map-table…

There was always something intriguing on the map-table; Frodo gratefully took the distraction. Land maps were fascinating; waterway maps even moreso, with their small numbers and depth-soundings written here and there. Occasionally a map would show the depths by change of colour. One of those was beneath a parchment; Frodo took up the parchment, glanced at it then found his eyes drawn back to it.

It was a letter.

Frodo blinked—he recognised the hand it was written in as well as the sly wit. But there was a familiarity of address that Frodo had not seen in any other letter—and he knew, for once Merimac had found out Frodo's spelling accuracy, he'd implored him to check his correspondence.

Perhaps he shouldn't be reading this letter?

Even if it was left out?

Once again curiosity got the better of him—and this was not forbidden. At least, he didn't think it was.