They had sat, anchored, for nearly a se'nnight at the south edge of the Strait.

Rain had been falling for nearly half that se'nnight; not a soft, refreshing patter but an uncommon deluge blowing in from the northeast that set even the Brandywine churning with its violence. Her banks glistened with mud and that mud channelled into runoff, gold-grey fingerlings trailing just beneath the River's rain-pocked surface then dissipating. The trees were bent and sodden, but nevertheless had grown even more prodigiously since Gillyflower had first passed through; many were carrying lush green boughs which whipped and whistled, as much at the wind's mercy as the group of hobbits in their chosen burrow—not of earth, but creaking wood and tossing wet.

Thick runnels of water literally poured along Gillyflower's decking and down her masts, setting the shrouds limp and forcing the crew to latch tight every hatch on board. She tossed and rolled beneath them, sending even the most seasoned riverhobbits to scrabbling for purchase on the slick, lurching planking. Going below was an exercise in trying to not flood said compartments; oilskins, waxed hats and tight-woven wool were the uniforms of the day and still every hobbit went to their bunk soaked to skin and hoping—rather too optimistically—that their clothing would dry before the next watch.

At least those watches were merely light duties; they could go nowhere as long as the strong headwind kept up, and Merimac was not keen on chancing the Strait in such unfriendly elements—or on such rain-slicked footing.

Chance played them even more mercilessly when upon the eighth afternoon the wind slackened, fell fantastically still then shifted, this time due northwest. Clouds scuttered and collided in the grey-green sky; thunder purred in the distance, crept steadily up their stern then snarled, clawing the sky with lightning. Merimac ordered everyone below deck for the duration; it was horribly frustrating to have the wind for once tugging them in the desired direction, yet there was no chance that they'd even think to tackle the Strait in such a firestorm.

So they battened down and while Frodo felt every sense tingling with the sheer energy and enervation of the storm, he was nevertheless glad to be somewhat shielded from its violence, curled up next to Merimac while they both attempted some sleep.

There was nothing to do but wait it out.

The next morning saw Merimac up with the first rays of sunlight—and yes, it was sunlight!—looking out the cabin's porthole, shrugging hastily into shirt and breeches. "Up, lad!" he ordered as he ran up the steps, hastily tying his hair back with a bit of cord; Frodo obeyed, blinking bleary eyes and staggering into damp clothing.

When he reached the deck Merimac was already exchanging quick and quiet words with Munro. It was still raining; the fingerlings of sunlight had played somewhat false, peeking through an east-most break in the clouds and already starting to be covered again. At least the light, steady patter was nothing akin to the violence of the previous several days.

For a wonder the wind had held full and strong nor'west, and the sails luffed noisily in their shrouds as if anxious to fill, fly, go on. Citrine appeared from aft, the wind blowing her hair forward as she tried in exasperation to tie it back; finally with a half-grin to Frodo, she turned her face into the wind and succeeded in her aim, then pulled the hat dangling at her back atop her tawny hair. Something glinted in her hand as she lifted it to her lips; Citrine blew the whistle even as she snugged her hat tight with its chin lanyard.

Hat. Frodo turned, quickly padded downstairs, grabbed up both his coat and Merimac's as well as their somewhat-sodden hats. By the time he ascended back updeck, the crew was appearing by twos and threes; already several were starting to set their stations to rights. Frodo caught Citrine's gaze and motioned toward his burdens; she nodded and began giving instruction. Frodo started for his cousin; he slipped on a small patch of decking and hesitated, eyeing it with some dubiousness. A quick glance to Merimac proved that he was also giving it cautious perusal; next to him stood Munro, who seemed doubtful as well.

Merimac blinked when Frodo held out the coat and hat; a small, grateful smirk claimed one side of his mouth then disappeared beneath tension. "Nay, it'll just be in my way when I'm at point—"

"I tell ye, lad," Munro said, "I'm nae so keen on takin' th' chance; 'tis slick as sheep shit on deck—"

"And how often do we have this sort of wind at our backs?" Merimac shot back. "You know better than I how it is here this time of year; if we don't take the chance we could be anchored in this lee for another month."

Munro sighed, ruminated for a moment, then shrugged. "Aye. Well."

With a twist to his mouth that Frodo well recognised—not only because he had seen the same expression upon Merry's face—Merimac gave a small curse, a shake of his head then the order. "Prepare to make way!"

The ship became a hive of pure industry, crewmembers running to comply with the orders that Citrine, given her Captain's nod, was barking out. "Frodo!" she called sharply and Frodo leapt—with some care of the deck beneath his feet—to obey. She took Merimac's hat and coat from him with the promise of putting it away, then sent Frodo and Jimsy—with an admonition to have a care—up the masts to unshroud the sails.  It was quite the difference from the first time Frodo had passed these waters—then he had been harnessed to the sidelines, compelled to merely watch; now he clambered, unharnessed, up the rigging like one of the tiny simians he'd seen in the southern-most ports.

Merimac's baritone and Munro's tenor—they were still deep in conversation as the others prepared, and from their attitudes this could still prove to be a false start—snagged on the wind; only bits and pieces of it rose to where Frodo was tenaciously working away at the sails, and those bits dour of tone. Frodo thought of the deck that had been so slippery beneath his own feet, felt his stomach sink, then chewed at his lip and refused to think of anything save the waterlogged knots that were seemingly intent on fouling any attempt to untie them.

* * * * * *

The decision had been made: proceed.

Even as before, Merimac had his knife not in its sheath but at the ready in his belt--there were other bald differences, however.  He wore the strongest harness they had, the inevitable stopwatch was this time lashed to his wrist so that he could hold on with both hands, and those hands were clad in fingerless gloves with sharp cleats at the palms as he clambered to the point position. He didn't like putting gouges, however small, in his lady yet Munro had insisted and Munro, as usual, was right. Everyone was in much the same position as the first journey through except Frodo who, as a junior rigginghobbit, was placed amongst the four assigned to the mainsail's position. It was winched down to half its size because of the wind; that boom ratcheted down snugly and weaving with a sluggish, contained back and forth that belied the wind's roughness.

Hats could not keep the rain totally from their faces, but Frodo was one of the lucky ones; he was facing forward, the strong wind to his back, holding firm to the aft starboard rig. The rope vibrated, wet and scratchy against his palms. He bent his knees and tried to dig his toes into the slick deck, kept his ears open, his hands at the ready, and his eyes upon Merimac. The commands that had been so much gibberish before had settled into a well-known tongue—Frodo knew exactly what and where and if he didn't always have the why of it, he knew that he had to do it anyway. Particularly here, and now.

So far they'd been lucky despite the increasing rain—the south-most part of the Strait was not as treacherous even in so high a spate, and the wind had stayed with them. They had so far avoided many of the thick overhanging limbs to either side—but no one took it for granted. With Frodo stood Nip and Jimsy—they weren't as strong as some others but they were more agile, an important fact this close to the boom—and Arlis, the chief oarshobbit, had been conscripted to the mainsail, his bulk a definite anchor on the boom's main line. He kept shaking the rain from his face, gripping the rope steady in his strong, gnarled hands.

"Two points starboard, in five!" hollered Merimac; the oarshobbits on the left side of the boat strained backwards at their oars.

"Steady it, lads," Arlis told the younger hobbits. "Don't let it sway too much."

"Free!" sang out Merimac. "Four points to starboard in five…"

"Four, three, two, one!" finished Citrine for him; Frodo watched her nod in satisfaction while Merimac's attention was already ahead, looking for the next rock seeking to pound Gillyflower's hull.

"Free! Bloody damn, big one ahead…" Merimac's voice dipped, then rose again. "Three points to port in fifteen… wait for it—"

Citrine looked up, gave a brief curse. "We're comin' into th' trees, lads, look lively!"

Frodo and his companions tensed against the rigs—they'd be needed on this manoeuvre.

"Five…"

"Four, three, two, one!"

Arlis and Jimsy played out their lines; Frodo and Nip hauled the boom sharply starboard. It was just enough to pop a small near-jibe; as the sails started to fill in the opposite direction Arlis hauled again, spat a sharp command for Frodo and Nip to play the line out. The boom fought them, heavy; Arlis hauled on the line with a grunt and the three younger lads pulled then slackened again.

Then everything happened at once.

There was a squall of straining wood from overhead as the front mast tangled in a mass of branches; Citrine shouted a curse/command and the oarshobbits struggled to do her bidding, but Gillyflower heeled, her aft end swinging forward. The boom jerked, Arlis cursed as rope cut and burned his callused palms; Jimsy slipped and went down, Frodo and Nip sprawled forward atop each other. There was a hoarse shout from the front of the boat and, trying to haul at the rope and regain his feet both, Frodo's gaze shot forward.

Merimac was no longer there.

His tether rope was. It pulled downward, creaked against the railing, smoked. Then Gillyflower gave another shuddering lurch, there was a horrific grinding noise, a strangled cry from the bow. The rope snapped.

"Bring to!" Citrine screamed. "Bring to, full stop! Hobbit over! Cap'n over!!"

Frodo wasn't sure what happened next. All he could see was the end of the rope flinging upward from the momentum of breakage, all he could hear was the echo of that harsh cry from the prow. Shoving Nip off him and staggering to his feet, Frodo flung his rig aside and ran forward, nearly sliding into Citrine and two other crewhobbits. They tried to grab him; he evaded capture, reached the rail and leaned perilously over the side. Through the rain and river-foam he saw the rock they'd hit, saw blood in the water about it, and… nothing else.

"No," he whispered. "No."

Gillyflower once again heeled sharply and Frodo's feet slid out from beneath him; he fell on his side, hands barely keeping hold on the rain-glossed railing. He nearly slid between the rails; with a desperate grunt he hooked one leg about the nearest one, twisted and forced himself back to his feet. His eyes never left the spot where that blood spoor lay, clinging to the rock and foam despite the churning waters.

Then the least of things, the smallest glint, popping up from the water and bobbing almost cheerily.

Merimac's bronze knife.

Frodo was conscious of the humming that rose in his ears, of his heartbeat accelerating nigh to bursting, of climbing onto the railing as several voices shouted his name, cried No! then…

He dove down into a dark, clear point right beside that knife; somehow he managed to snatch it as he hit water, then the River, cold and furious and hungry, closed about him.

The water was remarkably clear, but swirled in eddies and currents between the rocks, thwarting true vision. He was thrown sideways, felt his leg bang up against smooth wood—Gillyflower's hull!—and he struck out forwards, unwilling to be caught beneath the galley. The current tugged at him; he fought it, struck upward, gasped in a huge gout of air then went under again, looking, looking.

He had to find him. He had to.

But the current thwarted him, vision and breath and strength. It was too wild, the River was intent and angry against the confines of boat and rock, and she was going to take Merimac from him just as she'd taken his mother and father…

Fury and hopelessness surged through him so violently that air escaped him in tight bubbles, quickly drawn away by the current tugging balefully at his wildly kicking feet. Abruptly Frodo realised what he had to do.

It was a chance in a thousand, and potentially deadly besides, but he'd gone in exactly where the knife had come up, where the blood trail had been. If the current had dragged his cousin the way it was wanting to drag him…

It might be his only hope, in the pounding rapids, to find Merimac. He took it. Surfacing to take one more quick and lasting gasp of air, Frodo sank into the undertow face-first, letting it take him. It threw him painfully against the boat's hull, raked a rock against his calf, leaving more blood in the water; he was sucked deeper and forward, down into the rocks, barely managing to keep himself from being rammed against them. Muddy brown and foamy grey whirled about him, pounding in his ears; he remembered his parents, caught under and drowning, remembered spending so many times on the River bottom, testing himself and Her power for reasons he was unsure of. His brain hummed and eyes throbbed, his lungs burned and he wanted to scream with the fear of it only then he'd lose what air he had left…

Suddenly, Frodo saw him.

The snapped rope had tangled in a gathering of rock and weed; Merimac was limp at the end of it, floating almost gently at the end of the rope. He looked peacefully asleep, buffeted from the worst of the undertow against a huge wall of rock. Frodo let precious air escape him in a terrified outward gasp and thrust forward, legs and arms straining against the current, lungs aching, knife in hand.

The knife was as sharp underwater as above; Frodo sawed at the taut length of rope between the rock and his cousin and it came free. Just before the current took Merimac, Frodo grabbed him. Wasting precious seconds—he didn't want to lose Mac again—Frodo tied the rope remainder about his own waist, kicked for the surface.

Gillyflower was, amazingly, only a few lengths away. The moment his head broke the surface exultant shouts sounded, but they barely entered Frodo's consciousness as he sucked in air, wrapping an arm about his cousin and treading water with every bit of strength he had. Merimac was limp, heavy as stone in his grip; Frodo gasped and gagged and frantically tried to keep them both above water. The galley's lee protected them somewhat, but Frodo could still feel the undertow, tugging at his ankles and yanking more sharply at Merimac's unconscious weight.

"No," Frodo growled through sudden sobs. "No, I won't let you. You won't have him. Mac, wake u—!" he choked as water rose up over them both, a sharp switch of current trying to take them, Merimac's weight dragging like a dead thing, pulling them down. The thought gave Frodo renewed anger, and strength; he fought back upwards, the humming in his skull growing even louder, numbness trying to seize his wildly kicking legs.

"Please…" he spat amidst water and foam and the taste of blood rising about them. He could barely hear the shouts above the humming in his ears. An impact in the water beside him nearly sent him under once more. Something tried to wrest Merimac from him; Frodo gave a howl of negation and hung on all the tighter…

"Let go, lad, let go! We have him! We have you!" Munro's voice suddenly pierced his consciousness from above. Strong arms wrapped about him; Frodo blinked the water from his eyes, saw figures in the water with him and the galley's hull lurching next to them—there were several harnessed hobbits dragging them both from the River.

Frodo was deposited on the deck, retching up water, gasping for air. The bronze knife went skittering across the wet wood. Merimac was lowered next to him, heavy and unmoving.

The rain pattering about them hardly registered beneath the beating of blood behind Frodo's eyeballs, against the water-logged wheeze of his breath, yet even that was negated by the singleness of purpose: his cousin. Pulling elbows to knees and grappling forward like a crippled crab, Frodo traversed the distance—it seemed miles though some still-functioning part of his brain knew that was impossible—to where they had dropped Merimac. His leg stung against the decking, caught on the rough length of rope dragging from his waist and nearly tripped him; with a growl he lurched forward, reached his cousin's side. "Mac?" he croaked.

Merimac remained still, too still. Blood was pooling on the deck, the rain sending it spidering and beading on the deck about his right leg, which was twisted and—more horror—laid open. From knee to ankle it gaped, water-swollen and bloody, and jagged edges of white splintered through the rent flesh. Bone. It was bone…

No. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Merimac open his eyes. Frodo reached out, filled his hands with wet linen, sopping brown hair. "Mac?" he quavered, then shook his cousin's limp form. "Mac. Wake up, Mac. Come on, you have to wake up." He looked frantically about, saw a ring of standing hobbits. All of them grey-faced, immobile. None of them doing anything.

"Help him!" Frodo demanded. "He's got to wake up."

"Lad," Citrine whispered. "I don't think he's going to wake up—"

"No!" he shouted at her. "Don't say that!" Twisting back to his cousin, Frodo shook him. "Mac! Mac, can you hear me?"

No response. Merimac's face was pasty white, upturned to the rain and slack; his lips were grey and the wet hair across his face clung there like seaweed to a rotted log. He wasn't breathing.

Heart lurching into his throat, Frodo shook harder. "Wake up. Wake up!"

Still nothing—not a sigh, not a twitch. The skin beneath the shirt Frodo clutched so tightly was cold, so cold…

"Merimac!" Frodo clutched until sopping fabric squeaked in his fingers, his voice breaking upward. "No, you can't, not now! Mac, you have to wake up—you have to breathe—"

"Frodo…" Munro was trying to grab him, trying to stay him. "Lad, stop. It's done. It's over, he don' know nothin'—"

Frodo wrenched away, kicked out, clung to Merimac all the harder. He was suddenly sobbing, pounding on Merimac's chest. "Wake up, damn you! Don't you do this to me… don't you leave me… don't you let her take you from me…!" Begging, cursing, screaming, it was all one, narrowed down to one focus, one impetus. "Not you too! Not… you… too!!" With those last words he brought his fists down on his cousin's breast, once and twice then thrice, with enough desperate, anguished force to nearly break his own hands…

And with those last, double-handed blows, Merimac's body jerked. His mouth opened with an indescribable, rasping sound; he curled up sideways, violently retched. Shattered bone caught on the planking; he let out a painful shriek and it seemed to bring him the rest of the way back, for suddenly he was heaving and choking and flailing outward as if for some sort of purchase in a world that must have been nothing but madness and pain.

Frodo grabbed his cousin, held frantically to him, kept crying out his name over and over, unable to stop, while Merimac gagged and vomited up more water than Frodo thought it possible for a hobbit to carry and still live. He kept holding Merimac until the convulsions stopped, until Merimac gave a final choke and fell sideways against Frodo's chest, the weight strangling his own cries but it didn't matter because Merimac was alive, alive.

Slowly Frodo became aware of the flurry of activity about them: Citrine was barking orders in a voice hoarse with sobs; crew were dashing about in response to those orders; the deck was rolling in the rapids with sails flapping overhead, still shedding leaves and bits of bark, hastily-cast anchor stripping at the carefully-varnished surface of rear railing; in the midst of all the confusion Munro was bending over them, gently angling Merimac's hips so he could see to the broken, twisted leg. Merimac jerked against Frodo's shoulder, tried to swear in a ruined whisper of his normal voice.

All the while Frodo just sat there, arms about his cousin, whispering broken and thankful words into sodden brown hair. Merimac burrowed his face into Frodo's chest, gripped at his shirt somewhat feebly. When he did finally look up, haltingly, blinking against the rain, there was a question in the bleary, blood-laced eyes.

Frodo nodded tight answer, holding just as tightly, tears spilling over.

Munro, with a concerned glance at Frodo, laid hands upon Merimac's leg; Merimac uttered an odd, strangled sound, turned grey and passed out.

But he was still breathing. Frodo could feel the rise and fall of it, patterning against his arms and echoing within his own chest.

* * * * * *

"We have tae fix it," Munro said.

They were finally out of the Strait. Munro himself had been forced to go point, lashed to the rail like ballast, and all of them had been held to that pace even though their captain lay unconscious in his own blood, cushioned against the lurching deck only by Frodo's body. They were helpless to do otherwise until they'd left the treacherous spate of water, but now…

Now the rain had slackened to a soft and misted caress, wind and wake had calmed as they'd cleared the angry water and they'd swiftly set anchor with the sounds of the rapids still in their ears. Anxious voices were all about Frodo, milling somewhere in his consciousness. Someone tried to grasp him, lift him, separate him from Merimac; he hung on doggedly with a small whimper and those hands let him be, smoothing over his wet head and muttering a soothing, "Aye, well."

More blood was seeping through hastily-placed cloths, slowly and inexorably pooling on the deck, the rain no longer powerful enough to wash it away.

"Lad," Munro said again, sharper. "We have tae fix it."

The words penetrated his haze of shock; Frodo raised his eyes to mutely peer up at Munro, still cradling his cousin in his arms. Munro's eyes met his; the seamed, wet face crumpled for a moment. Then he knelt down next to them and put a hand to Merimac's still face. It was a caress.

"We have t' wake him, lad, get whisky down 'im. He'll wake anyways, when we lay iron t' it…"

"Munro!" Frodo wailed out.

"Be still, lad, y' kin see they's still enough bluid; we have to lay iron. We have tae fix that leg, and now, else all yer foolish, brave action'll go fer naught."

"Frodo, if we en't firing it, he'll bleed out," Citrine said. "It en't stopping, not fast enough, and he's lost too much blood already. Munro's right, we have to."

"Better fire than taking th' leg," Munro insisted, "and we'd still have to lay the fire. Though takin' that leg might be th' way of it, faith 'r fathoms."

The words, spoken so matter-of-factly, rived Frodo to marrow. Merimac couldn't be that hurt… not Mac. Not so hurt that he could lose his leg…

He closed his eyes, swallowed hard. "What do you need me to do?" he asked, and his voice was choked, small.

"Wake 'im, boy," said Munro gruffly, and patted Frodo's cheek. "Give 'im this." 'This' was a held-out bottle of Tuckborough uisge. Frodo smiled through his tears; Merimac would have his favourite, at least. "Wake 'im, now. He'll heed yer voice. Arlis! Camin!" Munro raised his voice to the heaviest of the oarshobbits. "Git over here, boys, we'll need yer muscle!"

Frodo put the stoppered bottle beside him on the deck, took a deep breath. "Wake up," he hoarsely ventured. "Mac, you need to wake up now."

It took a while, even with a loved voice beckoning, for Merimac to wake; when he finally did it must have been into horror. He tried to struggle but Arlis and Camin helped Frodo hold him down; he tried to cry out but it only came out a whisper. Frodo kept speaking his name, kept stroking trembling fingers through his hair and slowly Merimac quieted, recognising his surroundings.

"F-Fro…do…?" His voice cracked and choked into silence.

"I'm here," Frodo quietly reassured.

"Wh-what is… I… c-can't…!" His voice rose up to a screech as he moved his legs; again the two brawny oarshobbits closed in on him, immobilising him.

"Mac," Frodo said waveringly, "please be still. You're hurt. You… you nearly…"

"Th' boy saved yer, 'member?" Munro leaned forward, took Merimac's face firmly between his hands; Frodo saw the dull and pain-raddled gaze gain some focus with the sound and feel of his old mentor's presence. Munro went on, firmly, "Merimac, are ye with me, lad? Yer cousin saved ye, ye nearly drowned and ye need tae still down for 'im."

"Drowned…" muttered Merimac. "Then what… ah!" Another sharp cry as he tried to move; Munro's fingers clenched whitely against already-pale cheeks.

"Bide still, Merimac Brandybuck, if ye value yer leg."

The grey eyes fluttered then glanced downward—it was a gruesome sight, all torn flesh and white bone and dark blood. He gave another shudder, then whispered, "Bugger. No… wonder…"

"Please be still," Frodo begged. "You'll just make it worse."

Merimac tried to raise a hand toward him, as if in comfort. It failed miserably; Frodo gripped the hand, stilled it gently, drew it to his cheek. Merimac gave a shudder and his eyes rolled, went vague again.

"Talk to 'im, lad. I have tae start fixin' that leg, I can't be talkin'." Munro turned away, giving terse direction to the crew, all of whom were standing about in horrified silence. Frodo didn't listen further to what the old hobbit was saying; he turned all his attention to his cousin. Merimac was starting to shake violently; he coughed again and the resultant pink froth spotting his lips sent a cold chill down Frodo's spine.

He spoke sharply in its wake. "Merimac! Come on, now, you have to drink this." He took up the liquor bottle that had been set beside him; the cork was still in it but he couldn't spare his extra hand, still wrapped about Merimac, so Frodo settled his teeth into the stopper, pulled it free with a small pop, spat the cork aside. "Mac?"

Merimac stared at him uncomprehendingly for long seconds—the vagueness in those eyes frightened Frodo all the more so he curled closer, kissed Merimac's temple and spoke, firmly gentle, against his ear. "Come on, love, drink this for me. Please, do it for me."

Grey eyes sharpened slightly, recognition once again creeping behind them. As Frodo put the bottle to Merimac's lips, the pinched nostrils flared. "Uis…ge," he croaked. "And… you. M'dreaming?"

"I wish you were," Frodo answered. "Come on, now. You have to drink this."

Merimac obeyed, a grimace and a lurch of his throat tendons betraying the difficulty of swallowing. A dribble of uisge trailed out the side of his mouth, down his cheek and jaw; he shut his eyes for a moment and leaned harder into Frodo.

Over the brown head, Frodo looked up to find Munro's gaze upon them. Just past Munro's shoulder two of the crew were arranging a small iron pot on a stand. It hissed and smoked. Frodo's nostrils twitched; the acrid smell of burning coals was wafting on the damp breeze. Fire, brought from the galley's stove…

Frodo closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, took a deep breath then bent to his cousin once more. "Mac, stay with me. You need to take another drink. You have to drink it all down—"

"I know." It was a slurred, hoarse gasp against his chest, and Merimac looked up at him, suddenly lucid. "Th' drunker I am… better."

Frodo held up the bottle, held it while Merimac took another gulp. Of course he'd know. But it didn't stop Frodo from wishing he could somehow erase that knowledge from his cousin's mind.

They couldn't wait much longer; Merimac's waking and the thrashing he'd done meant more blood was soaking into the deck. Frodo grimly poured more and more of the uisge down his cousin; at least the stuff was potent, and anything Merimac had once had in his stomach had of course been evicted, allowing the alcohol to soak in all the swifter.

Soon Merimac was humming absently against Frodo's chest. Frodo held him close, his eyes drawn and fixed to the fire and the wooden-handled iron rod that was beginning to glow, black-framed orange, with the heat. Citrine came over, an object in her palm that puzzled Frodo until she knelt down and spoke Merimac's name, holding it out.

It was a tight-rolled piece of leather, pitted and dark with use.

"Bugger," Merimac whispered. "Frodo?"

Frodo answered hoarsely, "I'm here."

Merimac's frame gave one long shudder against Frodo's, went still. Then, accepting as a well-trained pony taking the bit, he let Citrine open his mouth, place the rolled leather between his teeth. His eyes rolled white, then shut.

Arlis and Camin came forward, one to each side. Deak, another oarshobbit, joined them, straddling Merimac's good leg and carefully putting hands to the thigh of the injured leg. Merimac juddered, went still. Frodo put a constraining hand over his cousin's forehead, pulled Merimac back against his chest, buried his face in sodden brown hair. He didn't want to look; was nevertheless compelled to as Munro took up the hot iron, came towards them.

So steady, those aged hands wielding flame, in bald contrast to the tears in Munro's eyes, glittering in the brand's amber light like diamonds. He bent over the ruined leg, hesitated, then moved forward. There was a sizzling hiss, as if fat had dripped into a cookfire. Merimac lurched forward, nearly tearing from the ones who held him down. A hoarse-rent shriek escaped him, only partially muffled by leather.

Frodo was sure he would remember the screams until his dying day. Those, and the thick stench of burning flesh, clinging to his nostrils and making him retch, sobbing, into his cousin's hair as Merimac finally and mercifully lost consciousness.

* * * * * *

Gillyflower breasted the current quietly. The wind had died to a soft skirling of breeze, the rhythm of luffing sails broken only by the scrub of wet, coarse bristles against wood.

Frodo could hear it all, up and past the open door of Merimac's cabin and backed by Gillyflower's unnatural silence.  Particularly that last sound: Tolly and Jimsy rendering the deck clean of their captain's blood.

It was finally over. The awful wound had been cauterised, swabbed clean. Munro had picked out all the bone shards he could find, then with reassuring skill had set to aligning the bone back together. The back of Merimac's leg—which was remarkably only bruised—he'd padded with thick cloth gamgees, leaving the wound open, and he bound and set the bone tightly immobile with wooden staves, leather and fishing line. Using more of the tensile, strong line, he had sewed what jagged edges he could—not very successfully, for there wasn't enough flesh to hold a clean stitch save at top and bottom. He then had packed the gaping wound with herbs, dusted it liberally with powders that pinched at Frodo's nose, and wrapped more cloth about that, mummifying Merimac's leg from knee to ankle.

Frodo had watched, numb; when Munro had ordered the three hobbits who had held their captain down to carry said captain to his quarters, he relinquished Merimac without a fight and wordlessly followed them down.

They'd carried Merimac so gently…

It was over and now Merimac lay, sweated, homely, mercifully senseless, in the wide bunk where he and Frodo had slept and argued and made love.

Still numb, still mute, Frodo sat on a stool beside the bed, hunched over with arms and cheek upon Merimac's chest, knowing nothing but that he had to stay there, that only as long as he could hear the steady, slow rhythm of his cousin's heart and feel the breath rising beneath that chest could he keep himself separate from the beckoning mindlessness of terror and despair.

It was over. But it wasn't, not really. One had only to look at the sunken pallor of Merimac's face, or the grim necessity of Munro's, or the tangible shock in Citrine's, or the shaken expressions of the remainder of Gillyflower's crew. As for his own face and what it told, Frodo masked it, buried it, lost the surreality of the past hours to the sensation of his cousin's heartbeat and breathing as if by sheer will he himself could keep them steady, and he didn't allow any of it to take hold over his being for if it did it would never, never stop…

* * * * * *

He never grew tired of his hills; the feel of green and wet upon his toes, the faint, fae dust of blossoming fields, the smell of pony and chaff and corn, the sight of glossy, well-fed hides dotting those same hills.

The rain was light, merely cool and bracing; neither he nor his mount were tired, although they'd spent half of the day riding out to check the new-broken fields. His pony's knees were dusted damp with the greensap of new grass; it boded well. With the mild weather continuing, it wouldn't be too long before they'd be able to begin early planting. Paladin Took rode onto the wet cobbles of the stableyard, nodded cheerily at the greetings of the lads, ambled over to where the head groom Mick was already waiting, head collar and lead in hand. With an effortless motion Paladin dismounted, began to hand the rein to Mick…

Suddenly fire flared behind his eyes, piercing pain that filled his skull, shot down his spine and filled his right leg with agony. With a grunt he fell against the pony's shoulder, tangled fingers in the coarse mane and hung there, gasping.

"M'lord?" Slowly Mick's voice penetrated the haze of pain. "What is—? Tansy! Gerd! Gi' over here, Himself is having an attack!"

An attack. With odd lucidity, Paladin wondered if that were true. His heart, perhaps, or some seizure of the brain, and sudden anger reared up within him—he wasn't ready to die, not yet; he had too much to do.

The pain released him, as suddenly as it had come, and he once again lurched against the pony with the relief of it. Hands took hold of him, supported him, tried to pull him from the pony's side and couldn't—he was still tightly clutching the beast's mane.

"M'lord, come now. 'Tis all right, but you have to let go." Mick's voice again, softly reasonable. "Let go so's we can give you aid."

Strength was flooding back into shaky legs; Paladin let go the pony's mane and turned to meet the three concerned faces—others were gathering about as well. "I'm… all right, Mick."

The groom peered at him sceptically. Next to him the lass Tansy and the lad Gerd also expressed disbelief.

"I promise you, 'tis gone," Paladin insisted. And it was, nothing remaining but a strange, phantom ache in his leg and a niggling feeling that there was more to it than he knew—and he felt slight anger once again, realising what had happened if not the reason for it. Never had he lost control, had one of his… fits… before his tenants. "I'm all right; 'twas but a momentary fit of dizziness, no more."

"Well," Mick said, still sceptical, "as you say, m'lord, but surely you'd like one of us t' see you t' Smial."

"I will sit here for the moment, if you wish," Paladin said. This was obviously acceptable, as Mick shrugged with his approximation of satisfaction and took the pony's rein, leading him away. "Tansy," he said over his shoulder, "gi' Himself a nip of brandy, and right quick!"

The lass ran for the circular shed in the middle of the yard, disappeared into the entry. Gerd, with a slight touch of his cap, retreated back to his duties.

The solitude was more than welcome. Paladin put a hand to his forehead, rubbed there almost absently, contemplated what had just happened. Even Tansy returning with a tumbler of brandy—Mick always had a bottle of the Hall's finest in his press—didn't pull him from his inward thoughts. He thanked her, dismissed her, sipped the brandy and tried to plumb the depths of what he'd felt.

Depths. Soundings familiar as his own breath, his own heartbeat. Faulty breath, faltering heart, water and wood, blood and fire and pain, pain, pain…

Merimac.

He downed the rest of the brandy and stared out over his beloved hills, his eyes gone dark and unseeing.

* * * * * *

"Pal?"

It was weak and hoarse, but reverberated against Frodo's cheek, humming through the steady, slow sounds of breath and heartbeat. It was sensation more than sound brought Frodo from his half-doze, made him raise his head as fingers tangled in his hair and feebly tugged.

"Pal…?" Merimac husked out again, trying to raise his head.

Pal? What was that? Frodo hesitated in confusion, but as Merimac tried to rise further quickly leaned forward and set his palm to his cousin's forehead, gently pushing him back into the pillows. "I'm here. Be still, love."

"How'd you…?"

Suddenly it clicked into Frodo's brain: Pal… Paladin… Paladin Took. He took a breath, said quickly, "Paladin's not here. It's me, it's Frodo." There was no response; Merimac's eyes were pitch with but a rim of grey, glassy and unfocused. "Mac, it's Frodo," he tried again, stomach clenching uneasily. "Don't you know me?"

Black retreated; recognition glimmered grey. "Frodo," Merimac mumbled slowly. "What… where…?"

"You're in your cabin. You've been hurt. You have to stay still, love."

A small smile quirked one corner of Merimac's mouth. "You… y… keep… callin' me 'love'."

A rather-shaky, answering grin stole its way onto Frodo's face at this seeming return to normal. "So I do."

The brown head sagged back against the pillows for a moment; Merimac's face went slack; with some effort he tried to focus on Frodo. "I remember… water. Blood. Fire…" A tremor went through his body and his teeth ground together, his fists clenched.

Frodo had never felt more helpless in his life; he reached out, wormed fingers into one of Merimac's tight-fisted hands, laid his other hand to Merimac's cheek. "You'll be all right. You will." The fingers about his own relaxed, twitched; they were warm, too warm. Merimac's cheek was also heated, damp with sweat; the hair that had been dry hours before was damp as well. "Mac?"

Merimac's eyes rolled up in his head and closed. Panic zig-zagged its way down Frodo's spine; he bent forward, put his cheek to the broad chest and took a grateful sob of breath as he heard, once again, the steady thrum of heart and life.

"Boy?"

Frodo jumped, startled; he hadn't heard Munro come in. Turning to the old hobbit, Frodo saw him dismounting the last two steps while carrying a tin bowl, several bottles of brown glass, several clean rags. He padded over, placed all the items on the ledge next to the bed and ran his fingers across Merimac's forehead. With a sour mutter he then laid those fingers against the pulse-point at Merimac's neck, waited several seconds then grunted. They were silent for long moments, unmoving; finally Frodo could no longer stand it, spoke.

"He has fever, hasn't he?"

"Aye, well, it'll be worse afore it betters," was Munro's answer. "His leg's bad, boy, and if fever's all we gets we'll be lucky." Suddenly he peered at Frodo. "And y'rself?"

"Me?" Frodo said, puzzled.

"Ye wouldn't let us pull ye offen yer cousin long enow tae tend ye afore—an' I seen ye limping." Before Frodo could protest, the old hobbit had bent down and pulled at the hem of Frodo's breeches—they were ripped up to the knee, and as he looked down Frodo saw there was a long, unhealthy-looking gash on the side of his calf. It was throbbing suddenly—as if with notice it had worsened.

"I didn't… I forgot. I think… perhaps I hit it on a rock."

Munro nodded, reached over and grabbed up the larger of the brown bottles—cheap, strong whisky—then the rags and the tin, which Frodo noted was half filled with clear water. "Bide still, Frodo-lad, an' let me see tae ye while Himself is sleepin'."

Dried blood and ichor heavily lined the cut; Munro's hands were, once again, startlingly gentle as he cleaned it away with water from the tin. "This'll be th' worst of it," he said, opening the bottle and dribbling the contents over the gash.

Frodo jumped as the alcohol entered the wound, but bit his lip and determined that he'd no call to cry out, not after what Merimac had just endured.

Munro gave a satisfied grunt, the light in his eyes acknowledging Frodo's determination, then set the bottle aside. Without another word he bent to the task of lining the cut with herbs soaked in the water, then wrapping it well.

"How," Frodo ventured, with a wince as Munro pulled fabric taut over the wound, "did you learn all of this?"

The old hobbit shrugged. "Y' finds as ye needs, biding here." Another small grin. "An' me da hoped I'd take tae the business of physic as himself had done. Ye'd not know it tae look at me noo, but 'twas a bit of learnin' I had as a young'un, afore the River called me."

Frodo thought of the small cabin lined with books and realised he wasn't all that surprised. "I'm just glad that you were here," he said softly. "For him."

"Allus am," was the laconic reply, then the dark eyes settled upon him unblinkingly. "Don' think I liked it, hurtin' him so."

"I know." A lump rose in Frodo's throat; he swallowed it back down, focused instead upon the dull throb that had begun in his calf.

Munro reached out, laid a hand to Frodo's cheek. "Ye stay here for the now, lad. Call me if Himself rouses. We'll have tae keep him drugged fair heavy, or the pain'll take him surely as any flesh rot."

* * * * * *

Frodo remembered those words like a burning brand into his own flesh; they were to prove themselves quite adequately over the days after Merimac's accident.

They managed to get some food down him, and that nothing more than broth or gruel; he was mostly uninterested but drank plenty of water, gulping it thirstily whenever they offered it. Despite a slow start the fever spiked high, denying any attempts to drug it down or wash it cool. In the wake of it Merimac raved like a mad thing; once it took four hobbits to hold him—trying to protect his leg—finally they ended up tying him down with the leathern straps Frodo had once been so fascinated by.

Those days—filled with hard work and easy laughter, hot words and heated embraces—seemed a lifetime ago, as faded and gone as the tender bruises once upon his wrists. But it didn't matter; all that mattered was here, and now. Frodo kept talking to his cousin in a soft, unhurried voice, even when Merimac didn't recognise him, when Merimac tried to strike him, shouting in some foreign and barbaric tongue Frodo had never heard before, or when he lay hunched and shuddering, whining thinly like a dog in a sudden storm.

"I'm here," Frodo kept saying, keeping his hand upon Merimac's chest if he couldn't lay his cheek there, reassured by the strong, steady heartbeat and refusing to be parted from it even when Merimac was at his worst. "I'm here."

It was quite important that he voice it; that Merimac hear it, and know.

Through it all Munro kept an eagle's eye upon Merimac's right leg. He didn't unwrap it, but he kept inspecting the ankle and foot below the swath of bandages and the thigh above; he would lean close, smell the bandages, run his fingers across the toes to ensure they twitched, inspect the inflamed skin where those bandages met the back of Merimac's knee, making certain there was no sign of the upward-moving striations indicating infected and dying flesh.

Frodo had never before had cause to even know what gangrene was, let alone the warning signs, but he learned them, kept checking—not because he distrusted Munro's observances, but because he felt he would go mad if he didn't. He rarely left his cousin's side. His desk sat in its corner, dark and ignored. Munro coaxed him out for meals—only succeeding when the old hobbit would agree to stay with Merimac—and that condition willingly accepted, for Munro knew perhaps better than anyone on board that their captain needed constant supervision.

Munro knew too much, and he worried even more. Not only for the hobbit who was like a son to him, but for the boy, who was breaking his heart with all that fearful intensity. Munro had seen it before; the quietest and most stoic were often the ones who felt too deeply for comfort.

Sure, and it was proper that the lad should be by his cousin's side… but Munro wished he could coax the boy into the rigging once again, where he was sorely missed. He had succeeded in getting him to come updeck, to eat, to let the wind touch his cheeks, but always Frodo quickly retreated back into this sickbed of heavy silence.

If only the lad would relent, find some sense of release from the vigil so obviously weighing him down.

In fact, more and more Munro was beginning to be troubled that it might in truth become a vigil. No sign of rot—the sweet-sick odour of that would travel across the ship, let alone turn the cabin into a reeking death-house—but the fever wouldn't abate. It wasn't the lung sick—a surprise, that, for Munro had tended many a near-drowned hobbit, and usually water would infect the lungs no matter how pure—but there was something. Perhaps in the blood; no doubt some filth had entered despite the cleansing fire. Munro had even debated taking the leg—no guarantee that it would heal properly since it had been so damaged, it might cripple Merimac worse than a false leg-prop would—but there was no heat biding near the horrific wound, and he couldn't make such a harsh decision if there was any hope otherwise.

Munro often wished he could abandon his own duties, sit grieving as surely as the boy was doing. But it would avail nothing. There was nothing to do now but wait. And hope.

Merimac sank from frenzied delirium to horrible quietude. Several of the crew came and went in uneasy, respectful silence. Frodo suddenly refused to leave his cousin's side even for a short while, paying no heed to Munro's pleas. Finally Citrine who had, save for one stricken foray to her captain's side, not ventured into the dark, came down to use what authority she had.

Frodo heard her, felt her presence but no more. He was afraid as he'd never before been—truly afraid that if he left Merimac even for a short while, he'd die. Frodo had been near enough to death himself, in that long, bitter winter, to not recognise it closing in on another. The stillness… the inward sinking… he could smell it, hear it, feel it. He'd lived it—and nearly died beneath it, succumbing to the familiar, beckoning half-light of silence.

Darkness was preferable, now. Darkness was real.

"Frodo." Citrine finally spoke into the stillness, her voice reverberating against the womb of wood and water. "Lad, let us help. You need t' get out of here, 'tis dark and chill and you need fresh air—"

"He does, too, but he can't."

Another silence. Then, firmly, "He would want you to. The Cap'n'd not cotton t' you shirking your duties and you know it. We need you, Frodo."

"He needs me more."

"Lad, he don't know nothin'—"

"He knows when I'm here!" Frodo shot back furiously. "He does!"

Silence. Munro came down the stairs, also silent, watching.

"Do y' think you're the only one as loves him?" Citrine suddenly demanded.

It broke Frodo's own anger, turned it into something more malleable, let in understanding. "No," Frodo said miserably, turning to her. "No, never. But don't you see?" He groped for words. "I can't leave him. I can't. When he comes to that place—" that place, that grey, shadowed underworld place, filled with shrill whispers, with beckoning voices and shattered dreams… "—and has to choose… I have to be here, can't you see? I have to stay, and give him something to see and touch when he gives that one look back…"

From behind Citrine, Munro's face went grey. He knew. Somehow, he knew what Frodo was trying to say.

"Frodo, you can't—!" Citrine broke off as Munro fiercely gripped her arm.

"Leave 'im be," he said, eyes meeting Frodo's with a final acceptance. "He can."

Frodo wasn't aware when they left. He had once again lain across Merimac's chest, pressed sweated, too-warm skin against his lips and cheek, bent keenly to the sound of that slowly beating heart.

"Please, Mac," he whispered in time to it. "Please. Don't leave me. Please, don't leave me…"