Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

2903

Hobbits hold a love for peace, quiet, and all things that grow. It’s in their nature, through and through.

How can they not, living in a place as lush as the Shire? They may not have always lived in those rolling hills, but they’ve lived there long enough to become synonymous with it. The hobbits pride themselves on their fields of well-taken-care-of wheat and corn and pipeweed— of their personal gardens full of fat tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots, and no other free people’s flower beds can outclass those of the average hobbit lad or lass (so says any hobbit, anyway). Magic or no, they’re thumbs are so green it's as though they’ve casted a spell on anything that sprouts from the ground. Most hobbits would gleefully whittle away their days enjoying all the natural world could offer them.

In the summer, especially, one should not be surprised to spot any and all kinds of hobbits outside: pruning a garden, nattering with the neighbors, or strolling by oneself on a walking holiday. The summer sun cajoled even the most irascible to enjoy the well-cultivated atmosphere. To delight in the twitter of birds as one curled their toes into clean dirt, inhaling the scent of the flowers growing for the upcoming Lithe celebrations, was one of life’s simplest joys.

Of course, it was difficult to appreciate anything when the peace and quiet were disturbed.

In Tuckborough, there’s always excitement about, no doubt. Peace and quiet holds a different definition in those parts. It’s in the veins of every Took to be prone to an occasional bout of mischief; Even the most respectable Tooks have broken their arm falling from a tree as a tween or have ruined a perfectly fine dress mucking about in the mud after a rainy day. Gerantius Took, the thirty-sixth Thain, patriarch of the Took Clan, and the oldest hobbit to-date (titled “Old Took” lovingly by all) indulged many of his children’s and grandchildren’s tendencies to seek out adventures. However, there are some moments where even a Took would click their tongue and shake their head disapprovingly.

One such moment began with the squabble of faunts. So prone to rascality, it really shouldn’t come to any surprise of a grown hobbit.

However, a wail to rival the cry of a drowning goblin echoed outside The Great Smials— practically impossible to ignore to any with a soft heart for the little ones, as many hobbits tend to be. Rounding into the clearing came all the Tooks and Took cousins to find the squalling, only for it to truly come to no hobbit’s surprise who they found at the center of the dispute:

Bilbo Baggins.

Son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Baggins née Took. A match none saw coming with their personalities so entirely repellant of each other. It was quite the scandal back in the day! Many considered Bungo the epitome of hobbit decorum since entering polite society as a fauntling, while many more regarded Belladonna as the worst of her Tookish siblings. Of the twelve of them, they considered her the most remarkable, indeed. She was a hot topic of town gossip for years during her tween years. They claimed she travelled to Rivendell to drink tea with elves and invited dwarves twice her size to spar in the Blue Mountains, always with a whisper of a wizard by her side. Say what they wanted about her wild ways, Bungo cared not! Of the witnesses who saw the spectacle unfold that fateful day, Rudigar Bolger swore Bungo dropped to his knees as he proposed courtship to Belladonna, begging for the opportunity, all while she was covered head to toe in rain frogs and mud. What she planned to do with those frogs originally, Rudigar couldn’t say, but both Baggins and Took found themselves covered in the squeaky things when she tackled the poor lad right into a puddle. An odd couple, indeed.

So, not one hobbit could hold in their righteous sneers when Bilbo came along as strange as his parents’ union. Half Baggins, Half Took, they said; the queerest thing.

Whatever side compelled him to sock his cousin square in the nose, though… well. Neither family wanted to claim him on that occasion.

Every year, the three Bagginses travelled to stay during the summer months in Tuckborough so Bilbo could spend time with his Took side of the family. Despite Bungo’s protests, Belladonna said it would do their son good to not surround himself with “stuffy Bagginses” all year-round. And, with Belladonna off on a shopping trip with her sisters, that is when the tumult broke out.

Caught in a circle of buzzing ladies and gentlehobbits, Bungo towered over his son with his hands propped on his hips as Bilbo refused to meet his disappointed stare. Just behind the faunt,  the sound of his cousin Sigismond Took snuffling and Sigimond’s mother cooing echoed loudly in the open space. Bilbo felt the glare of a mother scorned burn through his back as everyone waited for what the righteous Mister Baggins would say. Everyone loved a spectacle, and Bungo hated to give them one.

“Bilbo Baggins,” said Bungo, no louder than his usual quiet speaking voice, but Bilbo knew that tone. It was the tone he used when Bilbo needed a scolding, and it meant he better set himself straight before his father decided to do so himself. The little faunt always listened after a good lecture— he knew what it meant to be a Baggins, and he’d always do right by his father! If Bungo told him picking flowers from Mister Greenhand’s garden was bad even though the flowers were a gift for his mother, or that it was very rude and impolite to tell Aunt Camilla her new hat was quite awful even though it was the truth, then he would march over and apologize for his terrible deed!

Just the same, Bilbo would not apologize for this. Sigismond was an absolute ninnyhammer! Belladonna would have rapped his knuckles and pulled his ear if she heard Bilbo say such a thing, but that didn’t change the fact it was true. It was unfair he was the one in trouble while everyone mooned over the actual instigator. His Took cousins always played sneaky pranks, and it remained the reason he hated playing with them more than any Boffin, Proudfoot, or Baggins. Just thinking about it set Bilbo’s anger boiling once more.

Luckily, he stopped himself from stomping his foot like a petulant fauntling, but he knew Bungo recognized the stiffness in his shoulders. He’d dealt with it plenty, raising a child with the pride of a Baggins and the impulsivity of a Took. The middle-aged hobbit stared down his nose at Bilbo, heating up the top of his head— worse than Sigismond’s mother— until his son had no choice but to meet his father’s gaze. What Bilbo found there left him paler than the hogs on Maggot’s farm.

“Da…” whined Bilbo quietly, pleading. It did not sell his case with Bungo, whose face hardened further. Bilbo hated when the lines on his father’s face dug into his genial features; it made him look scary, and Bilbo didn’t like being afraid of his father.

“Apologize.”

That was probably worse than Bungo bending him over his knee and spanking him in front of the whole congregation. Bilbo’s mouth dropped open in appalled betrayal.

“Da, no! He started it, and he’s just a big faker because I didn’t even hit him that hard—”

“You should not have hit him in the first place!” Bungo snapped. Bilbo hiked his shoulders around his ears. They burned, and the faunt knew it wasn’t from the sun.

“But Da…” He tried again, but Bungo passed it without acknowledgement.

“Baggins do not start fights—”

“But Sigimond is the one who started it when—!”

“ Baggins do not start fights, Bilbo Baggins , and you will be apologizing if you possess even a shred of the sense that I’ve tried to teach you!”

Bilbo had shrunk to half his size under the eyes of the audience that watched on, but he especially felt small beneath the raising of his father’s kind voice. It had only happened once before when he’d fallen into The Water after continuous warnings from his mother. That scolding came from a place of fear, and Bilbo realized this may not be so different. If Bungo was afraid, of what Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure, then Bilbo would do his utmost to assuage that concern.

Reluctantly, Bilbo turned on his heels to face the two other hobbits settled in the circle of onlookers. A warm, supporting hand pressed itself to his back, coaxing, as Bilbo approached Sigismond and his mother. Bilbo did his best not to meet Calla Took’s eyes, even if they continued their goal of burning nasty holes through him. He stared at Sigismond, instead. The brat clung to his mother’s skirt like a sopping kit, red in the face and eyes wetter than the Brandywine River. He looked pathetic, though Bilbo supposed that was the goal.

Just looking at his stupid, faker pout made Bilbo want to thump his forehead, so he balled his hands into fists and hid them behind his back. Finally, Bilbo reached a distance Bungo deemed sufficient for his formal apology, and they stopped and stood. When Bilbo didn’t immediately speak, a parental tap to his shoulder reminded him they couldn’t stand there all day.

Grudgingly, Bilbo spoke under his breath, “I am sorry, Sigismond.”

It really wasn’t an apology up-to-snuff with the Baggins name, and he knew that by Bungo’s tired sigh, but his father didn’t push him any further. Perhaps he remembered who, exactly, Bilbo’s mother was and realized it might be the best he could wring out of him.

Sigimond, with the biggest, phoniest sniffle, pulled demurely at his mother’s apron, “I accept your apology, Bilbo.”

Then, Bilbo saw it.

It was barely noticeable, and it was done so purposefully for Bilbo’s viewing pleasure only: Sigismond’s frown turned up into a wicked smile. Hidden behind his sandy fringe of curls and the wrinkle of his mother’s dress, Bilbo’s cousin’s eyes crinkled with glee as his smile formed silent words, words that left Bilbo seeing red. They were the same words that started the whole fiasco in the first place.

He had no idea how it happened, but Bilbo found himself on top of Sigismond. The nasty Took had a reason to cry, now, with Bilbo’s fingers twisted into his hair! There were hands grabbing at him, voices demanding him to stop, but it was hard to tell who was who over the roaring in his ears— honestly, the roaring could have been him screaming; Bilbo wasn’t too certain at that moment.

As the grown hobbits removed Bilbo from his perch on the bawling Sigismond, more frantic calls interrupted the “peace and quiet” of Tuckborough. This time, the calls were not over the frivolous disagreements of children.

Bilbo noticed the shift in the crowd even though temper still pulsed through his ears. A bounder came running to Bungo, eyes wide and hands flying about as he spoke like time itself was on the line. Perhaps it was the way Bungo’s blue eyes flooded with dread. It was a frightening thing to watch, Bilbo thought, wishing he heard what was said. No time was left to reexplain to a faunt, however, as Bungo deposited Bilbo into the care of Calla and took off in the direction the bounder pointed. It was the last place Bilbo wanted to be, but it didn’t seem to matter to any grown-up as everyone dispersed.

Calla’s nails dug into his arm as she yanked him inside the Great Smial alongside Sigismond.

Bilbo was passed about by his family for a good few hours, not one wanting the task of watching the Bilbo Baggins alone for very long. They all claimed they had other things to take care of, but Bilbo knew they weren’t all telling the truth. He knew they didn’t hate him, at least, but it stung when he saw those looks cross their faces— the looks that said,  Oh, please! Anything but him! 

He was not that terrible, he thought. He always tried his best to be mannerly and polite, to say his “pleases” and “thank yous” and “at your services”. Grandma Adamanta happily pinched his cheek each time he was around, telling him how much of a good lad he was. Aunt Mira and Donna loved teaching him how to bake seedcakes and sew up the holes in his trousers, and Old Took was quick to take him on as his dart-throwing protege. Even some of his cousins weren’t the worst! Out of all the Tooks, Adalgrim treated him very kindly when the Bagginses came around during their visits.

Still, it was all very lonely when the few who cared weren’t around.

From the window, Bilbo noted the sun began setting beneath the hills when a ladyhobbit bustled into the common room. Belladonna Baggins looked almost frantic, a near rare look indeed, until her hazel eyes landed on her son. She scooped him into her arms tight and peppered him in kisses. Bilbo immediately melted into her. Somewhere behind them, a harrumph demanded Belladonna’s attention as if her acknowledging her own child first was the improper choice of order. Bilbo heard his mother sigh through her nose where he’d laid his head against her shoulder.

“Aunt Iris, thank you for watching Bilbo,” she said, perhaps a bit too overly put on, “I thought Tilly was supposed to be with him?”

Another harrumph, “well, she was! Then, the duties were passed to me, and that’s all I’d like to say about that! Now, if you’d excuse me, I was in the middle of something when I was unceremoniously tasked with your faunt. Good evening.”

Bilbo certainly wouldn’t miss her, and clearly neither would Belladonna if the sound of her mumbling under her breath was any indication. Quietly, Belladonna carried Bilbo back to their guest room. Bilbo simply clung to his mother, breathing in the calming smell of her clothes and hair. A few fly-away strands of copper and gold tickled his nose, but he ignored it to savor the comfort. He certainly needed it after today. As if sensing his weariness, a cool hand caressed the back of his neck and combed through his curls.

Finally, they reached the room and Belladonna quickly tucked her tired little babe into bed. Bilbo was a very good fauntling, but he always wanted to stay up later. This time, his eyes were quick to droop. His mother smiled at the sight.

“Sleep, darling. You’ve had a busy day,” she whispered, fingers weaving dreams into his scalp that were difficult to fight.

“Dreadful,” Bilbo slurred. It made her laugh, the sound twinkling like stars.

“Absolutely dreadful, indeed.”

Like a cracking-whip, Bilbo’s eyes shot open as he sat up straight. He just about fell from the bed if Belladonna’s hand hadn’t held him in place.

“Mama!”

Belladonna looked at her son wide-eyed, almost anxious, “what? What is it, Bilbo?”

“Where’s Da? I know he had to go take care of some things, but nobody would tell me what it was all about— he looked… well, I didn’t like how he looked, Mama,” Bilbo babbled.

Belladonna smiled, “don’t worry about that, Love. You know your father! He’s quite important, even outside of Hobbiton. He’ll be back soon with a tale or two, I’m certain. Now, it’s late.”

Bilbo settled back into the sheets at the behest of Belladonna. He ignored the way her smile had yet to reach her eyes.

“Go to sleep,” she whispered, resuming her spell of lulling Bilbo to sleep. It always worked, much to Bilbo’s chagrin.

His mind fettered into a fuzzy half sleep despite his heart racing with the anxieties built in his chest. He didn’t dream, but he was fitful in his sleep— fitful enough that the sound of their room’s door opening and closing quietly with a snick woke him fully. The only light left was a sad little candle in the corner, but through the peeking of his eyes, Bilbo saw dark shapes standing close to the door. It was Belladonna, and with enough focus, Bilbo realized it was Bungo, too.

Bilbo almost leapt from the bed to greet his father when the sounds of his mother’s whispers stopped him. Perhaps pretending to still be asleep would be a better plan. He listened in.

“... wake him.”

“I won’t, Bella. I didn’t mean to be loud.”

“You weren’t, Love, you weren’t. I heard from Mother what happened, and once I came to get him, he was out like a light. I think he’d sleep through a stampede of oliphants.”

Bilbo tried not to give himself away with a waggish giggle. When his parents turned their attention towards him, he quickly scrunched his eyes and puckered his lips into the best relaxed sleeping face he could make. It must have worked if they didn’t call his bluff.

Unable to watch anymore, Bilbo relied on his ears. Shuffling moved about the room, and then a great sigh. It was the sound of the whole world pressing the life from his father’s body.

“So… what happened?” Belladonna murmured. Bilbo was certain she reached out to hold Bungo’s hand as she always did when Bungo seemed impossibly tired.

“Bella…” Bungo sighed again.

“All I’ve heard is hear-say, and you know how rumors twist two ways south and three ways east. If what I’ve heard is true, then…”

Bilbo listened hard as his parents' voices dipped in volume. Bungo spoke quieter than leaves in the wind, “Bingo had— Bingo had been collecting mushrooms out in Buckland. He was right on the edge, deep in the woods when an o… when an orc attacked him.”

Belladonna gasped, and none-too-quietly, “An attack ! By an orc, and so close, too? Bungo—!”

There was rustling like Belladonna had jumped to her feet and Bungo followed her.

“Bella,” Bungo hushed, “please, you’ll wake Bilbo.”

The admonishment barely did its job as Belladonna continued, albeit a little softer, “how do they know?”

“A ranger found them. Apparently killed the thing before it killed Bingo, but not before it did substantial damage. The ranger was kind enough to carry Bingo to Newbury, and that’s when bounders were sent to find closest of kin. He’s… he’s too far along to be treated or moved about. They’ve given him 24 hours, if he’s lucky.”

There’s a choking sound like Belladonna swallowed her tears down, “it takes two days on foot alone to get there from Tuckborough! Oh, Bungo…”

Silent crying pressed to a shoulder told Bilbo his parents held each other once more. Belladonna was warbling soft apologies, offering condolences to her husband for his loss, all while Bungo remained silent. Bilbo knew he was grieving heavily. He wished terribly to give up his charade and join his parents, to offer his father the comfort he needed.

Through sniffles, Belladonna made a realization, “Chica just gave birth, too.”

“I know, Darling. I know.”

“How can she care for her fauntling by herself?”

Bilbo did not know when the night ended. He stayed up as late as he could, listening to his parents whisper to each other, and when he awoke in the morning, he was swaddled tightly in the arms of both Bungo and Belladonna.

Like Bungo said, Bingo barely survived past 15 hours. Only once the news of Bingo’s death made the rounds of the Shire did Bungo tell Bilbo, and Bilbo forced himself to pretend like he didn’t already know the truth. Shortly after, the Bagginses left the Great Smials far too early that year. Bilbo remembered the funeral for his Uncle Bingo, barely catching a glimpse of Chica and the bundle in her arms, his little cousin Falco. He also remembered his mother was gone often from Bag End, returning with the smell of powder and something very distinctly of newborn fauntling.

The rest of that year was quite boring for the adventurous Bilbo, too, as his parents banned him from wandering too far from Bag End without an adult chaperone. His curfew shortened, and he was required to return home before the sun touched the top of the horizon until his twentieth birthday.

2911

The soft chatter of the parlor echoed lightly around the halls of Bag End, but the distance and thick walls stopped the noise from reaching the furthest of the bedrooms— Bilbo’s room. Bilbo was glad for it as it meant that if he could not hear them, then they could not hear him. His crying was contained to no one but himself. He understood that a good host should be mingling with their guests, offering refreshments and conversation; it’s the duty of a proper hobbit, especially a Baggins of his stature. Be that as it may, he could not force himself past his bedroom door. To enter the parlor and acknowledge those inside would acknowledge why they were there, why he was forced to host them, and his chest cracked under the force of that simple thought alone. He never planned to host Belladonna’s funeral at the tender age of 21, and each time he realized he’d never see her brilliant smile again hurt like a knife pushed through the heart.

A new wave of sobs wracked through Bilbo.

Tears tracked his face and stained the sleeves he continuously used to wipe them, and a distant thought chastised him for ruining one of his best shirts. Any hobbit worth their salt had at least two handkerchiefs on them at all times, and yet here Bilbo was, wiping away trails of snot and spit as if he didn’t have a drawer of handkerchiefs not even ten steps away. It was funny— funny enough to warp his sobs into a hybrid of weeping and hysteric giggles. By Yavannah, he sounded a mess.

Then, distantly, he heard shuffling outside his door. Maybe he wasn’t as secluded as he thought. Hoping everyone would forget about him was wishful thinking, it seemed. He quickly attempted to right everything wrong about him, for presentability, even though he granted the fact there wasn’t much he could hide so easily. A blotchy face, disheveled clothes, and hiccupping breath would have to do.

Two voices, indistinct in their low volumes, spoke to each other. Like an avalanche, the volumes rose enough Bilbo could pick up words… just barely, as his head throbbed something terrible from his endless lamentation.

“Donna, please, he’s been through…” pleaded a voice similar to Bungo’s. As if caught in the snow outside, it took long minutes for Bilbo to come to the realization the voice was, verily, Bungo himself. It shocked him how different yet familiar it was. Bilbo hadn’t heard it in close to three days now, since Belladonna took her last breath, and hearing it now rendered Bilbo’s heart to stop. It reminded him he still had a father, one parent left, and he scrambled to control his breathing as it steered into quick gasps for air. He missed his mother, and in turn, it made him miss his father.

“… he needs you to…”

Without thinking, Bilbo pulled open his door, one hand gripping the doorknob like a lifeline while the other twisted into his already wrinkled waistcoat. In front of him, the two other hobbits stopped and stared at him like they were caught stealing from the pantry; it was like they thought he wasn’t listening while they were quietly arguing in front of his bedroom. In their defense, Bilbo also thought the walls were more soundproof, too.

Bilbo knew he should acknowledge his aunt Donnamira, who gazed at him with such maternal care, but he couldn’t help searching for his father. The head of the Baggins family had changed in such a short amount of time; Bilbo assumed he wasn’t too different, himself. Purple bags circled his kindly eyes and his skin appeared paper-thin, like it would tear under the gentlest of touches— despondency graced every movement he made like nothing he did ever mattered anymore. He looked like death, but he was still Bungo, Bilbo’s father.

And, maybe Bungo realized that, too, because his fragile expression fell into regret, a father who knew he failed. Before Bilbo could reach for him, Bungo turned around and mumbled something about needing his pipe. He disappeared like a phantom down the hall.

Bilbo watched him go, because how does a grieving husband comfort his grieving son without unloading his own pain? Bilbo understood, but the knife in his chest dug that much deeper.

“Lil’ Bo,” a sweet voice called to him.

Like a rusted wheel, Bilbo turned to regard his aunt.

Her hazel eyes, a Took standard through and through, shone with unshed tears, whether angry at Bungo or upset for Bilbo, he wasn’t certain. Her honey hair was wrapped into a bun, impolite strays flirting with her brow, refusing to be tamed. Growing up, Bilbo always thought she smiled just like his mother, but in this moment he realized she frowned just like her, too. A twist of the knife.

Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, his throat torn from his crying, “thank you for coming, Aunt Donna.”

It was the proper saying for such an occasion. He doesn’t know why he sounded so formal. Maybe it was his way to stop himself from thinking about his mother and aunts giggling amongst themselves, like little tweens that never needed to grow up around each other. He wasn’t sure when his eyes dropped to the floorboards, but two cool hands held his cheeks and guided his face back up towards hers.

“Oh,” she hiccupped, “hush. I need no thanks to be here. There is no other place I think I would want to be. Of course, Mira wanted to be here as well, but…”

Yes, Bilbo knew. Last he saw his aunt Mirabella, she was heavily pregnant. His mother received a letter that the baby was delivered healthily, but with the food shortage and the unavoidable chill, Dodinas came down with something dangerous for one so new. The Brandybuck home was doing everything it could to nurse him back to health. Bilbo couldn’t blame her for not risking the trek to Hobbiton, especially with the rise in disappearances on the road, accompanied by the howl of wolves.

The silence drew around them, and neither thought it necessary to break it again. Instead, like she needed it to confirm he was physically present, Aunt Donna shepherded Bilbo into her arms where she held him with all the fierceness of a loving mother. Bilbo didn’t cry again— he didn’t!— but he returned her intensity like a son who could never hug his mother again. If there was a damp patch on her left shoulder, Donnamira felt no need to call attention to it.

With her arm intertwined with his, Bilbo escorted Donnamira back to the rest of the party. If he was being honest, she led him more than he did her. As they entered, Bilbo took note of all who attended. There weren’t many, but Bilbo knew not many could afford the time and energy during this terrible winter. He appreciated those who attempted.

Of course, there was Aunt Donna’s family: her husband, Hugo Boffin, and their two children, Jago and Jessamine. It seemed Hugo was waiting for Donna to return, and once she had, he immediately moved towards her proximity. He loved her dearly, a very sweet hobbit whose hearty laugh could warm a room. Bilbo obligingly passed his aunt to her husband, extending a pat to her hand as reassurance he will do just fine now. She gazed at him for a long while before she allowed Hugo to move her towards a settee. As strong as she tried to make herself appear, Bilbo saw how drained she truly was.

On the same couch was Jessamine, his cousin, chatting away with Herugar Bolger, his other cousin.

Bilbo blinked. He was somewhat surprised to see some Baggins-side relatives! Well, Aunt Belba was always much softer on his mother, and she was less likely to admonish his more Tookish qualities. Despite being a Baggins, her heart was altruistic to an extent; family, too, was very important to her. It was good his father had support here, he supposed.

He scanned the rest of his guests, gauging who he should attempt to speak with, if any at all. Aunt Donna was one thing, Sigismond and his family was another. Calla stuck by herself and her son, a hand on Sigismond’s shoulder at all times, while Bilbo’s uncle Hildibrand Took stood in the corner. A plum colored handkerchief remained pressed to his mouth the entire time, a controlled cough shaking his shoulder randomly. Bilbo made brief eye contact with his cousin, and where he usually saw snide mockery, he found exhaustion and uncertainty. Bilbo decided to leave them in peace, offering a polite bow of the head in gratitude for being there. They returned his motion minutely.

There were more Tooks about, but Bilbo skipped over them when he watched Old Took hobble into the room from behind him. Despite his advancing age, he moved better than some 40 years his junior. He didn’t look very happy. Of course, he was attending his eldest daughter’s funeral— a funeral that did not live up to what Belladonna deserved, too. Bungo did not want to empty their pantry during their worst harvest and winter since who-knew-when for a party; two more dead Bagginses was not necessary.

Bilbo held the notion that that was not what upset his grandfather, though. Gerontius shuffled to Bilbo as soon as he noticed him, wrinkles folding into the expression of his beloved grandfather. A shaky hand cradled his head as Old Took pressed a fond kiss to Bilbo’s forehead, patting his shoulder before angling to check on his son in the corner. The smell of Old Toby floated around Bilbo as his grandfather left him, smokey and light in his wake. It reminded him of his faunt days when Old Took and Adamanta would blow smoke rings for him, his grandmother’s rings always out-classing Gertonius’s. Like a sting, her presence was sorely missed from the funeral.

Oh.

It was then Bilbo realized that, despite so many faces missing, they were one important Baggins short. His father remained unseen in the parlour. Was he still in the smoking room? Belladonna was the smoker of the family; she loved an extended break simply to chew on her mouthpiece. Bungo loved a good drag of the pipe, but he always had other things to do that did not include wasting away the day to smoke and dream— his father’s words.

With a quick glance behind him to his crowd of visitors, Bilbo figured they could handle themselves without a host for a little while longer as he went to fetch Bungo.

From the hallway, a fog of smoke filtered from the smoke room. A strange mix of flavors swirled around Bilbo as he waded through the haze. Longbottom, his father’s favorite, overpowered the lighter whiffs of Old Toby. Settled by himself, turned away from everything in the world, Bungo appeared incredibly small. His shoulders hunched around him like he was clinging to himself, and his head hung like a doll’s. Bilbo drew closer, incrementally, as if he were afraid to spook a nervous pony.

However quiet he was, Bungo heard him and turned around. A crease between his brows told Bilbo his father was contemplating something heavy, something more than just the sudden loss of his wife. His father aged considerably with such a devastated grimace. The crease carved deeper into his fragile face as Bungo reached out for Bilbo, and Bilbo went willingly. Expecting an embrace, Bilbo was a little taken aback when Bungo’s fingers brushed through his hair.

He combed gently through his curls, softer than the ruffles he’d give him when Bilbo instilled pride in him, and allowed one unruly spiral to wrap around a finger before dragging his thumb across the apple of Bilbo’s cheek. The thumb trekked from his cheek to his nose to his eyebrow and then the edge of his eye.

A wobble threatened Bungo’s lips as he studied his son, taking in all of his features. Bilbo, as he studied his father in turn, recognized the pain of a knife hollowing out a heart in his father’s eyes. His grandma Laura always lamented the lack of Baggins genes in Bilbo, saying the closest thing he had was his blue eyes (although his grandma Adamantha would argue they were more than just blue… certainly the Took refusing to give in with its blend of browns and greens).

Tooks! Laura’d curse under her breath, Always up to something. Don’t worry, Love, your father’s features are in there, somewhere! You’ll come into them as you grow, I can promise you that much.

Bilbo feared he’d failed his poor grandmother as his father admired every piece of Belladonna Took in him. Perhaps it was a bit cathartic. His mother was always with them, in this way. As time stretched, the crease eased away as water turned Bungo’s eyes into glass marbles. Finally, Bilbo and Bungo wrapped themselves in a hug of warmth, understanding, and shared grief.

“I’ve got you, my boy,” Bungo whispered. He sounded strange— grim, almost. The choked sob cracked his voice, so Bilbo chalked it up to emotion.

“I know, Da,” he replied, pacifying.

“I’ll protect you, for the both of us,” Bungo continued, almost inaudibly, like he meant to speak only to himself. Bilbo clung to Bungo for an indefinite time until it was imperative they returned to the others. A Baggins must be an exemplary host, after all, and they both believed they’d let their propriety slip the ice this time; there was much to atone for in the name of their reputation.

That winter was harsh and endless. It came to be known as “The Fell Winter”, where many hobbits fell to illness, the freezing temperatures, or the increased population of wolves. Bilbo and Bungo lost Belladonna, but many more deaths followed her funeral. The reason Adamanta could not mourn her daughter’s passing is because she, herself, was laid up in bed. She passed away a week later. Turned out, Bilbo’s uncle Hilibrand followed his mother soon after as his cough was speckled with blood; it had happened so suddenly, no one could help him before he was gone.

Mirabella’s baby, too, could not handle the severe weather, starvation, and sickness. The loss of a faunt so young was rare, but that winter claimed seven other lives of children younger than 10. The Took clan wasn’t the only affected family; Bilbo’s grandmother Laura Baggins passed away alone in her home, as well as distant relatives, Pansy and Falstoph Bolger, in their own home, and Ponto Baggins disappeared in the snow. Many assumed wolves found him and left nothing behind.

It was a devastation for the whole of the Shire, the likes they hadn’t seen in far too long, not since the times of Bullroarer Took. Unfortunately, the wolves bred well in the abundance the Shire provided, and their population barely dwindled after the winter. They remained a danger that forced hobbits into their homes far earlier in the day than any would care to, all mourning the loss of their natural habitat in the sun, and travelling alone was too risky.

Slowly, changes for the worse left many hobbits wondering what they could do, and all turned to their leaders for guidance.

2915

Over four years passed since Belladonna left her family too early, and Bilbo supposed things had fallen back into place. Bungo did his best as a single parent, as did many hobbits in those trying times, and Bilbo never faulted his father for any mistakes he might have made. Belladonna was Bungo’s equilibrium, and vice versa. Whenever he might have been too cruel in his reprimands, Belladonna was always there to cool off her husband and remind him Bilbo was still young. Without her, there were some moments where the two clashed, and Bungo questioned if he could do it by himself.

Eventually, they fell into their own rhythm. Bungo grew quieter, but no less affectionate. Bilbo fell more into his role as a Baggins, his Tookish inclinations not encouraged around his Bagginses family, and he decided that was fine. Being reminded how much like his mother he was returned that knife, slashing at his chest, and he’d rather keep those feelings at bay. He rarely saw any true Took relatives anymore, anyway.

After Belladonna’s death and her funeral, something must have happened between his father and grandfather Took. They had a working relationship before, but suddenly Bungo wanted nothing to do with the Took Clan. 

Bungo refused to allow Bilbo to travel to Tuckborough without him, and when they did, they rarely stayed longer than a week. Bungo claimed he had many duties to handle in Hobbiton, and Bilbo had no definite reason to think he’d lie. So, his distance with the Tooks grew; the only ones who visited him were his aunts Donna and Mira, along with their non-Took families. Bilbo was more than happy to play with the little fauntling Asphodel and her siblings, and Jago and Jessamine weren’t bad conversationalists— in fact, they shared between them many books they enjoyed. Of course, there was a small altercation between Bungo and Gorbadoc Brandybuck, his uncle by marriage to Mirabella, last year that caused the Master of Buckland to suddenly go missing whenever his family came to visit. Bilbo remembered how Bungo’s eyes scanned the path leading to Bag End, his steely eyes holding a glint of something… protective? It was all speculation.

Bilbo could only guess what caused the disagreement between the two house heads as his father refused to explain himself. He assumed it was some silly dispute of land— that’s the only thing that came to mind. What would a Baggins of Hobbiton and a Brandybuck of Brucklebury have land disputes about? Imaginably, Bilbo shall learn when Bungo prepared him to take over as next head of the Baggins name.

A wheezing cough snapped Bilbo from his thoughts, book limp in his hands as he’d forgotten about it quite a while ago. Jumping to his feet, Bilbo raced to his father’s study where he knew Bungo had been the last nine hours. It was a constant since Belladonna’s passing. Bungo fell into his studies and duties, and Bilbo did his best to keep him from becoming a complete hermit. He’d coax him out with food and threaten Bungo, like his mother had, if he didn’t march right off to sleep in a proper bed instead of against his desk!

Sometimes, though, Bilbo found himself falling into the same habits, and the father-and-son duo would find themselves without dinner and supper because they were too caught up in their research: maps for Bilbo, genealogies for Bungo. While skipping meals wasn’t very hobbitish of two Bagginses, at least Bungo’s studies made up for it; all hobbits love a good family tree, after all. Bilbo’s pastime, however, caught him odd (but indulgent) stares from his father, and sniffs from more uppity Baggins relatives.

Regardless, these coughing fits were not normal to the occasion of Bungo’s late-night excursions. They’d cropped up in the last week, and despite Bilbo’s insistence Bungo rest, the older hobbit persevered. Now, that perseverance found Bungo bent over his desk, back heaving and lungs scrapping for any air as it fought off the coughing. Fear gripped Bilbo’s gut, sinking faster than a hobbit in water.

His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he comforted Bungo as best he could, but he was no physician. All he could hope to do was wait out the ragged gasps, hesitantly rubbing at his father’s back. Through the layers of hobbit attire, Bilbo hated to feel each bump of spine— no healthy hobbit should be small enough for bones to poke through.

How long had he been wasting away? How long had Bilbo allowed this to go on?

When the coughing fit did not abate, like it had before, Bilbo rushed from Bag End to his neighbors with a scream stuck in his throat, choking back the tears.

“Thank you for coming, I appreciate seeing you. Thank you for coming, Aunt Linda. Ah! You made it! I’m sure Father would be pleased. Thank you for coming.”

There were many more visitors for Bungo’s funeral than Belladonna’s, but Bilbo wouldn’t say that made it more authentic. Many who attended were there not for Bungo but for the Baggins namesake only. Of course, there was Aunt Belba and her family; he could rely on them to an extent, but his other aunts and uncles were… well. If the way Longo eyed his grandfather’s chair was anything to go by, he knew this funeral was full of more scavenging vultures than genuine mourners. Bilbo stood fast, though, and greeted everyone with a genial grin and polite wave of the hand.

Even if the returning knife twisted and turned worse than before, Bilbo would represent everything his father believed a Baggins to be.

“Mister Greenhand! Thank you for coming,” Bilbo greeted, honest in his words. A calloused, but thoroughly washed, hand held Bilbo’s in a reassuring grip.

Halfred was the local gardener of Bag Row, him and his son Holman. Bungo had been so pleased with his skills, truly remarkable even for a hobbit, he offered lodging to Halfred’s family alongside a job as Bag End’s personal gardener about two decades back.

Both father and son stood tall before Bilbo, eyes wet, their hands clenched in front of them politely. Their usual working trousers and shirts were traded for less stained trousers and shirts; Bilbo thought they both looked like right, proper hobbits— more than half of the frilly messes trapezing around in his halls currently.

Halfred bowed his head humbly, “Now, Mister Baggins, as I told your father, there’s no need to be calling me ‘Mister’. Halfred is just fine, it is.”

Bilbo smiled, “of course, Halfred. You’ve always been good to us. There’s much to do now with my father… gone. It’ll certainly be a process, but I promise to sustain your pay and renew your lease, if you wish to continue your work at Bag End, that is.”

Immediately, both father and son grew immensely flustered. They somehow flushed the same tomato red as they reassured him they had no plans to leave, and that it has been the Bagginses that have been good to them! Bilbo laughed, told them they were too kind, and waved them further inside. Bilbo kept his eyes downcast as Holman strolled by, trying his best to ignore how nice he’d looked with the blush on his cheeks. It was a similar color to the one he’d sport after a long, hard day in the sun, sweat running down his exposed throat and biceps.

Bilbo quickly shook those thoughts away and scolded himself. Now was the last place to think about other tween lads and how pretty they might be, and perhaps it might be that way for quite a while. There was much to do with little time for fanciful dreams of romance.

Several more Bagginses and Chubs and Proudfeet and Sackvilles piled into his smial before the line dwindled, and Bilbo made his way further in to persist in a proper hosting.

He bounced from hobbit to hobbit, engaging in condolences, idle chatter, barely concealed derision, and so much more it felt like Bilbo was caught in a never-ending loop of exhaustion. Still, he moved onward, like Belladonna would have encouraged and Bungo would have insisted.

Eventually, he allowed himself the respite of spending time with his darling Brandybuck cousins. Asphodel babbled and cooed sweetly, a bubble of spittle popping that strangely endeared Bilbo. Her small fingers, so tiny even for a fauntling, held fast to his own as he babbled nonsense back at her. She found it absolutely delightful.

Once the strength of the babe released him, Bilbo returned to his duties. Then, from the corner of his eyes, two bodies caught his attention. In the blur of all the guests arriving in tandem, Bilbo hadn’t fully realized who he allowed into his home.

Off to the side, not mingling amongst the others to reminisce about Bungo or ogle Bilbo’s belongings, was his grandfather Took and Uncle Gorbadoc. It was almost wrong to see them inside Bag End like that, after Bungo’s years-long insistence. A sinking feeling snagged his guts like a fishing hook, especially when their hushed whispers turned all the more heated.

They were here for Bungo’s funeral, certainly. They must have given Bilbo their condolences as all the guests had upon arriving, but Bilbo can’t remember, and the dullness in their eyes spoke of something worse than attending a funeral of familial relations.

Bilbo wanted to be wrong, but they almost looked wild in desperation, cut with a current of remorse if he looked deeply enough. And, when those stares cut briefly to him and their desperation grew thicker, Bilbo quickly moved to speak to some distant cousin, one whose name he couldn’t even conjure past the voice that sounded suspiciously like his father’s, warning him he’s alone, now, and to be careful.

About a month or two later, all paperwork and contention by family members was settled as Bilbo, aged 24, officially became the Baggins family head.

2917

The summer breeze never failed to lighten Bilbo’s mood, and somehow he’d forgotten how wonderfully sweet it was closer to Tuckborough. Twisting through his hair, it reminded him Lithe was but a few weeks ago; its lingering smells of thousands of flowers floated throughout the Shire like a song crafted by the Valar themselves. Majority of the flowers farmed for the festivities come from the fields around Tookbank, so many walking holidays of the season journeyed through just to peruse the gentle hills of Tookland, drinking in the ambrosial air.

Bilbo missed it, indeed. He hadn’t travelled this far south since Bungo’s passing, and it’s not without trying. His father had not lied about the duties required of the Baggins family head. The hobbitlad had not realized how much land they owned and how many people relied on his help when crops did not grow well or plumbings sprung a leak or two siblings disputed over promised payments— and that was only the icing on the metaphorical cake, it was! He was running about just as much as he scratched pen to paper.

He was lucky to gain even a small chance to relax, the last opportunity being Midyear’s Day; no one truly worked on Midyear’s Day, thank Yavannah.

Oh, and what a celebration it was! Of course, the bonfire was as spectacular as every year previous, even with requirements of putting it out early due to expected curfews. It simply wasn’t safe anymore to be outside doors once the sun set like when he was a fauntling. Bounders did what they could, but they could only do so much when wolves rounded the woods and stray orcs slowly crept westward from the Misties.

Bilbo felt perfectly safe strolling from Hobbiton to Tuckborough, though, but he could not convince a… certain someone he’d be fine on his own. Bilbo smiled to himself, quickly hiding it behind his hand in case another were to happen upon him. He’d hate for rumors to mill about, claiming Bilbo Baggins was skipping around like a loon in love. He wasn’t in love… yet.

Brocard Burrows was certainly a catch, though, and his impeccable manners left Bilbo swooning on the occasion. Insisting he escort Bilbo half the way from Hobbiton to Tuckborough was incredibly charitable, but also positively charming. His ways of leaving Bilbo sheepishly smitten continued to keep the young Master of Bag End on his toes.

Brocard was but a simple farming lad from just outside Hobbiton, one Bilbo probably passed by many times on the road without a second glance. Only in the past year or so did he snagged Bilbo’s interests.

Apparently, Brocard Burrows and Holman Greenhand were quite good friends. Bilbo had felt no infatuation for seeing Holman’s forearms in quite a while, not since the gardener began courting the young Miss Daisy Longhole from over yonder in Frogmorton, which was fine by Bilbo. Holman was a wonderful friend, and Bilbo considered no plans to ruin it because his eyes decided to wander. All the same, when another pair of dexterous hands offered to pluck the weeds from Bilbo’s garden, it was difficult to say no.

At such a thought, Bilbo used both his hands to hide his heated cheeks.

Their acquaintanceship had barely stepped into such amorous relations; he and Brocard hadn’t even attempted a courting walk yet, to be clear! Bilbo did not think they were ready for that step… didn’t think he was ready for that step. Of course, a frolic during Lithe tended to steer towards courting, and goodness did Brocard run Bilbo ragged, but— Bilbo was a Baggins! And a right proper one, at that! He made that promise to his father, and he intended to keep it. Putting the cart before the pony meant compromising his reputation, one many kept a scrutinizing eye on with his status and age.

No, a courtship was not in his near future, even if that caused his young, romantic heart to clench.

Through the woodlands of Tuckland, Bilbo spotted the white fences and cobbled paths inviting him towards the home of the Tooks. Within minutes, many hobbits joined Bilbo on the roads. They carted around baskets or crops or faunts, or a strange mixture of all three. All bustled about, all on their own missions as Bilbo was. Now inside the town’s limits, the sweet breeze no longer distracted him from his true goal there.

He was visiting family, of course, but a stone in his stomach warned him the reason may not truly be familial. Up the winding paths, weaving through strangers and cousins alike, Bilbo’s hand fiddled with a corner of the letter in his pocket. It had been dog-eared many times before and felt fragile under his fingers.

He was in Tuckborough on a summons from Old Took, but the letter was not signed at the bottom by Gerontius Took, Bilbo’s grandfather. It was signed by The Twenty-Sixth Thain of the Shire, Gerontius Took. The words on the paper read with such formality, Bilbo failed to realize it was sent by his grandfather until after his third readthrough. The summons demanded the Master of Bag End travel to Tuckborough on urgent business, and that Bilbo Baggins’s attendance was mandatory and expected within three days of receiving the letter.

Bilbo scrambled out his front door with a hastily crammed pack for his travel nearly the moment the shock subsided.

Now, as he stood before the Great Smial’s large front door, corner of the letter worried off and sitting at the bottom of his pocket, his anxiety spiked once more. The dandelion-colored door stared him down and blinded him, demanding to know why exactly he was there, and Bilbo wanted the same answer. He’d stood before this door so many times he didn’t need to knock; it was once a second home in his younger years. However, the foreignness and detachment of the summons left him feeling like an intruder. Reluctantly, afraid he might chip the paint, Bilbo rapped his knuckles against the wood.

To his surprise, it wasn’t his cousin Aldagrim or Sigismond or Fortinbras who answered the door, nor was it any of his uncles Isengrim, Isumbras, or Isembard— it wasn’t even any of the fine hobbits who married into the family. Instead, it was Mirabella Brandybuck, a Took by birth, certainly, but she hadn’t lived in the Great Smials for decades. The foreboding rock sunk deeper, nestling inside his stomach and leaving him almost sick.

No, no.

Bilbo chided himself. Majority of Took relations spent a considerable amount of time in Tuckborough during the summer. He and his family had done the same for many years, and he knew his aunts still returned to the Great Smials by the many stories his little cousins brought when they visited Bag End.

It meant nothing, and Bilbo thought far too much, even if the swirl of emotions in Mira’s Tookish eyes stirred the ill stone within.

He tried for a smile, “Aunt Mirabella! Good afternoon.”

She tried for a similar smile; neither of them quite hit the mark, “Bilbo! A good afternoon, indeed. Please, come in, Dear.”

With just a few shuffles, the door slipped shut behind Bilbo as Mirabella led him further inside. The Great Smials are named as such for a reason, and yet the walls closed in around Bilbo like a slowly constricting snake, and there was not a soul around beside him and his aunt. It wasn’t natural in the slightest, and that stone jerked to make his stomach churn.

Their soft footfalls echoed in the eerie silence as Mirabella led him directly to The Thain’s office. Bilbo’s heart raced. He never mentioned why he was there, and she never asked. And yet, just outside the dark oak door creating a barrier between them and the ominous office, her eyes allowed sadness to slip through the facade she attempted to wear.

“They’ve been waiting for you, ‘Bo. I’ll… I will be right out here, you hear me?” She asserted, her voice sharp with something. Bilbo knew, somehow, that cutting tone was not aimed at him. Of his mother and her sisters, she refused to use a voice any harsher than the fluff from a cotton tree towards him.

Suddenly, Bilbo’s body locked up.

“They?” He squeaked, but Mirabella was already opening the door, and Bilbo realized who, exactly, was waiting for him.

Sat at a large, dark desk was his grandfather, his youthful disposition gone and his age drawing his face into a scowl. Perhaps he tried to smile when he saw Bilbo, but it hardly lifted a corner of his mouth enough to disguise the gravity of his mood. To his right, his uncle Gorbadoc sat with his usual jovial, easy-going personality on full display, but his stare refused to look past Bilbo. It was like he was afraid of who would be staring back at him behind the young Baggins. Then, the most shocking of it all, to Gerontius’s left was Gillibert Whitfoot: The Mayor of Michel Delving. Bilbo saw him only once before when he was quite little. His shock of white hair didn’t seem to match his apparent age, and yet it aged him almost worse than Old Took. It clashed terribly with the yellow of his waistcoat and made him look far too pale.

Bilbo’s knees shook under his weight as he tried his best to stay up right. What kind of proper hobbit fainted in front of the three most important persons in the entirety of the Shire? One who had every right, if Bilbo was being honest with himself.

He bowed low, like he was taught, “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

It felt wrong to introduce himself to his grandfather and uncle like that.

The three older hobbits rocked to their feet and offered similar greetings. As he reclined himself to sit back down, The Thain motioned for Bilbo to take the seat in front of his desk. Bilbo did so graciously. Only once he was comfortably cradled by the seat’s cushion did the office door seal them inside.

The silence stretched until Gorbadoc cleared his throat, “Did your travels treat you kindly?”

“Oh! Yes,” Bilbo jumped, nodding, “yes, indeed! Quite lovely— the weather was perfect for a walk.”

“Was it? Well, that’s a relief to hear,” Gorbadoc replied absently.

Another stint of silence suffocated the room, and Bilbo should be forgiven if his nerves got the best of him. Just as Gorbadoc looked ready to ask another ridiculously mundane question, Bilbo beat him to the punchline.

“You requested my presence, the Master of Bag End, as stated by the… by the summons?” Bilbo stammered, trying his best to sound assured. At the very least, he prayed he didn’t sound like a bleating lamb.

The Thain grabbed at his words, like it was what he needed to speak, “Yes! Yes, my boy, that is correct. Ahem! This matter is of much importance, and your attendance is greatly appreciated.”

Gorbadoc and Gillibert both nodded, one twiddling his thumbs while the other swiped a handkerchief across his brow.

The Thain continued, eyes glued to the top of his desktop, “as you know, our quaint little patch of Yavannah’s Earth has gone through many hardships in the past few years. It has devastated many, whether through loss of home, work, or lives. I must be plain— there was much trouble settling in our bounds, even before The Fell Winter.”

Bilbo sat and listened attentively as Gerontius and Gorbadoc shared their woes. Gillibert remained silent throughout it all, but the way he never stopped wiping his face told Bilbo he wasn’t completely outside the conversation.

The Master of Buckland began by discussing the terrible dangers lurking far too close to his domain of the Shire; if not for the efforts of the rangers, they would have been infiltrated by orcs long ago. The evil creatures haunt the areas near the mountains, and they look to expand their reign of terror further west. In fact, Gorbadoc said, it was believed they were the ones who led the wolves over the frozen Brandywine during The Fell Winter. Gerontius added on, claiming the threats of the orcs and wolves certainly worried them, but it was hardly as threatening as the residual effects of the short harvest from The Winter. Death by blades and teeth hardly held to the despair of slowly starving to death, or watching the people you are in charge of slowly starve to death. How could they encourage their hobbits to work long hours in their fields, though, when the night was so dangerous? Caught between a rock and a hard place, they were. There were so many innocent lives at risk…

They carried on for a time, back and forth, until there was a lull in their speech where neither plucked up their words. They watched Bilbo, instead, staring him down worse than any rattle-boned wolves. The comparison sent a chill down his spine, but it was like Bilbo had the only thing that could satiate that hunger… whatever that “hunger” was. Bilbo shrunk into his cushion further.

Only once Gerontius casted his eyes back down did his frayed voice speak up once more. In an almost contemplative tone, he expressed the Shire’s shortcomings. Regardless of how many strapping hobbits wanted to help, no amount of shiriffs and bounders could replace the skills of the rangers, who could not remain in the area forever. Once they moved on, The Shire would well and truly be defenseless. They were running on borrowed time. Solutions were considered, heavy deliberations where disagreements warred far too often.

“... it is a heavy weight that we hold on our shoulders, Bil— Mister Baggins, to make these decisions,” Gorbadoc finished. There was a secret somewhere in his words, but Bilbo could not discern what it could be.

Instead, he noticed something else that felt far more queer to him. The longer they talked, the more Bilbo’s brow furrowed. It was a terrible habit, a nervous tick somewhat, that his emotions were quick to twist his face and betray his true feelings. He hated how easily it slipped out.

Bilbo heard them, and he understood that what his grandfather and uncle disclosed was very important— but Bilbo did not understand why they were telling him all of this. He was horribly confused, amongst other things. Quickly swallowing, Bilbo tried to speak around his dry tongue.

“I am afraid I do not fully understand,” he articulated, slow and deliberate as he collected his thoughts, “I-I mean, I understand the predicament you all are in. I do not envy any of you and the responsibilities you have… what I mean is, I do not fully understand why you are sharing this with me.”

As if his words struck them across the face, all three of the leaders dropped their heads. It made Bilbo’s heart rattle in his chest. The young hobbit attempted to back-pedal as Gillibert wiped at his neck rolls almost furiously. 

“I-If it is payments you are looking for, I am more than willing to offer some of my fortune to hopefully employ the rangers within our bounds, or I can offer some money so our shiriffs and bounders may have better equipment. I have more than enough than one hobbit can do by himself, after all. It is not much, but if it is what is needed, I’d be happy to part with—”

Old Took shook his head and interrupted, “No, my lad. It is appreciated, but we already have our solution. One we have debilitated for a very long time.”

Bilbo deflated, air whooshing out of his lungs as he waited for them to once again cryptically explain themselves. This one meeting was more suspenseful than those terrible romances Jessamine preferred.

Again, they dove into their tales. 

Gorbadoc told of how, a few years ago, a curious thing was discovered in Brandy Hall. Buried amongst mountains of “useless” paperwork, as per Gorbadoc’s words, was a piece of parchment older than dust. It’s writing was practically foreign. If not for the keen eyes of a cousin, who had an interest in hobbitish history, they would have added it to the burn pile— for that language was not foreign, but, in fact, older Westeron. The words read, more-or-less, of an incomplete pact between Wandering hobbits and an ancient kingdom called “Kazedoom” (Bilbo suspected that was not the correct pronunciation, but he would not be rude and attempt corrections). Between Gorbadoc’s sudden bursts of laughter and off-topic tangents, Bilbo eventually understood an old acquaintance of Gerontius was contacted to assist in transcribing and deciphering the documentation.

Bilbo had a sneaking suspicion he knew who that “old acquaintance” was, but every time he tried to conjure a face or name, he came up empty-handed. The images blurred and bled like washed away ink. He let the thought go as Gorbadoc moved on.

Kazedoom, it would seem, was an abandoned kingdom of dwarves, and while they feared they led themselves into a dead end, Gerontius’ acquaintance happily relayed to them the descendants of those dwarves were still very much alive— far to the east, in a new kingdom called—

“— The Kingdom Under The Lonely Mountain, Erebor! Those dwarves and their propensities for dramatics, eh, lad?”

Yes, certainly, Bilbo nodded in hopes to appease his uncle and urge him to carry on. It worked well enough as The Thain took over, cutting in to hopefully move the story along. Through general deductions and assurance from Gerontius’ acquaintance, it was assumed the pact, while incomplete, still stood. All knew how dwarves never forget their promises, and it was for the good of The Shire to at least attempt contact.

The longer the conversation slogged on, the wearier the older hobbits of the room grew. Every second zapped away their energy, and Bilbo felt it pulling on him, too. He hoped this wrapped up soon. His anxious feelings settled themselves at the back of his skull, warning him of danger. It picked at him and begged to be listened to, and it made Bilbo want to run home and bury himself in his quilts. Whatever these leaders were trying to riddle to him, he prayed it would end soon.

“We sent several letters with no luck of a response— but then, a raven arrived,” explained Gerontius, “the messenger of Erebor, it was, and it brought a response from the Dwarf King. To be in correspondence with a king, goodness, never did I think a hobbit would need such a thing. His words were less than polite, I’ll tell you that much, but what can one expect of royalty? Be that as it may, he claimed he would meet our demands, so long as we met his. It was a gift from Yavannah herself once the final revision was set in ink. We struck an agreement that would, in the end, save our home and our people, regardless of any stipulation set in place.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile, relieved. What wonderful news! A strange and roundabout way to inform him, but at least it did, finally, come to a conclusion. Bilbo worried they’d talk themselves into melting the midnight candle away.

He clapped his hands down on his knees, feeling more like himself than he had in the past several hours, “that’s fantastic to hear, Grandfather! I dare say it’s what we’ve all been praying for.”

No one reveled in his excitement with him.

Suddenly, Bilbo felt foolish. Sat there with a grin on his face while the others appeared reluctant to share in his joys— no, to them, no joys were to be had. Their faces were more grim than when he first walked through the threshold. Bilbo missed something, and he missed something terribly important.

“So, the— the pact. When will it be, uh, enacted? I’d be more than willing to help pen a public announcement. That is… is that why you… um, called me here?”

Again, none answered him. Bilbo’s gaze darted between each face hidden from him, and they all refused to meet his imploring eyes. Unconsciously, Bilbo’s hands fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat to keep his jitters to himself. Inside him, those anxious feelings struck a match. His nerves sparked with the fire like tinder, and Bilbo forced himself to calm down by breathing shakily through his nose. Alarms rang loud in his thoughts.

“Grandfather?” Bilbo called out, and he commended himself for keeping a calm tone, for he certainly didn’t feel calm, “this pact…”

Then, a niggling thought made him shudder.

“You mentioned a— a stipulation? A stipulation. Yes. You didn’t mention what… exactly that stipulation was. Grandfather? What was that stipulation?” Bilbo would have been embarrassed with the way his voice rose, high-pitched and certainly not calm.

To his surprise, and also the other two in the room, Gillibert stood abruptly to his feet and dared to stare down Bilbo. He was the first to do so in a long time, and it was frightening the way he looked at him.

It was like he had been battling his own blaze inside him, just like Bilbo— the difference is Gillibert could not keep it under wraps, and it left his body alight. The heat leapt about him, commanding him to say what the others refused to. Bilbo saw it in the gentlehobbit’s fierce eyes, and it was then Bilbo wished he allowed his own flames to burn him alive.

“You!” Gillibert Whitefoot declared, almost possessed by his panic. Bilbo flinched in his seat like flames spit at his face, burning him, “You, Bilbo Baggins, are the stipulation! Confusticate all this, this, beating about the bush! The pact was a pact of marriage! A pact of marriage between a hobbit and dwarf, no less, and for the good of everyone, a hobbit must be chosen to enter that marriage, and we have chosen the only feasible candidate— and by the good graces of Yavannah, w-we— have chosen— you! ”

Bilbo barely remembered watching Gillibert collapse back into his chair, out of breath despite his short outburst, before Bilbo’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and his vision turned black.

Bilbo struggled to return to the waking world, head throbbing to Mordor and back as his brain refused to wade through the fog of his thoughts. Luckily, a bell coaxed him through the fuzz. The bell was familiar, and the more he fixated on it, the less of a bell it sounded like. Instead, it sounded like it twinkled through gritted teeth, and the words it spoke were less than sweet for whoever it rang at.

No, the bell sounded down right furious. Luckily for Bilbo, the ire was not aimed at him. Slowly, as he groggily woke up, Bilbo came to realize the bell was Mirabella. Her usual dulcet voice turned sharp and dangerous. The words she hissed took form as he concentrated on the cool fingers pressed to his temple.

“... force him. You told me it was his choice to make, but that was only a lie, too, wasn’t it? He’s only still a tween, and you promised him off to some… some…!”

There was a soft, muted thump of frustration.

“Mira, please understand—”

“Bella’s boy, Papa! How dare you! Her only faunt,” she hiccuped angrily. It broke Bilbo’s heart. His Aunt Mira never cried, and it summoned a memory of his mother. Of the three sisters, Belladonna told him, she was the storm, Donnamira was the earth, and Mirabella was the sunshine. If anyone caused the sun to cry and burn out, hell was to be paid by those who wrought the tears. He understood, now.

With aching limbs, Bilbo shifted to sit up. Instantly, those cool hands tended to his face, pressing tenderly into his cheeks. Bilbo hated opening his eyes and witnessing the splotchy, tear-stained face of his aunt. Of course, the scorching fury in her eyes made him feel pity for any who were caught in their glare, and Bilbo could see how much damage it had caused upon his uncle and grandfather. Gillibert, perhaps thanks to his self-preservation, was nowhere in sight.

Someone had moved Bilbo while he was unconscious to the chaise settled in the corner of the room. Everyone still in the room surrounded him, but Mirabella dared to be the only one close enough to touch. The Thain and The Master of Buckland stood several steps away.

The two hobbits avoided Bilbo’s gaze as he dared them to confront him with his eyes. He was the son of Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins, and there was something to be wary of when caught in those fiery, calculating eyes. Child or no, he was his own force to be reckoned with, and Bilbo knew it.

As did the adults.

However, whatever eruption they expected, Bilbo did not give it to them. Maybe that was the more merciless option. Instead, with an almost sick satisfaction, he let the chill run down their spines. He believed he had the right after the news they smacked him over the head with.

Finally, when he found the words, he croaked, “do I actually get the choice?”

There was a beat, and Bilbo must still be too young, because hope almost took root in his heart before it was ripped out by Old Took’s one word:

“No.”

Bilbo let his head hang, lip bitten harshly between his teeth. That fire roared back to life with a vengeance.

“But… but why me?”

“It is necessary,” mumbled Gerontius, defeated, “for the whole of The Shire. Dwarven warriors are known for their strength. Their protection would—”

“But why me?”

“You are my grandson, Bilbo, and Gorbadoc’s nephew-in-law, and not to mention you are a Baggins—”

Bilbo interrupted with his voice raised now, “Then, what of Adalgrim? He’s all of those things, and he celebrated his coming of age last year, wasn’t it? Certainly there are better choices—”

“— and you are the Head of the Baggins family, Bilbo! Do you think we have not thought this through? We’ve considered every possible option, and you are our only choice!”

The Thain raised his voice for cheer and merriment, but never to castigate his children or grandchild. It shocked Bilbo back into silence. He immediately drew his shoulders up and dropped his head down. A protective arm shielded him as his aunt hissed something at her father. Realizing his mistake, but far too late for any apology, Gerontius exhaled heavily and rubbed at his face. The old hobbit tried again with his softer, tired tone:

“If… if it is your age you worry about,” there was a darting glance to Mirabella, “then, please do not fret.”

Bilbo wanted to bite back, snap and tell him how can he not? His life was completely being uprooted, and he wasn’t even 33 yet— nowhere near, even. However, he did not snap. A proper hobbit, whether they seeth with hopeless despair or not, should never regard their elders in such a manner. Well, not until they’re pushed too far.

It was then Gorbadoc returned. During the brief row, while distracted, Bilbo hadn’t realized the large hobbit disappeared from the room to then return. In his hand, a letter waited to be read. His uncle passed it to Gerontius, who in turn passed it to Bilbo. His hands shook lightly as he took the parchment in hand, and he honestly couldn’t tell if it was from fear or anger. He decidedly settled on enervated.

“The pact allows for time before courting may begin. The dwarves were wary of your age, and while we hobbits are much more short-lived than an average dwarf and mature far quicker, even our 33 years did not sit well with them. We settled on your 50th year— the dwarves insisted— before they send your betrothed to begin courting,” Gerontius stated.

Another emotional blow, this time to Bilbo’s chest, “I thought the pact was necessary to protect us! Why are we waiting?”

Gorbadoc approached, hands raised like Bilbo was a startled calf, “be still, lad. The pact is in place, and while the marriage is unavoidable, that does not mean we will be left to fend for ourselves until it happens!”

Just as quickly as he moved forward, Bilbo’s uncle jumped back as Mirabella placed herself between him and her husband. Bilbo knew her eyes still blazed a deadly heat.

“So, they’ll send warriors?” Bilbo asked.

“Aye. And we farmers,” Gerontius replied. Bilbo furrowed his brows.

“Farmers?”

“Yes,” his grandfather nodded, “an exchange. Dwarves for hobbits; hobbits for dwarves.”

Finally, there was a lull as Bilbo took everything in. It weighed heavy on his mind. It was like he sat at the bottom of a lake, surrounded by the pressure of water as it slowly suffocated him. His ears roared with the waves when, amongst the endless questions swimming about him, a thought caught his attention.

“Who will it be?” He rasped. It was vague, but Bilbo felt just as washed-up.

“Who will it…?” Gerontius coaxed.

“Who am I to marry?” Against my will , Bilbo almost added.

Once more, shadowy secrets dared to gag his grandfather, but what point was there to keep secrets from him anymore? It couldn’t save him from any more pain. Still, a grandfather would not wish any ill-will on their offspring; unfortunately, Gerontius could not play the grandfather role in that room. The Thain must tell the truth.

“It…” Old Took swallowed, “it is the eldest son of the King Under the Mountain.”

Mirabella clapped an aghast hand over her hand, and Bilbo had to agree, but his hands refused to move. They were numb where they laid uselessly in his lap.

“Son of the K-King…” Bilbo tried, and Gerontius nodded solemnly.

“Thorin II, Son of Thráin, Son of Thrór, Crown Prince Under the Mountain.”

By some will of Yavannah, Bilbo remained upright, although just barely. His shellshock held him conscious, unable to do anything but repeat the same things over and over in his head.

A prince. A dwarven prince. A dwarven prince next in line to the throne of a venerable kingdom. A dwarven prince named Thorin.

While in his state, Mirabella was escorted out of the room. Bilbo was certain she put up a fight, if the resounding SLAP! that echoed through the room from the hall was any indicator. Bilbo didn’t move a muscle even as his grandfather reached over him.

An aged, gentle hand gripped his shoulder in a sort of reassuring squeeze, but it did not resonate with Bilbo. Just as quickly as it came, the hand upon his shoulder let go, and Old Took left him to be alone.

Bilbo hadn’t registered his solitude. Instead, the gentle shake of his shoulder jostled the forgotten letter in his hand, and Bilbo’s mind honed in on it. Strangely, it became an anchor. 

Feeling returned to Bilbo as his fingers fumbled to grip the parchment. It was folded, so, with a one-track-mind, Bilbo found himself opening it. In the silence, Bilbo found himself meeting the eyes of another.

They were colorless, as most sketches tended to be on paper, and yet they held a weight heavier than any mountain Bilbo could imagine. They sat under thick brows and around a straight, sharp nose. Under the nose was thick hair shorn short, mustache and beard, and yet it hid away a mouth pressed thin with unknown emotions. Surrounding everything, though, were beautiful rivulets of black charcoal, woven with braids and a circlet laced above the brow.

Objectively beautiful, this drawing. It stole Bilbo’s breath, but for more than one reason. He’d seen dwarves before, his mother invited some as guests, but none before had been this one. None before had been Thorin II, Son of Thráin, Son of Thrór, Crown Prince Under the Mountain…

… Bilbo’s future husband.