Bilbo would undoubtedly notice that Frodo's normally smooth penmanship was a trifle shaky, but that couldn't be helped. Frodo folded the note from Sam carefully underneath his own note to his Uncle, weighing it down with the polished stone that Bilbo kept on the kitchen table for just such a purpose.

Taking a deep breath, Frodo extinguished the lamp in the kitchen and shrugged into his travel cloak, fastening it as he headed across the darkened parlour. Even in the dim light from the lamp in the entryway, he could see ashes from the parlour fireplace strewn across the floor and the air was filled with dust motes stirred up by the wind that whistled loudly in the chimney. He shook his head hoping that Nahar would be in good humour, but doubting very much that the feisty pony could be in this weather. Hefting his pack off the floor, he felt quickly for the packet of hard candy he had shoved into it and transferred it into his jacket pocket. Nahar had a true weakness for peppermint. Frodo hoped he had enough.

***

Nahar's ears pricked first. The pony was twitchy anyway what with the wind blowing things across their path and dodging felled branches and all manner of debris in the road. A huge old oak was down, nearly blocking the road and Frodo wasn't surprised when Nahar shied and danced a bit with a sudden shift of wind that blasted icy rain right up Frodo's hood and into his face, tossing his hood off once more. He tugged it back down and peered into the darkness. The condition of the road was deteriorating quickly and, as the sturdy pony negotiated yet another muddy, water-logged section, Frodo found himself recalculating how long it would take to get back once they found Sam -- if they found Sam. If Sam were on the road, and not swept off it in this storm, hurt or worse--

He remembered that bit of the road that dipped down and verged right on the Water, just before Rushock Bog. It always washed out first when the Water was really high, and an unwary traveller slogging through heavy rain and wind might just stumble right in, if he were tired or -- distracted. Frodo peered into the misty blackness wondering how much the little river had risen in this downpour. No, he couldn't let his thoughts stray down that path yet again. Sam was fine. Sam was a strong, strapping tween and could take care of himself on the road, no matter the weather.

Shivering, he tugged at his cloak uselessly. It was getting colder. Bilbo was right. At this rate, this rain might turn into sleet.

Nahar snorted and the pony's ears went to full attention.

"What is it, boy?" Then Frodo heard it too -- a distant clanging accompanied by a high-pitched sound. He reined Nahar in and listened tensely. It was hard to hear anything at all over the wind and rain.

But there it was again, almost too faint to hear, just a sliver of sound from somewhere in front of them. He urged Nahar to pick up speed, as much as the road would allow. Someone could be in trouble.

The sound resolved itself and sent a chill of fear through Frodo as they slogged through the dark. He dug his heels in, recklessly pushing Nahar forward towards the distinctive sound of metal striking metal and a child or some small creature whimpering. He was leaning over Nahar's neck, straining to see through the rain, when they came around a stand of trees and he spotted the light of a lantern wavering in the rain. What it revealed froze his breath.

Later he couldn't even remember crossing the distance from the edge of the trees to the handcart sitting on the road. He could only remember a brief glimpse of the pale tear-streaked face and huge dark eyes of the tiny lass clinging to the cart, her hair whipping wildly around her face, before he spotted the reason for her distress. The lantern hanging from the cart's frame was rocking in the wind, barely remaining lit in the onslaught of rain, but Frodo had seen enough to realise, in an instant, what had happened.

It was Old Snivey's handcart. Frodo knew it well and had spent many a long morning bargaining precious old books away from the peddler. The metallic clanging came from a string of pans and pots and metal cups hanging from the cart's inside frame, clattering wildly against each other in the gale. Dismounting at a run, he threw Nahar's reins at one of the wheels. The whimpering sound had stopped immediately -- likely the moment Wisteria had seen them streaking towards the cart -- and there was no longer any sign of the little one. But Frodo had seen enough to know she was whole and safe; it was Snivey he was worried about.

The canvas that normally covered the cart had been ripped off and bits of clothing, paper, pans, and all manner of odds and ends from the cart were strewn across the road and verge and into the brush. The canvas itself, or what was left of it, hung snagged on a tree branch far up in an old oak, and beneath it lay the crumpled form of Old Snivey himself.

He wasn't really THAT old -- just wore down, as he would say, from seeing a bit more than he would like of the bad parts of the world. Frodo couldn't begin to guess his age and had figured long ago that the label 'Old' referred more to the seasoned and well-used nature of the peddler than to his age anyway.

Frodo let out a relieved sound when he realised the hobbit, no more than a sodden and wet pile beneath the tree, was still breathing.

The rain had washed away most of the blood, but there was enough of it still in the coarse salt-and-pepper hair for Frodo to guess at what had happened. He probed gingerly and found the gash, still bleeding, on the side of Old Snivey's head. All his limbs seemed straight -- what Frodo could see of them the way the peddler was crumpled up. Hopefully nothing was broken, but Frodo would have to wait until he woke to be sure.

Frodo shrugged out of his pack and dug out some handkerchiefs, smiling grimly because he always had more of those in his pack than he would ever need, thanks to Bilbo. It was short work to fold one into a pad and use two others to tie it fairly adequately in place. Then he pulled off his cloak and laid it over the hobbit carefully, shielding his face from the rain.

Standing up and walking quickly back to the cart with his pack, Frodo was glad to see that, although he had retreated a little way from the noisy cart, Nahar had remained close. Frodo knew he would owe the sturdy pony a good long rub down and a warm blanket and some sweet oats for this excursion. Throwing his pack into the cart, he pulled the packet of candy out of his pocket. At the well-remembered sound, Nahar approached quickly. Rubbing affectionately on the black pony's ear as he crunched on a well-deserved peppermint, Frodo snagged his reins and tied them loosely to the cart, then turned his attention to the lantern, climbing up and unhooking it to re-hang it in a bit more sheltered spot where it didn't toss around as much in the wind.

"Your gaffer's all right, little one. He's just resting over there and he will wake up in just a bit and be as good as new, so you just stay still and dry under there and don't worry now. He will be fine." He pitched his voice to be as calm and soothing as he could, keeping up a constant flow of words as he worked.

Clambering up, Frodo looked around the box. Much was already tied down and covered with oilcloth and it was clear that Old Snivey had tried to cover the rest of his goods before he had attempted to retrieve the canvas, but had obviously been fighting with the wind.

Frodo cringed at the sight of the soaked wooden boxes that he knew contained books, as well as the piles of cloth and worthless bits and bobs, now thoroughly wet. Undoubtedly Wisteria was soaked through as well, but it would take a while to coax her out of hiding anyway.

"Wisteria, you do remember me don't you? Frodo Baggins? You showed me your dolly with the red, red hair that your gaffer made you and that pretty little shell you carry in your pocket."

First things first, though, those pots and pans would prove dangerous flying in the wind. He wiped at his face futilely. The rain was coming down sideways now and everything was so wet that it was hard to keep a grip on anything. It took some awkward stretching and balancing, and a few solid whacks in the arm and head by a pan or two, but he managed to untie and lower the display of metal goods into the box.

"I imagine it was a bit scary with all the wind and rain and noise, wasn't it? But Nahar and I are here now, so you are safe and your gaffer is safe as well."

Looking back over at the trees, Frodo ascertained that Old Snivey was still lying motionless. He might just have to go ahead and carry him back to the cart.

"Nahar is a good pony and he loves peppermint candy just like a little lass I know. But I have plenty for you to share with him."

Frodo rummaged around and found a bit of cord. He managed to pull the oilcloth over the remainder of the goods, tying a corner securely, after a few tries, then lashing it to the side of the cart. Somewhere behind a crate and under all that oilcloth, a tiny raven-haired lass was shivering in terror, obeying her gaffer's admonition to never, ever leave the cart.

When he had first seen the pale little face peering at him from the depths of the junk in Old Snivey's cart, Frodo had been fairly certain there had never been a tiny lass in amongst the "goods" as the peddler referred to the stuff he found and fixed and sold -- at least there had been no lass before two summers ago. But Frodo tended to ignore the trash that the peddler displayed out in front of the cart and to wander back and poke through the books and oddities that Old Snivey seemed to consider worthless. He had tugged loose a likely-looking leather bound book under a stack of wooden blocks for carving. The whole thing had tumbled backwards and the pile of junk had given out a squeak.

That was when he had met Wisteria. And Old Snivey had not seemed very pleased that he had. The peddler had told him that she was his granddaughter and Wisteria was her name and she didn't talk much.

The very idea that Old Snivey had a son or a daughter had effectively silenced anything else that Frodo might have had to say that day.

But later meetings and further skilful questioning had surfaced that the little one's parents were deceased, that she was four, and that Old Snivey was clearly afraid "they" would take her away from him -- whoever "they" were.

Even later, the skilful use of cinnamon-sugared biscuits and peppermint candies had introduced him to Wisteria's dolly and to her special shell.

"I know you are wet and cold. Let me put a nice dry blanket right under here." He pulled his camp blanket out of the pack and shoved it under the oilcloth, laying a piece of peppermint right on top. "You put that around you now and I am going to go check on your gaffer."

At that moment there was a sound from the direction of the tree and Frodo vaulted over the side of the cart to run to where Old Snivey was coughing and pushing feebly at the cloak covering him.

"Whoa. Take it easy. You hit your head trying to climb that tree." Frodo knelt in the mud and grasped the peddler's shoulders carefully.

Old Snivey sputtered in the rain, wiping futilely at his face with one hand and blinking at Frodo in confusion.

"Mister-- Mister Frodo. What're you--" The brown eyes flew open in sudden panic. "Wisteria?"

"She's fine. I saw her standing in the cart just before I saw you. She's hiding now." Frodo leaned back and removed his cloak. "Can you move everything? Does anything hurt?"

Old Snivey looked down at himself, then up at the tree, then shook his head in an attempt to clear it, groaning in response and putting his hand up to touch the bandage warily.

"Your head is likely to hurt a great deal. I had to bandage it up for you to stop the bleeding. Can you move your legs?"

Old Snivey gingerly moved one leg, then the other, but stopped with a grunt of pain. "Me knee."

Frodo went to kneel by the leg that Old Spivey indicated and pushed the breeches leg up carefully. The knee was red and hot and quite swollen.

"Appears that you twisted it pretty badly, but the Widow'll have to see to it to be certain."

Old Snivey shook his head fiercely, pushing himself up on his hands, grimacing in pain. "No healers," he gritted out. "I gotta get to Needlehole afore the market day ends tomorrow."

Frodo rocked back on his heels, accustomed by now to the peddler's stubborn, fiercely independent nature. "Indeed. Well, let's see if you can walk first before we talk about who would be pulling the cart to Needlehole."

Frodo flung his cloak around the peddler's shoulders, then put his hand under Old Snivey's elbow on the injured side and stood slowly. At first he thought the peddler was going to refuse his help then he leaned into him and rose unsteadily to his feet, trying to put weight on his injured knee.

"Bollocks!" he hissed and balanced on one foot.

Frodo pulled Old Snivey's arm over his shoulders, shoved his own sodden hair out of his face, and readjusted the cloak to cover them both. He looked up and saw with relief that little Wisteria had wrapped herself in the old blanket and was standing in the cart peering at them, sucking on her candy, her dark eyes far too large in her pinched pale face.

The injured leg would not take any weight at all, although Old Snivey could clearly move his foot and ankle, so that was a good sign. They struggled three-legged through the mud and brush to the cart, watched placidly by Nahar and anxiously by Wisteria. They finally reached it, breathing hard, and Snivey grabbed onto the cart shaft.

The downpour had begun once more and Frodo even had trouble clearly seeing the shredded canvas in the distant tree. The wind made the rain seem even colder than it was.

"You're going to need a new cover and you're going to need to wait until that knee heals to move on, especially in this rain."

Snivey was staring at the road, likely calculating whether he could afford either the cover or the delay, and Frodo realised it was either back to Hobbiton or on to Needlehole -- and either one meant he wasn't any closer to finding Sam, unless they could catch up with him on the way to Needlehole before the Waymeet crossroads. Frodo clenched his jaw in frustration. He might be able to catch up with Sam on Nahar, but not pulling a hand cart, even if they could rig some kind of harness. And he couldn't just leave them at the crossroads either.

"We can just stay here then, till I heal up. I can get the cover down outta that tree once I can climb," Snivey said quickly.

For only a moment, Frodo considered it. Better here than at the crossroads. And he just couldn't afford to go all the way back to Hobbiton at this point. Then he looked up at the shivering Wisteria, watching Old Snivey anxiously. The blanket was soaked through now and so was she. He assessed the state of the canvas tangled in the tree, his insides twisting in frustration.

"The wind is shredding that cover -- by the time you are able to climb, it will be in ribbons. I won't risk going up there and possibly leaving Wisteria with two of us banged up or worse and no one to make a fire and cook her a meal and protect her and keep her warm in this gale."

Frodo let those words hang in the wet air, watching as Wisteria's eyes shifted from her grandfather to him and back.

"Wisteria--" The peddler bit back the rest of what he was going to say and stared at the ground.

Frodo walked purposefully around the cart, picking up the odds and ends that had blown into the mud or snagged on the brush and carrying them back to Wisteria's waiting hands, smiling at her and hopefully giving Old Snivey the time to work through it all. Wisteria helped without a sound, understanding immediately that she just needed to tuck the recovered items back beneath the oilcloth.

If he could figure out a way to get the cart and the two of them quickly back to Bag End, he could just take Glaurung and head right back out. But Glaurung was older now, and more suited to pulling a cart around town than to a long ride in the mud. He could even go to the stable in Bywater for a fresh mount if he had to. He hated to think of explaining to Bilbo how he took his beloved old pony out into this storm.

Frodo wiped the rain out of his face and walked back up to the front of the cart. "Hold on little one," he whispered to Wisteria and hefted the cart's shaft experimentally, watching as she adjusted easily to the shifting of the cart, those huge dark eyes still on her grandfather.

Frodo looked expectantly at Old Snivey. "Do you have a harness or enough rope to rig up something so Nahar can pull her?"

The peddler shook his grizzled head, then winced and leaned on the shaft hard. "I can ride the pony if'n you think you can handle the cart. It won't be fast, but it'll get us back to Hobbiton. I won't ask you to pull the cart farther'n that." The peddler had apparently weighed all the options and resigned himself to returning back the way he had come.

"Will Wisteria stay in the cart?"

"She will. She knows her place, don't ya girl?" Old Snivey gave his granddaughter a look that conveyed so much more than that question. She nodded warily, glancing briefly at Frodo.

"You can both sleep at Bag End tonight." Frodo watched the peddler carefully, hoping against hope that he might consider giving Wisteria a real bed to sleep in -- just once. But Old Snivey only shook his head. "Well, then you can sleep in with our ponies. There are lots of extra stalls, and plenty of hay, and it’s a safe and dry hole in this gale." He stared at Old Snivey, daring him to refuse.

Old Snivey raised his eyes to meet Wisteria's gaze and Frodo hoped the old hobbit's pride would allow his granddaughter at least one night in a dry hole. "And I pulled out some old tent canvas today -- you can see tomorrow if it would serve for your cart." He lifted his hand before Old Snivey could protest. "It's not doing Bilbo any good mouldering in the cellar. We'll take it in credit. You make a special effort to find anything on that list of books Bilbo gave you, and we will consider it a fair trade."

"Not many I trade with know their letters. Anythin' I find is pure luck," the peddler protested weakly.

"Well, that's the special effort then, isn't it?" Frodo smiled grimly.

"Now, let's get this done so the lovely lady in your cart can have a nice cup of hot cider before the sun comes up."

If he wasn't mistaken, a bit of colour bloomed on Wisteria's pale cheek.

Frodo glanced back towards Tighfield. The road was hidden now by a wind-whipped sheet of black rain and mist. His throat tightened painfully.

***

Weary beyond coherent thought, Sam watched his feet closely, as he had for the last few hours, wary of tripping over them and falling into the muck. Even when he did bother to look up, he couldn’t really measure his progress anyway -- only a solid curtain of rain hung where the lantern light reached. He wouldn’t have been sure he was on the road at all, but for a glimpse now and again of the marker stones lining the sides.

The litany of voices pounding through his head was like a strange and perverted walking song. He lifted his feet out of the chill mud and set them back down in a numbing cadence, his walking stick making a slick popping sound as he pushed himself forward through the muck.

The lantern itself had guttered at least twice from the moisture seeping through the shield. He traded it for the walking stick, and flexed stiff fingers. Then he lapsed back to watching his feet, rhythmically rising and falling. It was odd how detached they felt from him. He knew he was achingly tired, but he hoped he could keep moving at least until daybreak -- if there was going to be one with this storm. After that, it would be easier going.

The litany began again. But despite the chill, the memory of Frodo’s voice, of the way it had shaken with emotion on those words, still brought an aching response from somewhere deep inside him. Had it really been weeks since that star-shattered night on the Hill? It had felt like a waking dream, that night.

But instead of a dream, it had become a nightmare. Sam closed his eyes wearily.

It was so difficult to manage, what with Daisy being a light sleeper most nights and the Gaffer's joints making him restless on other nights -- those times that they could be together for a short while were often frantic, desperate couplings overshadowed by fear -- Sam's fear.

Even safe behind the locked door and shuttered windows of Frodo's room, falling into the silken heat of that embrace, Sam could feel the chill of that fear. He had known what would happen if the Gaffer found out that he was reaching so far above himself -- reaching so far as to touch the heir to Bag End. And Sam had done near everything he could to prevent the Gaffer knowing. Leaving Frodo's warm bed in the cold dark and sneaking over the windowsill and away down the Hill was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. And he had done it again and again since that night.

Frodo would never cling or murmur a complaint when Sam would ease out of his arms, but Sam would sometimes glance back for one last glimpse of ivory limbs tangled in shadowed sheets and catch moonlight reflecting off a solemn blue gaze.

Perhaps the Gaffer was right. Perhaps he didn’t know what love really was. Sam had never said the word "love" to Frodo. Not once. And it had taken the Gaffer to point that out to him. And here was Sam on this miserable road, heading away from Frodo. Here where Sam couldn’t run to him and declare his love with his voice. And now Frodo’s last memories between them were of Sam pushing him away -- pushing him away on the bank of the Water, pushing him away in Frodo’s own bed. Even in this endless cold and wet, Sam felt his face go hot at the memory.

Sam had been thinking on it all day yesterday, so distracted that he'd nearly ruined an entire bed of asters at Miz Lobelia's, and you didn't want to be doing that with her gardens. For the first time, Sam had known that he really wanted Frodo inside him that night. He was even now near burning with the hunger for it. Watching Frodo's face with each thrust -- he wanted that -- he wanted Frodo to fill him up -- drive out the ache and the fear. And Sam knew Frodo was waiting. Frodo wanted it too -- the feathery touch of fingertips told Sam -- the press of heat and hardness just there -- the hoarse whispers at his nape. Yes, Frodo wanted it, but he had been holding back ever since that first time on the Hill. He'd been waiting for Sam to be ready -- to ask -- to need.  And last night Sam had asked -- needed so desperately.

"I know you do, love, but there's no rush. Besides, I really need this." And Frodo distracted him yet again with silken touches and fervent kisses, demanding flesh and greedy mouth. And, once again, he lost himself in silken hair and smooth, cool flesh. Only later, when Sam found himself awake with Frodo's sleeping form enfolded in his arms, did he allow the tears of frustration to flow.

Even in the chill and rain and the blur of exhaustion, the memory left Sam shattered and aroused, with tears standing in his eyes. No, Sam hadn’t ever said the word, and worse, Sam’s body had denied his love for Frodo as well. He had been so afraid that something would happen to stop all this aching wonder, so nervous when they had those stolen moments together, that he couldn’t enjoy them completely -- couldn’t let Frodo enjoy them. Trying to hang on to everything, he'd lost everything.

The feeling of Frodo’s breath, humid in his hair, the warm cocoon of Frodo’s bed around them -- Sam closed his eyes trying to recapture it all. Hot tears blended with the cold rain on his face and, for a moment, the noise of the rain receded and he could almost hear the whisper of Frodo’s voice at his ear, almost feel those silky curls in his fingers.

With a gasp, Sam lost his balance as his foot came down wrong and slipped into one of the wheel ruts, splashing icy, grey water up onto his legs and nearly onto the lantern. Staggering to a halt leaning on his stick, breathing hard, Sam realised that he had drifted off to sleep for a moment between steps.

Sam shook his head and shivered as drops of water shook off of the inside of his hood and onto his face. He stood there for a moment, shaking with the adrenaline of surprise then put the rush of fear to use, quickly moving forward again, one foot after the other. Soon, he had managed to regain his steady pace, as much as you could when the road was sucking at your feet with every step.

And with the rhythm, the litany returned.

And it had stopped. And his heart felt as if it had stopped in his chest as well. It wasn’t just his feet and legs that felt numb now. It was all of him. Without Frodo, he couldn’t-- He couldn’t imagine anything without Frodo. And here he was walking away from him.

And walking away from his sisters -- from Mari, and May, and Daz. From his da. From his gardens. From Bag End and Mister Bilbo. Walking away from Frodo. With every single step he took, they were farther behind him and he was no closer to undoing this Gammidgy Knot of his. And how could he figure it out by walking away? There wasn’t an answer. That was what made it a Gammidgy Knot. Couldn’t be undone.

He wondered what the Gammidgy Knot really looked like and how his Grandda Hobson had solved it. And he was going to find out. Well, what it looked like anyway. And he was going to see Hamson, and Halfred, and Uncle Andy, and Aunt Cammie, and all manner of kin that his da hadn’t wanted him to ever meet, including--

Sam stumbled to a complete stop, standing in the mud, gulping in air as if he had run a league. He was going to see Hamson and Halfred and Uncle Andy and Aunt Cammie -- maybe even his mum's parents, the Goodchilds. After so long, he was going to see them all! His heart pounded hard in his chest.

"Just don’t be planning on coming back here any time, because you en’t welcome," the Gaffer said in that awful voice. Hamson and Halfred both were standing there, flushed and shaking, in the kitchen, with his Uncle Andy beside them. "And that includes you, Andy. You’ll learn rightly enough what his kind," this was delivered with a hitch of the Gaffer’s chin towards the door, "does to them that o’er reach themselves."

That had been as close as he had ever been to the Goodchilds in his whole life. And his memories of his Uncle Andy and even his brothers were so dim; they might not even know him when they saw him. He stared down the bleak, mist-shrouded road ahead, anxiously trying to picture their faces. But he could only see Frodo's face. Frodo, sitting on the Hill waiting for him. Frodo, who would welcome him with open arms.

He turned and gazed back towards home. There was no road, no mud, no storm. There was only an empty aching void whirling around him and inside him.