"Heavens. You are freezing, boy," came a muffled, familiar voice.

Frodo started awake and nearly slid onto the floor. Cold. He was icy cold. And wet. He blinked in confusion. But he was also in the parlour in Bilbo’s favourite chair, with no recollection of how or when he got there.

"Frodo, lad, you went out in this? And here you are with no fire, no blanket," came Bilbo’s aggrieved tones. "Are you trying to catch a chill?"

The wind whistled shrilly in the chimney and Bag End seemed to shudder under the assault. What was going on?

"The storm is worsening, if that is possible. Woke me from a sound sleep."

Blinking, Frodo gazed up at Bilbo standing over him with a lamp in hand, his dressing gown wildly askew. Clearly Bilbo had also been awakened abruptly. His greying hair was in disarray, his face creased, but his blue-grey eyes were quite thoroughly awake and peered at Frodo unhappily.

Frodo looked down, confused. His clothes were wet and mud-stained and he was shaking. "I-- I’m sorry, Uncle Bilbo. I don’t--"

Then he remembered Daisy coming up the Hill, the note from Sam -- the note he had left for Bilbo. The stormy ride and the long walk home. He looked down and saw parchment in Bilbo’s fingers.

Bilbo held the notes out towards him, then folded them carefully and laid them on the side table. "I take it from your condition that you did attempt to follow our Samwise. Build us a fire then, if you can. I’ll get us both something that will bring some colour back to your face."

Frodo looked at the folded parchment on the table-- remembering the words, remembering that Sam was gone, that he was somewhere out there on the road in this downpour.

He did vaguely recall settling Old Snivey and Wisteria in the barn after an interminable slog through the rain and mud. The storm had grown in ferocity instead of weakening as he had expected. They were all exhausted by the time they rounded the bend and saw Bag End's windows glimmering in the dark hill. Even Nahar was subdued. And the tiny lass had been long since asleep when he had laid her in a makeshift bed of blankets on a pile of straw in the back of the barn. Old Snivey had been understandably disgruntled at the whole arrangement, but had remained quiet, unable to argue with the storm or with the Baggins. Frodo had barely managed to dry Nahar down thoroughly, make sure the pony was warm and well fed, and check on Glaurung and Treacle before he stumbled up the Hill.

Kneeling down on the hearth, Frodo rubbed his hands together, trying to force some feeling back into them before he moved the fire screen and carefully stacked the logs, arranging kindling beneath them and stirring the embers. He leaned back, watching as the kindling caught and flared, unable to remember coming into Bag End or sitting down in Bilbo's chair. He had intended to make tea to warm himself up so he could set out again, and then -- nothing. He wondered how long he had dozed before Bilbo found him.

"Here lad, sit."

He turned to find Bilbo nudging the footstool closer to the fire with his foot and holding out a glass of some amber liquid.

Frodo blinked at the sight of the crystal tumbler, and then spied the treasured decanter sitting outside its normally locked cabinet -- the Withywindle. Bilbo only brought out the ancient brandy in the very best or very worst of situations. Frodo had no doubt which this was.

He managed to grasp the glass in still-numb fingers, but peered at the shutters, trying to determine how late, or early, it was. "I really can't drink this, Bilbo. I just came in to make tea and warm up a bit. I mean to head back out for Tighfield. I can cut across country or try the Great East Road and head north at Michel Delving. That road always fares better in the rain." He remembered thinking about the possible routes while he and Nahar had struggled to get Old Snivey's cart around the fallen oak on the way back.

"I really want you to be here in the morning, Frodo." Bilbo's voice was quiet and solemn.

Frowning, Frodo looked up, his heart clenching in his chest. Not now. Not another delay. Not after Old Snivey. Bilbo couldn't possibly expect--

"But, Sam--"

"Our tenants need us. We have to go check on the holdings and help where it's needed. And there will be damage from this, substantial damage I suspect. Then we can talk about you trying for Tighfield." Bilbo gazed thoughtfully at the shuttered windows.

"Bilbo, I--"

"Frodo. You are going to be the Master of Bag End one day."

Frodo frowned and added the inevitable, unspoken "soon" in his head.

"They need to see you out there with me. I understand the urgency of your feelings about going after our Samwise, but he is a sturdy, resourceful young hobbit. He is undoubtedly drier and warmer than you at the moment, knowing Sam. And our tenants have likely suffered some horrible losses, if I am reading this storm right." Those blue-grey eyes assessed him solemnly.

Frodo grimaced and then felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. The storm had likely done terrible damage to the Baggins' tenants, as well as Bag End itself, if his experience on the road had been any indication. He had forgotten, in his headlong rush to follow Sam. He had forgotten everything and everyone else. But Sam--

"I do want to hear about our Samwise. And why you are in such a state as well. So you drink that down, and tell me."

Frodo looked up and found Bilbo gazing at him curiously.

Thinking of a few choice expletives that fit the situation quite well, Frodo took an overly large gulp of the Withywindle and ended up sputtering and coughing.

Bilbo smiled and shook his head. "Mother would have your head for that, lad. She could never tolerate someone not appreciating her brandy properly."

"Aunt Belladonna?" Frodo choked out, looking at the amber liquid with new respect.

"Indeed, quite ancient that -- significantly older than me, and still perfect. Amazing, isn't it? I do suspect Gandalf of doing something to that barrel, but he insists he had nothing to with it." Bilbo sank into his chair with a sigh. "Still, he does seem to expect a glass or two whenever he visits." Bilbo took another sip, his eyes twinkling over the brim.

Lifting himself stiffly onto the footstool, Frodo took the proffered glass, cupping it in shaking hands as he looked up to watch Bilbo lean back and lift his own glass.

For a long moment, the only sound was the wind and rain lashing against the shutters, and the crackling hiss of the fire. Bilbo took a long slow sip of the brandy and gazed at the flames.

Frodo simply cradled his drink in his hands, knowing his fingers were far too cold to warm the potent beverage.

"I can't imagine what happened, but as our Samwise was not curled up beside you, I take it he is still out there somewhere." It wasn’t really a question at all. "How far did you get?"

Frodo took a large gulp of the ancient liquor and opened his eyes to gaze into the fire, wondering why he still felt frozen despite the flames, despite the brandy.

"Not even to Hunter's Bend. Old Snivey had some trouble." Frodo waved his fingers wearily. "It's a long story, but he and-- he is in the barn. I think he twisted his knee pretty badly. Nahar and I had to pull his cart back. It's in the sideyard."

Bilbo's eyebrows went up. "A long story indeed. So you rescued the old hawker and his -- goods from the storm, eh?"

Frodo frowned at that obvious pause, wondering for a moment if Bilbo knew the peddler's secret. "I suppose. I don't think he is any too happy about it."

"Well, maybe he will do me the favour of clearing out some of the old junk that has collected in that hole. Save me the trouble." Bilbo raised his glass. "No wonder you look a fright." Bilbo took a drink and gazed at Frodo's glass.

Frodo obediently took a drink. "I'm sorry Uncle. I don't remember coming in here. I likely ruined your chair. I remember falling in the mud a few times last night -- this morning."

Bilbo waved off Frodo's apology. "Who delivered Sam's note?"

Frodo was so weary that he was not surprised when tears suddenly blurred his vision at the memory of sitting on the Hill waiting for Sam and seeing Daisy instead -- hours ago. Shaking his head he managed to whisper gruffly, "Daisy."

"Daisy," Bilbo repeated thoughtfully.

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut against the pounding ache building behind them and wearily took another gulp of the brandy.

"And what did Daisy tell you?" Bilbo asked softly.

Frodo recited the words that had been reverberating in his head over and over on the interminable trip back to Bag End. "The Gaffer told Sam that he could not go on hikes with me, or take lessons from me, or talk to me, or look at me." His voice sounded flat and hollow even to him. He raised the glass with a shaking hand and took another long swig. "Or touch me."

There was no sound for a long moment except the rising howl of the storm.

"And if he did any of these things?" came Bilbo’s calm question.

"Then he would no longer have a home," Frodo responded dully. "He would no longer have a family."

"So, this is Sam's Gammidgy Knot," Bilbo sighed.

Frodo opened his eyes to watch Bilbo take a sizable swallow of his own brandy then run his fingers through his unruly mane.

"And so Sam left."

Frodo nodded, looking down at the golden liquid swirling in his glass.

"Well, that is certainly an answer. And likely not the one the Gaffer was expecting -- from Sam."

Frodo looked up, frowning. "He-- he can’t stay away, Bilbo. This is his home."

The storm was indeed worsening. The shutters were rattling and the roar of the rain was louder.

"Did Daisy say anything else?" Bilbo queried softly.

"Very little." He looked up then, catching his Uncle's gaze meaningfully. "But then she implied that the Gaffer had done something like this before with Hamson and Halfred. Is that true, Bilbo?"

Apparently unruffled by Frodo's steady gaze, Bilbo sipped his brandy. "Well, that is unexpected," he said enigmatically.

Frodo waited then realised that Bilbo was not going to say anything further and lurched tiredly onto his feet. "Fine. Obviously, I am not supposed know whatever it is I obviously don't know."

Leaning on the mantel and gazing at the fire, Frodo recognised the feeling twisting in his belly from years ago. It was disconcerting to be feeling it now, so close to his majority, so close to inheriting not just Bag End, but the responsibility of these families, this community. He was feeling suddenly out of place -- as if he did not belong. Obviously there was history here, and secrets, and family troubles to which he had been oblivious.

He gulped down the rest of his ancient brandy and stared at the equally ancient glass in his hand sightlessly. But he was a part of this place now. Bag End was his home. Bilbo was his family. Certainly he had relatives -- an extended family at Brandy Hall and Great Smials who would always welcome him, but this was home.

No matter that a few weeks ago he had considered running off to hide at Brandy Hall rather than admit his feelings for Sam. This was his home. He was going to be the Master of Bag End. And this was Sam's home. Sam was going to come back to it. This Gammidgy Knot of his could be undone.

He looked up at Sting, shining in the firelight. If it were a real knot, he could just wrap his hands around that silk-smooth hilt and deal with it handily. But this particular knot wasn't real. "Slaying a dragon would be easier than this," he admitted.

At that moment a particularly ferocious blast of wind rattled the shutters. Frodo jerked around as something slammed against the front door. A log slid off the stack and rolled out onto the hearth. Frodo sidestepped just in time as the fire screen tipped over with a crash. The flames shuddered madly and smoke billowed briefly into the room as the wind scattered embers and ash out onto the rug.

Frodo grabbed the hearth broom to beat at the smouldering embers as Bilbo stood up, waving his arms ineffectually at the smoke, uttering an expletive Frodo hadn’t heard him use in a long while. Frodo batted at a smouldering spark in his foot hair as he looked around carefully for any others then swept the embers and ashes back into the fireplace. Bilbo walked quickly across the floor to the ancient cabinet, likely worried about the crystal stored there.

Frodo grabbed the tongs just as another gust ripped at the old oak above them, creating a deep booming noise in the walls of Bag End -- or was that some other sound in the distance? Frodo listened closely for a moment, but only heard a series of soft thuds and a loud thunk from the corridor announcing the demise of one of Bilbo’s precarious stacks of books. Looking around, Frodo saw a book slide silently out onto the tiles of the entryway.

Blinking his stinging eyes, Frodo grimaced as he wrestled the log back onto the stack and finished sweeping up the mess. Frodo hadn't seen a storm like this since he came to live at Bag End, but Bilbo seemed to be fairly calm. Frodo couldn't bring himself to care, and turned back to the fire, making sure the stack was stable before replacing the fire screen. There would be no burning tinder rolling into the floor with the next blast.

Frodo sighed and stood up again, gazing sightlessly at the flames. A wrinkled hand reached over his shoulder and took his empty glass from the mantel. Refilling it from the decanter that he had carried over from the cabinet, Bilbo held it out to Frodo.

"I know, I know," Bilbo demurred at Frodo’s grimace. "I always seem to be pouring some restorative down your throat of late, but you are still the colour of a sheet of parchment, lad, and you are shivering in front of a roaring fire. Sit down there." Bilbo set the decanter next to his chair and snagged the soft wool throw off the couch, settling it over Frodo's shoulders. "You've had a busy night. I should make you strip those damp clothes off and sit there and bake in your altogether, but it is likely too late for that. Now, drink up. The Withywindle will warm you up pretty thoroughly.

"Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted by this confounded storm? Slaying a dragon?"

Frodo managed a stiff grimace. "Untying knots -- or rather not untying them, I think."

"Indeed, lad, indeed." Bilbo frowned as the windows rattled under the assault. "A dragon might be easier than this knot."

Frodo could certainly agree with that. He watched Bilbo lean back in his chair and gaze at the fire for a long moment, swirling the drink in his own glass briefly before taking a slow sip.

"I just don't see any way to solve it. It goes in circles."

"Most knots do, in one way or another," Bilbo murmured. "You just have to go in circles with them."

Frodo blinked and frowned at his glass. He was having a little bit of trouble following Bilbo's logic. Obviously he had missed something. Perhaps the brandy was more potent because of its age. Or more likely he was too exhausted to make decent conversation and he ought to tell Bilbo so. He closed his eyes for just a moment to gather his scattered thoughts.

If Sam could put aside his feelings for Frodo somehow -- if they could go back to being just the gardener's son and the master's heir again, then Sam could come home and his family would welcome him with open arms. But Frodo knew that even if Sam could manage that, he could not. At least not without time and distance -- lots of time and lots of distance.

"Perhaps I should go visit Brandy Hall for a while," he said softly then waited for some rebuke from Bilbo about 'running away again'.

But the silence stretched out longer and longer. And Frodo realised, after a while, that he could feel his toes once more, so the brandy seemed to have helped somewhat. However now he couldn't quite find the energy to open his eyes again.

Something skittered against the shutters and startled Frodo awake. He looked over and saw that Bilbo's face was slack and relaxed in sleep, the almost empty glass still gripped in his hand.

Frodo managed to stand, his joints cracking and his muscles protesting the length of time that he had apparently hunched there dozing on the stool. He leaned over and gently eased the old crystal out of Bilbo's hand and placed it on the table. Snagging another throw from the window seat, he gently laid it over his elder cousin.

The rascally old hobbit was his home too, more even than this lovely old hole, he thought to himself and shook his head. He did love the old bastard, despite-- no, perhaps because of his odd quirks and secretiveness.

Bilbo would likely regret sleeping sitting up, but they both undoubtedly needed to grab the sleep they could. There would be much to do and see to in the light of day -- if the sun could even manage to penetrate this darkness.

He could only hope there wasn't so much work to do tomorrow cleaning up the damage that he would not be able to get away. Slumping onto the couch, Frodo pulled the throw up to his shoulders and stared at the dance of shadows on the ceiling as the downpour continued, a constant roar of sound. Well, at least tomorrow while they were out and about he could press Bilbo to reveal these secrets around what had happened between the Gaffer and his two oldest sons.

Surely the Gaffer had loved them -- yet he had apparently forced them out of their home. How could you do that to someone you loved? And certainly the Gaffer must love Sam. Sam's devotion to his father was evidence of that -- despite all the growling and gruffness, surely the Gaffer must love Sam. Yet Sam had felt impelled to walk away from the warm lights of home into the angry wet darkness.

***

Staring blindly back down what little he could see of the road towards home, Sam was surprised by a brief flare of light. For a moment he thought the rain and mist was clearing out behind him and he was seeing the windows of a distant farm, then he heard a sound -- a voice, singing something. Someone had come after him -- Frodo? Had Frodo paid no attention to what Sam said in his note? Or had he somehow managed to puzzle out this knot that had them tangled? Sam's heart soared, and then fell just as quickly when he realised the voice was not Frodo's at all.

He could make out the tune and some of the words now, and the lights bobbed and weaved in the mist with the mud-slowed gait of a team -- it was old Cord. He could see the bulk of the merchant's canvas-covered waggon looming up out of the mist now and he recognised the song, barely -- old Cord couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but when he attempted it, he sang that song. Likely he was singing to stay awake, trying to outrun the rain in the pitch dark. Sam watched as the figure hunched on the seat leaned forward, shielding his eyes from the lantern light with his hat and peering at him in the distance.

Sam stepped onto the verge and waited for the waggon to pull abreast as Cord pulled up the team. The ponies' coats steamed a bit in the rain and their breath fogged the air -- Cord was pushing them, but not farther than they could manage, seemingly.

"Who's fool enough to be out in this foul blow then -- 'sides this idjit sitting up here, wet plum through?"

Sam tossed back his hood and held the lantern up so his face was clear.

The old merchant's eyebrows rose.

"That's the youngest Gamgee lad, eh? Samwise?

"Yessir."

"Samwise? Where're you heading, son? Little Delving? On business for yer Master then? Not like old Bilbo to send someone off on an errand in this kind of weather, much less with no proper means of transport."

"No sir, not Little Delving."

Cord leaned forward. Chocolate-brown eyes assessed Sam as he stood there in the intersecting pools of light from the lanterns. The light made Cord's weathered face seem even rougher and more heavily lined than it had been the last time Sam had seen him. His usual route back from Tighfield with his load of merchandise took him through Hobbiton -- and sometimes, if Sam could manage to get him alone, he brought a little news of kin.

"So, it's finally come to that eh, son?" Cord muttered, shaking his head. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised, but, well-- Climb up here boy, and keep me company on the way then. Time's a wasting and I'm outrunning that storm back there afore it strands me and this load. Lucky so far -- it's moving slow. Yer uncle needs this shipment. Is he expecting ya then?"

"No sir," Sam hesitated. "But I don't want to be no trouble--"

"Don't waste my time, boy." The merchant slapped his soft hat against his leg and crammed it back onto his head. "You know I'm not leaving ya on the side of the road. Yer uncle and yer brother would have my hide. Up now!" Cord held out his hand as he made room on the seat, "'Sides, I need the company to keep me awake and spell me, if need be."

Sam reached up gratefully and pulled himself into the box, settling quickly on the seat.

"Get that pack off boy. Mind you don't get any of the cargo wet though. Sit it in that box behind me, your lantern too. That stuff in the back is about as precious as dragon's gold to your kin."

"Yessir." Sam extinguished the lantern and sat it at his feet to cool while he shrugged out of his pack and deposited it carefully in the canvas-covered wooden box behind the seat. He stretched his neck gratefully and rolled his shoulders as Cord clucked at the team and gently snapped the reins. The waggon lurched forward into the mist.

"Anyway, I wouldn't miss the look on Hamson's face when I drop ya at his door." Cord chuckled. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Sam didn't respond. There was nothing to say to that. He couldn't even imagine it. Ten years. He doubted Hamson would recognise him. He wasn't sure he would know his own brother any more.

"And Miz Abelia, she will be right glad to meet ya, and you her I imagine. And little Manny--"

"Manny?"

"Ah, yes, I forgot, I haven't been back through since the babe was born. And I couldn't stop today, not with this coming down. Yes, it was a lad, Samwise. Named him Holman, after someone in yer family I think."

An uncle. He was an uncle! He felt a thrill of warmth in his chest at the thought. And Daisy and May and Mari were aunts. And they didn't even know it. And now he might never get a chance to tell 'em. Suddenly aware that Cord was watching him questioningly, he realised the old merchant was waiting for an answer. "Oh. That would be Holman Greenhand -- our cousin. He was the gardener in Hobbiton what taught Da all he knows, and he was named for our great-great grandda."

Cord nodded thoughtfully. "I recollect hearing that."

A gust of wind blew rain into their faces and Sam pulled his hood back up against the chill.

"Well, he's a right big baby that un. Healthy as he can be. And I was surprised so tiny a lass as Mz Abelia could manage to produce a little un of that size. Your brother is fit to pop his buttons for sure, and yer uncle en't far behind." Cord's laugh was raspy and rough. "You'd think old Andy was the grandda."

Sam reached for the cooled lantern beneath him and turned to secure it carefully under the tarp behind Cord. The Gaffer's first grandchild, and him not even knowing that Hamson had got married, much less had a little one. Sam felt his throat tighten and blinked away the sudden moisture in his eyes.

Cord coughed and fussed with a blanket wound around his feet. "Here -- toss this over our legs will ya? It's getting a bit colder and you're gonna chill down pretty quick after hiking that far, I'd say."

Sam reached over Cord's legs and pulled the coarse moth-eaten blanket over both of them. Despite the old merchant's concern about the cold, right now, in the relative shelter of the waggon, the numbness was starting to wear off and Sam's feet were beginning to tingle and burn.

"Course, I en't seen Miz Camellia in a long while. Only once or twice since the accident. But she'll be primed to see ya, that's certain," Cord went on.

Sam hadn't imagined that he could hurt any more than he already did, but at the thought of his Aunt Cammie he felt a stab of longing that nearly took his breath. Tears welled into his eyes again. He closed them painfully, but he could still see her, so much like the flower whose name she bore, pale and lovely, slender and tall -- creamy and cool and fragrant. She was as close to a sister as his mum had ever had and he recollected the two of them, laughing over some kind of fancy needlework she had been teaching his mum -- gold head and dark head bent together. And he remembered going to his mum's graveside years later and telling her the awful news that he couldn't share with anyone else -- the news that Cord had whispered to him in the square -- that Aunt Cammie was hurt awful bad when the pony cart had overturned.

"I hear she is getting around just a bit. A lot better'n she was. She's a tough one, is Miz Camellia," came Cord's gruff words. "Yer Uncle was talkin' of makin' her two canes the last time I was through. He was right proud of her, I'd say."

There was a long silence, filled only with the sounds of the team and the interminable rain. "He's still a strong un, is Andwise -- carries her everywhere she can't go herself, without a word. And him gettin' on in years hisself. But he won't hear anyone speak on it."

Sam heard the warning in Cord's tone.

Why did things have to change? And never for the good it seemed. Oh, he knew it was the dark, and the rain, and missing Frodo so bad that it was a physical pain inside him, but it was hard to see past it all -- like it was hard to imagine sunlight and warmth in this cold wet darkness. He knew it was out there, but it was hard to remember that it was somehow.

"This is a bad un all right. En't seen rain like this since that blow back in '84 -- and that one pretty near washed Hobbiton and Bywater right down to Buckland."

Sam felt a frisson of fear shake him out of his exhausted stupor. "Did you see anything?"

Cord turned to him with a quizzical look.

"I mean, did the storm-- Was Hobbiton--"

Cord's face cleared as he understood Sam's stammered query and shook his head. "I passed Hobbiton by this time. Had to go down through Waymeet hopin' I could hire out a fresh team and put mine up there at Tom Boffin's stable. Lucky he had a good pair shoed and ready."

"Had he heard anything? Is the Water--"

"He said he heard the storm blew over plenty of trees up in Long Cleeve and blocked the roads in places, some low spots were filled plum full, but the Water ain't high yet."

Sam looked back into the darkness. What if he had left the Gaffer and his sisters to confront a flood? Alone. Without him there to help? It just got worse and worse.

"Can't go back, boy. You'd veer off the road into Rushock Bog or tumble into the Water in your sleep," Cord growled. "Nah, can't go back. Can only go forwards."

Sam turned and gazed at the darkness ahead then closed his eyes. As afraid as he was of deep water, he wondered briefly if falling into icy rushing blackness wouldn't be better than a long slow suck into cold grey mud.

***

***

"Samwise? Boy, wake up."

Sam opened his eyes to grey rain and remembered where he was then he recalled where he'd just been. He could still feel his mother's arms warm around him. The hurt in his chest climbed into his throat and stung behind his eyes.

"You nodded off sittin' there, and I don't want neither of us fallin' off this waggon," Cord said.

Sam shook himself, trying hard to wake up. "I'm sorry. I just--"

"You hiked a piece in this weather, boy. You've a right to be fair knackered," came the gruff response. "Why don't you get yourself a good few winks and then you can spell me. Just don't try to do it sittin' up there."

Sam looked around in confusion.

"There's another couple of blankets back there, for the ponies. Just mind that you don't get what's in those crates wet nor muddy."

Sam turned and peered into the waggon and saw there was a bit of space there beside the wooden box. He felt around and his hands encountered rough wool.

He looked up questioningly.

Beneath the drooping brim of his hat, Cord's face glistened with moisture. "Go on with you then. I'm fine for now. I'll wake you when it's needful."

Sam pulled one blanket out and awkwardly laid another over anything that might get damp or muddy. Then he clambered over, dragging the blanket with him and pulling it over him as he tried to curl up in the confined space. His back was pressed uncomfortably into the wood of the box and the slats of a crate were pressing mercilessly into his knees. So he squirmed about a bit then realised there was no comfortable position. Giving up, he closed his eyes, letting the creaking noise of the waggon and the rhythmic cadence of the team lull him into a half dose.

Sitting beneath the Hill tree above Bag End, he was watching his mother as she stood gazing down at that huge old copper beech aflame with colour, her hand over her heart. She turned to meet his gaze, her hand gesturing to the carpet of flowers -- Frodo's flowers -- covering the ground around her feet. She smiled and nodded just as he slid into a deep and dreamless sleep.