Far too many of Hobbiton's inhabitants were milling around at the gate -- on the road and in the garden, churning the sodden turf into mud -- and getting in Frodo's way. He tossed Nahar's reins at someone and leaped the fence, slipping in the mud and dodging bodies and questions he couldn't even hear. They were just pale blurs -- all of them -- with moving mouths -- their words drowned out by the pounding of his heart. And they were in his way.

In the entryway, unbelievably, more bodies, more anxious faces mouthing words at him -- his name and Bilbo's and -- more than any other -- The Master -- as he ducked through them and sprinted down the corridor, sliding on the muddy floor.

Then a sound from Bilbo's smials echoed down the corridor chilling his very marrow and thrilling him beyond measure. First a bellowing yell, tight with pain, then Bilbo, in full voice--

"Get out of my smial, Myrtle Rumble. Had I known how desperately you wanted to get into my--"

"Bilbo Baggins, don't you dare to take that tone with me. You--"

Frodo could suddenly hear again, and hear clearly. Relief flooded him so completely that he stumbled and nearly sprawled into Gaffer Gamgee, who was hovering warily at the door to Bilbo's bedsmial, clutching his hat. When the Gaffer realised who had nearly crashed into him, an expression of relief flashed across his face, replaced immediately by the ever present scowl. The old gardener backed away from the door, his eyes on the floor. Frodo ignored him and ran into the room.

"You old reprobate. As if I was interested in your wrinkled arse. Like as not we'd find moss growing--"

Frodo snorted with relief and amazement at the sight before him.

Bilbo Baggins -- Master of Bag End, Elf Friend, Dragon Riddler -- was recognisable only by his grey-blue eyes because the rest of him was substantially coated in mud. He stood next to his bed, brandishing a stool with one hand. Frodo peered at the other arm, which hung useless by Bilbo's side, looking anxiously for any sign of bleeding or break.

"Frodo! Thank the stars! Go retrieve Sting and defend me from this -- this mad potion peddler!" Bilbo gave the stool an extra shake for emphasis.

Frodo took in the scene. The Widow Rumble stood firm in front of Bilbo, unfazed by the wavering stool, an exasperated look on her face. Peony Leagallow stood behind her with a steaming kettle of water, and Daisy was there loaded down with flannels, towels, and what appeared to be a nightshirt. The Widow turned to Frodo and raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

"Perhaps there will be no need for cold steel here, Bilbo. I am sure the Widow will see reason," Frodo said in as calm a voice as he could manage, although he sounded a bit high pitched and out of breath to his own ears. "Exactly what kind of bodily harm are you attempting to inflict, Widow Rumble?"

"Well, that shoulder's in need of pullin' as he well knows. And as he well knows, it is gonna hurt mighty fierce when we do it. 'Twould be best if he was cleaned up and ready for bed, with a good dose of sommat mighty strong afore we do, but he's havin' none of it."

So the shoulder was out of place then, not broken. Frodo breathed a bit easier. It was bad certainly, but a broken bone could mean fever and sickness.

"I haven't needed a female to bathe me in all my 110 years, and I don't need one now."

"I imagine your momma bathed you and changed your nappies--"

"Frodo!"

Frodo raised his hands, barely managing not to smile at the panic in Bilbo's voice. "I believe I have a solution. Daisy, just put those linens on the bed. Peony, if you could just leave the kettle on the hearth. I'll take over from here."

Daisy scurried to obey, dumping towels on the huge bed.

"Widow, if you don't mind, could you ask the Gaffer go reassure the folks in the parlour and the hall -- and the yard." He sighed. "And the garden -- that the Master will be fine. And make up whatever remedy you think is best -- our cellar is yours. I will call you when he is ready."

He turned to Bilbo. "Is that acceptable -- Uncle?"

Those keen eyes shifted from the Widow to Frodo and back. The stool lowered. "Fine, lad. Fine."

Frodo saw the Widow's mouth quirk ever so slightly. "We'll be in the kitchen when you're ready. Peony, go fetch young Cott outta the yard to stay around to help with the pullin'. He's about the right height."

Relief gave way to dread. Frodo's Uncle Merimac had once wrenched his shoulder out and Frodo still remembered how pale and sweaty Merimac had become when they pulled it back into place, despite the glasses of brandy he had downed in advance. "Daisy, offer Cott something to eat for his trouble, if you don't mind."

Daisy nodded and backed out after the Widow, shutting the door firmly behind her. The sound of the door was quickly followed by the stool hitting the floor.

Frodo strode quickly over to where Bilbo was barely managing to stay on his feet and grabbed the teetering stool, shoving it under him. "Sit."

Bilbo complied, holding his right wrist with his left hand and sinking down with a groan. "Gah. Females."

Kneeling in front of him, Frodo managed to unbutton his waistcoat then carefully unhooked his bracers. "You'll have to help me out here Bilbo. Let's get your left arm out of your waistcoat."

"I am sorry about this, lad. Dratted stubborn beast would not heed me. Dumped us both in the ditch. Of course, he's fine--"

Frodo stopped and bowed his head, taking a deep cleansing breath, shoving all the panicked thoughts that had crowded into his head back into their dark holes. Later. He would think about all of that later.

"Frodo? Is something wrong lad?"

He could hear the edge of pain in Bilbo's voice.

"Sorry uncle. Had to catch my breath." He stood up. "Can you let go of your wrist? Rest it there on your leg for a bit?"

Bilbo obediently released his hold on the injured arm and allowed Frodo to carefully work the muddied waistcoat off. Only the occasional grunt of complaint and the complete lack of conversation told Frodo how much pain Bilbo was enduring despite his careful ministrations.

But several flannels, two towels, and a few basins of water later, countless layers of mud and clothing had been removed and Bilbo sat, partially dressed in a nightshirt and robe, on a straight backed chair next to the bed. Only his left shoulder and arm were still uncovered, and, Frodo was relieved to note, the swelling and bruising was minimal -- so far.

Bag End was surprisingly silent. Frodo could only hear furtive whisperings in the corridor outside Bilbo's door and the distant sounds of bustle from the kitchen as he wiped his hands and forearms, and dumped the last flannel onto the soiled pile on the floor.

Hopefully, the crowd was dispersed. But the sound of rain continued -- an ominous background of noise. He glanced at the window and the dark gloom beyond as he rolled down his sleeves. "I'll fetch the--"

"I prefer the Withywindle, lad, if you don't mind. A large sized glass no matter what the Widow says," Bilbo said quickly, his voice small sounding in the quiet of the smial.

"I will see to it. Are you ready Uncle?"

Bilbo nodded, then lifted his head and straightened his back. Frodo saw the gleam of fierce determination in his eyes and nodded back with a grim smile.

The old Dragon Riddler would manage fine. Frodo, on the other hand, might not manage well at all. With a steadying breath he opened the door and found the Widow waiting patiently with Peony and young Cott standing warily behind her. "He's ready."

The Widow made some noise of approval and bustled in, followed by Peony with a basket full of what appeared to be bandages, but Cott lurked at the door until Daisy nearly pushed him in with her tray.

The Widow quickly got to work inspecting the exposed shoulder then poked at it gingerly. "Looks 'bout as well as could be expected," she exclaimed, as Peony leaned in to look.

"Get on with it," Bilbo said in a strained voice.

Daisy had brought the Withywindle and a huge tumbler full already sat on the tray, along with a steaming mug.

"The tea's for you, Mister Frodo. You'll be needin' some fortifyin' about now, I would think," she whispered as she carried the tumbler over to Bilbo.

Frodo gratefully scooped up the mug and sampled the scalding sweet brew. His stomach protested loudly, but he wasn't certain if it was hunger or something else. The heat of the mug in his hands was almost painful, and he suddenly realised that he was still thoroughly wet. He gulped the rest of the mug as the Widow called young Cott over and positioned him beside the chair. The lad was nearly as pale as Bilbo.

Frodo steeled himself, placing the empty mug back on the tray. "What do you want me to do?"

"You are going to make sure this ol-- that the Master here don't get it in his head to move whilst we're doin' this," the Widow responded.

Bilbo, who was making quick work of the brandy, grimaced at her over the rim.

The Widow ignored him. "Just come over here and hang on to that other arm for me, once he's got that brandy in 'im. I don't want him forgettin' what we're about and tryin' to thrash poor Cott here."

Cott, who was already pale, managed to go a bit whiter at that and the Widow had to whisper reassurances.

Frodo obediently trod over and stood between Bilbo and the bed while Daisy turned back the covers and plumped up the pillows. Bilbo looked up at him, already a bit bleary, and blinked. "Don't-- You and I-- Don't let me sleep before we talk. There are things--"

Frodo sat gingerly on the side of the bed. "I know Bilbo. I'll take over for you in getting everyone prepared. Did you get to Sandyman, the Mill?"

Bilbo shook his head and grunted as the motion tugged at his shoulder, then downed more of the brandy.

"And those on the south side, towards Bywater, in the low holes?"

"Where I was going when that foul beast--"

Frodo heard the Widow whispering some instruction to young Cott.

"I understand. All our tenants?"

Bilbo looked up at him with an odd expression.

"Bilbo? Our tenants?"

Now the Widow was talking to Peony, who was nodding in understanding.

"Not the Potts nor the Browns--" Bilbo suddenly grinned. "That would make a fine song. Has a good meter. 'Not the Potts, nor the Browns, could be found on the downs'--"

"Bilbo. The tenants?" Frodo said firmly, but he was relieved to see Bilbo getting a bit tipsy. Hopefully it would dull the pain of what was to come.

"Yes, yes. Just the Potts, the Browns, the Haywards, and the Winkles left. And then we just wait." Bilbo waved his empty glass. "The bottle please."

Frodo looked up at the Widow who nodded and motioned with her fingers as to how much more she thought would be necessary. Daisy brought the bottle over to him.

Bilbo, strangely, started humming, then singing softly as Frodo poured. Frodo smothered a smile when he recognised the song -- a favourite old drinking song of Bilbo's. "Ho! Ho! Ho! to the bottle I go."

Frodo looked up to find the Widow looking bemused as Bilbo continued, loudly, "To heal my heart and drown my woe." After which he upended the tumbler, draining it dry and handing it back to Frodo with a flourish.

"More of Mother's best, if you please," Bilbo managed, with only a slight slur.

Frodo looked up to find the Widow shaking her head. "I am thinking you're primed, Mister Baggins," she said quickly.

"Primed, Miz Rumble," Bilbo said happily.

The Widow nodded at Frodo and he grasped onto Bilbo's right shoulder with one hand and then took Bilbo's right hand in his other. At the same time, with the Widow's guiding hands, young Cott placed his foot firmly on the chair beside Bilbo, put his hand firmly on the injured shoulder, and slid his knee under Bilbo's armpit from behind.

Bilbo's fingers tightened on Frodo's as the Widow and Peony both took hold of his left arm. He closed his eyes and, oddly, started humming his silly drinking song again.

As the Widow moved the arm out and into the shoulder at the same time, Peony also closed her eyes and Frodo realised that she was trying to sense the amount of pressure the Widow was using and the exact direction she was moving the arm -- she was learning her craft.

Frodo yelped as Bilbo's humming ceased and his fingers dug hard into Frodo's hand. Then he had to wince as he heard, and even felt through his hands, the soft thunk inside Bilbo's shoulder that made Bilbo's face go grey and his lips press together whitely. But the Widow smiled grimly and nodded at Frodo. Success, apparently.

Bilbo slumped a bit as Cott removed his knee carefully with the Widow's direction, but Frodo kept him steady as Peony and the Widow leaned back and forth to tightly wrap Bilbo's arm into place against his chest with cloth. The widow stopped and checked the shoulder now and again to make sure it was sitting properly. Frodo watched Bilbo's face closely and breathed a sigh of relief as the colour slowly returned.

"You're doing just fine, Bilbo. Just stay still for a bit more," he said reassuringly.

"Heh. More brandy. Indeed, I will have some if you please." Bilbo grinned happily at him.

The Widow shook her head at Frodo.

"Perhaps later," Frodo promised.

A spate of rain hit the windows and Bilbo's smile wobbled a bit.

"Rain may fall and wind may blow, and many miles be still to go," Frodo sang the next verse softly.

"But under a tall tree I will lie, and let the clouds go sailing by," Bilbo joined in, then winked at Frodo and launched into it again, with more volume. "Ho! Ho! Ho! to the bottle I go."

Frodo smiled with relief and joined in with gusto. "To heal my heart and drown my woe."

Anyone still standing on the road below waiting for word of the Master was likely amazed to hear singing coming from his bedroom.

***

"He's calling for you again, Mister Frodo," Daisy sighed. "I'm sorry, but we can't get him to settle unless he speaks to you."

Frodo picked up the mug of tea and swiped his last hunk of bread around the bottom of his bowl as he stood, cramming it into his mouth and washing it down with a swallow of hot tea.

"That's fine Daisy. I need to get going. Are you sure that you can handle him while I am gone? I may be a long--"

"We'll manage the Master and Bag End as well. You just see to yourself out there. What'd we do if both of you were laid up?"

Frodo smiled and cleared his throat. "Well, I am sure you would manage just fine."

Daisy smirked ever so slightly at that and turned to the cleaning up.

Frodo headed down the corridor to where he could hear Bilbo muttering at May Gamgee. There were still signs of the near horde that had been trampling about in the smial earlier, but Daisy and May had managed to wipe up some of the mud.

"Uncle, you are going to drive off these lovely lasses with all your griping and moaning. Why can't you just go off to sleep like a decent drunken hobbit?"

Bilbo, enthroned on what looked like every pillow in the smial with his left arm and shoulder bound tightly to his torso, grimaced at him from his bed. "I am not drunk. I would like to be drunk, but these lovely lasses won't bring Mother's brandy over here to me and it is too confounded difficult for me to get down from here and to go get it myself with one arm tied behind my back."

"It is tied in front of you." Frodo crossed his arms. "And if I were May, I would give you some more just to shut you up. Now, Daisy said you needed me? I am about to head down to the south--"

"Yes, yes." Bilbo waved at him. "I think I forgot to mention, can you check and see if the Post got through today?"

"I will." Frodo mentally added that item to his growing list.

"And go reassure your Aunt Dora that she just needs to stay put up there. She's a trifle edgy about the river."

Frodo nodded.

"And the tenants. I gave you the names of the rest? Mostly down the south side. It is quite boggy down there."

"The Potts, the Browns, the Haywards, and the Winkles," Frodo recited.

Bilbo nodded. "And watch the road. Between the Longburrows and the Potts. That is where the confounded--"

"I know Bilbo. Please rest and heal quickly. Those terrified folks out there need their Master back up and about."

Bilbo sighed long and loud. "You are the Master of Bag End at the moment, Frodo. And none of us can afford to have you slide into the ditch as well."

Frodo frowned thoughtfully. "Well, I had better be off.  I may be rather
late--"

"Come report to me when you get in. Wake me if you must."

Frodo started to protest then thought better of it. "If you or Daisy need me at any point, May, just send--"

"I'll come fetch ya, Mister Frodo," came a familiar voice from the corridor.

Frodo tried to keep his expression neutral as he turned to find the Gaffer standing behind him. The Gaffer's wrinkled face gave nothing away.

"Good. Thank you, Gaffer," Frodo managed, brushing by the old hobbit to head for the door. "Well, then. I'm off."

"Cott took care of Nahar for you. I'm thinking he has him down at the front gate waitin'," Daisy called from the kitchen as he passed in the corridor. "And one of the Stomm's brought your cloak. I brushed it up and hung it to dry."

It was a bit disconcerting, all this solicitous concern and attention. In the entry, Frodo shrugged into his oiled wool cloak with a grateful sigh.

"Mister Bilbo is right," came a soft voice from the parlour. Daisy stepped into the archway drying her hands on her apron. "You're the Master now. You must take care of yourself -- for all of us."

His protest died on his lips and he nodded wordlessly as she opened the great green door.

The distant green hills were wreathed in fog behind a mist of grey rain as he gazed out across the rolling patchwork of field and pasture, many shimmering now with pools of muddy water and strewn with debris. Bilbo was right. Restoring the countryside would be the work of more than a fortnight. And the worse might be yet to come. Something clenched inside him at the thought of all those folks out there listening to the rain pour down and wondering.

Well, they would make it through. They had come through worse than this in the past. They were a hardy bunch. Stubborn survivors. Like Bilbo. Like the Gaffer.

He was surprised to find a small group of folks still standing around at the gate. Surely Daisy had let them know that Bilbo was going to be fine?

"Glad to hear Mister Bilbo ain't bad hurt," someone finally spoke up as he came down the steps to the gate.

"He'll be fine. The Gamgees are seeing to that. Thanks, Cott," Frodo said as he shut the gate behind him and took Nahar's reins. "Don't worry about him. You need to see to your own smials. And your neighbours."

He mounted the pony quickly and leaned forward to rub the black neck. "Be prepared to move quickly or to take those in who need shelter. Hopefully it won't come to that, but we should all be ready."

There were sounds of agreement, but Frodo saw the strain of fear on some faces.

"Bilbo tells me you've all been through this before. Or your parents have. We can see it through together if everyone watches out for everyone else."

"That's so," someone said loudly. But someone else muttered under their breath about Sandyman and Frodo frowned, not sure if he should ignore it or say something to assure them the mill would be ready and would supply them with sacks and crates if needed.

"I have to get down to the mill now, to make certain of the preparations there." That appeared to do the trick, as he saw some nods of approval. "Thank you again for your concern."

Someone said "Thank you, Mister Frodo!" loudly as he walked Nahar through the group. He looked back to see the Gaffer standing just outside the Bag End door, watching. Then he waved acknowledgement as he took off down the Hill. The mill should be his first stop, if only to get what was likely to be an edgy confrontation over and done. It was going to be a long enough evening as it was.

Odd how it felt to see all those faces looking up at him anxiously. He remembered how he had felt when he had galloped up this hill earlier -- when he had thought he might have just suddenly become the real Master of Bag End. Beyond the terrifying idea of losing Bilbo so quickly and so soon -- too soon -- he had realised that he wasn't ready. Not for all those faces to turn to him looking for answers. Not to deal with what being Master would do to his future, to his dreams and wishes -- to Sam.

But now he was the Master and responsible for more than just himself -- at least for the moment. And he would never be able to leave -- to head for Tighfield -- to bring Sam home. At least not until the danger of flood was past and Bilbo was fully recovered -- whenever that might be.

In the distance, someone had, optimistically with all this rain and wind, lit the lanterns along the Hill Road into town. He could see light shimmering behind windows here and there in the hills as the afternoon darkened further. All he could do was hope that, as Bilbo had said, Sam was safely with kin in some warm hole beyond the storm's reach.

***

Sam had thought he was seeing things when the first little flicker of light broke the expanse of blackness beyond the reach of their lantern. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and looked again. No, he hadn't been amiss. There were lights out there. Not many, but pinpricks scattered in the blackness before them.

"There she is," Cord exclaimed as even more flickering lights came into view around a hillside. "And folks are asleep, mostly. But see there?"

He pointed ahead and Sam could see a concentration of light farther on.

"That's the town proper. Tighfield."

Sam couldn't imagine it. He was near shaking all over with some strange feeling -- like fear and excitement all rolled up.

"I'm thinking Hamson'll be fit to pop when he sees ya." Cord was grinning in anticipation of the family reunion.

But Sam has no doubt that Hamson, sooner or later, would be wondering on the same thing he was -- how could he have left his family to face the storm alone? How could he have left their father to work alone? Sam's stomach clenched and he felt sick with dread.

But still, to see Hamson again. And Halfred. And Aunt Camellia. After all these years. He wished Daisy and May and Marigold could be right here with him.

"That there is the inn -- the Golden Spindle. I'll be coming back there once I drop you off and get the team settled."

"I can walk--"

"I wouldn't miss this for anythin', Samwise." Cord patted his back in happy anticipation.

"Now that." He pointed to a long set of buildings farther on. "That's the Gamgee Rope Works."

There was a simple sign -- a series of knotted ropes hanging from a wrought iron bracket.

"The walk is enclosed in there, although one side's open into a lane that runs straight to the end of the road down there fer when they make those real long ropes." Cord pointed up a road that Sam could see climbed the hill behind the rope works. "Up there -- see that light? That's yer Uncle Andwise and Aunt Camellia's place. Halfred stays up there. He's been a big help since your Aunt's accident."

A dog barked from inside the rope works and Sam jumped.

Cord laughed. "Now that is Blackie. He was a herding dog up north, but got hisself crippled up chasing some fool sheep. Halfred brought him back thinking he might herd Hamson's young'un just as good. I suppose we'll see about that."

"And up here is Hamson's place." Cord turned down a lane across from the rope works and brought the waggon to a stop in front of a tidy little hobbit hole set down from the road. The garden was fenced neatly and flagstone steps led down from the gate. Sam couldn't see the plantings clearly, but they appeared to be lush and well-tended. There was a shed farther on up the lane.

As Cord started to get down, Sam grabbed his sleeve anxiously. "I can bed down up there in the shed till morning. Don't feel right to wake em up and it so late."

Cord started to respond, but a lusty wail from inside the hole brought him up short. He grinned. "I reckon young Manny wants to see his Uncle, eh?"

Sam subsided, wishing once more that he was back down the road and safe in his own bed and that none of this had happened. But that would be wishing away Mister Frodo, and he couldn't do that. He wouldn't wish that away for the world.

Lifting his chin, he pulled up his pack and hopped down from the box, following Cord down the path to the front door. It was painted bright red, from what he could tell. Cord rapped on it loudly.

Inside, little Manny had subsided, but there were vague murmurings and noises. Sam winced as Cord rapped again for good measure.

"What fool hobbit is visitin' at this hour?" came a voice hoarse with sleep from the other side of the door.

"Just yer favourite peddler with a mathom for young Manny."

Cord winked broadly at Sam.

Sam grimaced. He supposed he was a mathom for sure. Well used and passed on.

The door knob rattled and the round door swung inward, revealing a shadowy figure holding a lamp and struggling to pull up his braces.

"Cord, you old fool. What're you--"

Sam realised that his hands were shaking and clenched them quickly at his sides. As he looked into Hamson's face, his insides churned.

He had forgotten how much Hamson looked like his da. But his da without the wrinkles and the scowl -- his da of long ago. And Hamson wasn't so tall as he remembered either. Of course, he'd been a faunt then.

Hamson was frowning at him now as he finished pulling up his braces and finished shrugging into a shirt. That look was familiar.

"Who is it, Hamson?" came a sleepy query from the room behind him.

"Cord and--" Hamson answered absently, gazing at Sam's face with a frown.

Cord nudged Sam forward. "He's growed a bit, I'll warrant."

Hamson's eyes widened and his mouth fell open as Sam stumbled into the light.

"Sam-- Samwise?" he whispered in disbelief.

Sam nodded once, unable to find his voice for the tight feeling in his throat.

"Samwise!" Hamson nearly dropped the lamp before Cord took it from him and he grabbed Sam's shoulders firmly, looking him up and down. "By the Lady, it is you!"

Sam's face was pressed against an old flannel shirt that smelled achingly familiar and yet different. Hamson hugged him and pounded on his shoulder happily then held him out at arm's length again before Sam could even return the hug. "Samwise Samwise. Abby, it's my baby brother, Samwise!" he spun to face his wife, who stood behind him in what appeared to be their parlour, cradling the baby, who was impatiently rooting at her gown.

"Samwise?" She glanced behind them, apparently wondering if a crowd of other Gamgees was lurking in the garden. "All the way from Hobbiton?"

A frown creased Hamson's brow as he turned back to Sam, who was trying to blink the tears out of his eyes. "There's-- There's nothin' wrong back there? The Gaffer-- The Gaffer's not--"

"Yer da's as well as can be expected fer bein an old, rheumy curmudgeon," Cord said quickly, before Sam could find his voice.

"And my sisters? Daz and May? Mari?"

Hamson's brown eyes were searching Sam's face frantically.

"When-- when I left, they were all well." Sam's voice was shaky.

Hamson let out a breath and he shook Sam's shoulder. "Showin' up without any warnin'. I think you scared a few years off me brother."

"I-- I didn't mean to. But--"

"What Samwise is about to tell ya is somethin you'll get from the Post on the morrow. There's been a fierce blow back there, after he left. We heard word of it on the way. He's worrited now about them he left behind."

"A storm?" Hamson turned to Cord.

"Rumours of one. It were raining pretty fierce when I picked up Samwise here on the road, I'll say." Cord pulled off his hat and hit it against his leg. "But just rumours. Won't know fer certain till the Post comes from Hobbiton."

"You left with a storm comin'?" Hamson turned back to Sam, studying his face now with an intensity that set Sam nearly to blushing.

"I-- It--" Sam stammered.

"Hamson. Are you going to bring your brother into our home or leave him standing in the doorway?"

Abelia had seated herself in the rocker next to the front window and was calmly rocking while Manny nursed greedily. She smiled as Sam looked over at her gratefully.

Hamson gave Sam a familiar look. It was the Gaffer's expression for I'll be gettin to the root of this later. "My apologies. Samwise, Cord, would you come in and make yourself comfortable?"

"Many thanks for yer hospitality, but I'll be gettin on down to the Spindle tonight, I'm thinkin." He waved off Hamson's beginning protest. "I'll pull the waggon up in the rope-walk before I put up the team, if that is fine by you?"

"Wherever you like. Come by tomorrow and we'll see what you brung us," Hamson said. "And thank you kindly for rescuing Samwise here. He would've been days walking if you hadn't picked him up."

"No thanks needed. Samwise and I go a ways back," Cord responded, pulling his cap back on. "You was a good travelling companion, Samwise. Yer welcome to travel with me anytime."

Sam turned and clasped the merchant's hand firmly. "I don't know how to thank you, sir-- Mister Cord."

"No thanks needed. Proud to be of service to your and your family." Cord patted his arm warmly. "And don't you be afeard for them you left. I've a feelin' things will come out right."

Cord touched his cap in the direction of Abelia and the baby. "Miz Abelia."

"You come by while you're in, Cord. I'll make that shepherd's pie you like so much," Abelia said quickly.

"Yes ma'am." Cord's grin was huge as he turned to go. "G'night Hamson. Samwise. I'll see you tomorrow then."

When the door shut behind Cord, Samwise suddenly felt as abandoned and alone as he had on the road before Cord found him. Then he realised what a ninnyhammer he was being. This was Hamson. This was his brother! He looked over to find Hamson studying him solemnly.

"He tossed you out, didn't he?"

Sam felt his face grow suddenly hot under his brother's close scrutiny.

"Hamson! At least let the poor lad drop his pack. He's likely tired to the bone after that journey," Abelia admonished.

"Here." Hamson lifted the pack off Sam's shoulder and carried it over to the hearth.

"There's some soup I can warm up, and some bread, if you're hungry," Abelia offered quickly.

Sam shook his head wordlessly, gazing at his brother's back as Hamson knelt to rebuild the banked fire.

"Something hot to drink then. You're likely chilled and damp."

"I don't want to trouble--"

"You're no trouble, Samwise. Hamson can make you both a toddy while I finish with Manny here and then I'll get you a decent bed to sleep in," she went on. "You two won't sleep until you've talked some, I suspect."

"Not sleepin' much anyways," Hamson muttered.

Sam stiffened warily at his brother's complaint.

But Abelia smiled tiredly. "Fauntlings do that to you."

"That they do." Hamson stood up with a groan and stretched, then walked over to the rocker, leaning in to stroke his son's cheek gently. "Ah, what pains you cause me Manny, my lad."

Abelia made a derisive noise as Hamson motioned to Sam.

"Come see my son -- yer nephew, Samwise."

Sam took a deep breath, the tight feeling in his chest easing as he walked over to them. Abelia Gamgee wasn't overly pretty nor overly plain, but she was truly beautiful as she sat there with her baby at her breast, the brown hair that had escaped her braid frizzing around her face. Sam thought there was likely nothing to compare to the beauty of a new mother. It was like they glowed from inside. The infant's face was rosy and plump, his expression, if you could call it that, was intense as he suckled. It looked like hard work. Sam smiled.

"Holman, this is your Uncle Samwise. Samwise, my son, Holman Gamgee."

"Pleased to meet you, Holman," Sam offered politely, gently taking the tiny fingers flailing in his direction.

Abelia extended her free hand as well. "Just call me Abby, dear Samwise. I have heard much of you from Hamson, and from Uncle Andy and Aunt Cammie as well. I'm so glad you've come."

"Thank you -- Abby."

Hamson gestured towards the kitchen. "I've some good whiskey and the best honey in the four farthings. We'll heat up some water and have a toddy that'll let both of us sleep through Manny's next meal."

"Milksop," Abelia muttered.

Sam's chest eased a bit. He liked Abelia more and more. But Hamson seemed to have a good deal of his da's temperament. Sam could only hope he wasn't turned completely like the Gaffer.

Hamson was lighting a lamp in the spacious kitchen -- spacious by the standards of Bagshot Row. His brother had done well for himself, by the looks of things. It was a fine hole he had here. Not as fine as Bag End by any means, but a fine place to raise a family.

Sam jumped as Hamson set a corked bottle on the table with a loud thunk. "Just sit, Samwise."

Hamson's tone made Sam sit quickly in the nearest chair.

"Afore we drink this fine whiskey of mine," Hamson said, leaning over to place one hand on the back of Sam's chair. "I want you to tell me what it was made the Gaffer toss you out with a storm comin'."

***

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