A pattering, as if tiny faerie feet were tripping all over the roof. A waft of air that stirred the wet locks of hair hanging across his forehead, misting his cheeks with cool damp. Slowly he rose, every muscle in his body aching from the unnatural position he was in. Opening crusted eyes, he saw the still figure that had been his pillow; his fingers still clenched in the sweat-stained linen of Merimac's shirt. It was damp, damp and cool as his cheeks; looking up, he saw the large porthole, half opened and letting in some of the rain that was steadily falling beyond it. He connected it with the pattering overhead, felt the roll and swell of Gillyflower beneath him, creaking softly in the wind and rain.

His head throbbed. His eyes burned.

Frodo realised that he had sobbed himself to sleep.

Sleep! He lurched upward. He hadn't meant to sleep, he hadn't meant to leave Merimac alone even that much, hadn't meant to…

He focused swollen eyes upon his cousin's face—it was still, sunken; the overcast grey of outside giving it a ghostly pallor. With trembling fingers Frodo reached out, touched the parted lips. Cold. They were cold.

In a panic he clutched at the fabric over the broad chest, pulled it apart, ran his hands over more flesh that had been only last night burning hot and now was cool, damp from the rain. "No," he whimpered.

Tilting forward, he laid his head to the chill of his cousin's flesh and let out a strangled sob at what he heard.

A steady, strong beat, pulsing against his cheek and filling his ears, his heart, his whole being with a pure ecstasy of relief. "Mac," he whispered, lifting his head and slowly moving forward, closing until he was nose to nose with his cousin, hands touching the damp cheeks. "Merimac," he said again, softly, insistently.

A twitch of facial muscles that set off more muscles contracting, a contagion that quivered its way down and along Merimac's entire body. He whimpered softly as his injured leg gave a small jerk, and the grey eyes opened, flickered dark, pupils contracting. They blinked once, then twice; Merimac backed slightly into the pillows as if trying to focus on the thing that hovered so closely to him. His dark brows drew together in puzzlement. "Frodo?" was the hoarse query.

"I'm here," Frodo answered, the fullness in his heart spilling upwards and into the back of his throat. He couldn't stop running his fingers along his cousin's cheeks, up and into the unwashed hair at his temples, down again to his jawline—as if by touch Frodo could convince both of them that they were indeed here, and now.

"Are you this close to kiss me," came the drowsy quip, "or are you just going to rub my nose with yours all day?"

Frodo kissed him, touched noses with him and drew back slightly. "I was afraid I'd not see your eyes again," he said, his voice cracking.

Merimac frowned, shifted—the last made him stiffen, suck in a choked breath. "Bloody… damn," he finally wheezed. "I hurt like a son of a—"

"Faith an' stars!" came a familiar voice from the doorway. "It's broke, has it?"

"It has," Frodo said to Munro, not taking his eyes from Merimac. Merimac, however, slid his gaze to Munro, his eyes brightening. The old hobbit strode in, his crabbed gait quicker than even usual, and took one of Merimac's hands.

"Well, and I thought it'd take more than that to kill ye, lad." His eyes were suspiciously bright; he gripped Merimac's hand for a few moments, then coughed. A gust of wind came in through the porthole; Munro eyed it sourly. "We'd best shut that, else ye'll take th' chill, all damp an' such. What were ye thinkin', boy?" he cuffed at Frodo, who didn't even bother to duck, shoving the damp bang from his own forehead with a self-conscious smile. Munro leaned across the bed and firmly shut it.

"Cold as brass balls out yonder, and pow'rful wet. Meks the ache in me bones all th' stronger," Munro continued, putting one hand to Merimac's forehead. "How much d'ye remember, m' lad?"

Merimac's eyes went cloudy for a moment, then widened in sudden panic. "My leg. My—"

"Ye still have yer leg," Munro reassured gruffly. "'Tis hopeful that ye'll be keepin' it."

"I want to see," Merimac stumbled over the words, his expression filling with even more alarm. "I want—"

"It's all right," Frodo tried to reassure him, but to no avail. Merimac dragged himself upward, peered down to see. There was a bare flicker of relief on the broad face before it turned stark white and the arms propping him trembled. Frodo grabbed at him, started to order him back down. There was no need; another gust of wind blew past the now-shut window, spattering rain against it, Gillyflower rocked starboard rather abruptly and Merimac fell back with a strangled groan. Beneath the sudden wind's onslaught the boat kept lobbing back and forth; there was the sound of teeth gritting as Merimac buried his face into the pile of pillows behind his head.

"Mac," Frodo said, "what's wrong?"

No answer save for a shudder as Gillyflower rocked in another swell.

"Mac, what is it?"

Merimac lurched sideways and heaved up what was in his stomach—not much—onto the planking next to Frodo's feet. With a strangled oath, Munro shoved Frodo aside and grabbed at Merimac's shoulders, angling him carefully forward, holding him steady. Merimac grabbed at his old mentor, arms flinging forward and about his waist, fingers wrapping then clenching in Munro's dark shirt.

Frodo watched, alarmed and unsure of what to do, where to go, as his cousin retched himself dry and still kept heaving long after he should have stopped. Finally the paroxysms quieted, and Munro eased Merimac back onto the bed, wiping the flushed face very gently. "Frodo," the old hobbit said softly, but firmly, "go t' me cabin, bring th' auld brown duffle at the foot of th' bed." When Frodo hesitated, staring at Merimac, Munro hissed, "Git!"

Frodo startled into action; he ran up the steps two at a time, ignored several crewhobbits' calls as he ran across the deck and down into Munro's cabin. It took a few minutes to find the carryall; it clinked as he swung it to one shoulder, warning him to be more careful. Despite that he made it back to the cabin in record time.

Munro was talking calmly to Merimac, who still clung so tightly to Munro that his knuckles strained, yellow-white, against his flesh. Munro turned slightly as Frodo entered, jerked his head. "C'mere, lad, bring the tote."

Frodo did so; Munro twisted, one arm still about Merimac, and rummaged in the bag as Frodo held it for him. He took out a indigo bottle, shoved it at Frodo. "Open it, lad. Gits us a tumbler of water; a dropper full of that innit'll do th' job now."

Again, Frodo did as he was told, and the high pallor of Merimac's face bade him hurry. His hands were shaking; with some effort he held them still long enough to obtain a dipper of water from the barrel in one corner and balance it on the barrel's top once he'd capped it. The wind was no longer crying past the window; Gillyflower had settled to a fair stillness—for her, anyway—which made his chores easier. Then he opened the indigo bottle; the smell was acrid, strong enough to make him cough.

"Only a dropper, lad," Munro reminded.

The liquid dripped into the water and expanded like a puff of smoke. Merimac gave another breathless groan and Frodo hurried over with the drugged water—it must be a drug.

Munro read his puzzlement. "Aye, lad. 'Twill do th' trick for us; put 'im out, a kindness now. Plump up th' cushions, gi' yer cousin sommat to lean upon." As Frodo obeyed, Munro disentangled Merimac from his torso, settled him lightly back into the rearranged pillows. "Better now?"

There was a short nod, followed by a clenching of jaw. "Everything's… circling."

"I know. Ye have to drink this. 'Twill help the sickness, if ye kin lie still an' keep't down."

Merimac acquiesced, so readily and docilely that it set another uneasy quiver in Frodo's stomach. Munro took the cup away from Merimac's lips, settled him into the pillows and gave one hand a pat. "Bide still, now."

Frodo peered at Munro as he rose, saw trepidation in the sun-lined face, and a strange resignation.

Something was dreadfully wrong.

* * * * * *

Later, after Merimac had sunk into drugged sleep, Frodo rose, looking down at his cousin wearily. He could still hear a fine patter of rain on the deck, footsteps, voices; for the first time in many days, he thought of the activity above. With a sudden sigh he padded over to the stairwell, took his coat from the hooks there and started to shrug into it; he saw movement from the corner of his gaze and whirled about, his senses too keyed. The visage that stared at him from the mirror across from the cloak-hooks made him blink—was that him? That hobbit with the glassy, sunken eyes and the mass of unkempt, unwashed hair and the white, still face? He blinked; the image blinked back and he was not reassured.

Voices carried, muted, down the stairwell and he heard Munro in particular. This was the final impetus to ignore that stranger in the mirror and go up deck—assuming that he didn't frighten anyone there into jumping overboard—to find some answers. Munro had refused to say anything while Merimac was still awake, no matter Frodo's pleading looks.

The steps seemed longer, the climb twinging muscles held immobile too long and setting his injured leg to throbbing. He ignored it all, reaching the top stair and putting a hand to the door, opening it quietly before him and shutting it just as quietly behind.

The deck was relatively still, the rain pattering and beading on wood and brass. A few hands glided back and forth, hunched against the wet, busy with sail and steerage; the rest were no doubt below decks and drying off from their own stint above. Citrine was not in sight, but Munro was right next to Merimac's cabin entrance; he turned to Frodo, took in his appearance then gave a short nod as if it was expected, and he waiting for just that.

Despite that, they stood for a while quietly, companioned by the wet and the drifting, almost sleepy motion of Gillyflower.

"Lad." Munro's voice was soft, almost too soft to be heard when it came. "There's bein' a decision upstream, an' 'tis one I nivver thought to be up agin'."

Frodo's heart lurched upwards, then dropped down into the sudden hollow that was his gut. "What do you mean?"

Munro's eyes turned to him, seemed to take him in more thoroughly. "Boy, ye looks worse almost than yer cousin; iffen you en't takin' care of yerself, how're y' gonter take care o' Himself?"

Frodo looked down, self-conscious. He regarded the rain pattering about his feet, then insisted, slowly, "What do you mean, a decision?"

Quiet was the answer, Munro looking off into the grey, fogged distance, water dripping off the battered old hat he wore.

"Munro!"

"I'm lookin' fer the proper words," the old hobbit said slowly, still looking away. "They ain't rightly comin'. Gi' us a moment, lad."

Frodo wasn't sure he was willing to give him that moment, not with the look that had been on Munro's face after they'd drugged Merimac; not with the oddness to his demeanour now. "What's wrong with Mac? What could be wrong? His fever's broken, his leg's doing better than you expected even with that fever. He's going to be all right, isn't he?" No response, and Frodo insisted, "Isn't he?"

"His leg's better, aye," answered the old hobbit grudgingly. "Better'n I'd have given it at th' first, tho' we ain't outta the woods yet, and don't be forgittin' it. Could still go south on us, quick as wind-shift, and we might have to take it yet. But—"

"Munro!" the lookout called. "Wind's setting us nor'west."

"Hold th' course. Keep 'er steady. The shoreline's a mite narrow an' treacherous, here."

"Aye."

Frodo watched as the tiller was set over, as quick commands were given to angle the sails and hold to the original course. He wiped the rain-slicked curls from his forehead, blinking wet from his eyelashes, and eyed Munro. "But?"

Munro gave a sigh, ruminated for long moments. "I'm hopin' I'm seein' it all wrong. But I'm thinking I ain't. I think Mac's got th' movement sickness, Frodo."

"The… what?"

"Th' movement sickness. When bein' on a movin' thing—'specially on th' water—meks ye sick."

"You mean seasick, like he says our cousin Paladin always is? But," Frodo rationalised, "Mac's never—"

"I know he ain't, but this is diff'rent." Munro was uncommonly snappish. "Sometimes it happens, usually when ye've been too long underwater, or too deep. The pressure—you felt it lad, when you were down there, water pressing agins ye?—waal, it makes a change, does somethin', summow, an' tae even the most well-able riverhobbit. It meks the dizziness, the sickness."

"But he'll get better."

Snappishness was gone, replaced by hesitation. "He could, an' in a few days. That's what I'm hopin' fer, lad."

Frodo hunched his shoulders, silenced by the worried heaviness in Munro's voice.

"Go tek a bath, boy," Munro finally voiced. "Y' needs tae see t' yerself fer a change. Wash that cut leg good an' sound, else we'll be worritin' that yer leg'll fall off."

The tone was teasing, but the undercurrent was not; Munro had been lenient so far but it was obvious he would brook no disobedience now. And, Frodo realised with an inward sigh of relief, a bath would feel heavenly at this point—even if it was rain and buckets of cold river water poured over his head, at least there was plenty of soap to be had in the supplies.

"I'll check in on Himself fer ye," Munro added kindly. "Go on."

* * * * * *

A few days changed nothing.

Every time Merimac woke and tried to sit up he got dizzy; when he'd finally settled into the tiny change in altitude, Gillyflower would bobble beneath them and set him off again. Every time he tried to eat, the food came back up and they had to resort to dulling his senses with judicious droppers-full from the bottle of indigo glass before they could get food to stay in his stomach. Merimac was conscious of merely a little of it—but that was not necessarily something to be grateful for, as the torpor of unawareness was due to not only the drug, but his fever rising again. It was not as dangerously high as in days previous but, nevertheless, it was there.

An angry red began to appear at the top of the bandaged leg—Munro was fairly certain that it was just irritation from the bandages, but decided to remove them anyway, just to check. He explained to Frodo that it was usually better to leave well enough alone, to not unwrap something so direly injured because it was just opening up the chance for more infection—however he also explained that he wasn't going to risk rot burrowing its way in if he had the chance of cutting it away.

During the process Merimac was totally unaware, but the worry was proven thankfully unfounded. Munro didn't interfere with the equipment he'd used to set the leg, but he did peel the bandages away. Those came away thick with blackened blood clots and yellow ichor, and stank like rot, but Munro quickly assured Frodo that it wasn't rot.

"Ain't th' same—'twould smell worse than a blown-up carcass if it were the green-sick rot. Look 'ere, lad, between the sets—pink flesh growing around bone, and that white as fresh snow… all we kin hopes is that great hole'll fill itself, now. Me work's not been for naught, nor yers. Let's wrap't back up quick-like. This en't our main concern, not now."

Frodo assisted quietly; when they'd remummified Merimac's leg and attended to the outraged flesh about his knee with lamb's grease he said, falsely light, "And what is our main concern, now?"

Munro looked uncomfortable, finished dressing the leg before he spoke. "Just… that you've a decision to mek."

"I do?"

Munro looked at Merimac carefully then, satisfied he was indeed still unconscious, raised his eyes to meet Frodo's, unblinking, deadly serious. "Frodo, he en't getting better. An' I'm thinkin' that he won't, not this way, not on th' water. Ain't his fault—even on a calm day Gillyflower lobs about. An' as she does, he'll stay sick and dizzy an' all."

"But—"

"It ain't my decision, but I'm tellin' y' that I'm thinkin' of what's best fer our Mac, here. I'm thinkin' we need tae get 'im land-bound."

"Munro, what are—?"

"Every day is bringin' us closer and closer tae Buckland. Mayhap fer th' best." He hesitated, "Mayhap 'tis best t' send him home."

"But… this is his home!"

"Don't y' think I know that, boy?" Munro rasped out. "'Twas I who taught him his first knots, set th' first tiller in his hand! An' here I be, about as helpless agin this as ever I thought t' feel…"

Frodo looked down at his cousin, letting Munro's words sink in. Helpless… yes, he knew what that was and like Munro, he hated it. It had been cruel enough to think that he was helpless to control his own fate—but to realise that he was unable to help Merimac was even worse.

One hand crept to Merimac's temple, stroked down to cup at the sweated cheek as Munro kept on beside him. That cheek was too warm, flushed with what appeared to be health but was in reality fever; the closed eyes rolled in their sockets as if, even drugged, Merimac could feel his touch. It made him all at once humble and frightened.

"I don't like it neither, lad. If it was just his leg, then yes, we'd take care of him, but it ain't. An' he's others who can help him—it's now he needs landshobbits tae see to him."

Landshobbits. Once he himself had been one of those. Frodo had thought—fool, him!—he'd never have to be one again. And Merimac—he'd escaped as well, never thinking it could possibly change…

"His blood fambly will take him," Munro insisted. "The old Marster Rorimac sees that they keep his rooms allus free for him. 'Tis clannish Brandybuck, the like, and a good thing. Fambly is fambly."

"They're my family, too." Frodo said through his teeth, still looking at Merimac. "They'll take him, all right—and make him feel it as a burden."

"Aye. Mayhap." The old hobbit peered at him for moments, unmoving. Then, softly, "But mayhap he's also got you."

Frodo went still, sliding his eyes sideways to peer at Munro.

"It falls tae you, lad. Ye're his kin, y' share his bed, it's yer right and duty tae decide this," was the stubborn insistence. "But y' needs listen to this ol' hobbit. I knows what I'm sayin'."

"I know you do," Frodo whispered, gaze falling once more to take in Merimac. "It's just…"

"Aye," was Munro's comment, and he laid a broad, gnarled hand on Frodo's shoulder. "En't it just."

They sat there, silent for some time, before Frodo spoke again. "I could… could send a letter ahead, to the Hall."

"Aye."

"Are we near to a port, one that has a post?"

"Aye."

Frodo stroked Merimac's cheek one more time, then drew away, stood. Munro was silent behind him as he went over to his cousin's map table, looking for what necessities might be there. He found only a very stub quill—if it could be called that—and some small scraps of ill-made paper. With a sigh that held a small chuckle within it—he should have known—Frodo went over to his own table. He made a half-hearted swipe at the dust that had settled there, reached for and opened the small box that held his own writing tools. Mechanically he lit the lantern above the desk and sat down, preparing everything in an altogether-too-careful fashion: laying down the blotter, inspecting his quill, selecting a pristine sheet from the folio that held fresh parchment.

Only as Frodo laid the salutation down did he become fully conscious of to whom it was addressed.

His hand shook; he drew it back just in time to prevent a blot and sucked in a quiet, uneasy breath, considering.

In writing this letter, he would be making his first contact with his guardians since he had run away. He'd all but sworn to himself he'd never go back. He'd never look back. But now there was no choice—none that he could conscionably make—and abruptly, he realised another thing.

He was tired of running.

Frodo bent to writing, his lips settling into a thin, determined line.

Finishing the note was easy—a warning of their arrival, a brief description of the situation and why they were arriving so, and absolutely nothing of apology or reference to what had passed before.

It wasn't important, not really. Not now.

Then, after some hesitancy, he began the second note.

This one was harder, much harder. Frodo wasn't sure how it would be received. He was even more unsure of what Merimac would think when he found out it had been sent. Frodo knew he didn't know enough, really, of any of it—but at the same time he knew love when he saw it, and he would swear he had seen it.

He sealed both notes and addressed them, then handed them to Munro, who nodded at the first and raised his eyebrows at the second.

"Do you think I'm wrong?" Frodo asked softly. Surely, Munro would know.

"Nay, lad. But Himself be proud, and it might go hard for ye wid him."

Frodo shrugged, unable to totally disguise his unsurety. "I think I need to send it."

An answering shrug. "Aye, then. We reach t' next port in another day's time. I'll hire a good messenger for't; then we hie to Buckland, quick as we can. If weather be fair and we stop fer naught, mayhap a fortnight."

"That long." Frodo looked at Merimac uncertainly.

"Aye. We'll keep Himself quiet-like, and the medicine'll help." The old sailor smiled, more of support than any humour, and once again laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "I'll look after Gillyflower for him as allus, 'til he returns." Then he turned away, with a soft and sad mutter that Frodo knew he wasn't intended to hear, "If he can."

* * * * * *

Two days until they made port—and those days marked by how many times they had to drug Merimac, and when his fever broke again, and how many hours of sleep and work gained in the meantime. Frodo was fast asleep as they berthed, stretched out in exhaustion beside his cousin.

Merimac however, woke, instinct informing him that they'd stopped. For moments he knew only that—everything else eluded him including where he was, or who, or how. Reality swam about him, wavering then clearing, taunting him with comprehension then pulling back, fading.

He moved, became conscious of the warmth of a body beside him even as pain shot from his right hip and up, impacting against the top of his skull merely to shoot back downward, imploding at his hip, seemingly unable to go further. It was all he could do to not hurl his guts at the strength of it, at the weakness it funnelled through him.

A murmur and movement from that body beside him gave him some outward focus; he reached for it both inward and outward, save that he couldn't seem to make anything on his body work. His voice came out as a mere croak.

The other presence was stronger, piercing the haze of pain and befuddlement. It bent over him, saying something familiar… his name, perhaps?

"Mac," it said. "Can you hear me?"

Of course I can hear you, he wanted to say crossly, but I don't even know who you are or what I am and somehow nothing wants to work and that includes my voice!

"Open your eyes," the voice said, soft but insistent. "Open your eyes and let me know that you're here."

"Love, I know your wits are drug-fuddled, but please open your eyes."

Drugged? He didn't feel drugged, he felt damn-well nothing but pain and queasiness and if this was what it meant to be drugged then it wasn't working.

And who would call him 'love', in such a gentle voice?

Wake up, you fool, he told himself, and himself answered back:

…and with that realisation it all started to come back to him, sweeping over him in a terrific wave—where he was, who he was—but not enough yet, not enough…

"Fuck," he snarled, but it didn't come out that way, it was a mewling croak that belonged to some dying dog, not the captain of fair Gillyflower.

A pair of rainwater eyes came into his own line of sight—and if he hadn't identified Frodo by voice then those eyes would have done it—and he felt the odd tenderness that always came over him in conjunction with that particular and peculiar presence. For seconds the warmth outstayed even the pain and nausea, and he remembered more, said again, hoarsely, "You called me 'love' again, you know."

The blue eyes crinkled at the corners, blinked back a sudden suspicious moisture.

"Oh, no." Was it his imagination, or was his voice actually getting stronger? "Don't you start crying on me, not this time. I'll do what you want, I promise."

"You're bloody well straight you will," Frodo told him, but his voice was all choked tight, belying the sternness.

"She's stopped. Gillyflower's stopped. Why? Where are we?… Ohhhh, bloody damn." This as the boat rolled in a passing wake; Merimac buried his head into the pillow.

"We're at port. Just for the while." Frodo leaned forward; there was a touch of lips to Merimac's cheek and the fleeting, lovely feeling of that slender form all aligned to his own, then Frodo rose from the bed with a care that sent warning bells jangling all through Merimac's senses. Why was Frodo being so careful? What was going on?

And why did he hurt so sodding much? Except for…

He heard the sound of liquid being poured into metal, of glass tinkling, then Frodo returned. Fingers tangled briefly, lightly, in his hair. "You don't remember yet, do you?"

Remember. Remember…

The ship rocked again; nausea swamped him and he lurched sideways; this brought a fresh, raw jag of pain that nearly made him vomit. As he tried to hold in his gorge, just as powerfully the memories swelled in his mind and he remembered all of it… all of it…

Panic cut through him as jaggedly as the pain; Merimac realised exactly what was missing in the sensations, struggled to sit up, failed. "My leg," he muttered, his voice tight and stammering. "I can't… can't feel my leg!"

"It's still there," Frodo said quietly, putting a firm hand to his chest, pressing him back into the pillows. "I've told you so repeatedly. I promise it's there. Would I lie to you?"

"You… might," Merimac said, making what he knew must be a ghastly attempt at a cheeky grin.

"Well, I'm not." Moving from Merimac's line of sight, Frodo laid one hand on his right knee, stroked gently. "See?"

Merimac saw the motion rather than felt it; he peered down and saw, beyond Frodo's hand, a thick roll of bandages with toes peeking out above the farthest end. "I can't feel your hand. It's all numb. That can't be good."

"I think the laudanum we've been giving you might have a bit to do with that," Frodo answered lightly. "Which you need to take more of, and now." In the lad's other hand was a small tumbler. It smelled, bitter-sweet, as Frodo leaned forward and put it to his lips. "Munro said you were to drink this when you woke," his younger cousin told him, all seriousness, "and I'm to watch until you down it all."

"I don't smell the sick rot, at least, I…" Merimac trailed off as a small swell rocked the boat; the world spun before his eyes and one hand flailed at the side of the bed. He felt Frodo grab that hand, hold tight.

"Lie still," was the insistence. "We're not in heavy wake and you shouldn't get sick unless you keep making those sudden moves."

"Heavy wake?" He tried to rise further. "What does that have to do with—?"

The ship heeled again. It was the last straw. Merimac lurched forward, retching and heaving over the side of the bunk.

It seemed to take forever. It seemed to never stop. He guessed, with some small, separate part of his mind, that he would heave like this until he died…

But he didn't die, as much as he wanted to. He finally lay, still half over the bunk's edge, with tears running down his face and his throat raw past belief. This had happened before. He could hardly see past the red haze that had covered his vision.

"You can't go on like this." Frodo was still beside him; his voice tremored. "Please, you can't keep this up."

"Keep… up what?" Merimac managed to croak.

Frodo didn't answer, just made himself busy pushing and pulling at Merimac until he was back in the bed, pillows banked high about him. Then Frodo sat down on the bed beside him, and Merimac felt a tiny quiver of shame; Frodo shouldn't have to be looking after him, not now, not ever… it was supposed to be the other way about, wasn't it?

The lad bent down, picked up the cup that somehow had remained upright despite his own flailing about. "Can you drink this? Can you try for me?"

"I'll… try." Considering it was a bit frightful; the bitterness seemed likely to set off his uneasy stomach yet again, but oddly enough it didn't. The draught—weak, lukewarm tea, and sugar settling the worst of the bitterness—went easily down his gullet, seemed to warm it all the way down. He remembered the feeling and it awakened more fogged memory: they'd kept him drugged because he kept getting so sick, and he was in such pain.

"I have never been seasick," he choked out, "a day in my life."

"I know," Frodo said, and the worry on his face made the shame burrow deeper and larger. "I know. We keep trying to see if you can wake up without needing it. But it's not working, Mac."

He lay there for moments, contemplating that the possible ruin of his leg was nothing compared to the scenario his brain was beginning to come up with. Funny, all the times before he'd woken up and been so sick yet none of it had clicked, made sense.

Not until now.

He knew what this meant, just as he'd known what they would have to do when he lay with a shattered, bloody leg on the deck of the ship that had run against a rock with him, unfortunately, between both.

"Munro says that you need solid land, and I believe him after seeing you the past days," Frodo was saying. "We can't keep you drugged forever. None of us can bear to see you like this."

I'm all right, he wanted to tell his cousin, and hold him close, and press kisses into those dark curls. I'm all right and you shouldn't have to… to see this.

"We docked because I had to send a letter," Frodo said, and there was a light in his eyes that betrayed more than a little nervousness—as if he were about to confess to some mischief that he nevertheless refused to be ashamed about. "I wrote to Uncle Saradoc and told him to expect us."

Merimac started to hotly protest, nearly started retching again. Once that battle was fought and conquered he lay back on his pillows, shivering all over, and gave Frodo a considering look. Frodo gave it right back.

"You said," Merimac ventured slowly, hoarsely, "'us'."

"I'm not leaving you, so yes, that means I'm going to the Hall with you."

He looked down, gnarled his fingers into the sheets. The motion of Gillyflower—normally a cradle to rock him to slumber, her lurch and rise against him as fair and firm as any lover's body arching against his own—no longer did it sigh welcome. His own body was betraying her, and him. And…

"Frodo," he began softly. "You don't have to go. I don't mean to drag you with me."

"Do you think I'd leave you, now?" The lad's eyes narrowed and his chin set itself forward in a gesture that Merimac had learned to recognise as Wilful Frodo. "You aren't dragging me anywhere. I've decided this. Mac, I'm tired of running."

And what could he say to that?

In the resultant silence Frodo's obstinate look slowly faded; the lad retreated slightly—and it was a retreat.

"Frodo?"

"I need to tell you…" he hesitated, then plunged ahead, "I sent two letters. I hope I did the right thing—and you can give me a good hiding if I presumed too far—but I also sent a message to Tuckborough."

Merimac tensed, shot him a sideways, quizzical look.

"You're always giving me my choices," Frodo continued, still hurriedly, "so I thought I needed to give you yours. Even if I'm presuming on something I know very little about."

A faint angry flare of pinked pride burned deep in his belly for long seconds, but was replaced by a spark of hope that warmed him beyond reason; he should be resentful for this management of what he normally kept so close, but all he felt was a giddy relief. It must have been visible for Frodo's tension lessened and he gave a small smile. Not for the first time, Merimac was both shamed and gratified at the great heart encased in that slender, youthful frame.

"So," Frodo quipped. "Are you going to beat me?"

"No," Merimac slowly put out a hand and took Frodo's own. "I'm not going to beat you. Unless," he grinned, "you've another kink you've failed to inform me of."

Frodo chuckled. Merimac tried to, but curled up miserably as the boat shifted hard to port. It wasn't so bad this time—the draught must be starting its work

Wordlessly Frodo crawled over him, with a care both graceful and hesitant, and settled into the bed. They sat in companionable silence for a long time, Frodo nestled with legs tucked beneath him against Merimac's left hip. Merimac tried to stay aware, but the sudden pull of unconsciousness was too strong, beckoning sweet. He put a hand out to Frodo; the lad took it then extended his other hand to Merimac's forehead, rested gentle fingers there.

Sleep, the gesture seemed to say, and his mind agreed.

"So," Frodo said as he stroked his playmate's hair, "it's back to the Hall for the disfavoured sons. It sounds like a story."

"If it's a story, then mayhap a bold knight will save us both," Merimac mumbled, and sank into oblivion.

* * * * * *

It took them a fortnight and a half to reach Brandy Hall—untold days of misery for Merimac, only mitigated by how drugged into sleep they managed to keep him.

Frodo, who had also never been seasick in his life, had two thoughts: first, that this had to heal, that it couldn't be permanent, and second, that if this was how Paladin had been, no wonder…

Altogether it was a very sober group of riverhobbits that tied off Gillyflower at the Buckleberry quay, and even moreso those who carried their captain gently to the dinghy, cushioning his leg and tucking blankets about him very seriously.

"Enough!" Merimac bantered with them, though there was a loose clumsiness to his movements and a slow drawl to his voice that told of his half-medicated state. "You all act as if I was some old blind dame, or a suckling bairn! All of you with faces as long as a wet season; you'd think you were putting me in the ground. I'll be riding back for the port before you know it, and bellowing at you to plug the scuppers."

"Aye, and you will," Citrine nodded. "You're too bloody cantankerous to rot on some old farm."

Frodo could tell none of them, including Citrine, believed it, but said nothing, merely got into the dinghy and let Merimac lean back against him. The crew had put him there at the stern, knowing the ride would be smoother; with pulley and rope Arlis and Deak slowly lowered the dingy into the water below. Munro pushed off from the galley as gently as possible and started to row.

"You could have stayed, Frodo," Merimac muttered, grimacing as the little boat—much more choppy in the light waves than Gillyflower's bulk—rocked back and forth.

"Would you leave me like this?"

"I did, once," was the sombre answer. Frodo tightened his knees against his cousin's shoulders and bent over him.

"You didn't know. And when you did know, you stayed with me as long as I needed you. So this time I stay with you, as long as you need me."

"Listen to the lad, Cap'n," Munro interjected. "He's got the rights of it."

A wake from a passing boat tossed them; Merimac curled up. "I don't mind being dizzy," he gasped, "but I prefer it to be with passion, not this—"

"You're an ass," Frodo told him gently, and held him through the pitch. No heaving, at least, though it was plain from Merimac's expression it was only just. "We're almost there."

The day was cloudy, not with rain but low-hanging clouds and hanks of mist drifting across the River. They were halfway across the Brandywine before the Hall appeared, glints of yellowed light shining through the massive, glass-windowed frontis. Frodo wouldn't have noticed had it been visible from Gillyflower; he had been too concerned with getting their things in the dinghy, with watching as two of the crew had made a chair of their arms and hoisted their lame and addled captain into them, bringing him up from his cabin as gently as if he were a babe. But then, perhaps he'd not wanted to look—he realised now, as he peered at the place that had sheltered him since his parents had died, that the old apprehensions that had made him run to Merimac in the first place were still very prevalent.

One by one, the places he had thought to consider as home had been sundered from him—starting with this place, this Hall. It was very easy to grow despondent, particularly as the figures he had run from—the ones who had exiled him—appeared out of the mist, waiting at the River's edge.

With the help of a lover, he'd recaptured shelter from horror in the garden of Bag End. Perhaps, with that same lover, he could recapture what Brandy Hall had meant to him as a child.

And Merry… Frodo's heart swelled with sudden longing. He'd missed Merry so.

Against his chest, cradled securely, Merimac stirred. "Take care of our 'Flower, Munro," he said quietly.

"Aye," the old sailor answered.

They rowed the rest of the way in silence.