Elf-Root

by Soledad

Title: Elf-Root

Author: Soledad

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: General, suitable for all.

Summary: Silver and gold were not the only things Bilbo Baggins brought back from his adventure with the Dwarves.

Note: Lobelia is said to be "well over a hundred years old" when she died after the Scouring of the Shire. I took some poetic licence there and decided that it meant over a hundred and ten, which would make her five years older than Otho and about thirty-seven at Bilbo's return. The Appendices don't gave a birth date for her, so I allowed myself so much creative freedom.

The story has been beta read by the most generous Larner, whom I owe my never-ending gratitude, above all else for her help with Hobbitspeak. This is the very first time that I'm writing about Hobbits, so be merciful with me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part One – Tea Party

To say that the tea parties of Missus Rubinium Baggins were famed well beyond the boundaries of Hobbiton, or even those of the Westfarthing, would have been an understatement. They were talked about from Greenholm in the Fox Downs to Bucklebury, and from Greenfields in the North to Hardbottle and Longbottom in the South for weeks afterward. To be invited to such a party was considered a privilege, even among the ladies and lasses of the gentry, and more than one of them would give almost anything for an invitation.

But being simply of good breeding would not earn one the privilege, as the example of Lobelia Bracegirdle showed, who was never ever invited, not even after her betrothal to Otho Sackville-Baggins had been announced before the gathering of the family heads. She might one day become kin by marriage, but that did not open the doors of Missus Rubinium for her.

“I have a certain expectation of the folks who would be allowed into my smial,” she often stated, not quite saying but clearly indicating that the Bracegirdle lass did not meet those expectations.

Not that anyone would blame her. Bracegirdles in general were not very pleasant company, and Lobelia, despite her fairly young age of thirty-seven – she was a few years older than her betrothed – had raised the typical Bracegirdle unpleasantness to new heights. One shivered to think of what she might become as an old hag one day.

But why in Middle-earth, would an ignorant outsider wonder, were Missus Rubinium’s tea parties so much sought after? Well, such things had always been based upon good reasons within the Shire, and especially in Hobbiton, where some of the most tradition-bound Hobbits dwelt.

Firstly, Missus Rubinium was born a Bolger, and thus she came from one of the oldest families of the gentry, and she had married a Baggins. Granted, Fosco, now a well-situated Hobbit in his late seventies and a much respected landholder in his own right, was not the Baggins. After all, he was the son of Largo, the third son of the late Balbo Baggins, and the responsibility of the family head had gone through Balbo’s firstborn, Mungo, to his son Bungo, and finally to Bilbo – who had been missing for a year by now. Still, the next in the line to become the Baggins was Longo, and Fosco himself would only come as the fifth possible choice… not that it bothered him much. He was happy enough with his wealth and position and did not want that kind of responsibility at all.

Unlike Longo, who had begun to behave as if he had already been named family head and begun living in Bag End with his family. But again, Longo had always been a particularly greedy Hobbit – and being married to a Sackville did not help to dampen his greed at all, the people of Hobbiton agreed. Why else would he have arranged a marriage between his only son and Lobelia Bracegirdle, of all lasses?

In any case, Fosco and his family were well-respected in Hobbiton, and marrying Rubinium Bolger – or Missus Ruby, as she was generally called, although she hated the shortening of her name very much – only increased that respect in his neighbours’ eyes. Rubinium came of a wealthy family, was an awesome cook and had a very strong sense of decorum – which explained why she was so choosy when picking her party guests. Being invited by her meant a certain… rank among well-to-do Hobbitesses, and it was generally agreed that her daughter, Dora, just turned forty a moon and a half ago, would follow in her path one day.

The tea party held in the comfortable smial of Fosco Baggins on the twelfth of Thrimidge in the year 1342 was a rather modest one as Rubinium’s parties went. Although held on a Sterday, as always – Rubinium was a steadfast defender of time-honoured customs, after all – the number of the invited guests was unusually low. Only five ladies had been invited and were now having tea (and cakes and tarts and custards and sandwiches and an amazing variety of other food items) in the parlour, while the gentlehobbits who had come with them from the various other settlements of the Sire had accompanied Fosco and his sons, Drogo and Dudo, to the Green Dragon for a mug of beer or two.

Admittedly, Fosco’s smial could not be compared with Bag End. After all, Rubinium had not brought half the wealth into her marriage as had the late Belladonna Took, so they could not allow for the same level of luxury as Bungo when having their home built. Nonetheless, it was a very comfortable hobbit-hole. Its entrance tunnel had panelled walls, and the floors were tiled and covered with thick, home-made rag rugs, and it had an acceptable number of bedrooms, a large bathing room, a deep cellar, several pantries, a huge kitchen with adjoining dining room, two parlours and several guest rooms. It was enough for a family of five, and visiting relatives to be properly cared for.

The smial also had a garden, not as beautiful as the one of Bag End, but pretty enough, where Rubinium and her daughter liked to work in their spare time. They did have a gardener, of course, for the heavy and dirty work, but they liked to take care of their flower beds and herb gardens with their own hands, and the result would make any gardener proud. Rubinium also kept household issues in a tight hand. She did have a maid, true, that was expected in her position, but most of the work was done by her and Dora, with the lads also having their chores in garden or stable, helping out on a regular basis.

On this particular Sterday afternoon, however, Rubinium’s maid had naught else to do but serve tea and other foodstuff and then was sent back to the kitchen ’til further notice. For the tea party of the day was about family business – well, more or less. It served to celebrate the upcoming betrothal of Asphodel Brandybuck, Fosco’s young cousin, to Rufus Burrows.

Rufus Burrows, an equally young lawyer from Bywater, was a friend of the Bagginses. As a junior partner in the law firm Grubb, Grubb and Burrowes, he was the personal lawyer for Fosco, just as his father had been before him, and Fosco and Rubinium had actually helped to negotiate the marriage between Asphodel and Rufus.

Grubb, Grubb and Burrowes was perchance the oldest and most respectable law firm in the entire Shire. While the Tooks and the Brandybucks had their own well-trained lawyers, many of the gentry – particularly those in the Westfarthing – preferred to use the services of Grubb, Grubb and Burrowes… if they could afford them, that is, for these lawyers were traditionally very expensive. They all came from very old and respectable families, after all, and a gentlehobbit had to keep up a certain quality of life.

Consequently, to marry one of the Burrowses was considered a very good match, even for a lass coming from the ruling family of Buckland. Thus Asphodel Brandybuck, a sweet-faced lass of a mere twenty-nine, with thick chestnut hair and very bright hazel eyes, was properly excited about the prospect. She tried to hide her excitement, though, knowing that Missus Rubinium would not appreciate such frivolous behaviour. She had come from Brandy Hall with her older sister, Amaranth, and the younger one, Primula, who was still but a tween. Amaranth had been a very good friend of Dora Baggins for a long time and looked up to Missus Rubinium in awe, trying to follow Dora’s example in dignified manners to the smallest detail.

The older ladies were future kin, too. Rubia Grubb, a kind but no-nonsense Hobbitess in her early fifties, was born a Burrows and was, in fact, Rufus’ older sister. She had a great sheaf of very fine, very straight brown hair – an unusual trait for Hobbits – which she plaited with ribbons and coiled on both sides of her face. Her gold-flecked, greyish-blue eyes mirrored intelligence and mild curiosity most of the time. She was a skilled copyist with a clear, steady hand, who often helped her husband, Timmo Grubb, in the copying of documents, and was also an excellent cook. They had no children of their own but raised an orphaned girl named Ivy.

Her sister-in-love, Cherryblossom, was born an Appledore, and was a few years older. She had three bairns, two lads and a lass, with Godilo Grubb, who simply called her Blossom. Which was, perhaps, not the most fortunate choice of a pet name, as Cherryblossom, while surprisingly narrow in the waist, had an enormous bosom and very wide hips and was often called ‘the Bosom’ behind her back due to the aforementioned part of her anatomy. She had straw-blonde hair and blue eyes – a definite hint of Fallohide origins – liked pretty clothes and good food, but was a poor cook herself. So much so that after the birth of their first bairn Godilo had hired Sunflower Crabtree to help out in their smial as a nurse and a maid, or else the household would have fallen into chaos.

At the moment, Cherryblossom enjoyed Missus Rubinium’s excellent tea and cakes, relieved to be free of her bairns for a while. They were nine, seven and two, respectively, and while she loved them very much, a break from maternal duties was mightily welcome… as was the newest gossip from Buckland.

“Menegilda had just given birth a week before we left Brandy Hall,” Asphodel told them over her second helping of excellent apple crumble with cinnamon and whipped cream. “They have a little lad again. Rory was so pleased.”

“They are certainly eager to breed,” commented Missus Rubinium with a slight misgiving in her voice. “Little Saradoc had barely turned two; they could have waited a little longer between two bairns.”

Amaranth shrugged… then cast her eyes down shame-facedly, knowing that a daughter of a good family was not supposed to do that. It was… well, vulgar. “Bairns come at a time of their own choosing,” she said; being somewhat trained in herb lore and the art of healing, she knew a great deal about such things. “We cannot tell them when to come.”

“Sadly, that is so,” murmured Rubia Grubb, and the others changed the topic discretely. ’Twas sad enough for poor Rubia that she could not have children of her own. She was a good mother to little Ivy, but that was not quite the same, and all knew that.

“Still no word from Cousin Bilbo then?” asked young Primula Brandybuck. “’Tis more than a year that he has been gone away with those Dwarves…”

“… And that old wandering conjuror, Gandalf,” added Missus Rubinium in dismay. “He is not the right company for any self-respecting Hobbit, Gandalf isn’t. Small wonder that Bilbo was overcome by a sudden fit of Tookishness, right after his visit, and ran away, without taking as much as a kerchief with him, leaving his hole behind in a disarray and not even speaking proper good-byes.”

“Oh, I beg you, Missus Rubinium!” said Cherryblossom. “You know as well as I do that not all Tooks have much of that wayward quality. After all, their mothers are Chubbses, Hornblowers, Bolgers, Grubbs and whatnot.”

“Or even Bagginses,” added Rubia with a grin.

“That might be so,” said Rubinium. “But Tooks are, on the whole, the most jocular and unpredictable of all Hobbits.”

“I’d like to remind you, Missus Ruby, that our mother is a Took, too,” said Asphodel primly, being a great deal less intimidated by their hostess than her older sister. “And I rather like my Tookish cousins, myself. Whatever they might be, at the very least they are not stuffy and boring.”

“Asphodel!” hissed Amaranth in mortification, while Primula was smiling to herself, for deep in her heart she did find their Baggins kin a wee bit stuffy and boring indeed.

“What?” replied Asphodel defensively. “It’s true; and if Cousin Bilbo found it necessary to run away with the Dwarves the way he did, he must have had a sound reason to do so. After all, he has always been a most reliable and respectable hobbit who valued his comfort above all else.”

“If he tarries much longer abroad, he will have to forget his comfort, though,” said Rubia Grubb, helping herself to another slice of the delicious cheese tart. “Once he has been missing for a year and a day, without any word of him and his whereabouts, his heir can request that he be declared dead and take over all his belongings.”

“And considering that his heir is Longo, you can be sure that he won’t hesitate to take the necessary steps the moment the law allows,” commented Missus Rubinium darkly. “He has had his eyes on Bag End for years upon years, and now that Otho is to marry Lobelia Bracegirdle, they would need a nice and comfortable smial in which to start their lives together. For I don’t think that even Carmella would wish to live with Lobelia under the same roof.”

“Actually,” said Rubia, “he has already handed in the request.”

“When?” Dora and her mother asked as one.

“More than two weeks ago,” answered Rubia with a shrug.

“But Cousin Bilbo hasn’t been gone a year and a day yet… or has he?” said Asphodel uncertainly.

“Nay; but it will be that in a few days’ time,” said Rubia, and seeing their stunned visages, she shrugged again. “I have copied the official request for Timmo.”

“Are you allowed to speak about it at all?” inquired Missus Rubinium, concerned that she might be involved in Things That Are Not Done among respectable Hobbits.

Rubia shrugged again. “Neither of our husbands was sworn to secrecy,” she said, “and you’re close kin to Bilbo Baggins. You have a right to know.”

“More so if you want to purchase some of his personal belongings during the sale the day after tomorrow,” added Cherryblossom, putting down her teacup and reaching out for another seed cake.

“A… sale?” repeated Rubinium in total shock. The thought that the old china and silver eating utensils and finest linens and furniture and everything else Bilbo and his parents had stored in that beautiful smial of theirs would be offered to any grubby hand with a few coins in it upset her greatly.

Cherryblossom nodded. “Apparently, the Sackville-Bagginses don’t want any of his things, preferring to furnish Bag End with their own. For that, Bilbo’s belongings need to be gone for Otho and Lobelia, so that they can move in right after the wedding.”

“That is…”  Rubinium sought for proper words to express her outrage fully; it took her some moments to find the right ones. “That’s outrageous! How could Godilo and Timmo have agreed to that?”

Rubia Grubb rolled her eyes. “They have no choice, Missus Ruby. The day after tomorrow, Bilbo will be presumably dead, according to the law, and Longo is his closest heir. He is well within his right to do with Bag End as he pleases.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“How could you have agreed to that?” Fosco Baggins repeated his wife’s question, with less shock and considerably more outrage. “You are the lawyers of the entire family, not just Longo’s!”

Godilo Grubb, whose ancestors had been lawyers for at least eight generations – and served the Bagginses with legal aid for at least that long – spread his hands apologetically.

“We’re bound by the law, Fosco,” he answered. “I don’t like the thought any more than you do, but Longo is the closest heir, and Bilbo will be gone a year and a day in the next moon. It’s well within Longo’s right to seize Bag End and sell everything he doesn’t want to keep.”

“It might be legal,” said Fosco slowly, “but that doesn’t make it right.”

“It’s… unpleasant,” admitted Timmo Grubb with a sigh. “I wish we could find a loophole, but I fear there aren’t any.”

“There will be a sale, then?” asked Dorilac Brandybuck, who had accompanied his young cousins on their visit to Hobbiton in Rorimac’s stead, as the Master’s heir did not want to leave Brandy Hall so soon after the birth of his second son.

Godilo nodded. “I’ve hired Holman Greenhand to keep an eye on the customers.”

“The gardener for Bag End?”

“The very same. He’s a solid, reliable Hobbit; husband to our maid, Sunflower. We know him well enough to trust him. And Sunflower’s mother, old Missus Crabtree, has taken care of the Bag End linens for years upon years, so she will know better than anyone else if something has been lifted without payment.”

“Does not Holman have that young cousin of him to help him in the garden?’ asked Timmo. “What’s his name again?”

“Gamgee,” replied Godilo. “Hamfast Gamgeee. He’s a tad stiff for such a young one, but a good sort. The two of them will have everything well in hand.”

“Can we go to the sale, Da?” asked young Drogo from his father. “I’d dearly love to have some reminder of Cousin Bilbo. We’ve always gotten along just splendidly.”

“I don’t think that putting even more coin into the Sackville-Bagginses’ purse would be the right way to honour his memory, son,” replied Fosco darkly.

“Maybe not,” allowed young Drogo, “but I loved him and miss him something fierce. I’d like to save at least some of his books. And Mum will be dying to have his tea service, I’m sure of it.”

“I can separate a few items for you to buy, if you really want them,” offered Godilo. “Longo declared that he wants nothing from Bilbo’s things; you as close kin do have the right to purchase before the sale.”

“I don’t know,” said Fosco slowly. “Seems a bit like grave robbery to me, it does, should Cousin Bilbo truly be dead.”

“Better you than some outsider,” replied Godilo practically. “At least you will value his things properly for the fine quality they have.”

“It’s still not right,” repeated Fosco stubbornly.

“No,” the lawyer agreed. “Unfortunately, there’s not a thing we could do to prevent it. I hate the thought of the Sackville-Bagginses dwelling in Bag End every bit as much as you do, but the law speaks clearly. We’ll have to live with this, Fosco.”

“True,” replied Fosco. “But we don’t have to like it, do we?”

“No,” Godilo said. “We don’t have to like it at all.”

~TBC~

Elf-Root

by Soledad

Author’s note:

The first paragraph was paraphrased from “The Hobbit”, of course, with a few changes.

Beta read by the most generous Larner, whom I owe my never-ending gratitude. My apologies for the belated update. Hobbitses were being stubborn, they were, yesss, Preciousss!

Part Two – The Sale

Five weeks later a large notice in black and red appeared on the gate of Bag End, stating that on the twenty-second of Forelithe, on Moondei, Messires Grubb, Grubb and Burrowes would sell by auction the effects of the late Bilbo Baggins, Master of Bag End, Underhill, Hobbiton.

“Sale to commence at ten o’clock, sharp,” announced Holman Greenhand to the people who had begun to gather around the Hill right after first breakfast.

A great commotion it was, of folks of all sorts, respectable and unrespectable alike, and they seemed quite eager to begin the bidding. As it seemed likely that the sale would go on all morning, through second breakfast and elevenses and lunchtime, perchance including teatime as well, the innkeepers of Hobbiton and Bywater brought out tents to the foot of the Hill, offering food and ale to the potential buyers and making a handsome amount of coin.

Longo and Camellia Sackville-Baggins were the first ones to arrive, of course, with their son Otho and Otho’s bride, Lobelia Bracegirdle, who seemed awfully eager to get into Bag End already. Young Holman Greenhand, though (still called “young”, although he was in his early fifties, as he had come to Hobbiton at a fairly tender age to be apprenticed to the gardener of Bag End, just as Hamfast Gamgee had been apprenticed to him), who had been hired by the Baggins lawyers to keep up proper order, remained as immovable as the Hill itself.

“ Ten o’clock, Miss Lobelia, and not a moment earlier,” he said in a friendly but stern manner. “I must not open the front door before that, so have the Messires Grubb and Burrows ordered, and I answer to them and no-one else.”

Lobelia snorted in dismay. “Pah! They shall have nothing to say here soon enough.”

“That may be so,” agreed the gardener amiably, “but at the moment the smial still belongs to Mr. Bilbo Baggins, and I won’t let in none ’fore the lawyers allow me to do so.”

Lobelia glared daggers at him. “Otho!” she said in a shrill voice that carried to the foot of the Hill, so that everyone present could hear it clearly. “Once we have the smial, I don’t want this… this person to as much as enter the gardens again!”

“Oh, worry you nothin’, Miss Lobelia,” retorted Holman with a grim smile. “I don’t intend to get anywhere near your poisonous breath. Why, it might make the very soil around the Hill infertile, it could.”

Under normal circumstances, the less than respectful manners of the gardener would have been heavily frowned upon by the gathered gentlehobbits and their wives. That was certainly not acceptable behaviour from someone of the working class towards the gentry. However, as this was Lobelia Bracegirdle being treated that way, most people present were more than willing to look the other way.

However, the Sackville-Bagginses were not the only relatives who wanted some keepsake from the “presumably dead” Bilbo Baggins. Fosco Baggins had indeed come, together with his much-respected wife and all three of his children. There was Dorilac Brandybuck with his three young cousins. Then various Tooks, Boffins, Bolgers, Proudfoots, Goolds, Burrowses, Chubbses, Grubbs, Hornblowers, Clayhangers and only the Valar could tell who else. Bilbo was known as a great collector of beautiful and valuable items, and nobody wanted to miss the chance to acquire some of his things. Even those of a small purse who did not belong to the gentry had come, as news that the Sackville-Bagginses wanted to get rid of all Bilbo’s belongings had spread quickly, and thus they hoped for a chance to make a good bargain.

At exactly ten o’clock, a horn call signalled the beginning of the sale. The Bagginses’ lawyers had, of course, come with their entire families, who wanted to buy a few nice items themselves – particularly Bilbo’s silverware and linens were in great demand… had been, indeed, ere the sale would even begin. Rufus Burrows, the only bachelor among them (albeit not much longer if Asphodel Brandybuck had anything to say about it) had offered to write the sales inventory and was now sitting at a small table, with the open inventory book and an inkwell before him, ready to go.

Old Missus Crabtree, who had taken care of the linens of Bag End for longer than anyone could remember (and Hobbits had a notoriously good memory when such important matters were concerned) stood next to him, keeping a sharp eye on all those… intruders who were about to take her master’s beautiful smial apart.

“’Tis a real shame, it is,” she muttered. “Letting those… those parasites into Mr. Bilbo’s hole… wasting all those beautiful linens and dishes on those greedy fools. Why, it makes my blood boil, just seeing them like this, flooding Bag End like ants, it does!”

She was a small, rotund little person – small even as Hobbits go – but a very principled one. She looked as if she could not swat a fly, with her round, sweet face, snow-white hair and bright, cornflower-blue eyes, but she had strong opinions and never feared to voice them, not even towards a respected gentlehobbit like the Burrows lawyer.

She was the widow of Jape Crabtree, a tailor who had been known as a “queer” person: not only quarrelsome but also loud and unpleasant most of the time, who had always felt wronged by someone and always looking out for criticism, even – or especially – when there was none. As his wife, Missus Crabtree had to learn to stand up for herself and her three children, only the youngest of which had inherited her good, resilient nature. She was a skilled seamstress herself, which had been the reason why Mr. Bungo had asked her to take the matter of Bag End’s linens in hand. Born a Goodchild, she was also considered something of a herb mistress among her kin and often helped those among the poor who could not afford the services of a healer. As her youngest, Sunflower, had married Holman Greenhand a couple of years ago, she lived with them in Bagshot Row, which, of course, gave her an excellent chance to see everything that was going on in and around Bag End.

In fact, she had considered Bag End as hers in a manner; not as her property, of course, but as her responsibility. Small wonder that she was equally saddened and outraged by the thought of having Lobelia Bracegirdle, of all people, as the new mistress of the most wondrous smial in Hobbiton.

Beyond personal dislikes, she had also other, more pressing concerns about Otho Sackville-Baggins and his future family moving into Bag End.

“Mark my words: they’ll raise the rents the day they move in,” she said darkly to Anso Twofoot, her neighbour from Number 2, Bagshot Row. “They’re the greediest hobbits in all four Farthings. We’ll have to move out, sooner or later; we’d best go a-looking for a new hole now.”

“’Twould be better in any case,” said Anso who had come out to enjoy the spectacle. “Or would you like to live in the same Hill with the Sackville-Bagginses?” he turned to Holman Greenhand who had just escorted out some over-eager customers.

“I certainly wouldn’t,” replied the gardener. “Should they truly move in, I’d move to my great-aunt Rowan’s kin in Tighfield. That would be far enough, I suspect.” He gave his mother-in-love a fond look. “You know you can always come with us, Gammer, if you want to. You’ll always have a place with us.”

The old Hobbitess gave him a loving smile. “I know that, Holman my lad. You’ve always been much more of a son to me than that ill-begotten miscreant I had the misfortune to bring into this world. But I’m not ready to give up my home just yet so that Lobelia Bracegirdle can have free realm over the Hill.”

If anyone was shocked to hear her speak of her only son in such manner, they did not show it. Besides, most of them knew Franco Crabtree well enough to know that he was a lazy good-for-nothing who still had no shame, always willing to accept his hard-working old mother’s coin instead of going to work for his own living, so they agreed with Missus Crabtree heartily.

’Twas unfortunate for the old Hobbitess that two of her three children were naught but trouble; for Buttercup, her eldest, was every bit as bad as Franco. The two of them lived together in a previously abandoned little hole in Haysend, doing only some work when they would starve otherwise, and avoiding everyone as far as it was possible. While Franco was more lazy than aught else, Buttercup suffered from unexplainable bouts of heavy melancholy, during which she didn’t even leave the hole and refused any help her mother – or anyone else – tried to offer them.

Thus no-one wondered that Missus Crabtree had chosen to live with her youngest and her honest, reliable husband. That way, she could help with her grandchildren, so that Sunflower could go to work for Cherryblossom Grubb and bring home some coin, thus  earning their family an easier living that it would be with just Holman’s earnings. Only it appeared that with all the upcoming changes in Bag End, that living, too, was endangered now.

“But what could any of us do against the Sackville-Bagginses?” Tasso Rumble voiced his doubts. He was also a tenant of Bagshot Row since he had married Holman’s cousin Hortensia last fall. “Mr Grubb says as they have the right to do as they please, being Mr. Bilbo’s heirs and all that. I don’t know nothing about lawyerly things, but Mr. Grubb seemed awful certain of it.”

“Maybe,” replied old Missus Crabtree. “Maybe we can’t do nothing. But somehow I don’t think we’ve seen the last of Mr. Bilbo yet.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tasso Rumble. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Presumably dead… that was the word Mr. Grubb used,” said the Gammer. “I say we shouldn’t underestimate Mr. Bilbo. He might be a Baggins, but he has a lot of Took in him, he does, and Tooks are known to be… unpredictable.”

“To put it mildly,” agreed Tasso with an exasperated shake of his head. “For him to run off with Dwarves, just like that… ’Tis not right for a proper Hobbit, it isn’t.”

He could not continue, because his wife turned to him, hands firmly on her hips already, and gave him a quelling look, one she would usually give small Hobbit-lads caught red-handed in her pantry.

“Now you watch that tongue of yours when you speak about Mr. Bilbo, Tasso Rumble!” she scolded him. “Had he not always been a most responsible and… and generous gentlehobbit, afore… afore those Dwarves came? And if he chose to run off with them he ought to have had very good reasons to do so. Bagginses, even if they’re related to the Tooks, don’t do nothing hastily, unless they have to. ’Tis not for us to judge Mr. Bilbo, ’specially as we don’t know nothing of his reasons… and as he’s always been most courteous to us, as if we was gentry ourselves, we ought to show at least some respect, even if he’s gone now.”

Tasso shut his mouth wisely – not that he would agree with his wife, for he still thought that Mr. Bilbo had acted unbecoming to a proper gentlehobbit, but because Hortensia could have a fearful temper if she was in righteous outrage. Holman then left them with his apprentice, that Gamgee lad, as the sale was now going on in earnest, and keeping order had become something of a challenge. Excited Hobbits with increasing amounts of ale in them could be difficult to handle sometimes.

Hortensia Rumble, albeit not officially hired for the task, appointed herself to keep an eye on Miss Lobelia, who was known for her tendency to… acquire small yet valuable objects when no-one was watching. Sunflower Greenhand, small and rotund as her mother, but with a freckled face and long, curly dark hair, followed her to do the same for Camellia Sackville-Baggins, who might be less… acquisitive than her future daughter-in-love but nearly as unpleasant and therefore not to be trusted around Mr. Bilbo’s valuables.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And thus the morning was going on, with more and more of Bilbo’s belongings coming under the hammer, and the excitement and the bidding growing in volume and intensity. Drogo Baggins, who had secured many of Bilbo’s rare books for himself “for an apple and an egg” as they say in Buckland (meaning that they were ridiculously cheap, as no-one really wanted to have them) was watching the spectacle from afar with a growing sense of unease.

It was just not right, throwing this beautiful smial, built for the very purpose to be the home of Bilbo (well, for his mother, originally) to the Sackville-Bagginses in general, and to Lobelia Bracegirdle, the most unpleasant lass in the four Farthings, in particular. Bag End was meant to be more than just the dwelling place of some greedy hag. It was meant to be something special. Even if the Sackville-Bagginses hadn’t gotten their grubby hands on it, with Bilbo gone, it would never be the same, Drogo decided sadly.

He watched things as long as he could bear it, trying to get small, personal items of little value – aside from the emotional one – that he knew Bilbo would not want to go to complete strangers… or to unpleasant relatives. When Lobelia and Otho – followed by a very determined Hortensia Rumble step by step – began to measure the rooms inside the smial to see how their own furniture could be arranged once Bilbo’s belongings were all gone, however, Drogo could not bear to watch it anymore. He and Bilbo had never been particularly close, but he had always loved and respected his cousin, and it broke his heart to see Bilbo’s home coming to such end.

He slipped out of Bag End quietly, and went down to the gate, then down to the steps to the foot of the Hill, to the narrow path that eventually led to the Greenway… or so he had been told. He had never seen the Greenway himself and had no true wish to do so. He wanted to be alone with his sorrow over the loss of his cousin whom all three of Fosco’s children liked very much, each of his or her own way. The spectacle he had left behind was beginning to make him sick. He wanted to forget it for a while, to pretend that it wasn’t happening, that things were as they had always used to be.

He filled his pipe – a beautifully carved wooden one with a stem so long that the head almost touched his toes… a gift from Bilbo’s last birthday celebrated in Bag End – and lit it, to soothe his nerves. There was nothing like a good smoke to calm a Hobbit’s nerves… well, aside from a good ale perhaps, but that was not an option right now.

There he stood, blowing the most beautiful smoke rings and letting them sail in the warm autumn breeze over the Hill – an art taught him by Bilbo himself – when he suddenly spotted them: two figures, the one small, the other one quite enormously tall, riding up the path slowly, straight towards the Hill.

Drogo squinted to see them better. They were still rather far away, but he had good eyes. The smaller one was very obviously a Hobbit, riding a pony – and a fairly well-fed and nicely bred one – but the other one was most likely a Man on a real horse.

Drogo felt excitement rising in his breast. Men did not often enter the Shire, and that was fine with most Hobbits who preferred to be among themselves. But this Man was unlike the others – well, admittedly, Drogo himself had only seen Men twice, when he had to visit Bree due to some family business, but he remembered well enough what they usually looked like, and this one was very different indeed.

As a rule, Men did not wear long, grey robes and tall, wide-brimmed, pointy hats. As a rule, they did not have long, grey beards hanging down to their waist, either; or long bushy eyebrows that stuck out further than the brim of their shady hats. Neither did they carry a gnarled wooden staff in one hand when riding, which the Men of Bree did almost never, in fact. And, save from those vagabond Rangers who were said to visit the Prancing Pony in Bree from time to time, they did not wear long swords on their belts, either.

Drogo Baggins had never seen Gandalf in person, but like every single Hobbit in the Shire, he had heard about him a great deal, of course. Since the days of the Old Took, the wizard had only been in the Shire in the previous year, when he’d visited Bilbo. No-one else had seen him in the time in-between, and they could only guess (or not) at what kind of dangerous business he had been involved in during all that time. But the remarkable tales told about him gave a good description of his looks, and thus Drogo Baggins recognized him at first sight.

Recognized him, and his heart did a little leap in his breast. For if one of the two riding up to the Hill was indeed Gandalf, the Hobbit riding on his side could only be…

“Bilbo!” exclaimed Drogo happily, his beautiful pipe dropped and forgotten, most likely with a broken stem, in the grass as he began to run down the path towards the two riders.

~TBC~

Elf-Root

by Soledad

Author’s note:

The first part of this chapter is a reshaped version of certain events from “The Hobbit”, of course, although with a few profound changes.

As for Drogo being fair-haired… well, I’m sorry, movie-fans, but Frodo was described in The Books as “a stout little fellow with red cheeks, taller than some and fairer than most, and he has a cleft in his chin: perky chap with a bright eye.” That’s what he was supposed to look, and as we know virtually nothing about his parents (except the fact of their tragic death), I chose his father to have the same looks.

Beta read by Larner, thanks!

Part Three – An Unexpected Turn

Bilbo Baggins had been mightily weary of his adventure since the day he had awakened after the Battle of Five Armies. He was glad that Thorin Oakenshield and himself had parted in kindness at last, but nonetheless, it had come to battle and bloodshed before that; and to many, many deaths. The fact that he had known some of those who had died only made things worse for him to bear.

“All I wanted was to buy peace and quiet,” he said to Gandalf in sorrow, “and look what a mess had come out of it!”

“Now, now,” replied the wizard, looking down at him kindly from under enormous eyebrows. “You can hardly be blamed for that, my dear Bilbo.”

“No, I suppose not,” Bilbo agreed, after a moment of consideration. “Still I’ve had enough of the wide world for a while. I’m aching in my bones for the homeward journey.”

But that journey had to be a little delayed, no matter how much he wanted to set off at once. First there was the burial of Thorin Oakenshield and that of Fíli and Kíli, the merry young princes of Durin’s House, who had fallen defending him with shield and body, for he was their mother’s eldest brother. Again, Bilbo wept for them, as he had wept for Thorin, or even more so, as he had grown fond of the young Dwarves during their adventure and was greatly saddened by their loss.

He could not set off right after the burial, either, for there was a great feast, held in the honour of those who had fallen in the Battle of Five Armies, and he was supposed to be present, for he was now considered a Dwarf-friend and an esteemed person in the eyes of all Dwarves, due to his help with the defeating of the Dragon. As much as he loved feasting and good food – what Hobbit did not? – the amount of attention given to his person soon became bothersome, and he wanted nothing more than to be gone already.

There was still the matter of dividing the Dragon’s hoard among those who had claim in winning and defending it. Dáin Ironfoot, now King of the Dwarves under the Mountain, had wanted to reward him most richly for his deeds that led to those events in the first place. But Bilbo didn’t want the trouble of taking some great treasure all along the way back to the Shire; and thus he had only accepted two small chests, one filled with silver, the other filled with gold, such as a strong pony could carry, as well as a few leather pouches of small gems that he intended to have made into shirt studs later. And on that same pony, accompanied by Gandalf, he rode with the Elven host westwards to Mirkwood.

The two of them didn’t enter the Forest, though. After having spoken their farewells to the Elvenking and exchanging parting gifts with him, they rode on along the outskirts of the woods at once, for Bilbo’s way home was a long one indeed. With the Grey Mountains on their right all the way, they followed the northern border of Mirkwood, then crossed the Forest River where it was still easy to ford and turned southwards after coming around the northwestern edge of the Forest. ‘Twas already mid-winter when they reached Beorn’s wide wooden halls, where they stayed for a while and spent a very merry Yuletide with the bear-man’s people.

When spring came again with mild weather and a bright sun, they finally moved on, crossing the High Pass, and arrived in Rivendell on the first of Thrimidge. There they made a short break to recover from their weariness, for crossing the Great River and the Misty Mountains had been tiring and dangerous business, even without Wargs and Goblins lurking behind each boulder. As usual in the Last Homely House, they were gladly welcomed and spent a few days resting, singing and dancing in the delightful company of the Elves of the Vale, among them especially a young minstrel by the name of Lindir, who befriended the Hobbit very quickly.

But not even Elrond’s house could hold Bilbo much longer, splendid place though it was, for the Tookish part of him was getting more tired and the Baggins part of him was growing stronger with each passing day. All he truly wanted was the peace of his own beautiful hobbit-hole and the comfort of his own armchair. Thus they only stayed a week or so – ‘twas hard to keep count on time in Rivendell – ere setting off on the last stretch of their road.

Now, this last stretch, too, was a fairly long one, albeit not nearly as perilous as the ones before, and even riding those strong, resilient ponies acquired in Laketown (ere it was destroyed by the Dragon), it took them nearly two months to make it. Along the way, they came to the Trollshaws, where they indeed found all the gold and other riches the three stupid trolls had gathered during their unnaturally long lives.

At first Bilbo was against digging it out, and even afterwards, he wanted Gandalf to keep it all, as he already had all he needed for the rest of his life. But Gandalf insisted that he take the half of it, saying that he might have more needs upon his return home than he expected.

At that time Bilbo could not understand the meaning of those words and was slightly bewildered by them while they put the gold in sacks and slung them on the decidedly unhappy ponies – which meant that he had to continue on foot through the fresh green grass… not that the Hobbit would mind it. He found that he liked walking… as long as they were walking homewards.

And thus, on the twentieth of Forelithe, they finally reached the Shire in a splendid mood, and when two days later the Hill itself came into sight in the distance, the weather was bright and hot again. Bilbo was singing a walking song – a new one that had just come to his mind in that very moment, and Gandalf stared at him in something akin to surprise, commenting that Bilbo was not the same Hobbit that he had been.

As they crossed the Bridge and passed the Mill by the River, however, coming right back to Bilbo’s front gate, the Hobbit was reminded the wizard’s words spoken at the trolls’ den, seeing the thick crowd around his door. Many were going in and out – among them some he’d never have invited voluntarily – without even wiping their feet on the mat, as he noticed with annoyance.

“Bless me!” he exclaimed. “What’s going on here?”

Before Gandalf could have said anything, they spotted a Hobbit running down the Hill, straight towards them: a young Hobbit, taller than most, with light, almost fair hair, red cheeks and a cleft in his chin.

“Cousin Bilbo!” he cried with unabashed joy, his eyes bright with unshed tears of joy. “You have come back, at last – and not a moment too soon, I say!”

“A perky little chap,” commented Gandalf, looking at the young Hobbit with approval. “A relative of yours, I understand?”

“A second cousin,” replied Bilbo absent-mindedly. “The son of my uncle Fosco. Now, Drogo my lad,” he turned to the young Hobbit, “can you tell me what all these people are doing here in my smial?”

“Bidding for your belongings,” explained Drogo with a sigh. “You have been gone a year and a day, Cousin Bilbo! The Sackville-Bagginses have handed in the request to declare you dead more than five weeks ago and had the family lawyers hold a sale ere Otho and his bride can move into Bag End.”

Bilbo shot him a look full of shocked disbelief. “Are you trying to pull the fur off an old Hobbit’s toes, lad?” he asked.

But Drogo shook his head. “I wish I were, Cousin Bilbo. That’s the truth of it, and no mistake. You are presumably dead, and so your heir was entitled to do as he please with your hole and whatever was in it. So, if I were you, I’d put things straight quickly, before naught of your things is left.”

“I see,” Bilbo’s mouth became a thin line for a moment, and his eyes were blazing in a manner Drogo had never seen before; truth be told, it was downright frightening. “Well, then, I think it’s time to show Otho Sackville-Baggins who’s the Baggins of Bag End!”

With that, he began to climb the Hill purposefully. Drogo shot the wizard, who’d been listening wordlessly to their conversation, a look full of anguish.

“I’d follow him if I were you, Mr. Gandalf, sir,” he said. “Cousin Bilbo is a friendly fellow as a rule, but he could get into a dreadful fit if angered beyond endurance.”

The wizard smiled. “So thirteen grumpy Dwarves and an entire valley full of merry Elves have learned during our adventure,” he said. “And who am I to deny the Sackville-Bagginses such an… educational experience?”

But Drogo seemed so agitated by the perspective that in the end Gandalf had mercy with him.

“Very well,” he said. “Let us follow him and see how he deals with his bothersome cousins. It might prove rather… entertaining, after all.”

Speaking thusly, he, too, began to climb the Hill with long, purposeful strides, ignoring young Hamfast Gamgee who stood just above them and was staring at him with his mouth hanging literally open. For a moment, Drogo hesitated whether he should stay with their steeds. But the big horse glared at him in a rather unfriendly manner, so he chose to get away from it and ran after the wizard, making three or four paces for each of Gandalf’s on his much shorter legs.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The sale was in full swing by then. Rufus Burrows had gotten a cramp in his right hand from all that writing and laid his quill pen to the side for a moment to move his ink-stained fingers a little. With some dismay did he realize the ink blotch on his brand new waistcoat; it must have happened when he had been waiting impatiently for Missus Amethyst Bolger to make up her mind about buying – or not buying – Bilbo’s porcelain lamp. It was a beautiful piece, but hard to refill with oil once it burned out, so the matter needed serious consideration, so Missus Bolger and her lady friends found.

Rufus only hoped that the whole charade would end, soon, so that he could hurry home and change clothes before Asphodel spotted his dishevelled state. This was unbecoming for a gentlehobbit and no mistake – especially for one who was courting the daughter of the Master of Brandy Hall. Unimaginable what might happen if either Asphodel or her sister, Amaranth, would find him looking like this. Amaranth particularly was such a devout follower of Missus Rubinium’s rules of decorum that he would never hear the end of it.

He was so distracted that he almost jumped off his stool when someone took the auctioneer's gavel from his right and rapped it on his table – just like that! He turned angrily, ready to give the insolent person a piece of his mind… and his eyes widened in shock. In worn clothes that bore the stains of a long journey, his cloak somewhat tattered… it was without doubt Bilbo Baggins

“My dear people!” said Bilbo in a clear, sharp voice that rose above the general noise effortlessly. “My beloved cousins and good neighbours! I’m sure you are all relieved to see that the rumours about my passing were grossly exaggerated. Yes, I have been gone for quite some time – and a dreadful business it was, dangerous and frightening, let me tell you – but, as you can see, I’m definitely not dead. Consequently, I would greatly appreciate if you could stop taking my things out of my hole. I intend to use them for a long time yet, if you don’t terribly mind.”

“Just hold on!” cried one of the Sackvilles. “We’ve paid honest coin for what we bought. We’re not giving them back, just because you decided to return home, after all. We don’t need no adventurers among us who’d turn proper order upside down.”

“No; you hold on!” retorted Fosco Baggins angrily. “You’ve bought Cousin Bilbo’s things under the assumption that he’s dead. So did I; so did the others. We all acted in good faith; there could be no doubt about that. But as it’s clear that we were mistaken, we’ll have to give everything back – and have our money returned to us.”

“It’s not that simple, Mr. Baggins, sir,” said Godilo Grubb with a heavy sigh. “Mr. Bilbo Baggins has been officially declared dead. As much as I’m glad to see him safe and sound, and I’ll gladly stop the sale in this very moment, he cannot demand from the people who bought his things in good faith to give them back. He was still considered dead when those acquisitions were made.”

“We’ll see about that,” replied Bilbo quietly, more quietly than one would have expected, and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes that made people nervous.

Some of those who were standing close to him took an involuntary step backwards, walking straight into those standing right behind them, which, of course, caused quite a mess, with sharp elbows pushed into flanks and many angry, low-voiced comments. It’s never wise to push a Hobbit around, especially when there’s interesting gossip to listen to or things to watch that would make interesting stories later.

“Well, my family and I will surely do the proper thing,” declared Fosco forcefully. “I shan’t become a thief, not by choice nor by ignorance.” He looked around with a truly exasperated mien… then he turned to Bilbo and hugged him. “’Tis good to have you back, Cousin Bilbo!”

Some of the others present – mostly the Took and Brandybuck relatives of them – did the same. But the majority of the sale crowd was less than happy with the outcome of the event, as they had all made excellent bargains and were loath to give back the fine items for which they would have to pay ten times as much, had they tried to acquire them in any other way.

The most upset and least happy ones were the Sackville-Bagginses, of course. Both Missus Camellia and Lobelia were protesting and struggling when they were politely but firmly escorted out from Bag End by Holman Greenhand and his resolute young wife. And while no-one really felt sorry for them, some other people had their own concerns about the return of the Master of Bag End.

“Who says that this… this person is truly our Cousin Bilbo?” exclaimed Missus Druda Boffin, the wife of Lobelia’s uncle, Rollo, through her mother, Primrose.

While she didn’t particularly like Lobelia – no-one did, to tell the truth – she felt it was her duty as close kin to defend the interests of her niece. Besides, she had acquired some of Bilbo’s excellent table linens for a very good price and hated the idea of having to give them back.

“The looks might fit, I won’t deny that,” she continued in a patronising manner. “But poor Cousin Bilbo was a respectable and reliable Hobbit, not some cracked adventurer. Mayhap this… this impostor has done something awful to him just to take his place.”

“Aunt Druda!” Rufus Burrows was beet red with embarrassment; Druda was born a Burrows, his father’s sister, and he was ashamed for her wild ideas. “However have you come to such a strange idea?”

“What is so strange in it?” asked his aunt indignantly. “Everyone would love to have Bag End for their home!”

“Especially Cousin Otho and his Lobelia,” commanded Drogo dryly, and every Hobbit within earshot nearly fell over in laughter. ‘Twas somewhat improper for such a young fellow to voice his opinions when older and more respected ones were present, but no-one could deny that Drogo was deadly accurate in his assumption.

“This is a moot point anyway,” declared Camellia Sackville-Baggins imperiously, “as Bilbo has been officially declared dead…”

“Presumably dead, Mistress Camellia,” corrected Godilo Grubb; being the senior partner of their law firm, such unpleasant duties regularly fell to him. “There was no proof, as you know all too well.”

“Nonetheless, he will have to provide hard proof of his identity before the Mayor, won’t he?” asked Camellia sweetly.

The lawyer nodded. “That he will indeed. But ‘til the issue had been brought before the Mayor, the law says we must assume that he is, in fact, Bilbo Baggins, and Bag End will remain rightfully his.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And thus, as Godilo Grubb was the unchallenged authority in legal questions in the entire Westfarthing and beyond, even the Sackville-Bagginses had no other choice than to back off and leave the battlefield to Bilbo. Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd dispersed, dozens of excited and highly upset Hobbits returning to their homes to discuss this unexpected turn of events with their friends, neighbours and relatives.

Only Godilo Grubb and Fosco Baggins remained in Bag End, to have a drink of good ale and a pipe with the miraculously returned Master of the smial (fortunately, the Sackville-Bagginses hadn’t managed to lay hand on the cellars yet). Missus Rubinium, her unwavering sense for order and decorum deeply disturbed by the recent events, had left in a real state, with an equally upset Dora on her side. Drogo and Dudo reluctantly followed suit. They both knew better than to argue with their mother at such times.

“What a day!” exclaimed Fosco, stretching his legs under the table of Bilbo’s parlour in relief, after he’d accepted his mug of ale from an obviously delighted Gammer Crabtree. Then he turned to Godilo Grubb.

“Do you believe that the Sackville-Bagginses could truly have Cousin Bilbo declared an impostor and thrown out of his own hole?” he asked. ”Is such a ridiculous thing possible at all?”

The lawyer shook his head. “I seriously doubt it. Doro Burrows may be young as Mayors go, but he’s no fool. Besides, he has known Mr. Baggins since he was but a wee lad. He wouldn’t let the Sackville-Bagginses drive Master Bilbo out of his home, Doro wouldn’t.”

He could say that with certainty, having known the fairly young Mayor for at least as long as Bilbo himself had. After all, Doro was the older brother of his junior partner, Rufus Burrows (Missus Rubia being the oldest of the three siblings), and had often required the services of Grubb, Grubb & Burrowes, even after their father had handed over his place within the firm to young Rufus.

“I certainly hope so,” said Bilbo darkly. “I won’t let my greedy uncle take my home from me with his ridiculous accusations. I have faced a dragon far worse than Camellia Sackville-Baggins – or Lobelia Bracegirdle, for that matter – on my journeys, and if needs must be, I can employ help beyond the wildest imaginations of the good Hobbitonians.”

There was that dark glint in his eyes again, something that hadn’t been there before, and that – not to mention the thought of the wizard lurking somewhere in one of his employer’s guest rooms – made Godilo Grubb decidedly uncomfortable. He knew Gandalf, of course, like everybody in the Shire… well, perhaps it would have been better to say that he knew about Gandalf, as he had never had any personal business with the wizard and intended that to remain so.

For while no-one could deny that Gandalf’s fireworks were a marvel to behold – Godilo had seen such a performance with his very eyes as a faunt on the Old Took’s birthday – and that he had wondrous gifts to give (again, the magic diamond shirt studs of the Old Took came to one’s mind) but he was a bad influence on foolish, impressionable young hobbits. About that there was general agreement in the Shire’s more… respectable circles. The wizard had the unfortunate tendency to wake an adventurous spirit in otherwise perfectly reliable young Hobbits… with unforeseen consequences.

There was the case of Basso Boffin, to begin with – the brother of Master Bilbo’s own great-grandmother, Berylla Boffin Baggins, who had just left the Shire one day and went beyond the Tower Hills. He went to the Sea with Elves – with Elves! – or so the tales said, and was never seen again. Admittedly, that had been more than a hundred years before Bilbo’s birth and could thus be considered a mere family legend; although the fact that Gandalf had apparently roamed the Shire back then did make one wonder just how long wizards truly lived, and whether he had been indeed the same Gandalf or not.

There could be no doubt whatsoever, though, that Gandalf must have been the driving force behind the scandalous actions of Hildifons Took, the fifth son of the Old Took and the brother of Bilbo’s mother, who had gone on a journey and never returned. Rumours said he had gone as far as the land of Gondor in the South, yet whether it was true or not, no-one could tell.

Similarly, the influence of Gandalf had been suspected in the case of Hildifons’ youngest brother, Isengar, who also was said to have gone to the Sea in his youth. He had returned a few years ago, that much was true, yet he had been considered… queer ever since.

Perhaps people were right. Perhaps the Tookish blood truly did make otherwise perfectly reasonable Hobbits receptive to outrageous suggestions. Perhaps it had only been a question of time – and that of proper stimulation – for Bilbo Baggins to crack, too. After all, he had inherited the unfortunate affliction from both his parents’ side. Even though the Bagginses had never shown any tendency towards going off on adventures, thank goodness… well, not ‘til last year, that is.

Well, if Bilbo Baggins was beginning to crack, which would perchance make him end up like his queer Tookish uncles, Godilo Grubb had no intention of assisting him on his downward path, thank you very much. He’d let Rufus Burrow deal with this unsafe client; ‘twas the job if the junior partner to take over the unpleasant cases, after all. Besides, the Burrowses themselves showed signs of slight eccentricity from time to time… and by marrying Asphodel Brandybuck, Rufus would become related to the Bagginses anyway.

All of a sudden, Godilo was very glad that it had been his brother who’d married Rubia Burrows. While pleasant and level-headed enough – not to mention an excellent cook – his sister-in-love, too, showed signs of eccentricity. Timmo might find his wife’s unusual interests (like reading and copying and playing the cymbal) endearing qualities, but Godilo found himself happier with his Blossom, who might be too fond of clothes and jewellery, but was, at least, safe.

He thanked his employer for the ale, promised him to send over Rufus on the next day to plan their strategy for thwarting the efforts of the Sackville-Bagginses, and then left for home, glad to leave queer Hobbits and strange wizards behind.

~TBC~

Elf-Root

by Soledad

Author’s note:

Doro Burrows is an OC, borrowed from the generous Larner. I made him the brother of Rubia Burrows-Grubb and Rufus Burrows, who – aside from Druda Burrows Boffin – is the only canon character of this particular family.

The dialogue between Gandalf and Holman Greenhand originates from the “Unfinished Tales”, with a few changes. We don’t know anything particular about the Old Farm, aside from the fact that it was turned into a workshop during the Time of Troubles, so I took the poetic licence to make it the ancestral home of the Burrowses.

Part Four – Kin-strife, Hobbit Style

Doro Burrows glared indignantly at the official request to verify the identity of the person who pretended to be Bilbo Baggins – a request composed by a very reluctant Godilo Grubb (according to Doro’s own sister, Rubia) and submitted by Longo Baggins and his wife, Camellia. That these two had actually had the cheek to have such a request composed made Doro wonder why he had ever agreed to run for the office of the Mayor two years ago. He was a lawyer himself, just like his brother Rufus; he could have joined the same firm and lived in contentment and wealth, like their father had done ’til his retirement.

In truth, he had chosen to run for the office as it challenged his sense for proper order. To keep all those documents organized, to keep the Quick Post running, to see that the Shiriffs kept the peace on a daily basis, to preside at banquets… all those were things he was eminently suited for. And his farm shares more than adequately fed him and his family. Admittedly, said family only consisted of himself and his recently wed bride  at the moment, but nonetheless, his personal wealth allowed him to focus his energies on Shire business. Certainly, being the youngest Mayor in the history of the Shire was something he was also very proud of. It showed, in his opinion, that his fellow Hobbits trusted him, despite his age.

He’d never have thought, however, that one day his office might make him the unwilling agent and accomplice of the Sackville-Bagginses. The whole affair was every bit as ridiculous as it was disgusting. Trust Camellia Sackville-Baggins to make her husband do such a thing to his own nephew! As if there truly was a chance that Bilbo Baggins was, in fact, not Bilbo!

Admittedly, the fact that Bilbo Baggins had run off with thirteen strange Dwarves – not to mention that old grey conjuror, Gandalf – a year ago, without as much as by-your-leave, greatly disturbed Doro’s sense for proper order, too. No self-respecting gentlehobbit would do such thing, not even most of the Tooks; in that, Doro was in complete agreement with his brother-in-love, Godilo Grubb. But that did not mean that Bilbo was not Bilbo; after all, this would not have been the first time Bilbo had walked off by himself and met strange people. And besides, Doro was fairly certain that Gandalf was to blame for the whole unfortunate affair.

No, Mayor Doro Burrows did not intend to help the Sackville-Bagginses to lay their grubby hands on Bilbo Baggins’s beautiful smial. Granted, he had signed the document that declared the Master of Bag End presumably dead, but he was also more than certain that it was indeed Bilbo who had returned just before the one year and one day limit had completely run off. What had first seemed improper greed from Longo Baggins’ side, to hold the sale on that very day, turned out to Bilbo’s advantage, as he had managed to return before the last day would have been spent. That fact gave Doro some leeway to make his move carefully.

For carefully he must move, that much was certain. Even if he’d intended to decide on the Sackville-Bagginses’ behalf – which he certainly did not – he’d have had to consider the opinion of the Thain, who was, after all, the highest authority in the Shire. And Thain Fortinbras would likely to react rather… impulsively, should the young Mayor allow the most luxurious smial in the Westfarthing (and, most likely, in the entire Shire), built with Took money – it had been built from the dowry of his own sister, Belladonna, after all – to come into the hands of the Sackville-Bagginses.

Not to mention the Thain’s overbearing wife. If Fortinbras was a power to be reckoned with, Lalia Clayhanger Took was definitely a force of nature – and a rather destructive one, at that. Doro Burrows did not intend to raise her ire. No-one in their right minds challenged the Thain’s lady where Took interests were concerned.

On the other hand, there were all those – among them his own relatives, like Aunt Druda – who would be most displeased to hand back Bilbo’s belongings that they had purchased at such bargain prices during the sale. And even if they didn’t give them back, in the end, everyone would be cross with Doro for even suggesting they do so… which he would have to do, whether he liked or not. If only Longo Baggins could have waited one more day with his foolish attempt to sell Bilbo’s things, this whole mess could have been avoided. But greed often made people do foolish things, and now Doro was the one to right things again.

“Whatever I do, it will bring me nothing but trouble,” he complained to his young wife who’d come over from their home to bring his luncheon to his office in the Town Hole. “Aunt Druda isn’t the only one who’s less than pleased over the miraculous return of Bilbo Baggins.”

Arnica patted his arm reassuringly. Born a Hornblower – in fact, she was a niece of Amethyst Hornblower Bolger, the one who had been considering buying Bilbo’s porcelain lamp – she was an ambitious, strong-minded Hobbitess, with a very clear opinion about right and wrong. She was also a much-respected person, for not only had she brought considerable wealth into their marriage but also knew a great deal about how to manage her father’s pipeweed business. She had been raised more as a lad than a lass, having had no brother for so much of her life, and as she was the oldest of five sisters. Only recently had their parents been blessed with a late-born son; Arnica thus was used to speaking her mind and being involved in all important decisions, a fact that her husband found most helpful.

“You needn’t worry, beloved,” she said confidently. “’Tis an unpleasant business, to be sure, but I’m certain that you’ll do the right thing – and not only for fear of the temper of Lalia the Great.”

Doro looked at her in mild exasperation. “Are you reading my mind now, dearling?”

His wife laughed and kissed him on the top of his head.

“No,” she replied. “I just know you well enough. We both know what the right decision is, don’t we? You just have to find the right way to do it, so that it will cause the least uproar and trouble.”

“The how is exactly my problem,” admitted Doro.

Arnica thought about that for a moment, her smooth brow creasing with the effort of thinking so hard. It was such an endearing sight that Doro almost forgot about his worries; they had only been married for a year, after all.

“Why don’t you ask your father?” she finally suggested. “He has been doing lawyerly things all his life and has a great deal of experience in dealing with these people. Surely he’d be able to give you some useful advice.”

Realizing that his wife was right, Doro put the document back into his file and called for the keeper of the Town Hole, who was generally referred to as the bailiff – even though he had nothing to do with the law – to have his trap readied for a trip to Hobbiton.

“Would you like to come with me, dearling?” he asked his wife, who was prominently pregnant and less eager to leave their home these days.

After some hesitation, Arnica decided to do so, as she longed to see Rubia once again, and Doro felt immensely relieved. They would drive to Hobbiton, and he would discuss the problem with his father. Old Albus Burrows was a wise Hobbit and had been a shrewd lawyer in his time. He would know how to handle such a… delicate situation.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bilbo Baggins, in the meantime, was mildly irritated. He’d had a terrible week, having been hunting for his already sold (or, on occasion, stolen) property ever since his return, and in his most upset moments he felt that things would never return to normal. Also, it had only taken him two days or so to realize that public opinion had changed a great deal about his person – and not to his advantage.

Before the Unexpected Party a year ago, when thirteen Dwarves and one wizard had all but taken over his beautiful, comfortable Hobbit-hole, he had been the epitome of the responsible, predictable Baggins everyone expected him to be (even though he’d always had those strange longings for adventure he wouldn’t even admit to himself). True, his mother had been a Took – one of the Old Took’s own daughters at that – but everyone had been in agreement that Bilbo took after his father’s people, and that it was good it was so. Bagginses, like every other self-respecting gentlehobbit, never did anything unexpected, which was why people generally valued and respected them… aside from their wealth, that is.

As things seemed now, Bilbo was on the best path to lose all the respect that kinfolk and neighbours traditionally paid a Baggins – especially the Baggins, the esteemed head of the whole esteemed family. For a Baggins – especially for the Baggins – to do something ass outrageous as Bilbo had done in the previous year was simply unforgivable. Even if Bilbo had tried to win back the good opinion of his relatives and neighbours through profound apologies, it would have taken a long time ere he’d have been accepted again.

The fact that he refused to apologize for his actions and for trampling time-honoured Hobbit custom underfoot, in fact, that he no longer seemed to think that he ought to apologize, only made things worse.

“And why, pray you, should I apologise, Aunt Ruby?” he asked tartly when he went to retrieve his fine tea service from Fosco’s home. “Why should I care what Uncle Longo and that vacuous wife of his think of me? Their opinions mean nothing! Why should I be worried about people who would have me dead, just to move into my home?”

Missus Rubinium opened her mouth to say something but Bilbo, too angry to listen, went on with his rant.

“Did you know that I’m still missing the beautiful silver spoons my mother brought with her from the Great Smial as part of her dowry? They were not sold to anyone, so Rufus Burrows tells me. I wonder if someone had searched Lobelia’s bodice what else would have been found?”

The mere idea of searching the bodice of a well-bred Hobbitess – even if it was Lobelia Bracegirdle – was so outrageous that Missus Rubinium failed to find the proper answer. She rose and left her own parlour with rushing skirts, trembling with righteous indignation, her daughter in tow, and refused to speak to Bilbo Baggins ever again.

The same scene repeated itself in the homes of various other relatives, and in the end Bilbo thought it better to retreat into Bag End for a while, unless he had urgent business with someone in Hobbiton. ’Twas better to wait ’til things calmed down on their own.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

All this had not gone unnoticed by the simple folk that lived in the Row. The Rumbles and Twofoots were greatly relieved that they wouldn’t have to suffer under Lobelia’s reign, although they, too, felt that it wasn’t really proper for a gentlehobbit to run off like that, and with such questionable people as Dwarves and a wizard, as Master Bilbo had done. But generally, they were just glad to have him back, as he had always been generous towards them.

Old Missus Crabtree, however, was positively fuming. While she, too, was overjoyed to have Bilbo back, the Sackville-Bagginses’ cheek to question his identity had raised her righteous ire. And an enraged Missus Crabtree was quite the sight, despite the fact that she was rather on the smallish side, even for a Hobbit. Her round, gentle face was red with anger, and her blue eyes blazed like the wizard’s fireworks.

“Far be from me to speak ill of any gentlehobbits or their goodwives,” she declared to her daughter and her son-in-love over luncheon, “but that kinfolk would do that to someone, out of pure greed, and now all the others snubbing Mr. Bilbo as if he was some kind of cracked adventurer, well, that’s just not right, it isn’t!”

Holman nodded darkly, Even though he did find his employer’s tendency to wander off on his own and talk to strangers – even Dwarves! – rather peculiar, he still liked and admired Mr. Bilbo a great deal and was saddened that he would be treated like that by his own kin and neighbours.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely without blame in this whole sorry business, Gammer,” he said ruefully. “Had I not talked to the wizard right afore Mr. Bilbo ran off, mayhap none of this had happened.”

The cornflower-blue eyes of the Gammer turned to him, bright with curiosity and surprise. Usually no such event would have avoided her notice, but she hadn’t known about this until now.

“You’ve talked to old Gandalf?” she asked. “Why ever would you do so? ’Tis not for us, simple folk, to talk to Big People, even if they’re of the friendly sort.”

“I surely wasn’t the one to seek him out,” replied Holman, just a tad indignantly. “’Twas on the fourth of Astron, last year. I was working in the flower garden when he showed up – like an enormous shadow in the bright morning sunlight. I got a real fright, I did, for I hadn’t heard him coming, which is strange, as Big People usually make a lot of noise with their booted feet. Not him, though; he was as quiet as any Hobbit you can imagine. But then I membered the old stories as are told about him and realized just who he was.

“‘I’m looking for Bilbo Baggins,’ he said, ‘but no-one would answer the door. Where on earth might he be, this early?’

“‘Off again,’ I replied. ‘He’ll go right off one of these days, if he isn’t careful. Why, I asked him where he was going, and when he would be back, and I don’t know, he says; and then he looks at me queerly. It depends if I meet any, Holman, he says. It’s the Elves’ New Year tomorrow! A pity, and him so kind a body,’ I told old Gandalf, for I membered Mr. Hildifons Took, and how ’tis said it had all begun with him, and now he’s gone and lost and all. ‘You wouldn’t find a better from the Downs to the River,’ I said.

“And soon thereafter, the wizard returned with all those Dwarves, and the next morn, Mr. Bilbo simply ran off with them, without a hat or a kerchief or even a bite of food for the journey,” Holman sighed and shook his head in dismay. “You’re so right, Gammer. I should have kept that big mouth of mine shut, instead of setting a wizard on Mr. Bilbo’s trail.”

The Gammer smiled and patted his arm reassuringly.

“Don’t berate yourself about it, Holman my lad,” she said. “I, too, love Mr. Bilbo dearly – I’ve known him since he was but a faunt, after all – but let’s face it: he was already growing a bit queer, afore old Gandalf showed up. People in Hobbiton had already been shaking their heads over some of his actions. And the wizard would have found him without your help anyway.”

That thought seemed to calm Holman’s guilty conscience a little. He’d never wanted to harm Mr. Bilbo, he hadn’t.

“Do you think so?” he asked tentatively.

His mother-in-love patted his arm again.

“I know so,” she said. “I’ve met him – Mr. Gandalf, I mean – long ago, when I was a wee lass… and even then, people said that once he sets his mind to finding someone or something, there’s no way to hide them from him. Now, eat your luncheon, my lad, and tell me about this new root Mr. Bilbo has brought with him from the Elves. I’ve never in my life heard of a thing like that.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

For all its important status within the Shire – based mostly on its relatively central location and the fact that many of the oldest, most-respected (not to mention wealthiest) families had their seat there – Hobbiton was a fairly small village, even as Hobbit settlements go, which tend to be not overly large to begin with. So small, indeed, that it had not even an inn or a public house, and its residents had to walk a mile or more to Bywater, to visit The Ivy Bush or The Green Dragon – not that any thirsty Hobbit would find that such a great hardship.

Aside from The Hill, most of the residences were south across the bridge over the Water, on both sides of the Bywater Road. The entire village, like most Hobbit settlements, lay amidst the rolling countryside of well-managed fields, separated by neat hedgerows, where tree-lined lanes led to cosy cottages and holes edged by bright gardens.

As always, Doro Burrows felt a great wave of satisfaction when the trap crossed the bridge and turned northwards onto the Hill Lane, passing along the Mill Yard. The sight of the Mill alone – an old building, made of oak beams and wattle and crowned with a thatched roof, its large water mill turning slowly as the Water drove it – was enough to make him feel at home again.

As much as he liked his new, independent, not to mention married, life in Michel Delving – and he did like it very much – coming home to the Old Farm was always a relief. The place, as old as Hobbiton itself and in the possession of his family for almost as long, was full of childhood memories, all of them pleasant and gladly relived every time.

Doro had not been surprised when his father chose to retire to the Old Farm after that unfortunate riding accident three years ago. They might have lived in Roadside Smial for the previous fourteen years – and a nice and comfortable hole it was, one that would serve Rufus and his soon-to-be-family just fine – the Old Farm was something else. Something special.

When the trap turned into the courtyard, his father’s grooms came forth from the stables to take care of the ponies, and Nubbin, the old manservant, emerged from the Master’s Hall to greet them. The Old Farm was almost like a hamlet of its own, with several smaller smials and cottages aside from the Master’s home surrounding the courtyard and separating it from the fields and orchards beyond. It was such a peaceful place, with a nice view to the Old Grange on the West and the Mill on the South, that one truly wished to simply stay there.

At this time, aside from Albus Burrows, his wife and their tenants, also their daughter, Rubia lived on the Old Farm with her husband, Timmo Grubb, and their foster daughter, Ivy. Rubia and Timmo had moved there six years ago, right after they’d adopted little Ivy, and everyone found that a good move. The Old Farm was a good place for a child to grow up. Doro knew that once their first child was born, he’d encourage Arnica to come and stay with his parents as much as possible.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Albus Burrows was not the least surprised by the sudden arrival of his older son. In truth, he’d counted on it. Doro was a good, decent lad – had been exceptionally bright, he always had – but simply too young to deal with a social uproar of this magnitude. One had to tread carefully around upset Hobbits, even more so if they belonged to the gentry. That required experience and long acquaintance with the individuals involved, which Doro – due to his age – didn’t have as yet.

Of course, had Longo Baggins and that female dragon he’d married (a choice few people could ever understand) just accepted defeat graciously, none of this would have happened. But Camellia Sackville had never been one to give up easily aught that she considered – however delusionally – her due, and the longer they had been married, the more had Longo taken on her opinions. And now poor Doro would have to clean up their mess.

And a spectacularly ugly mess it was and no mistake! The older Burrowses had already been paid a visit by a terribly upset and outraged Rubinium Baggins, who was their kin by marriage, even though the Burrowses had not been related to the Bagginses for about as long as family trees could be counted back. But Missus Ruby was the sister of Rudibert Bolger, whose wife, Amethyst, in her turn, was the older sister of Albus’ wife Amelinda, thus they had no other choice than listen to Missus Ruby’s complaints.

About Bilbo’s irresponsible actions and how they would cast an unfavourable light on all Bagginses. About Longo’s greed and ruthless behaviour and how it would cast an unfavourable light on all Bagginses. About Camellia’s ridiculous accusations and how the scandal they had caused would cast an unfortunate light on all Bagginses. About her own husband, Fosco, who kept visiting with ‘that mad Baggins’, not caring about what people might say about such associations. About her elder son, Drogo, who kept sneaking out of the smial to see Bilbo, no matter how often she’d told him that Bilbo wasn’t the right company for him. And so on…

After three hours of this, even Amelinda, usually the epitome of patience and unwavering friendliness, was fit to be tied, and poor Briar, the maid whose turn it was to serve tea on that particular day, had a decidedly harried look to her. When Missus Ruby finally left, Amelinda had to lie down in their bedchamber, with a damp cloth over her eyes to get rid of her raging headache, and Briar had to be relieved from further duties to do the same.

This single visit had made Albus understand how important it was that the issue concerning Bilbo Baggins should be solved as quickly as possible and laid to rest. Oh, to be sure, people would talk for a long time yet afterwards – after all, Hobbits liked gossip almost as much as they liked food – but once that was done, things would return to normal.

Thanking Nubbins, he rose from, his comfortable chair with the help of his cane – he’d never truly recovered from the riding accident that had forced him to retire; not that he minded the retirement itself much – and hobbled forward to greet his son and his daughter-in-love. He was grateful that Arnica had talked Doro into coming here. Sometimes the lad could be a tad too proud for his own good. Besides, a pregnant Arnica was a sight for sore eyes – motherhood very obviously became her, she was more beautiful and radiant than ever.

“Come on in, son,” he said heartily. “You’ve arrived just in time for tea.”

Doro sighed and accepted the chair offered to him, while his mother steered Arnica to the comfortable rocking chair in the corner and encouraged her to put up her feet onto the low footstool.

“I’ve actually come to discuss with you…”

“… the issue of Bilbo Baggins, I know,” his father finished for him. “’Tis all right, son. We will discuss it… after tea. You need to calm down and eat a bite. See, your mother has made an almond cake, and Rubia has promised to bring over some of her wonderful blueberry scones, the ones you like so much.”

Pansy, the other maid of the older Burrowses, chose this very moment to bring the tea and a huge plate of Missus Amelinda’s famous almond cake. She was followed by Rubia Burrows Grubb, who brought another plate, piled high with blueberry scones, and her husband Timmo, who was holding the hand of their daughter, Ivy – a sweet, dark-haired child with bright, curious eyes.

Tea was distributed under the watchful eyes of Missus Amelinda, and the younger Burrowses relaxed in their chairs, glad to be here again, away from the high-strung tempers in Michel Delving, where Doro hadn’t really had a peaceful moment in the recent days. The tea was excellent, as always, the cake and scones delicious beyond imagination, and in the reassuring presence of his experienced father, Doro began to believe that he would, indeed, be able to solve the problems surrounding Bilbo Baggins.

He had been Mayor of the Shire for two years, after all. He’d dealt with the daily issues of his fellow Hobbits competently enough during this time. With some helpful advice from his father, he’d deal with the Sackville-Bagginses’ ridiculous claim, too, and then, finally, it would be business as usual in Michel Delving again.

Or so he hoped.

~TBC~

Elf-Root

by Soledad

Author’s note: Doro Burrows is an OC, borrowed from the generous Larner. I made him the brother of Rubia Burrows-Grubb and Rufus Burrows, who – aside from Druda Burrows Boffin – is the only canon character of this particular family.

The two inns of Michel Delving, the Princess Mee and the Stone Troll are my invention and were, of course, named after two characters from Tolkien’s poems. As those poems are considered as Hobbit folklore, I thought it would be only authentic to take the names from them.

Part Five – Mayor’s Orders

The news that young Mayor Burrows would announce the results of his investigations into the identity of Mr. Bilbo Baggins spread throughout the Shire like wildfire. The announced event attracted so many spectators as only the Free Fair would, under normal circumstances. The smials of each and every family in Michel Delving were bursting, full of relatives who had suddenly decided that the fifth of Afterlithe would be the best time to pay them a visit, and on the second of Afterlithe, there were no rooms free either in the Stone Troll or in the Princess Mee, the two modest inns boasted by the village.

This, of course, meant excellent business for both innkeepers and for most of the local shopkeepers – feeding a great crowd of excited Hobbits always is. Therefore, whatever their opinion might have been of Mr. Baggins and his questionable actions – assuming that they had one to begin with, which was highly unlikely, as he hardly ever visited Michel Delving, and thus most people didn’t even knew him – they certainly thought the world of him now.

A very respectable audience had gathered for the announced hearing, which was to be held in the largest chamber of the Town Hole; the same where usually the family heads held their regular meetings. The Thain was the first to arrive, of course, accompanied by his wife, who seemed to have grown to unbelievable proportions since she’d last made a public appearance, and their son, Ferumbras, a handsome yet somewhat sour-faced young lad who seemed considerably older than his twenty-six years. But that was perchance not surprising, considering that he had Lalia for a mother.

Several of the Thain’s cousins had also chosen to come, among them Adalgrim, Flambard and Sigismund, who’d always been close to their cousin Bilbo and now formed a protective circle around him to show everyone that they never for a moment doubted his identity. There was a somewhat older Hobbit with them, a stout fellow probably in his seventies or eighties, with a literal thornbush of wiry, greying straw-blond hair upon his head, a broad, weather-beaten face and a strange, rolling gait, as if he’d been used to walk on boat planks rather than on solid earth.

Very few people outside the Tooklands knew him, for he didn’t live in the Great Smial but in a little cottage beyond the tended fields, and usually avoided people. ’Twas said that he couldn’t bear to dwell under the earth anymore, not after he’d spent years on the Sea and got used to always having the wind in his face. Some of the old gaffers and gammers recognized him nonetheless, and soon, a whispering and murmuring rose among the onlookers, like an autumn breeze, and it took only moments for everyone to know that the infamous Mad Isengar Took had apparently left his hermit life to witness today’s extraordinary events.

“Well, it’s not truly surprising, is it?” commented Bruno Bracegirdle, Lobelia’s brother, just a tad too loudly, making sure that Isengar Took would hear it. “He must be glad that finally another member of the family has cracked, too, and he shan’t be considered the only mad Hobbit in the Shire any longer.”

His friends and cousins on the Boffin side laughed uproariously. But when the former seafarer glanced at them and gave them a long, intense look, the laughter caught in their throats, and they turned away uncomfortably. Everyone knew that it was not wise to tease mad people. They could be… unpredictable in their reactions, and the Mad Took was known to have set his dogs on people who came too close to his solitary cottage.

Needless to say that Gorbadoc Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland – generally nicknamed Broadbelt, due to his impressive girth, although he wasn’t precisely fat, rather broadly built and almost shockingly strong – also made an appearance, with his wife, Mirabella Took, and six of their seven children. Only Rorimac stayed at home, partly because his second son was still but a babe on arms, and a rather sickly one, partly to run things in Brandy Hall in his father’s absence.

However, the Master’s brother, Orgulas, also joined them, and was currently glaring daggers at the Sackville-Bagginses. As the Stoor blood all Brandybucks shared to a certain extent made itself exceptionally predominant in Orgulas, and thus he, too, was fairly large for a Hobbit and had a somewhat dangerous air about him, this did not serve to make the Sackville-Bagginses particularly comfortable. Which, most likely, had been Orgulas’ intent to begin with.

For the remaining Bagginses, there was Linda with her husband Bodo Proudfoot and their son, Odo; Bingo with his wife, Chica Chubb, and their son Falco; Posco and Prisca, Polo’s children, and, of course, Fosco, with his two sons. Missus Ruby was pointedly absent, as was her daughter Dora. With the exception of Fosco and his sons, who openly sided with Bilbo, the Bagginses warily kept their distance from both parties involved, and seemed to limit their role to that of witnesses.

The rest of the audience was made up of various Boffins, Bolgers, Burrowses, Chubbs, Grubbs, Hornblowers, Goolds, Sackvilles, Bracegirdles, and a good number of working class Hobbits who hadn’t even gotten a seat in the Town Hole and were now waiting before it, burning with curiosity. It took Doro a moment to discover his own parents and siblings among the onlookers, but in the end, he did find them. They were sitting with the Brandybucks, Rufus and Asphodel holding hands but still attentive and alert to all that might be happening around them.

The young Major rapped his gavel on the table, and the large chamber became eerily silent. He couldn’t remember having been in such a gathering of Hobbits that had ever been this silent. Ever. For some reason, it made him a little uncomfortable. It just wasn’t natural for Hobbits, really. Apparently, all important people in the Shire found today’s events – and especially Doro’s final decision – a most significant one… something that made him feel even more uncomfortable, to tell the truth. This was not why he’d chosen to run for the office… to push himself forth in such a way.

But whether he wanted or not, it was now up to him to bring this unfortunate process to its end, and he was determined to do the right thing, as his wife would say.

“Greetings and thanks for having such interest in public issues,” he finally said, more to break the uncomfortable silence than for any other reason. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to the scene he knew would soon follow.

“As you probably all know by now, on the twenty-fourth of Forelithe Mr. Longo and Mistress Camellia Sackville-Baggins submitted an official request to investigate the identity of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, who’d been declared presumably dead, two days previously,” he continued. “Such investigations are rather unpleasant and time-consuming, as a rule, and it’s usually hard to find any proof in the defence of the person accused of being an impostor that couldn’t be questioned.”

The deeply satisfied expression on the Sackville-Bagginses’ face made his stomach churn. He felt an almost… improper amount of delight at being able to disappoint them utterly. That wasn’t right. Strictly seen, the Mayor should have been impartial – and Doro usually was. But this whole twisted affair of greed and malevolence had left him feeling sick to the stomach from the beginning.

“Fortunately,” he went on after a short pause, “this time, we do have proof, which we can investigate before all those here present as witnesses.”

“What proof?” demanded Otho. “We know of no proof!”

All eyes turned to him in disapproval. A tween who wasn’t even of age yet, was not supposed to speak up when there were enough respected adults to discuss the issue. Camellia Sackville-Baggins elbowed her son sharply in the ribs; it wouldn’t do any good to turn important people against themselves by the mere lack of proper manners.

The Mayor, too, turned to Otho now, and there was a certain smugness upon his usually so open and friendly face.

“Oh, I’d say it’s hard enough proof,” he said. Then, turning to the Master and the Thain’s family, he asked. “Mistress Mirabella, Thain Fortinbras, can you tell me – and all these good people here – about that special birthmark of the Old Took and how it was inherited by his descendants?”

The Master’s Lady nodded. “Oh, yes, Mayor. ‘Tis a dark red mark in the shape of a small trefoil. Quite unmistakable, actually, and only the descendants of Old Gerontius have it.”

“Like the Thain himself?” asked the Mayor.

Fortinbras shook his had. “No, only his daughters inherited it – and the sons of his daughters.”

“Did Bilbo Baggins have such a birthmark?” continued the Mayor with his inquiry.

The spectators leaned forward in their seats with excitement, waiting for the answer. No-one of them was foolish, and thus they understood the significance of such a mark at once.

They were disappointed at first, though, for the Thain shrugged.

“That I cannot say,” he admitted. “I never saw him as a babe.”

“But I did!” cried a voice, and Old Missus Crabtree, whose presence no-one had noticed until now, stepped forth, her blue eyes blazing.

“I did,” she repeated forcefully. “I have worked for the Bagginses of Bag End ever since Master Bungo married Missus Belladonna, may they rest in peace, and I changed Master Bilbo’s diapers often enough when he was but a babe on arms.”

The gathered gentlehobbits and their wives looked quite offended that someone from the simple folk would put herself before her betters that way. Such things were just Not Done in the Shire… not under normal circumstances, that is. But these circumstances were certainly far from normal – never before had any Hobbit tried to get close kin declared dead, just to get their hands on his wealth – and thus the Mayor looked at the gentle-faced old Hobbitess kindly and did not reprove her.

“May we know your name, goodwife?” he asked.

“Heather Crabtree is my name, Mr. Burrows, sir,” she answered readily. “I was born a Goodchild, you see, and am from Gamwich, I am. I used to work there as a seamstress, I did, and was mightily good at it, or everyone said so. But then I married that Jape Crabtree, the tailor from Hobbiton – I wish I hadn’t, not that I’d want to speak ill of the dead, but he wasn’t an easy Hobbit to live with, Jape wasn’t – and as the bairns came, one after another, I couldn’t keep sewing for a living no more. Sadly, Jape, good enough as he was as a tailor, wasn’t an easy one, as I’ve already said, and customers kept leaving him. That’s why I hired on to help Missus Belladonna at Bag End, so that I could earn some coin for our household. And a generous mistress she was, kind-hearted and always concerned with the well-being of those as did for her, she was…”

“I see, I see,” Doro Burrows had some difficulty interrupting the talkative goodwife before she could tell them the entire story of her life, that of her children and whatever else occurred to her. “And you can tell us whether Mr. Bilbo Baggins has such a birthmark as was described by Mistress Mirabella?”

“Oh, indeed, he does,” replied the old Hobbitess. “Missus Belladonna was right proud of it, she was. She said it was the mark of the Old Took, and that Master Bilbo would one day outdo his Gaffer, he would. I saw that mark with my very eyes, more than once.”

“In that case,” said the Mayor, “it will be very easy to see whether Mr. Bilbo Baggins here is, in fact, himself, or not. All he has to do is to show his birthmark everyone here, and all doubts will be erased.”

To general surprise, the Took ladies became beet red all of the sudden, and Isengar, also known as the Mad Took, began to grin evilly. Old Missus Crabtree, though, seemed not so easily embarrassed; she gave the Mayor a rather shrewd look.

“I don’t think that would be proper, sir,” she said. “You see, that mark is in a right specific place… in a place where the Sun never shines, if you catch my drift.”

The Mayor very obviously did, because he blushed a little, too, but didn’t let such small inconveniences get into the way of finding the truth. After a moment of hesitation, he looked at Isengar, feeling it safer to aim the somewhat… delicate question at him rather than at any of the Took ladies.

“Is the location of the birthmark the same by all those who bear it?” he asked, phrasing the question as diplomatically as possible.

The Mad Took shook his head.

“No, it could be anywhere on a person,” he said. “As far as I know, our father had it on one of his shoulder blades.”

He tactfully refrained from saying anything about his sisters, although the glittering of his eyes made it clear that he knew all too well there they had theirs, too.

“However,” he added, his already wide grin becoming positively evil, “I don’t think we need to embarrass all these fine gentlehobbits and their ladies here. If I may suggest… ‘twould be enough if those who have any doubts about Mr. Baggins’ identity witnessed the proof – before all else Mr. Largo and Missus Camellia, I’d say, as have requested it in the first place; and mayhap Missus Druda, too, who’d first raised the doubt. That would make half the required witnesses; and then there’s Miss Lobelia, too – not to mention Mr. Otho, who – as the next heir of our dear Bilbo – has a vested interest in finding the truth.”

For a moment, even Bilbo seemed to be shocked by the idea that he should drop his breeches in front of seven people, some of them well-bred ladies, so that they could examine the birthmark he happened to bear on a spot most people would consider rather… private. But seeing the stark white visages of his aunt Camellia and Druda Boffin, that dark glint appeared in his eyes, too.

“Oh, I absolutely insist,” he said with deceiving sweetness. “I don’t wish my identity to be questioned any longer. This ridiculous farce has to end, here and now.”

“You can use my office,” offered the Mayor calmly, even though his cheeks were flushed. “I’m sure that enough witnesses can be found among the family heads to make this official. But I, too, must insist that all those who’ve raised doubts about Mr. Bilbo Baggins’ identity examine the proof with their own eyes, in order for all malevolent gossip to stop.”

If at all possible, the ones in question became even whiter, and the family heads, too, seemed decidedly uncomfortable. Hobbits were decent people, as a rule, who preferred to keep their private issues, well… private. No-one seemed particularly eager to see Bilbo’s proof, which was exactly what Doro had counted on.

“Unless…” he continued, when he could see that general embarrassment and uneasiness had reached their limits, “unless Mr. Longo and Mrs. Camellia Sackville-Baggins agree to withdraw their accusations and declare in an official writ that they have been mistaken. I can have the document constructed, signed by the usual seven witnesses and filed in the Town Hole archive within a couple of hours; it’s a fairly standard one as verbal reparations are.”

There was palpable relief in the council chamber. Everyone seemed all too eager to prevent the necessity of examining Bilbo’s proof all too closely. As much as Camellia Sackville-Baggins wanted to lay her hands on Bag End, not even she would want to do that… she’d never hear the end of it, once world had spread throughout the Shire, that she’d had to… no, the mere thought of it made her wish to hide in the cellar under their smial for the rest of the year.

The others felt similarly. And so, albeit with clenched teeth, Longo and Camellia Sackville-Baggins, Druda Burrows Boffin and all those who’d supported them in their intent to declare Bilbo an impostor had to sit down with the Mayor and Godilo Grubb to have the official document constructed. A document in which they withdrew all their accusations and declared that they now all firmly believed that the Bilbo Baggins who’d returned on the twenty-second of Forelithe in the Shire Year 1342 was, indeed, the same Bilbo Baggins as had left the Shire under such unusual circumstances a year before.

It needs to be mentioned here that – according to Shire law – there needed to be a certain amount of time ere anyone could be considered missing to begin with. Only when that time was up could the one year and one day begin to be counted, after which the person could be declared presumably dead. That amount of time was – just like in Bilbo’s case – usually three months, which was the longest time one could expect any self-respecting Hobbit to be visiting his or her kinfolk somewhere else in the Shire, or in the Breelands. After three months, even the most welcome guest was expected to leave (and told to do so if he or she wouldn’t move on their own), thus if someone didn’t show up after three months in their own hole, there was reason to be concerned about their well-being.

The family heads – with the possible exception of the Sackvilles or the Bracegirdles, although even those were mortally embarrassed by Longo and Camellia’s actions – signed the document gladly. They were all eager to forget the whole unfortunate affair as quickly as possible. After that was done, finally everyone could return to their homes, leaving the events for the rumour mill to run it down in due time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I hope this incident will warn everyone else not to raise such ridiculous accusations out of pure greed any time, soon,” commented Albus Burrows, after having signed it himself; he was the Burrows, after all. “I must say, though, I’m right proud of you, son,” he then added, eyeing Doro with parental pride. “I didn’t think you had it in you – to be facing them right down as you did.”

“Neither did I,” admitted Doro, countersigning the document, then filing it and storing it in the archive cupboard. “’Twas real embarrassing, it was; the tips of my ears were burning. But if we hadn’t done it, the Sackville-Bagginses would never cease bothering Mr. Baggins. And despite everything he’d done in the last year, he didn’t deserve that. He’s always been a decent person, even if a bit… queer. All that talk about Elves and Dwarves and dragons…”

“Quite the nonsense, indeed,” agreed his father. “But the important thing is: he never harmed anyone with his sometimes queer ways. Grubb, Grubb & Burrowes have been the lawyers for the Bagginses for generations, and I used to deal with Bilbo regularly in my active days, so I know that he’s as honest as the day is long, he is. And he’s always been most generous with his money, too. I’m glad you were able to prevent the Sackville-Bagginses from driving him out of his own hole.”

“So am I,” replied Doro, “although it would be too much to hope that talk would die down any time, soon, I fear.”

“Of course it won’t,” laughed his father. “Tempers are running too high for that, and will be so for quite some time yet. This is the biggest scandal the Shire has seen for the last hundred years or so, and decent Shirefolk don’t like being scandalized. I’m afraid Mr. Baggins won’t be invited to many parties in the near future; nor will many people accept his invitations. But that’s his doing, isn’t it? And he’ll have to live with the consequences.”

“True enough,” admitted Doro. Then, glancing at his father, he asked shrewdly. “Would you accept an invitation from Bilbo Baggins, after all that has just happened?”

The older Burrows gave the matter some thought. Then he shook his head, slowly but with determination.

“No, I fear I wouldn’t,” he answered with regret. “Admittedly, what the Sackville-Bagginses did wasn’t right. But even though Mr. Baggins is – was – a respectable gentlehobbit, what he’s done is just… just unbecoming of a Hobbit of any decent breeding. I don’t want to be seen as someone who keeps company with adventurers.”

“And yet you’ve helped me to protect his interests,” pointed out Doro. “I’d never have known about the birthmark of the Old Took – or find old Missus Crabtree, for that matter – without your suggestions.”

His father nodded.

“Of course,” he said. “There’s what’s right and there’s what’s wrong; and what’s right must be protected. But there are also things that are done and those that are not done among respectable Hobbits – you should never mistake those two things for right and wrong, son.”

Doro nodded reluctantly. As the properly elected Mayor of the Shire, he knew his father was right. As a young and still somewhat impressionable Hobbit, however, he still wished that things could be different. Deep in his heart he had the feeling that the Shire might benefit from the services of the likes of Bilbo Baggins.

In his own defence, however, he didn’t share his thoughts with his father. The older Burrows was a great defender of time-honoured custom; he would never understand that times changed, and perhaps some customs ought to change, too.

~TBC~

Elf-Root

by Soledad

Author’s note:

Unlike most Tolkien writers, I don’t believe that Tolkien’s Dwarf women had beards, too. The Professor says they looked so much alike the males “when travelling” that no outsider could keep them apart – I took the poetic licence to decide that they wore fake beards.

The part about Bifur was originally Ro’s idea I fell in love with when reading “Of Fire and Stars”. There’s no canon proof about these three Dwarves visiting Bilbo so soon after the Quest of Erebor, but since they had to go this way to fetch their families from the Blue Mountains, I thought they would be a nice addition to the birthday party.

Hildifons and Isengar, the two Took adventurers, are canon characters, believe it or not. The idea of the Falathrim being able to grow beards is mine, though. They've been separated from other Elves long enough, after all.

Part Six – The Invitation

It had been three months since Mr. Bilbo Baggins had returned to Hobbiton on the twenty-second of Forelithe, in the Shire year 1342 – after more than a year of absence, spent presumably seeking out adventures with thirteen Dwarves (who’d earned a rather questionable reputation in the Green Dragon, having made much noise and music and drunk an almost indecent amount of ale during their stay there) and that wandering old conjuror, Gandalf. He’d been riding a strong pony upon his return, and leading a second one, carrying some mighty big bags and a couple of chests with suspiciously clinking things in them.

The talk in Hobbiton hadn’t stopped ever since, which was no surprise at all, given the unusual circumstances of his… hasty departure. Everyone – well, almost everyone – had assumed that Bilbo had got in the worst kind of trouble out there, in the wide outside world that wasn’t very Hobbit-friendly, if you could believe the tall tales some of those restless Tooks spun who, too, got overwhelmed by wanderlust at times.

Of course, the fact that Mr. Baggins had a great deal of Tookish blood in him explained his… unreasonable tendencies. Still, one wouldn’t have expected something like that from a Baggins. Even less so from the Baggins, who was, after all, the head of a particularly conservative family of already conservative Hobbits.

As a consequence, Bilbo was no longer considered a safe Hobbit in the more respectable and reliable circles of the Shire, although the simple folk still considered him a warm one; more so as he remained fairly generous with them and their children. Which, in face of the fact what it cost to feed growing teens was an important factor, understandably enough.

The ones to keep the not-always-well-meant talk going were his cousins, Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, of course, who’d married shortly after his return… a reappearance with which they were still decidedly unhappy. They had done their best to have him declared officially dead, after all, and – as they were his closest kin and thus the heirs apparent – to lay their hands on his luxurious hole and on all his belongings.

“Why, if they hadn’t even hired Messires Grubb, Grubb and Burrowes to put Master Bilbo’s belonging on sale, so that they would have had enough room for their own furniture!” exclaimed old Missus Crabtree, livid with anger even months later. “And they had the cheek to question that he was indeed Mr. Bilbo after his return, they did!”

The Gammer was entertaining guests in her daughter’s home, at Number Three, Bagshot Row: a young nephew from the Goodchild side of the family, with his wife Paigle and their little daughter, Bell, who was barely more than a faunt, and ‘the sweetest child you could wish for’, as the Gammer repeatedly declared.

At the moment, the little lass was out in the vegetable garden of Bag End, though, watching Holman’s young apprentice, ‘that Gamgee lad’ working with the roots and taters. The young gardener-to-be had been ‘hilling’ or ‘earthing up’ long rows of vegetables for several days by now, and when visiting him to see how he was doing, Emro Goodchild – a gardener of some skill himself – was wondering what Mr. Baggins would need so much taters for.

“Why, the amount that must be growing under this piled-up soil would be enough to feed a large family through the Fell Winter,” he commented.

“Them aren’t all taters as is here,” explained Hamfast, using the chance to stretch his back a little, although he didn’t lay the hoe aside for such a short time. “It’s them strange roots Mr. Bilbo has brought with him from abroad.”

“What strange roots?” asked Emro, his professional curiosity now piqued. A self-respecting gardener was supposed to learn of any new edible plants, even the strange ones.

Hamfast Gamgee shrugged. “He got them from them Dwarves, Mr. Bilbo did. Seems to be some kind of green spargel, them does, only they’re white, not green. That’s what the hilling is for, Mr. Bilbo says: to keep ‘em all pale and tender.”

Emro shook his head doubtfully. Green spargel, as it grew wild, without the need of having tended to, was not considered a delicacy among well-to-do Hobbits. In truth, it was usually on the menu of the lowliest and poorest workers who had no chance to grow anything more refined, not having their own garden. That a gentlehobbit like Mr. Baggins would wish to grow it in his own prized kitchen garden was beyond Emro’s understanding. Mayhap Mr. Baggins had truly grown a little queer in the recent years.

“Dwarves would eat spargel?” he asked, not wanting to insult Mr. Baggins, but not being able to hold back his astonishment, either, for Dwarves, too, were known as a people knowing and valuing good food.

Hamfast shrugged again. “Got it from them Elves, or so Mr. Bilbo says; which is why they call it Elf-root. Mr. Bilbo brought some pickled ones with him, aside from the seedlings, to show how different they are. Holman didn’t like them none at first – not ‘til Mr. Bilbo cooked them in wine and served them in cheese sauce with ham, that is.”

“And?” asked Emro impatiently. “Them any good?”

“They’re not bad by half,” admitted Hamfast. “Not my cup o’ tea, it isn’t – I’m more for taters and mushrooms, meself. But for gentlehobbits with a refined taste… they ought to be good enough, I suppose. I wonder if Mr. Bilbo wants to serve them at his birthday party – if there will be any guests, that is.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Understandable as young Hamfast Gamgee’s concerns were about whether anyone would accept his employer’s invitation to the birthday party, he needn’t have worried. Hobbits might be a tad snobbish, especially those who were gentry, but they also loved food, particularly if it came from someone renowned for his culinary skills (as Bilbo had been all his life), and they loved it even more if the upcoming party would promise to be an excellent source for gossip. Bilbo’s announced birthday party promised both, and besides that the chance to see whether he’d truly gone completely mad, as Otho and Lobelia had been telling everyone for months, also counted as a powerful motivation.

Admittedly, there were still those who’d refused to enter his smial ever again – Missus Rubinium Bolger Baggins being the first of those – and there were some, like Bilbo’s uncle Longo and his entire family, who hadn’t even received an invitation to begin with. That simple fact hadn’t hindered Otho and Lobelia from showing up anyway, though, declaring that as Bilbo’s heirs they had every right to attend, even if their invitation, obviously, got lost in the hands of the Quick Post – a fact about which they had already submitted a complaint to Mayor Burrows.

Unlike his father, the Mayor himself had accepted Bilbo’s invitation, together with his lovely young wife (leaving their babe in the care of Arnica’s own old nurse), his sister Rubia and her husband Timmo Grubb, his brother Rufus, together with Asphodel Brandybuck, and several of Bilbo’s Took and Brandybuck cousins.

Even some of the younger Bagginses had decided to accept, despite Missus Rubinium’s public – and rather vocal – misgivings. There was Posco with his wife Gilly and his sister Prisca. There was Bingo’s son, Falco Chubb-Baggins, whose presence counted as particularly significant as he was supposed to become the head of his mother’s family, as Chica Chubb-Baggins had no brother to inherit that title from her father.

Not half as significant, however, as that of Rorimac Brandybuck, the Master’s Heir, who came with his wife Menegilda, and who finally managed to get away from their familiar duties in Brandy Hall for a while; or that of Adalgrim Took, or any other of the Tooks, Brandybucks and Boffins present.

Fosco Baggins was, sadly, absent – presumably, his wife had forbidden him to accept – but his oldest son, Drogo, apparently dared to challenge his mother’s wrath, as he was sitting side by side with Primula Brandybuck and barely had eyes for anyone else. The two of them had quite suddenly fallen in love after Bilbo’s return and intended to marry as soon as possible – which meant at least several years yet to come, as Primula wasn’t of age yet, and Master Gorbadoc didn’t want her to become a child bride.

However – perhaps as a proof that Bilbo had truly begun to crack as the Sackville-Bagginses were whispering – aside from the respectable Shirefolk, there were also some rather… unusual guests at the dinner table. Considering the recent events no-one was truly surprised that Bilbo had chosen to invite his eccentric uncle, Isengar; the real surprise was that the Mad Took actually accepted, as he hadn’t gone to any parties since his return from the outside world, as far as anyone knew.

But even stranger than the Mad Took were the three Dwarves – broad and stocky all three of them, and one quite enormously fat and heavy, all three wearing richly embroidered tunics and breeches in dark gold or pale green, heavy boots and wonderfully crafted golden belts, into which their forked and braided beards were tucked. Although no-one bothered to introduce them to the Sackville-Bagginses, Otho and Lobelia soon figured out that their names were Bifur, Bofur and Bombur (with Bifur being the smallest, most slender one among them, and Bombur the enormously fat one who’d have put Lalia Clayhanger Took to shame), and that they had obviously accompanied Bilbo on his mad adventure.

“We are on our way to the Blue Mountains, to fetch our families and take them with us to Erebor, now that the Kingdom under the Mountain is ours again,” explained Bifur, who seemed to have a rather high-pitched voice for a Dwarf – although still a great deal deeper than that of any Hobbit – to the Mad Took. “And since the Road practically runs by the doorstep of our esteemed burglar, we thought it only proper to pay him a visit. It would have been most discourteous of us not to do so, after all that he had done to help us.”

“Most discourteous indeed,” echoed the two other Dwarves in their deep bass voices in unison.

Otho and Lobelia exchanged identical blank looks. What burglar were these hairy barbarians talking about? And how could any self-respecting Hobbit invite them into his hole to begin with? For starters, they were a head taller than your average Hobbit, and took up a great deal of place. And then, everyone knew that Dwarves ate a lot, got drunk quickly and had no table manners whatsoever. Hobbits – especially Breeland Hobbits who mingled with lesser races anyway – might trade with Dwarves, but to invite them to parties, and that within the Shire itself… that had been, so far, unheard of.

Bilbo, however, gave Bifur a genuinely fond look.

“You’ve always been a flatterer,” he said, “but I thank you nonetheless. Well, it would be most discourteous of me if I kept you here with idle talk, while, as old Missus Crabtree tells me, dinner has been laid out for us. I’m sure you’re famished after the long journey from Erebor to here, all three of you.”

The Dwarves admitted that it was true, and Bilbo gave the sign of the beginning of dinner. There was a little turmoil as the guests relocated from the parlour, where they had been gathering, to the adjoining dining room, each of them trying to get there as quickly as possible in a more or less dignified manner… which, considering the number of guests, wasn’t an easy feat to perform. Rumours about the magnificence of the preparations for this birthday dinner party had been coursing the Shire for at least a week, so naturally, everyone was eager to see the results.

The fact that there had been no settings provided for the Sackville-Bagginses caused a little turmoil again – and some grins of evil satisfaction from the younger Tooks’ and Brandybucks’ side. But after the rearranging of the settings, room was made for them, after all… not that they’d be all too pleased by it, as they found themselves seated between the Mad Took and the enormously fat Dwarf – and a narrow and uncomfortable place it was – facing the other two Dwarves, whose beetle-black eyes stared at them unblinkingly for the longest time… ’til the Mad Took had mercy with them.

Or so it seemed at first, anyway.

“My dear Bifur,” he said to the smallest Dwarf sweetly, “why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I’m sure nobody would mind – and for this one time your cousins would look the other way, I think. After all, you are in the Shire now, in the company of most polite and well-mannered Hobbits. What possible danger could threaten you here?”

At that, Bifur finally blinked – and seemed genuinely surprised, although neither Otho, nor Lobelia could tell for their lives why.

“You’ve noticed?” asked the Dwarf uncertainly. “But how…?

The Mad Took shrugged, and there was a reflection of pleasant memories upon his weather-beaten face.

“I’ve spent many years in the outside world,” he said. “I know how to spot a Dwarf-dam, even though I’ve rarely had the honour to meet one.”

While the Sackville-Bagginses still glanced at each other stupidly, not having the faintest idea whatever a Dwarf-dam would be and why it would be so important, Bifur shot the other two Dwarves an uncertain look, as if asking their opinions.

The one named Bofur shrugged his heavy shoulders.

“He already knows,” he said, “and he is right: we are in the house of a friend, surrounded by peaceful folk. So what does it matter?”

“Well, in that case…”

To the general surprise and heartfelt shock of all hobbits present – well, with the exception of the Mad Took, of course – Bifur began to scratch his face where that long, beautifully braided beard of his began, and then… then simply removed it, carefully draping it over the back of his – his??? – chair.

Even Bilbo seemed more than a little shocked, which – considering that he’d spent almost a year in the company of this very Dwarf – was surprising.

“Your beard…. It’s fake?” he asked, stunned. “But why on earth…?”

“Because she’s a female,” explained the Mad Took calmly. “Contrary to common belief, Dwarves don’t carve their children from stone. However, we should feel greatly honoured by the trust showed towards us by the Lady Bifur. ’Tis almost unheard of that a Dwarf-dam would show herself undisguised to anyone but her closest kin.”

“A Dwarf… what?” asked Otho stupidly. The Mad Took simply ignored him.

“Dwarf women are few and highly respected,” explained Isengar, “and when they leave their homes at all – which is a rare enough thing for them to do – they clothe themselves like males and wear fake beards to their own protection.”

Bombur, undoubtedly a highly respectable and important Dwarf himself, despite his less than flattering looks, glanced at him with respect.

“You seem to know our people well, Master Took,” he said. “That is highly unusual for outsiders.”

“I used to travel with Dwarves from the Blue Mountains to the Grey Havens of the Elves,” replied Isengar. “They taught me much.”

“They also must have trusted you a great deal,” said Bofur, “if they revealed such well-kept secrets to you. As rare as it is for a Hobbit to go off and seek out adventure, it is even more unusual for one to become a Dwarf-friend. In fact, I have only heard of one aside from you and your esteemed uncle: Bandobras the Bullroarer. Not to mention our friend Bilbo here, of course. I’d love to hear how it came to your friendship with my people.”

“Mayhap one day I shall visit your halls and tell you about it,” promised Isengar. “Right now, it wouldn’t be nice to keep these good Hobbits from their dinner any longer.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This declaration was met with complete agreement from the other guests’ side, and thus old Missus Crabtree and her daughter, Sunflower, could finally begin to serve dinner, to the general satisfaction of everyone present. For Dwarves, albeit capable of going on very little food for a long time if they must, enjoyed a nice feast every bit as much as any Hobbit – and a nice feast it was, indeed, the one Bilbo Baggins gave to celebrate his birthday; indeed, the nicest that anyone in Hobbiton had attended to for a very long time.

Many of the various dishes contained mushrooms, for Bilbo, just like his young cousin Drogo, was inordinately fond of them, even by the measure of generally mushroom-crazy Hobbits. There was a casserole made of mushrooms and taters and hard-boiled eggs, baked over with cheese sauce. There was poultry, cooked with ham in mushroom sauce. There was a salad of the finest greens and herbs with a vinegar of walnut oil, with pieces of roast mushrooms strewn all over it. And so on, until even the Hobbits were feeling that they’d had enough mushrooms for the next month or so.

After the first couple of courses, however, they paused a little to allow their stomachs to deal with the food. Holman Greenhand, who’d been hired with his entire family to help with the serving of the dinner, brought several bottles of the Old Vineyard from the cellar, and the talk soon turned to the production and enjoyment of various wines and stayed on that topic for a while.

Finally, when the guests seemed to have recuperated from the first courses, Bilbo gently knocked on his wineglass with a fork to get their attention.

“My dear friends,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for a special occasion to introduce you to something wonderful I’ve found on my journeys. This is the only thing I’ve ever found to come close to mushrooms in its excellence, and I find it a shame that no Hobbit has encountered it so far.”

All of a sudden, every Hobbit in the dining room pricked his or her ears. Almost as good as mushrooms? That had to be a rare delicacy indeed!

“I regret that I can only offer them pickled,” continued Bilbo, “as their season is in early Forelithe, and quickly over, at that. I hope, though, that next year we’ll be able to grow our own, and then you can enjoy the full flavour of it. But even so, it’s quite nice, so I chose to add them to the birthday menu. Missus Greenhand, if you don’t mind…”

Having waited for the Master’s signal during the whole speech, Sunflower Greenhand now begun to distribute warmed plates covered with the nicest ever silver half-globes among the gusts. As the globes were removed – and Lobelia’s quickly taken away, before she could find the right place to hide it for further use – on the plates lay some kind of pale white vegetables, shaped like small spears with flared heads, twice as long as a Hobbit’s hand and as thick as a finger. They were generously splattered with melted butter and served with ham and boiled eggs, cut into small pieces and golden-brown breadcrumbs roasted in butter. The scent was mouth-watering, and the eyes of the Hobbits widened in anticipation.

“This noble plant, believe it or not, is related to the common green spargel,” explained Bilbo, while Holman was refilling the glasses with a fine yellow wine, matching the exceptional dish. “The Elves call it asparagus, I think, in the Noble Tongue, while the Dwarves know it as…”

“Elf-root!” exclaimed Bombur, the fat Dwarf, excitedly as the plate was placed before him and the silver globe removed. “Wherever did you get your hand on Elf-root, you lucky Hobbit, you?!”

Not listening to Bilbo’s answer about how he’d got several sealed cans of the pickled delicacy in some Elven valley, the name of which she couldn’t have remembered anyway, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins glared at her plate suspiciously. She took in the shape of the vegetable, and thought to understand – which caused angry red spots to appear on her pale face.

“What an indecent name for any kind of plant!” she hissed in barely controlled outrage to her husband. “Your cousin has truly no shame to serve something like this on his own birthday party!”

Bifur, the female Dwarf, glanced over to her in surprise.

“Indecent?” she asked. “It’s called so for the Elves were the first to grow it; and it’s the Elves who usually sell it to us. Why ever would you find the name…?”

She trailed off, apparently seeing the root in a different light for the first time in her life. Her round face, now smooth and rosy like that of any Hobbit lass without the fake beard, suddenly became beet red with embarrassment.

“Really, Missus Sackville-Baggins,” she said stiffly. “I must wonder about the working of your mind. No self-respecting Dwarf would ever think of an Elf that way – not even the males!”

She paused for a moment, allowing her words to sink in, then delivered the final blow as sure-handedly as she had been wielding her axe in the Battle of Five Armies. Dwarf-dams rarely showed mercy towards those who’d insulted them, and Bifur of the BroadBeam Clans was no exception.

“Tell me, Missus Sackville-Baggins,” she said sweetly, “do you often have such indecent thoughts when looking at completely innocent food? And if it is so, have you thought of seeking out the help of a competent healer?”

The laughter that followed her merciless questions would follow Lobelia Sackville-Baggins for years to come. She never spoke to a Dwarf again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The stories about Bilbo’s first birthday party after his unexpected return spread quickly throughout the Shire. For months, people were laughing over Lobelia having been bested by a Dwarf woman.

“You truly didn’t know she was a female?” asked Isengar Took his Baggins nephew after the Dwarves, too, had left for their former home in the Blue Mountains.

“How could I?” retorted Bilbo. “You know as well as I do that Dwarves are a secretive lot. It seems that all we’ve been through together wasn’t enough for them to trust me.”

“It wasn’t a particularly long time,” pointed out Isengar, “nor did you have much chance to discuss private things.”

“True,” admitted Bilbo grudgingly. “I wonder how many of them were females, in the end – and why did their fake beards never come off?”

“They use special glue,” explained Isengar, “some kind of gum made of the sap of certain trees. Not sure which ones, though.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about them anyway,” said Bilbo.

His uncle nodded. “I lived among them in the Blue Mountains for a while, before I went to the Sea. Seeking for my brother Hildifons, I was.”

“Have you ever learned what has become of him?” asked Bilbo.

Isengar shook his head. “Only that he supposedly went southwards, to Gondor, aboard one of the Elven merchant ships. He never came back; neither did the Elves he’d gone with, as they sailed to the Undying Lands from Edhellond, their southern haven near Dol Amroth.”

“Edhellond,” Bilbo repeated the word as if he’d tasted something delicious. “It means Elf-haven, doesn’t it?”

The Mad Took nodded. “The Falathrim – the Elves of the Grey Havens – say there’s a great tower in the harbour; one that can be seen from afar from the sea. I never was there myself, though. Worked with them Elves from the Grey Havens; helped build and repair their boots. Went out to the Sea with them, fishing.”

“What were they like?” asked Bilbo curiously.

His uncle shrugged. “They’re said to be different from other Elves; an older tribe that has always lived in the Havens. Their Lord, a decent old fellow named Círdan, has a long grey beard that reaches down to his knees, he has. Only Elves who grow beards live in the Grey Havens; them are a strange lot, ‘tis said. Fight with axes in a battle like them Dwarves, I heard. Never got into a fight with them, though.”

“Elves who grow beards?” said Bilbo doubtfully. “It’s hard to imagine.”

“Takes them a real long time, it does,” explained Isengar, “but the Lord Círdan is mighty old. The oldest of the lot, they say. Was born before the Sun and the Moon, he was; when there were only the stars on the dark skies, and no other light.”

“Older than the Sun and the Moon?” repeated Bilbo in awe. “And a seafarer, is he? I wish I could meet him one day. I wish I could see the Sea myself.”

“Who knows,” said Isengar after a long pause, “mayhap you’ll get your wish one day. You know what they say about being right careful what you wish for, though. You might get more than you can stomach.”

~TBC~

Elf-Root

by Soledad

Author’s note:

I must admit, now that the big secret about the Elf-root is out, that this entire story was inspired by a discussion about asparagus we had on LJ. Personally, I’m very fond of asparagus, and we were discussing possible recipes for preparing it, until somehow the question what Hobbits would think about it came up.

From that moment on, there was no stopping the story. The addition of the Mad Took and the Dwarves was an unexpected turn, even for me, as I originally only planned Missus Ruby and Hamfast Gamgee to be in it. But, as the Professor himself had said, the story grew while I was writing it, taking unexpected turns – it was great fun to write, but I’m glad it’s finally done.

Part Seven – Epilogue

On a bright spring day of Astron, almost to the day six years after Mr. Bilbo Baggins’ infamous departure from his home, Holman Greenhand was once again working in the flower garden of Bag End, feeling supremely content. It was a splendid day, he found, with the Sun shining so warmly, and the grass being so very green, and the birds gossiping in the trees most merrily.

Also, his youngest son had finally got that tooth which had been tormenting him for a week or so, making him cry day and night and keeping Holman and Sunflower and the other four children from any decent sleep. The only one who could sleep undisturbed in those days had been the Gammer, who’d become quite deaf in the recent year – so deaf that she would call ‘Enter!’ whenever the thunder rolled over the hill.

But the day before the bothersome tooth had finally broken through, which meant that Holman could finally sleep through the night – which, in turn, also meant that he’d go on with his work cheerfully and with renewed strength. Having entrusted the rows consisting the taters and the infamous Elf-root to Hamfast Gamgee, who, now twenty-two years of age, had already become something of an authority when it came to taters and various roots, Holman could focus his energies on the flower beds that had made the gardens of Bag End famous and much envied, ever since he’d taken them over.

As he was working contentedly – perhaps he was ever whistling a merry little tune under his breath – all of a sudden a long shadow was cast upon him. He looked up in surprise, and saw the tall, grey-clad figure of Gandalf the wizard towering over him, crowned with that big, pointy blue hat of his, and that silver scarf wrapped around his neck.

On the wizard’s side stood an old-looking yet still sturdy Dwarf – not one of those Holman had seen on Mr. Bilbo’s birthday party, though – wearing travelling clothes and a scarlet hood. His snow white beard was forked and braided, long enough for him to tuck it into his golden belt; his eyes bright and full of mirth.

“Mr. Gandalf, sir,” said Holman in surprise. “We haven’t seen you none since you came in with Mr. Bilbo, in the middle of the Sale! Five years ago it was, wasn’t it? What brings you to Hobbiton again?”

He didn’t voice his suspicions, but his tone spoke clearly enough of his fear that the wizard might inspire his Master to do something… unexpected again.

The Dwarf laughed, his voice surprisingly deep and rich; it was a very pleasant sound, the voice of someone who laughed a lot, despite everything fate might throw into his face.

“I see your reputation as a troublemaker has come before you, Tharkûn,” he said, his bright eyes twinkling in good humour. “Fear not, Master Hobbit; we do not intend to take the esteemed Bilbo Baggins with us to another adventure. We only wanted to see how he is doing.”

Holman blinked at the Dwarf warily. “And you would be, good sir…?”

“Forgive me, good sir, for my apparent lack of manners,” the Dwarf swept off his scarlet hood and bowed deeply. “Balin son of Fundin, at your service. And you are the gardener of our esteemed Mr. Baggins, I suppose?”

Holman nodded. “Holman Greenhand, at your service. And Mr. Bilbo is down at Number Five, helping Mr. Drogo get settled.”

“Drogo? His cousin who greeted him upon his return?” asked Gandalf. “He has moved out of his parents' hole then? Why ever would he want to do so – unless, of course, he is getting married?”

“That he is, Mr. Gandalf, sir,” replied Holman, more than a little impressed by the wizard’s understanding of Hobbit customs. “He’s marrying Miss Primula Brandybuck at Yuletide, he is. They’ve had their eyes on one other since Mr. Bilbo’s return, but Miss Primula was way too young back then, and the Master said as they ought to wait for a couple of years afore they could marry.”

“And they decided to move to Backshot Row of all places?” Gandalf was still a little surprised. “I thought Bilbo’s reputation was not the best among his kin and neighbours.”

“Mr. Drogo doesn’t care none what other people are saying,” explained Holman. “He loves Mr. Bilbo, he does; and as Mr. Bilbo owns all the holes along Bagshot Row, he’s offered to sell Number Five as was standing empty to Mr. Drogo. They say Missus Ruby got into a real fit, what with her son making business with the Mad Baggins, but Mr. Drogo’s done it anyway. I wonder how long it will take for Miss Dora to speak with him again.”

“Miss Dora?” as a rule, Gandalf knew his Hobbits well enough, but after a while even his head began to spin from all the names strewn into the simplest of conversations.

“Mr. Drogo’s older sister,” Holman began to warm up to the topic; it was nice to find one of the Big People with interest and understanding for Hobbit issues. “You see, Mr. Mungo Baggins, who was Mr. Bilbo’s gaffer, he had two brothers and two sisters. Mr. Largo, his youngest brother, was the father of Mr. Fosco. Mr. Fosco married Missus Ruby – she was born a Bolger, you know – and they’ve got three children, Miss Dora, Mr. Drogo and Mr. Dudo. So, Mr. Fosco is the first cousin of Mr. Bilbo’s father, the late Mr. Bungo, and thus Mr. Drogo and his siblings are all second cousins of Mr. Bilbo.”

Gandalf’s eyes began to glaze over. Balin, the white-beaded Dwarf, however, grinned broadly at the Hobbit.

“You were right, Tharkûn,” he said in deep satisfaction. “They are truly worse with their family trees than any Dwarf clan could hope to ever become. A lot worse, in fact. Now, what do you think about going in and allow our esteemed friend to confuse us with tales about his family some more?”

“Oh, certainly,” replied the wizard. “We need to speak with him indeed – and not just about his family. There are some things about his story of the time when he was separated from the rest of you that do not sound right.”

“You believe he lied to us?” asked the Dwarf doubtfully.

“Not directly, I do not think so,” answered Gandalf. “Perchance he has just left out things he did not find important. Or he remembered some details falsely. In any case, I intend to find out the whole story – and the way it truly happened.”

“let us seek him out, then,” said the Dwarf, and the two of them turned back towards the Bagshot Row to find Bilbo.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As he continued working on his flowerbeds, Holman thought for a while about the wizard’s words that he’d just overheard by accident, wondering why old Gandalf seemed so worried. So what if Mr. Bilbo had told a story a little differently than it had truly happened? It was just a story, wasn’t it? Everyone knew that stories, ‘specially good ones, often changed by the telling… or did wizards see such things differently? The Dwarf, Mr. Balin, didn’t seem to care none, so what was the issue?

Holman shook his head remembering what his father had once said to him: Don’t meddle with the affairs of wizards, lad, for they are subtle and quick to anger.

It had always seemed like a useful piece of advice, and Holman Greenhand decided to follow it now.

~The End~