Sam. Frodo could smell him. The scent of the outdoors -- sun and leaf, mould and flower -- always clung to Sam's hair. Even in the pitch black of his room, with the shutters tight against the rain still pounding down and the fireplace dead and cold in the damp air, Frodo could tell that it was Sam in his bed, curled up in his arms, the weight of his arm heavy over Frodo's ribs, the silk of his hair brushing Frodo's chin. Frodo felt his body respond to just the heated pulse of breath against his neck.

Sam. He'd come home! Home safe. Through the rain.

And the Water had followed Sam home. Followed him, rising up over the Hill Road, mud sucking at his feet, chasing him home, wet and cold into Frodo's arms -- wet and cold. And now it was rising into the corridors of Bag End, swirling silent and dark into his room. He could hear it.

But he couldn't move. The dead weight of Sam's arm held him pinned to the bed. He struggled sluggishly, listening to the sound of rushing water as if it was a dream.

Dreaming. He must be dreaming. Frodo jerked himself awake and sat straight up in his bed breathing hard. His arms were empty, the sheets were damp and cold. Sam wasn't there at all, but the water was. That was why the fire was out. There was water ankle-deep in the room. He could see it, dark and menacing, silently rising up the wall -- and rising fast. He swung out of the bed, splashing towards the door, or trying to, but the current was swift and the floor was slick. He slipped and fell into cold, black water, grabbing wildly for the bedpost. Then he heard Sam yell his name and looked up. Sam was there, on the bed, looking at the rising water in horror and reaching down to him.

"Frodo?"

Sam grabbed for him and managed to snag Frodo's wrist, but then Frodo felt the current pulling at him violently, dragging him under and forcibly tugging Sam into the black water with him.

"Sam, no! Let go!"

Frodo opened his eyes to the dim light of his bedsmial and pushed up anxiously to look around the room. No black swirling water. No Sam. He groaned as his back protested and he sank back into the warm softness of the bed. He could only have collapsed into his bed a few moments ago. It was still pitch black outside and the rain was still coming down.

Sound echoed from down the corridor and he could tell someone was up and moving about in the kitchen. Footsteps came padding down the hall towards his bedsmial.

He shoved the covers back and swung out of the bed, almost expecting the floor to be wet -- the dream was still so vivid in his mind. At least it had been him in the water and not Sam. Sam was safe and dry -- somewhere.

There was a soft tap on his door.

"Come in Bilbo," he sighed. His uncle was already dressed warmly for the day.

"I want to understand how it is that you are always up and around and-- Oh, never mind." He pushed himself towards the washstand blearily.

"The lasses just arrived. They're preparing some food to bring down to the workers later," Bilbo said brightly. "You need to eat well this morning, lad. It is going to be heavy work, likely into the night."

"I will," Frodo grunted in response.

"And when you jot that quick note to our Samwise, tell him-- Tell him to give my regards to his family." He went on down the corridor, the light from his lamp retreating.

Frodo frowned as he splashed his face with icy water, realising that even though he knew as much as Bilbo knew about the Gamgees, he was no closer to understanding how to get Sam back home. Their Gammidgy Knot just seemed to get bigger and more tangled with each passing day.

***

"Stu Whitford stopped by a bit ago. The Watch may need some help keeping an eye on the river for any signs of flooding upstream." Bilbo offered a plate of toast to Frodo. "I volunteered you and Nahar if they find themselves stretched too thin, but they know we also need enough strong backs to work on finishing the cleanup and make sure we can move those in harm's way -- if it comes to that."

"Has it?" Frodo buttered his toast quickly.

"Has it what?" Bilbo looked up from his plate.

"Has it ever come to that?"

"Ah." Bilbo frowned and glanced up at Daisy, who was standing at the counter with Marigold busily chopping potatoes. "Yes. I imagine Miss Gamgee remembers that year, since the Water almost rose up over the bridge."

Frodo watched Daisy turn a bit pink at the acknowledgement, but she continued to work. Marigold looked around curiously until Daisy elbowed her.

"We weren't prepared then and we nearly lost a few folks. We did lose some livestock and household goods and almost lost the mill wheel, besides the crop damage." Bilbo pointed his fork at Frodo. "As I recall, that was the year that a certain young Baggins decided to test his strength against a flooded Brandywine for some fool reason."

"Oh, that year." Frodo poured himself more tea. He had been 18 and angry at the time -- angry with his Uncle Sara over some disagreement or another, angry at Merry for being a spoiled brat, and angry at the river -- for everything. He had won that battle with the Brandywine, but only barely.

"You and that river," Bilbo said softly, shaking his head.

"It did some damage in Buckland and the Marish as well." Frodo ignored the gentle jibe. Frodo's ongoing contest with the river had been a topic of conversation with Bilbo before and likely would be again. "I remember that Uncle Sara was really worried about the levees that time. And they did lose a family in Haysend. And then the fever after."

As he stirred his tea, Frodo pictured the families of Hobbiton and Bywater sitting in their holes on low-lying farms -- hoping the Watch would awaken them soon enough to escape rising water, worrying about already planted crops and livestock and the safety of their families -- listening to the rain pound into the soil and thinking of the sickness that could come after a flood.

"How far did you get in the cellar with those supplies?"

Frodo tried to remember when he had done all that work sorting through stacks of items in the cellar, thinking all the while that Bilbo was just trying to distract him from worrying about Sam. "It's all sorted and packed into crates near the door -- rope, shovels, canvas, lanterns, blankets, water skins--"

"We'll need all the spare rooms prepared," Bilbo said thoughtfully. "Might have some displaced families needing somewhere to stay for a bit."

Looking up at the window, Frodo noted the continuing deep gloom and the rain sheeting down.

"If it is fine with you, Mister Bilbo, I'll make more stew and a couple of loaves of that heavy brandy cake that keeps so well, and some extra bread," Daisy spoke up.

"Whatever you think is best, dear. You have full reign in my cellar and my kitchen." Bilbo frowned worriedly. "But I don't want the Gamgees short-changed."

"We are fine, more than fine with our chimney upright again. I made some good strong stock this morning, and baked two loaves."

Frodo took a closer look at Daisy's face in the dim light and saw the dark circles under her eyes -- doubtless she had slept little last night herself -- perhaps she hadn't attempted it at all.

"Mari will come up in a bit to make sure all the beds are aired and the linens all mended and ready. And the Gaffer will be up to look at yer gardens and see what he can manage-- and-- we'll-- we'll make sure the wood boxes are all full."

Frodo flinched and started to protest, but there was no one else to help at this point. Sam's absence was a gaping wound.

The expression on Bilbo's face told Frodo that he was thinking the same thing. "Well, once we get the work teams started, I am going to check on the plans for the grain stores. And we need to make sure everyone is prepared to move themselves and their goods and foodstuffs to higher ground -- they'll need crates and sacks and barrows available."

"And I'll warn Old Snivey. They-- he might need to move up here."

Bilbo nodded. "I hope not. That hole is pretty high up the Hill as well, but best he keeps an eye on the road. If the water covers it, he'll need to get himself and-- the livestock out of there."

Frodo nodded.

"Is it really that bad, Mister Bilbo?" Marigold piped up before Daisy could shush her.

"Not yet my dear. Not yet." Bilbo finished his last bite and stood, wiping his mouth. "But it does no harm to be prepared."

"You'll be closer than me today, I think. Could you give this to the Post?" Frodo asked, pulling a folded and sealed parchment from inside his waistcoat.

"Certainly, lad," Bilbo tucked it into his own coat pocket.

Frodo looked over at a slight sound from Marigold to find Daisy biting her lip, her eyes on the parchment as Bilbo took it.

"I sent him your love," Frodo said recklessly.

Daisy managed a weak smile and Marigold tried not to look relieved.

***

Leaning back to give his aching muscles a moment's reprieve, Frodo thought about Bilbo's reassurances to Marigold this morning and wondered, morosely, what would happen if worse came to worst and the Water came out of her banks. He knew the damage they were working so hard to repair right now would be nothing compared to the loss of crops that would result from that kind of flood. The muddy froth of water against the bridge this morning as they crossed had told the tale -- the Water was high and full of debris from upstream. And the rain kept coming down. Frodo was once again coated with mud and thoroughly soaked. But at least the Ramsons had a chimney again, assuming the river didn't flood and wash away all their hard work.

He could just hear the voices of Tanner Stomm and young Horace over the sound of the saw being wielded behind him. He glanced over to check on Nahar, who was grazing peacefully in the far pasture. All around them in the distance, Frodo could hear the sound of axes and saws. The storm had left a trail of broken limbs and downed trees in its wake. Tanner and Horace were standing on the Stomms' roof discussing how best to re-sod now that the interior ceiling was repaired and braced after the Stomm's great old roof tree had been pulled out -- roots and all. Meanwhile, Frodo and young Tin Stomm and Cole Ramson were working to get the huge tree cleared off the privy so they could see the extent of that damage before lunch, while Dru Stomm harnessed up their ox to drag off the heaviest pieces and Lonicera managed the smaller ones, but it seemed a daunting task. Frodo was beginning to think they should just let the great old tree lie and dig a new privy somewhere else. He smiled grimly to himself.

It had been too long since he had really spent days at a time doing physical work like this. He had forgotten how fulfilling it was to just lose yourself completely in the rhythmic swing of the scythe or the axe and not think of anything but clearing your row or reducing a felled tree to firewood. Someone would call them in to eat fairly soon he was certain. He had used the Ramson's pony cart to deliver Cole and Horace to the Stomm's since Bilbo was out in theirs and made a trip back to Bag End to bring down two baskets of food and a barrel of ale as well. Hopefully Timmon Ramson and his wife would be along soon with more food and more hands. He adjusted his gloves and picked up the axe once more, falling easily into the rhythm again as the axe bit into the branch, despite the sting of his abused hands.

It was odd; the old horse chestnut was completely healthy, blooming abundantly with no apparent rot or weakness anywhere. The capricious storm had simply pulled it up by its roots and thrown it down again. The branch he was hewing at finally fell and he carefully clambered over it to the next one, assessing how this next one lay and where he could safely perch as he worked. Behind him Loni moved in cautiously to grab the felled limb and drag it laboriously off to join the growing pile next to the Stomm's barn.

The Stomms would undoubtedly miss the shade of this old tree. And Dru, who was almost a tween himself, and all the lads of Hobbiton would miss its hardy conkers. Sam's own champion conker had come from this tree a few years back, he recalled as his axe rose and fell, biting through the soft wood. Sam still had that old conker, dangling on its string, hanging in his room -- his room that wasn't really his room any longer.

Sam. Frodo's mind might wander while he worked, but it invariably came back to Sam -- where he was, how he was faring, how they would untangle this Gammidgy Knot of theirs, if he would see his way clear to come home, and if not-- And Frodo would feel that empty jab in his gut at the thought. He could only imagine that, somehow, Sam would find a way to come home. He had to try to push any other thoughts aside or else his stomach would protest, his focus would waver and he would likely chop off his own foot and leave the tree intact. Just this tree, try not to cut off anything but this branch -- focus.

He thought about the tale that Bilbo had told him last night and wondered about what could have happened so long ago to the Gaffer and Bell. Whatever it was, the Gaffer had certainly clung to it for a long span of years, and his family, and the community -- well, to be honest, everyone -- had joined him in his delusion, allowing him to erase his sons as if they had never existed -- as if the family tree that Bilbo had so carefully described to him was missing an entire branch.

He remembered the elaborate family trees that his Uncle Rory had shown him in the Brandy Hall library. Brandybucks and Tooks and Baggins and Bolgers and Burrows -- trees with branches of fading sepia ink on aging parchment. There were odd markings on those family trees -- notes and names that had been scratched through, odd erasures and strangely incomplete branches. He wondered if they were just the results of ancient family feuds long forgotten -- like the path of some strange storm, strewing leaves and twigs and branches in its wake.

There was a high squeal from behind him and he nearly dropped his axe, spinning around to find Loni Stomm sitting in a rather substantial mud pit near the barn, laughing uncontrollably. Nearby -- hidden in the branches of the old tree -- Cole Ramson snorted. And, despite himself, Frodo smiled with relief.

It wasn't really fair to blame all of Hobbiton for erasing parts of the Gamgee family tree -- for conceding to the Gaffer's stubborn will. But the thought made his stomach clench. That kind of stubbornness was not going to be overcome by just blithely ignoring the Gaffer either.

Frodo shook himself and tried to focus once more. He was just hungry -- chop-- and he was tired -- chop -- and that was likely colouring -- chop -- his view of everything -- and this tree was the only thing -- chop -- between him and lunch and a nice rest -- chop. Just this tree, try not to cut off anything but this branch -- focus -- chop.

But if they couldn't figure out a way for Sam to return to Hobbiton, what then? Even if he was Bilbo's heir, Frodo couldn't see himself living contentedly on the Hill knowing that his very presence was what was keeping Sam away from his home -- chop. Was it conceivable that the only way Sam could return to his home might be for Frodo to walk away from his -- chop? Go back to Brandy Hall -- chop? Walk away from Sam -- chop -- from Bilbo -- chop -- from Bag End? His stomach clenched again and he swiped wearily at the water streaming into his eyes. Then he hefted the axe once more. Just this tree -- chop. Try not to cut off anything but this branch -- chop. Focus.

There was another loud shout from behind him and he grimaced, hoping it was the call for them to come in to food and not another disruption by the younger Stomms. He turned, and saw Stu Whitford dismounting from Sunflower at a run, pounding towards the Stomm's front door.

"Mister Frodo? Is Mister Frodo Baggins here?" Stu shouted.

Frodo nearly lost his footing on the limb then realised he had to keep his head or he might lose a foot, or worse.

"Here Stu. Over here!" he shouted, working his way out of the maze of branches carefully.

Stu skidded up to the tree, mud-spattered and breathing hard. Tanner Stomm was sliding down his own roof, frowning in concern as he ran towards them.

"I-- I'm sorry Mister Frodo. You need-- to get back to-- to Bag End," Stu panted.

Frodo felt his heart thudding hard as he clambered through the branches, holding his axe carefully. "What's wrong?"

"It's Mister Bilbo."

The whole world went dark. All Frodo could see was Stu's red face -- all he could hear was his own heart pounding wildly in his ears.

"There was an accident. The pony cart--"

***

Sam knew that he didn't really need to pour anything over the remnants of their fire -- the overwhelming dampness had taken care of it. But he poured the last bit of their tea over the embers just to be safe. Not a flicker of heat remained in the coals.

He gazed over his shoulder at the dark clouds massed behind them in the east. The air was heavy with moisture and the mist was following them west. It didn't look to let up any time soon. He couldn't recall a spring like this -- nothing this wet. Not since that flood so many years back -- the one that had near taken the mill wheel -- the one that had nearly drowned Frodo.

Frodo. He gazed back at the glowering clouds to the east. He should not have left those he loved to face this storm alone.

"Samwise? All ready then?" came Cord's cheery voice.

"Yessir," he responded, hefting his pack over his shoulder and looking around for anything they might have forgotten.

He walked back to the waggon and hefted his pack into the box. Cord was leaning into the back checking the cargo and making sure everything was secured. Hearing Sam clamber up into the box, he fished down into one of the oilcloth bundles.

"Take a look at this. Yer brother Halfred is waitin' fer this." He held it up.

It looked to Sam as if Cord was holding spun moonlight in his hands -- a twisted bundle of shimmering ivory. "I been gettin' him the more yellow-coloured stuff, but this here is supposed to be stronger. Them that brought it up the river says they make it into armour -- this into armour."

Sam watched in fascination, as the stuff seemed to flow from one of Cord's hands into the other, glimmering in the light. He reached out but was reluctant to touch the delicate-looking threads with his rough fingers.

"Can you imagine it? I've heard tell of armour made outta metal, and I've seen it made a'leather, but this? They say if it is woven right, it is strong as metal."

"Armour made of cloth?" Sam tried to imagine the shimmery stuff as the armour that he had heard of in Mister Bilbo's tales.

"Halfred says if it makes armour, it'll make good rope as well. Seems a mite fragile to me. Well, we'll see." Cord placed it back in the cloth sack and then back into the oilcloth. "And this. Now, ya see, what Hal really wants is a pair of the goats they get this from." He brought out another twisted bundle of ivory-coloured stuff that didn't shimmer at all. "You have to feel it to understand why." He held it out. "Go ahead. It's strong too."

Sam reluctantly took the twisted bundle and was surprised at how light it was in his hands, and how soft -- and warm. It seemed just by holding it his fingers had warmed up. He looked at Cord in disbelief. "Goats?"

Cord nodded, grinning. "Yep. I been trying to get Hal a pair, but no luck so far." He took it back and bundled it away. "Apparently them that'll sell 'em ain't so keen on rope as they are on Longbottom leaf, but we'll work a deal." He winked at Sam as he turned back to sit down and pull up the brakes.

Sam shook his head, smiling. "You must've seen all manner of wonders." He hung on to the side of the box as the waggon lurched off the grass and back onto the roadbed.

"All manner. Big folk of all kinds -- and colours too! Dwarves, plenty of them. I even saw a group of elves once."

Sam's eyebrows went up. Elves. Cord had seen elves. Sam had always wanted to see some elves.

"There was this man in Bree had a tiny fellow on a rope," Cord motioned to show the creature's height. "About this tall, standing up on two feet just like a hobbit. All covered in fur he was, with a really long tail covered with fur too. But his little hands and feet and face was bare. This man would make the creature bow to everyone, then dance a jig. Then he would walk about with a cup, taking money. He would even sit on your shoulder and wrap his tail around your neck." Cord shook his head. "Truth be told -- I'm pretty sure he was stealing things outta folks' pockets too. Strangest thing I ever seen."

"Must be exciting, travellin' like you do all the time, seein' amazin' things," Sam put forth.

Cord's expression turned solemn and he looked over the ponies' heads at the road. "Well, after a while, there aren't as many amazin' things as you might think," he said in a quiet voice, then turned to Sam. "Don't get me wrong, I enjoy finding out about places outside the Shire and visitin' with my customers inside it as well, but there's nothing to beat goin' home to your own hearth and your own bed. Nothin' beats that."

Sam had never thought about Cord having a home. To him, Cord was always on the road, in his waggon, sleeping under the stars or in an inn or at the home of a grateful customer. He wondered if Cord had a family somewheres and tried to recall if Cord had ever mentioned them.

"Don't get all ponderous about it; I never talk much of my kin. Folks like to talk about their own affairs, not hear about mine."

"You have kin?" Sam blurted out.

Cord snorted. "Naw, I just popped outta the ground, full growed. Course I have kin, boy," he exclaimed, poking Sam with his elbow.

Sam reflected that he was going to have a pretty big bruise on that arm after this trip was over.

"Lots of 'em. Up north of Oatbarton, truth be told."

"But-- but when do you get to see them?"

"Well, I go home for Lithedays, o' course, and harvest, and then during the worst of the winter and Yule. I slip home for my birthday as well. My Forsythia's birthday is around Yule and the two younguns were born at harvest, so that works out. Not much to do in the winter, 'cept make younguns," he winked broadly at Sam.

Sam grinned. There were lots of babes born at harvest it seemed, 'specially after a real bad winter.

"Your two faunts--"

"Heh. Not faunts no more," Cord explained. "We have a sturdy lad of 18 years -- Bran's his name -- and a pretty lass of 22 named Begonia. I'll be bringin' Bran along on the next trip -- he's old enough and eager to see the world and learn the trade. A bit like you."

"I'll be pleased ta meet him," Sam responded, knowing his own ideas about seeing the world had changed over the last two days -- changed a great deal. He would much rather be heading towards a home where he could be sure of a welcome than wandering the world unsure of his place in it.

"Well, you are going to be meetin' a lot of folks not long from now, if we can keep this pace I'm thinkin'. And I, fer one, am hoping to get some of Miz Abelia's shepherd's pie as a reward for finding ya on the road back there!" Cord laughed.

Sam couldn't help but smile.

"She's a fine one, Miz Abelia. You'll like her."

Sam nodded, hoping she would like him -- hoping his brother would-- Well, that felt odd, thinking about Hamson that way. It seemed your family didn't get to choose whether they liked you or not. You were still family. He wondered if Hamson would see it that way.

"I remembered something about rope last night," he said quickly. "Hamson taught me to make rope, out of straw, when I was just a faunt."

"Makin' skeps, I'd imagine."

Sam nodded. He could remember sitting on the ground watching Hamson's fingers moulding the straw. "Afore I started helping Da in the garden, I was helping Hamson with the skep making -- bringing water and handing him bindings. I remembered it when you talked about soaking the hemp."

Cord nodded. "I can see that one makin' rope no matter what his da wanted him to be doin'."

"Well, I do recall Hamson bein' real prideful once when Mosco Brown's gaffer brought over honey and told him that his skeps was the best they'd seen," Sam said thoughtfully. "Their honey is still the best in the farthing."

"I imagine they're still using his skeps ta this day," Cord replied. "So, you're a roper after all."

Sam thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I'm a gardener. Ropes are fine and all, but-- well, I like green and growin' things and they-- well, they seem to like me just fine."

Cord turned to look at him. "Well, that is a good thing, as you're the one followed in your da's footsteps."

That reminded Sam of something else. "You-- you said that Hal was good with the animal side of things. So he en't working with Uncle Andy and Hamson at the rope works then?"

"Oh, he works there when he's free, but he spends a lot of time up north of town with a herd of sheep he's got goin' up there. He's aimin' to go up and join Anson in the Northfarthing this summer." Cord answered quickly. "Anson's got him quite a reputation for breeding stock that produces some real fine wool--"

Sam heard it first, but Cord spun around quickly in response -- the sound of a rider overtaking the waggon from the east. They both looked back along the road, squinting into the mist.

The light was fading fast, but they could see by the band on his sleeve that it was a Post rider approaching fast from behind them.

Sam's heart jumped clean into his throat and near choked him. Post meant news. And it meant the road was passable somewhere back there.

Cord pulled up the team and stood in the box as the rider came up beside them.

From the looks of the fellow, he had been long in the saddle and it hadn't been an easy go. The rider was soaked to the skin and both he and his mount were spattered with mud, but beneath his cap he had a look of exhausted determination on his face.

"Cord Longburrow at your service, young sir. We have some warm oat cakes and honey mead we'd be glad to offer you," Cord offered quickly. "You look to need some."

"Will Fleetfoot at yours." The young fellow touched his cap and smiled a crooked, and tired, smile. "Had a good hot meal back at Little Delving and they gifted me a fine jug of brew, but I am thanking you kindly." He readied his pony to ride on.

"Any news from Hobbiton or Bywater, sir? It was raining sommat fierce when I left there," Sam blurted out anxiously.

Will frowned. "Well, I came out of Michel Delving, so I don't know myself. I do know the Post hadn't come from there when I went through Little Delving. There was one fellow back at the inn who said they had a bad blow back that way -- trees and chimneys down, livestock lost --" He stopped his list of damages when Sam stood up, white-faced, his fists gripped at his sides.

"But that was just hearsay, as I said, no real news coming outta there yet. Likely not to be as bad as folks make it out to be when they have a few in em." Will appeared anxious to be on his way, and not happy to be the bearer of bad news.

Cord glanced over at Sam. "O' course. Thank you kindly for the news though. And safe journey to you."

"And to you." Will touched his cap and, with an encouraging word to his pony, was gone.

Trees and chimneys down. Livestock lost. Trees and chimneys. Sam could feel his heart pounding loudly in his chest, but all he could hear in his head was blowing rain and screaming wind.

"Samwise!" Cord sounded as if he had said Sam's name once already.

Sam realised he was still standing there in the box staring after Will and his pony, but seeing Hobbiton -- Number 3, Bag End, the Grange, the Mill -- all torn and blown and covered with debris, and dark swirling water. He turned instinctively and gazed back down the road behind them. "I gotta go back. I shouldn'a left."

"Young Will didn't say nothing about no hobbits being hurt. And he's right. You won't know for certain till the Post comes through." Cord grasped his shoulder. "And it'll come through, likely tomorrow."

"I gotta go back," Sam whispered.

"I agree," Cord said quickly in response, and Sam turned to stare at him. "But you're only a few hours from family -- family who'll want to know what is going on in Hobbiton as much as you -- family who'll likely want to go back with you, if the worst of the rumours is true." Cord's expression seemed almost fierce. "Family who need to go back with you," he said softly.

Gazing back into that kind, weathered face, Sam felt a flare of warmth ease the cold ache in his chest. It was beyond all hope that his brothers would care -- would want to--  No. He couldn't believe that. He looked back up the road where Will had disappeared in the mist. Could he?

"Now sit, boy." Cord sat down, dragging Sam with him. "We have a ways to go yet."

Sam sat woodenly and stared into the distance.

Cord gave him an assessing glance then chirruped to the team.

"Not far now," he said softly to the ponies. "And there's warm and dry up there at the end of that road -- warm and dry and smelling of welcome."

***

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