Beta by RiverOtter.  To be seen as a companion to the story that will be published here next.

Curses Fulfilled

September 22, 1342 S.R.

            {It owed the miserable creature nothing, perhaps--certainly It had never considered him Its master.  It had answered Its Master’s call by fleeing as best It could with no thought of missing Its former bearer.  However, once It realized that It could not escape easily from the owner of the new pocket It inhabited, It had become angry, and even more so once that new bearer turned back toward the West.

            “Thief!  The nasty thief!” Gollum had hissed.  “We hates the Bagginses--we hates them forever!”  And the Ring had heard--heard and approved of the sentiment.  Ah, but being filled with so much of Its true Master’s mind and will, It fully understood the nature of hatred, envy, and malice.

            And now the Baggins was returned to his own home, his own place, his own people, and showed no signs at all of seeking to leave his familiar surroundings once more.  It did its best to infect him with dissatisfaction, but he remained firmly in place, seeking to fill that emptiness by purchasing new clothes, then sewing loops into each pocket to which to fasten his hapless prisoner.  It sought to prompt restlessness in him, and he merely would travel to see this kinsman or that, or would explore sections of his own land he’d never visited.

            “We curses the Bagginses!”

            It hated the Baggins now.  The Baggins who held It did not take It back where he’d found It, but neither had brought It any nearer Its home.  The Baggins had It safely penned up in his pocket in the center of a land that was about as far removed from Its Master’s as possible--west rather than east; north rather than south; full of life and uncontrollable and unexpected surprises rather than predictable sterility; filled with laughter and argument instead of obedient slaves terrified of the Master’s wrath.  It could not seem to move him to seek power.  It could not seem to move him to dreams of glory and conquest.  It could not seem even to move him to so simple an emotion as lust!  It might as well be back in the mud at the bottom of the river once again--then as It realized that thought It shrank a bit.  He used It not to spy upon others, but only, it proved, to hide himself more surely from certain of his own people at times he would not be bothered with their company.

            And this day--this day he had surrounded himself with those who continued to respect him, even to love him!  It would have shuddered, had that been possible.  Robbed of that form of expression, It grew as warm as it was possible to do within the pocket, wishing he had It against his skin so It could leave perhaps a small burn to warn him of Its displeasure.

            Then--then It realized he felt an emotion It approved of, could even use, perhaps, to inspire him to do something It could exploit for Its own ends--anger.  He was angry someone had come--two someones.  These were the last to arrive, and they, too, held emotions It appreciated--envy, spite, and greed.  Why could It not have ended up with such as they instead of this one?  And what was more--the woman of the two bore within her a child!  It tried to approach the child’s fëa, but was blocked by some power It could not appreciate.  Within Its Master’s halls It had been used to corrupt the fëar of the children borne by Its Master’s slaves; and the hröa had followed in the way of the fëa--usually, at least.  Why It could not touch this unborn child, however, It could not say.  It would do Its best to explore this barrier as It could.

            The woman of the two was the greedier, and had no aversion to taking what she wanted, It noted.  It wished she would explore the Baggins’s pocket and take It with her--but that, apparently, was not to be.  It could have howled with frustration--again, had It been capable of such expression.  Instead It sent a crackle of discontent through the room, and all became that much more uncomfortable with the situation.  And when the woman was caught with items she’d pilfered from the room of the Baggins, It was glad to see all as upset as It was. 

            Strike her--punish her!

            It felt the Baggins straighten, felt him clench his fist about It in his pocket.  Good--strike her!

            But the Baggins didn’t strike her--instead he let go of It as if he’d been stung.  No! he thought.  No--I won’t do that!

            What was it with these mortals?  Why did they insist on being polite, even with someone as self-centered as this one had been?  And the Baggins was giving her something--something to help protect her from the weather outside?  The Ring was totally perplexed.}

*******

October 23, 1342 S.R.

            {The one consulting with the Baggins was about the same age as Baggins himself, and the Ring was pleased to see that he was upset.  It could not follow the conversation, but It could feel the pulse of anger and disgust that Baggins felt as a result of whatever was being said.}

            “And just how is it that Lobelia and Otho ended up with the deed to Warm Smial?” Bilbo was asking.

            Teron Sackville’s jaws were almost clenched shut.  “They convinced Mother that I was the one who was putting the dessert before the meal with that lass there in Overhill.  I told her and told her it wasn’t me, but she wouldn’t listen, Bilbo!  The more I said it wasn’t me, the more convinced she was that I was the father!”

            “But why would she believe you were the father?  You’ve never had eyes for any lass other than Posy Strawflower over the other side of Bywater.”  At his guest’s nod he continued, “So how was it she was convinced you were playing around with that lass?”

            Teron reddened.  “I was spending a good deal of time in Overhill, you see, and wouldn’t tell her what I was doing.”

            “Which was?”

            “Racing ponies.”

            Bilbo sighed.  Teron’s father had lost a good deal of money and even some property racing and betting on ponies, and Laburnum Sackville had developed a marked antipathy to the sport as a result.  “She swore that if she caught you racing ponies she’d write you out of her will, didn’t she?”

            Teron nodded his head miserably.  “Yes.  So, she wrote me out of her will anyway, even though I don’t think she ever knew what I was really doing.”

            Bilbo muttered, “Trust Otho and Lobelia to catch you in a cleft stick of your own cutting.”

            “Actually, I’m certain it was all Lobelia, Bilbo.  She visited my mother several times, from what everyone tells me; but no one ever saw Otho about the place.  And it was her uncle who wrote out the new will for Mum.”

            Bilbo’s mouth tightened.  “Curse her!” he spat.

            {That the Ring caught.  Curse her!  It knew a command It was glad to see to.  As to the identity of the one cursed--the mental images were recognizable to the Ring--the one who’d stolen from the Baggins before.}

            Bilbo continued, “I’m not certain what I will be able to do, Teron.  Yes, as family head for the Bagginses I ought to be able to have some influence; but Otho and Lobelia can merely turn to the Sackville and Bracegirdle family heads, and at this point they will undoubtedly overrule me, particularly your uncle Perdo Sackville, as Otho is his heir as the Sackville after Longo.  After all, I am the Hobbit who ruined my reputation and tarnished my family name by going on an adventure.  And as your mother had warned you that if you raced ponies you risked losing the family smial but you were doing so anyway, I suspect that the Mayor and Thain as well as the family heads in general will only uphold the will, no matter you weren’t dallying with anyone.  What about your Hornblower ties?  Have you spoken to Hatto yet?”

            “He says about the same as you, Bilbo--that because I was racing ponies and about everyone knew how Mother felt about that it would have come to the same thing anyway.”

            After a moment of thought, Bilbo rose.  “Well, I will try to speak with Otho and Lobelia, but I truly doubt I shall do any good.”

******* 

            When Bilbo stopped by the smial of Longo and Camellia Sackville-Baggins the next day in search of their son and his wife, it was to find that Otho was off in the Southfarthing to see to one of his properties near Needlehole, and Lobelia was in Warm Smial with her Uncle Leander, doing an inventory of the place and deciding what they would keep and what they would sell.  Longo was stiffly formal with his nephew, but it was obvious that he would do nothing about convincing Otho and Lobelia to do properly by Teron.

            “So he had nothing to do with that lass becoming pregnant?” he growled.  “So, what he was really doing was racing ponies?  You know as well as I do how Laburnum felt about that!  Had she learned of it, the results would have been exactly the same.”

            Bilbo was shocked that Longo would speak so plainly about what had happened to the lass from Overhill, as such things weren’t exactly mentioned outright in polite Hobbit society.  “And you aren’t upset that Lobelia manipulated Laburnum Sackville, and that she made untrue accusations against Teron’s character?  You aren’t upset that she died thinking of her older son as a philanderer?”

            “Perhaps he might not be a philanderer, but there is no question he is a wastrel, Bilbo.”

            Bilbo could feel his anger rising on Teron’s behalf, and he felt the same urge to strike his uncle as he’d felt on the day of his birthday to strike Lobelia when she’d been marched into his presence along with several items she’d tried to steal from his bedroom.  No!  I’ll not so demean myself! he thought, and with a decided effort he suppressed the compulsion.  Instead he fixed his uncle with an expression that his grandfather Gerontius would have been proud of, and when he spoke his voice could have cut glass.  “I see, Uncle Longo--you are so eager to rid the hole of Lobelia you will sacrifice your wife’s cousin’s reputation.  What does that say of you?”  With that he let himself out of the hole, forcing himself not to slam the door after him.

            As for Lobelia when he found her in what would shortly be her new home, she had a smug delight to her.  “And why should I feel sorry for Teron?  He did it to himself, racing ponies when he knew how his mother felt about the activity!” she said.

            “But he wasn’t disinherited for racing ponies, as you full well know, Lobelia,” Bilbo said, again forcing himself to remain calm.  “You convinced his mother that he had lied about his feelings for Posy and was dallying with that foolish lass in Overhill even before you knew what he’d been really doing, didn’t you?  What’s more, you’ve besmirched his name before the whole region of the Hill, even after you’ve known that he’d really been taking part in the races!”

            “Had I told his mother what he was really doing it would have made no difference, Bilbo Baggins.”  The smug smile had faded, and she now appeared as stubborn as the chalk faces of the White Downs.  “Would you rather she’d died thinking he was as much a wastrel as his father?”

            “And the fact that his father’s ponies were being consistently dosed by your cousin Bigelow and his father means nothing, Lobelia?  I’ve checked into the pony races in Overhill, and since the two of them have been forbidden to have anything to do with them most of those who take part in them actually tend to come off fairly even, which was not true in Teron’s father’s day.”

            Lobelia’s expression grew hard.  “How dare you accuse my family of cheating!” she hissed.

            “I didn’t accuse your whole family--just certain members of it, Lobelia Bracegirdle.”  He stood up and planted his hands on his hips.  “A fine family for Leonardo to be head of--with thieves and crooked gamblers and schemers here and there throughout it.”  Even as he said this he regretted it, although he knew it was true. 

            As for Lobelia, her face had gone white to match the color of the same chalk faces she’d been stubborn as.  “And I suppose you think of me as one of the thieves and schemers?” she said in a dangerous tone.

            In for a brass, in for a silver, he thought.  “If the glove fits, wear it, my dear cousin’s wife,” he said aloud.

            “You’d say this to the wife of your heir?”

            “I’d say this to the Thain himself if he warranted it.”

            She, too, rose from her chair, her hands clutched together in rage.  She leaned forward and said in low tones, “My husband will be The Sackville one day, and he’ll be The Baggins as well, once you’re gone.”

            “Not if I produce an heir....”

            “And what decent Hobbitess will have you, do you think?  What family will allow their daughter to be courted by Mad Baggins?”

            “And just who says I’m mad?” he asked.

            “Do you think most Hobbits don’t believe that already, Bilbo Baggins?  Go off for a year and a day chasing dragons or whatever, and of course they’ll think you mad!  And if any lass should be fool enough to love you back, you can believe that I’ll see to it as she’ll regret it!  No one’s coming between us and Bag End, do you hear?”  Her voice had risen in volume as she spoke, and had become rather shrill by the end of the statement.  She laid her hand on her belly.  “This one will be both The Baggins and The Sackville, understand, Bilbo?”

            Bilbo searched her eyes.  “You think so, Lobelia?  Don’t be so very certain.”  His voice was low and carefully modulated, and he spoke not so much in anger as in a defiance that appeared almost negligent in nature.  In his mind he thought, As if I’d willingly have a Sackville-Baggins as my heir at this point!

            {The Ring noted the distinct purposefulness in the Baggins’s feelings, and reached out.  It swelled slightly, very pleased with the mutual hatred It sensed.  Both were more open to Its influence than It had sensed before, and It could push--push right there.  And It pushed, ever so slightly--and the Baggins felt It do so, suddenly became wary, forcefully pulling down rolled shutters....  Oh, he was able perhaps to stop further incursion within himself, although he could not quite stopper the breach made, not fully at least.  But as for that one....  It swelled a bit more in satisfaction.}

  *******

October 31, 1342 SR

            Perhaps the problem was that Lobelia had done too much in moving items out of Warm Smial or other items into it, but on the day she and Otho actually moved into it she’d felt uncomfortable all day long.

            As she shifted in her chair for the eighteenth time in the last ten minutes, her husband turned to her in frustration.  “Just what is it that is bothering you, Lobelia?” he asked.  “I’ve not seen a sign of an ant or any other creature anywhere within the smial.”

            “I don’t know, Otho.  Things just don’t feel right is all.”

            He sat a bit straighter.  “Feel right?  With the hole, you mean?”

            She looked at him with a degree of disgust.  “No--the smial is quite satisfactory, if I do say so myself.  No, not with Warm Smial, although I think we should change the name to something else.  What do you think of calling it Sackville Place?”

            Otho shrugged.  “Perhaps.”

            “It’s not as ridiculous as Warm Smial,” she continued.  “Why Laburnum carried on with that name....”  She stopped, a wave of discomfort sweeping across her face as her right hand went to her stomach.

            Her husband cocked his head.  “What is it, my dear wife?” he asked.  “Is the bairn kicking at your insides?”

            “Kicking?” she asked in a rather breathless tone once the spasm had subsided.  “Oh, no.  Why, it’s not kicked much for the past week, for which I’ve been very grateful.  I think it must be the kippers we had for dinner--perhaps they’d gone off.”

            He looked down at his own ample stomach.  “Well, mine were quite good, I must say, Lobelia.  I can’t think yours were off and not mine.  Perhaps it’s only that you are expecting.”

            She lifted her eyebrow and grimaced slightly.  “That’s always possible,” she murmured before returning to the subject at hand.  “I do believe that Sackville Place sounds much more dignified than Warm Smial.  As I started to say that sounds a rather bad joke.”

            Otho had to agree.  “It almost sounds like a name Bilbo might have given a smial.  After all, ‘Bag End’ is almost a joke in and of itself.”

            “Although it was his parents who named it that,” Lobelia pointed out, then stopped as another wave of discomfort hit her.

            Otho was beginning to feel alarmed.  “Perhaps I ought to send for Laurel Chubbs,” he suggested.  “You don’t look well, my dear.”

            Nonsense, she tried to say, but this time the pain went on too long.  “Oh, dear,” she gasped out.

            Thoroughly frightened, Otho was on his feet, headed for the door, grabbing his jacket to pull on as he went, not noting he’d put it on upside down as he headed for the house of Laurel Chubbs, one of the village’s healers.

 *

            Three hours later it was over.  Doncella Sandybanks, the midwife’s apprentice, had joined them, her mistress Lavender Underhill having been called away to Overhill to help deliver the child Teron had been accused of fathering.  She’d been summoned by the child’s real father, who’d rather hastily taken the careless lass to wife the moment he’d finished the modest smial he’d been digging for his new family.

            Otho sat in the parlor, his father and his Sackville grandfather by him, when at last Laurel Chubbs came out of the bedroom to advise the three of them, her face saddened.  “I’m sorry--it appears that the--the child died betimes--perhaps as long as a week ago, and at last the body accepted it was no longer alive and rid itself of it.  It looked to have been a son, although after this time I cannot be certain, and it would probably have been born in two to three week’s time at any rate.”

            “But that’s far too soon!” Longo said without conscious thought, his mind automatically calculating dates.  He looked to his son’s face, and couldn’t miss seeing that Otho’s visage had gone pale, save for his cheeks themselves, which were burning.  Suddenly Longo was himself angered.  “You mean--?” he began.  Then, after a moment of speechlessness he continued through a constricted throat, “And after all she had to say and intimate about Teron?  And you both knew!”  He rose.  “I wash my hands of the both of you!”  So saying he marched toward the door, grabbing his cloak and umbrella on the way.  “She was talking about the lass from Overhill putting the dessert before the meal, and all the time--” they heard before the door slammed behind him.

            Laurel looked about as Doncella came out of the bedroom carrying the small basket usually utilized for these purposes.  From the way the younger Hobbitess avoided looking at Otho, Laurel could tell she had heard.  After all, Otho and Lobelia had been married for but seven months, and most infants born this early would be weak and rather fragile, if they survived the birth.  But the form in the basket...had it been born alive there was little question it would have probably thrived.  As to what had caused it to fail....

            Who could tell why the child had died?

            As for Perdo Sackville, he raised his eyebrows but said no words of condemnation for his grandson and his wife.  How could he?  His daughter Camellia had also been early born according to the accounting common to Hobbits, after all.

 *******

            When Bilbo came the next day with a tureen of soup and a basket of his seed cakes and a small tub of whipped butter, it was a suspicious-eyed Bracegirdle cousin from Hardbottle who opened the door.  “Cousin Lobelia’s not seeing anyone,” she said by way of greeting.

            “Then may I see my cousin Otho, please?” Bilbo asked reasonably, not having expected to see Lobelia that day in any case.

            The cousin examined him, gave a small shrug, took the basket and tureen, then turned with no further words to lead him to Otho’s study, nodding to indicate he was on his own now before she disappeared down the passage to the kitchen.

            Bilbo watched after her with a sigh and a shake of his head, knowing full well he’d been well treated by Bracegirdle standards.  He then took a deep breath and knocked at the door.  Hearing a wordless growl from his younger cousin, he decided to take it as an invitation to enter.

            Otho turned to see who was intruding on his privacy, and his expression went even sourer.  “What brings you here, Bilbo?” he demanded.

            “You are not intending to make this easy, are you, lad?  I came to give you and Lobelia my condolences and, as family head, to offer whatever aid we Bagginses can give, Otho.”

            The younger Hobbit merely looked at him. 

            “Are you going to offer me a chair?” suggested Bilbo at last.

            Otho finally waved vaguely about the room, at which Bilbo sat himself on the wing chair in the corner.  “I am so very sorry, Otho,” he began.

            At last his cousin spoke.  “I suppose it was only for the best,” he said rather abruptly.

            Bilbo was shocked.  “For the best?  How can losing a child ever be for the best?  Do you know--do you know if it would have been a lad or a lass?”

            “Laurel Chubbs didn’t tell you?”

            “Laurel Chubbs?  Gossip about her patients?  I rather think not, Otho.  All she would say was that the child was lost, reporting it to your family heads as is customary, you know.  And as the child would have been my heir after you, I do feel I have a personal interest in the situation, you know.  Although I don’t understand your father’s attitude.  I understand he was here, but not Camellia?”

            “My mother--bestir herself for anything unpleasant?  How poorly you know her, Bilbo.”  There was decided bitterness there.  “There was no time to send for anyone from Lobelia’s family, of course, although Dock was visiting family in Overhill and came at once when I sent to advise her.  She and Lobelia aren’t particularly close, but she does have family feeling and has been very helpful, of course.”

            “Yes, I saw that,” Bilbo answered, managing to keep the irony he felt out of his voice.  “Shall I help with the funeral arrangements?”

            “A funeral?  For a child born so early?”

            The Baggins paused.  From what Longo had confided to a small group of gentlehobbits to which Bilbo was attached at the Green Dragon the night before, the child hadn’t been born all that early--indeed had been due at any time.  Lobelia and Otho had married while he was gone, although even before he’d hared off with the Dwarves and Gandalf there had been more than adequate signs that this was where the wind was blowing, once Lobelia had gotten the idea he wasn’t the least interested in her and was not to be maneuvered into a compromising situation, and after Drogo had retreated to Buckland to escape her attentions as well.  The lass had seemed intent on marrying into Baggins money and respectability no matter what; that she’d deliberately put the dessert before the meal in order to force a marriage was certainly well within her character.

            But it appeared that Otho was intent on pretending this child was indeed far too early to have survived the birth, and that was disturbing to the older Hobbit.  Longo had last night been feeling rather contrite about the rumors Lobelia had started about Teron, from what Bilbo had been able to see--his uncle had been patently ignoring his presence, after all.  But if Otho was going to act as if the child was born too soon, what could be done about it?  Those who’d been privy to Longo’s intelligence the previous evening and most likely their wives and families would quietly spread the word, of course, and there would be added that much more disdain given Otho and Lobelia as a response, particularly as the two of them had so benefited from the slander Lobelia has spread about her husband’s cousin.  But it was a Baggins trait to avoid looking anything but prim and proper in the eyes of the Shire, after all....

            “I see,” Bilbo said at last.  “Too early to survive.  Then you are allowing the midwife to see to the disposal of the child?”

            “I don’t see how we could do more, Bilbo.  It’s not as if it had had the chance to live.”

            For a moment Bilbo saw a brief indication of grief there, although Otho immediately hid it away.  He felt some relief--apparently Otho--and hopefully Lobelia as well--had been happily anticipating the birth of this child.  It was a sign that there was still some humanity in their hearts.

            “I see.”

            But later that day he stopped by Lavender Sandybanks’s home and arranged for a quiet internment for the poor child, and he sent down flowers from Bag End to lay over the unmarked grave.

 *******

            {It was surprised that the temporarily unprotected child had died as a result of Its touch on its fëa, but was pleased to find It had managed to cause grief to that pair and to the Baggins as well.  And to realize that the unborn boy-child would have been dear to the Baggins in spite of its parents pleased It the more.  If It had managed to disturb the feeling of continuity for Its current bearer....

            It was difficult, however, to fully stay awake.  It was in an environment that was antithetical to Its nature, and Its true Master had been forced to flee his fortress and was not yet ready to declare himself as Lord of Mordor.  However, It set a small part of Its awareness to keeping an eye on matters.  It had avenged Its current bearer and had seen his curse carried out, at the same time meeting the desires of Its previous bearer.  We curses the Bagginses!  Yes, that one had cursed this one’s family, and It would delight in punishing the Baggins who held It by seeing that family diminished as It could.  Yes, It would keep an Eye--the bit of the Eye as it contained--on future potential heirs to this one.  Let the Bagginses fade away to obscurity.  It could be patient, after all.

            If a gold Ring could yawn, It did so as It slid into a torpor, yet left Its awareness sufficiently focused that It might waken at any time it appeared another Baggins was likely to be born.  Oh, yes, that curse spoken by Gollum It was proud to fulfill.}

Written for the LOTR-Community LJ site August POV challenge.  Thanks to both RiverOtter and Dreamflower for the beta and advice.

A Useful Gift

            Bilbo had returned to the Shire with a pony and at least two chests of treasure a year and a day after he’d precipitously run out of Bag End without even a pocket handkerchief, afraid he’d been left behind by the very thirteen Dwarves he’d been resenting the previous afternoon.  He’d changed a good deal from the responsible, predictable Hobbit he’d once been.  First of all, he refused to apologize for his actions and his trespasses against Hobbit custom.  Second, he no longer seemed to think he was required to be predictable.  Third, he’d become perhaps too honest with others, and particularly with the Sackville-Bagginses.  His Uncle Longo he now snubbed openly, furious at him for having pushed the matter of selling off Bag End’s furnishings to the point he’d almost lost it all, and with having to go about the area to purchase back some of his own possessions. 

            “A year and a day before you can declare someone dead, Uncle Longo,” he’d admonished his father’s younger brother.  “And you barely gave me that!  Were you in that much of a hurry to get Lobelia Bracegirdle out of your home?”

            Longo had flushed, but couldn’t deny his nephew’s accusations.  Even his Camellia, vacuous as she was, found Lobelia--and particularly a prominently pregnant Lobelia--to be a greater trial than anyone should need to deal with--plus there was the problem of the disappearing spoons.  He only hoped once Lotho and Lobelia had a place of their own that problem would stop.

            Bilbo continued, “Well, it would help if you would give me the money you got for those possessions you’d already sold off before the auction, you know.  After all, as I wasn’t officially dead at the time, you had no right to take them then.”

            Longo had refused to do so, and Lobelia, who was listening from the adjoining room, knew why, of course.  After all, she was the one who’d convinced Longo to do what he’d done for the benefit of his son and heir and his son’s bride; and she was the one who’d accepted the payments for the objects promised by Longo, quietly arranging with those who’d made offers for this or that piece of furniture to come two days prior to the auction to pay her and pick up their desired purchases.  Unfortunately he had caught her at it and had dragged her out, protesting the while, before all transactions had been finalized.  However, even her father-ostensibly-in-love had not dared delve into her bodice where she’d stowed the moneys she’d already collected, and once back in the Sackville-Baggins hole Otho had backed her up, and the arguments had gone on until Camellia had yelled at all of them, and demanded that her husband allow Lobelia to keep the money in order to have some peace in the smial.

            Well, Lobelia Bracegirdle Sackville-Baggins, having been cheated of Bag End and the prospect of being the wife to The Baggins as well as The Sackville eventually--Longo had been promised that post by his wife’s father when he combined her last name with his own--already had plans to see to it that she and Otho would have an even better hole than Longo and Camellia’s.  Teron Sackville of Warm Smial had been spending a good deal of time in Overhill.  A Grubb lass from Overhill had just been found to have put the dessert before the meal, and was so far refusing to name the one who was the father of her expected child.  Lobelia was doing her best to convince old Missus Laburnum Sackville, an aunt to Camellia, that her older son Teron had been dallying with the Grubb lass, and yesterday had introduced the old Hobbitess to her cousin Leander Bracegirdle, who’d offered to help Missus Laburnum to rewrite her will.  That Teron had been protesting his innocence was only working to Lobelia and Otho’s advantage, for he wasn’t willing to tell his mother what he had been doing in Overhill, knowing that she disliked any idea of him racing ponies.  Lobelia was feeling remarkably pleased with herself.  Old Missus Laburnum’s heart was failing her, and Laurel Chubbs, who saw to her, had told the family that she might go at any time.  There was a good chance, Lobelia knew, that within a few months she would be mistress of her own hole, and she would see to it that Warm Smial would be even more of a showplace than Bag End.

            In the mean time, she intended for her and Otho to be there at Bilbo Baggins’s birthday party next week.  As she heard the whistle of the quick-post messenger she went out as swiftly as her pregnancy allowed, hoping to find the invitation in today’s post.

            As she looked through the sheaf of letters she’d been given she was startled to hear Otho behind her.  “Well, did it come?”

            She glanced around sharply.  “Bilbo’s invitation?  No, not today.”

            He nodded.  “It’s what I expected.  He’s not likely to invite us, after all, not after he almost lost his hole, and when he’s spent much of the summer having to travel all over the West and South Farthings in order to get back those things you’d sold before the auction.  That perhaps wasn’t a wise idea, Lobelia dearest.”

            She snorted.  “He thinks Longo was to blame--I doubt he has any idea I was involved.”

            He shrugged.  “Well, you know that clothes press from the main guest room--the one Porto took.  That was one of the first items Bilbo was able to retrieve, I understand.  And you had best believe that Porto told him about you threatening that if he didn’t come get it early you’d sell it to Bigelow.  Oh, I am certain Cousin Bilbo knows precisely whom to blame.”

            Lobelia hadn’t thought of that possibility.  “Well, he has to invite us--you’re his rightful heir, after all.”

            Again Otho shrugged.  “That’s as may be, Lobelia.  However, Bilbo doesn’t appear to give much care for what other Hobbits think any more.  And he’s made it very clear my father isn’t welcome in Bag End.”  He straightened.  “Not that he’s ever appeared to care that much about me.  It was Drogo Baggins he sold Number Five to, you know.”

            “But you never wanted Number Five--you’re set to inherit your parents’ home.”

            “Whenever that might happen,” he muttered.

            But Lobelia knew that her husband didn’t really like his family’s hole, set as it was cheek-by-jowl in a row of smials along a ridge on the east side of Hobbiton.  Oh, it was big enough, perhaps; but certainly not as desirable as Bag End or Warm Smial, both of which were comfortably detached from other holes.  She looked about her.  Other than the front parlor and master bedroom at the front and the kitchen and dining room at the rear, most of the rooms had no windows, for most opened off the passage that ran through the ridge from front door to back.  Most of the bedrooms were lit by lanterns and candles.  Plus it was an older home with detached privy outside beyond the back door, while baths were still taken in a copper tub in front of the kitchen fire.  No real privacy at all!

            No, she was intent that when her Lotho became The Sackville he should be master of a hole in keeping with the dignity of that position.  And one day, she’d determined during the time she’d had free rein within Bag End, they’d own that smial, too, and she’d be known as Mistress of the Hill.  And all would respect her as they did Bilbo now as the owner of the splendor not only of Bag End itself but of those beautiful gardens as well.

            “We’re going to that birthday party,” she growled to her husband.  “And if he doesn’t send an invitation, we’ll....”

 *******

            September twenty-second dawned grey and drizzly, in keeping with the weather over the past several days.  By noon it was raining steadily, and those who came to Bilbo’s party (not many, by all accounts) were wrapped securely in woolen cloaks, and all had their hoods up over their heads.

            Holman Greenhand’s young apprentice Hamfast Gamgee was answering the door.  As the young Hobbit opened to Otho’s ring at the bell, Lobelia could hear a murmur of voices from the parlor.

            “Mr. Otho, sir?” asked the Gamgee.  “Did you get an invitation then?”  It was obvious by his expression that he didn’t believe anyone had considered sending such a thing to any of the Sackville-Bagginses.

            “As I am Cousin Bilbo’s heir, I assumed that it must simply have been mislaid by the post,” Otho said stiffly as he assisted his young wife free of her sodden cloak.  “It has been miserable weather, after all.”  His face as he surrendered his and Lobelia’s wraps to the young Hobbit indicated he didn’t feel it should have been necessary to answer to mere gardener’s lads.  Lobelia was proud of him.

            Once free of their cloaks they moved toward the parlor, and she suddenly heard a Hobbitess asking, “And you didn’t invite Otho or that Lobelia, did you, Bilbo?”

            “My supercilious cousin and his acquisitive wife?  I think not, Gilly.”

            So--Gilly Baggins--Posco’s wife.  Lobelia’s cheeks burned at the insult.  Well, she’d show them!  She dragged her husband forward, directly into the middle of the room.  All talk stopped, and all turned to look at them, then after a moment rather ostentatiously turned away and resumed their conversations in markedly lower tones.  Bilbo, who’d been standing near the fire, came forward.  “Oh, Otho--Lobelia--I’d not thought to see you here.”

            “They said as they’d understood as their invites was lost by the post, Master,” Hamfast said from behind them.  Lobelia turned in alarm, as she’d not realized the foolish soul had followed them into the parlor.

            “Lost by the post?” Bilbo asked, turning back to his unwanted guests.  “You thought....”  But after searching their faces he obviously decided not to go any further.  “I see.  Well, I will be honest with you--after finding I’d been assumed dead and finding you, Lobelia, measuring my bedroom for the furniture you intended to install there, I assumed that you would most likely be--uncomfortable--being included in my little party.  Not many agreed to come, actually, merely a dozen or so, I believe.”  That proved to be true.  “It’s not much of a celebration, I fear, and I suspect you will find it rather boring.”

            Lobelia summoned what she believed to be her most gracious and determined tone.  “Oh, I doubt that any party you should throw would prove boring, Cousin Bilbo.”  So saying she dragged Otho to the settle in the corner and sat down, making it plain that they were staying.

            Posco was polite as Bagginses usually were, but was not precisely friendly.  His sister Prisca, who was rather afraid of Lobelia, made up for his distance with her obsequious behavior, however, which was at least somewhat gratifying.  Holman and his wife Bess were assisting in the serving, and brought their toast triangles spread with ham or egg salad about, although somehow they managed to be turned away just before either Sackville-Baggins was able to obtain one; and the cup of tea Lobelia finally demanded arrived decidedly tepid while Otho’s ale flagon proved to be filled with small beer instead.  Rorimac Brandybuck wouldn’t give either of them the time of day, while Adalgrim Took’s eyes followed them about the room suspiciously.  Menegilda Goold Brandybuck always seemed to be moving away when Lobelia tried to approach her, while Gilly simply stared at her coldly.  Of Folco and Ruby’s children only Drogo Baggins was present, with Primula Brandybuck by his side.

            “And how do you find married life, Lobelia?” asked Wisteria Goodbody in a tone Lobelia considered patronizing.

            “Most satisfactory,” Lobelia answered shortly.  Wisteria raised her eyebrow and moved away, returning to her previous position near Ivy Groves and Fortumbald Boffin.  Ivy and Fortumbald were to marry in the spring, while young Wisteria was said to have her eye on Fortumbald’s younger brother Hildibras, although they wouldn’t either one be of age for some years yet.

            Farmers! Lobelia thought dismissively, turning her attention back to Bilbo.

            “You promised to tell us the tale of your adventures,” Drogo said as he and Primula sat themselves on the braided rug on the floor.  It was a new one--the one that had sat there was even now hidden in a storeroom hole on one of the properties south of the Three Farthings Stone Lobelia had inherited from her Bracegirdle grandmother.

            “Not that we promise to believe it,” laughed Rory.  He lifted his mug of ale in a salute before taking a deep draught from it.

            Bilbo affected shock.  “You would hear the adventures of a dissolute Baggins, then?  What is the world coming to!  Your sister will be most upset, Drogo.”

            “Oh, Dora will come around, Bilbo--you know her.  Before you know it she’ll be back to inundating you again with letters, although I’m certain they will now be laden with advice on how to possibly retrieve your good reputation.”

            “Not that such a thing is possible,” Bilbo said as he raised his own mug to his lips.  After sipping from it, he set it down.  “Well, what can I say?  Gandalf sent thirteen Dwarves here to meet me, having convinced them I was an expert burglar.  I say, Rory, are you all right?  Here--take this handkerchief and mop yourself up.  How does the inside of your nose feel?  Have done that a time or two, starting to laugh as I start to swallow some tea or such.  Where was I?”

            “A burglar?”  Ivy’s voice was shocked.  “Why on earth was he convinced you were a burglar?”

            “Who?  Gandalf?  Oh, I’m certain he knew I’m no such thing.  He told me the adventure would be profitable for me and amusing for him, and I’m sure he found it very amusing indeed--at times, at least--when he wasn’t having to save us from goblins and wargs, that is.  Wargs, Hildibras?  Oh, they are a type of wolf, you see--quite intelligent wolves as wolves go, and very strong and vicious.  Where did I see them?  Oh, but that’s getting ahead of the story somewhat, I suppose.”

            “Oh, what claptrap!” Otho suddenly said.  “There aren’t any such things as wargs and goblins.”

            Rory and Adalgrim gave him identical glares.  Fortumbald, who was a great-grandson of the Old Took by way of Isembold, who’d been almost as prolific as his father, said, “But everybody knows about Bandobras and how he knocked off the head of the Great Goblin in the battle of Greenfields.”

            “Stuff and nonsense!” Otho replied.  “I never believed that bit of garbage.”

            “We have the club he used in the Great Smial,” Adalgrim said.  “I’ve seen it there many a time.”

            “And the White Wolves came over the Brandywine when I myself was a lad,” Bilbo added.  “Rory’s father Gorbadoc has the skin of one of them by his bed--he and three Tooks who were visiting were able to kill it between them with their bows.”

            “And my father was one of those three Tooks,” added Adalgrim.  “And I helped skin the beast, for I was there at the time.”

            “But no one has ever seen a goblin!” Otho persisted.  “They’re only stories told by Dwarves!”

            Bilbo’s voice was no longer either jovial or reasonable; it was--certain.  “Well, I’ve seen goblins and managed to live to tell the tale--maybe barely, but I survived.  Some of those alongside whom I fought weren’t so fortunate.  We lost Thorin in the Battle of Five Armies, you see, and I was by him when he died.  And, yes, Otho Sackville-Baggins, I fought.  Not too well or competently, perhaps, but I fought until I was knocked unconscious.  I’m lucky they managed to kill all of the wargs or I’d probably be dead indeed--in which case it would be Lobelia who’d be hosting you all here, I suppose, rather than me.”  His eyes had an expression none of the others within the hole had ever seen before, slightly haunted and with a sense of purpose to them none of the guests could fully appreciate.  “I’ll say this, fighting is rather overrated in tales--a nasty business indeed.  I’m certainly not eager to do so again, although if it’s ever needed at least I’ll have a better idea of what I’m up against than I did before.”

            “You, fight?  With what?” demanded Otho.

            Bilbo stood, giving his first cousin an unfathomable look.  “Wait,” he said at last, and left the room, disappearing into his study, returning at last with a leather scabbard.  “You want to know what I fought with?” he asked.  “With this--my sword.  I named it Sting for the way it pricked the great spiders in Mirkwood.”  So saying, he drew the Elven blade.

            There was a silence for a time before Rorimac Brandybuck commented solemnly, “It’s different from the Sword in Brandy Hall.”

            Bilbo nodded.  “This one was made by the Elves, and appears to be very old--much older than Bucca’s Sword, Rory.  That was given Bucca of the Marish by the son of the last King; it is at least a thousand years old, although it might be as old as two and a half thousand.  From what Lord Elrond hinted while I was in Rivendell, this could be well over six thousand years old.  It’s hard to believe things could last that long, but then Elves aren’t mortal as we are, and their weapons have been made to last for much of their lifetimes.  I’ve learned things--many things--since I left here a year and a half ago.”

            He turned the blade somewhat, and the firelight flickered on it, reflected from the bright metal.  “It turns blue when orcs are about,” he murmured.  “That’s what the Elves call goblins--actually yrch, but orcs is close enough, I suppose.  The Elves hate goblins, and will kill all they come upon.  And Dwarves hate them even worse, I think.”

            For a moment longer the solemnity held, and all remained quiet around him, not certain what they could say, for none had ever seen Bilbo Baggins in this mood before.  When at last he returned the blade he’d been contemplating to its sheath, it was as if an odd lamp had been shuttered; and all present save Bilbo himself found themselves releasing their collective breath, all appearing surprised to realize they’d been holding it.

            “Ah, well,” Bilbo suddenly said as he laid the sheath upon the mantel in front of the mantel clock (and Lobelia found herself wishing she’d been able to spirit it away at the time she’d stolen the rug), “so far the tale has been anything but entertaining, has it?  Where was I?  Oh, yes--Gandalf declaring me a burglar to the great Thorin Oakenshield--that’s where this began.  Once I realized that this was what they thought me I was offended at first, but then found myself even worse offended when they told me I looked more a grocer.  Well, I thought, I would show them....”

            He spoke for about a half hour, and even Lotho and Lobelia remained quiet, listening as entranced as the rest; but Lobelia was now becoming advanced in her pregnancy, and the child she bore appeared to be pressing rather hard against her bladder, so at last she rose and headed for the privy.  Once finished there, however, she didn’t return directly to the party, but instead opened the door into Bilbo’s bedroom.  There had been a few--trinkets--she’d admired when last she’d been in this room, although Longo, having found them within her pockets (he’d had not qualms about searching those, unlike her bodice), had insisted they must be returned until the official word was granted that Bilbo had indeed been declared dead.  Now she intended to have them, and perhaps have a quick search for the chests of treasure Bilbo was said to have returned with.  However, she’d not counted upon the observant eyes of Bess Greenhand, who’d seen her head away from the kitchen and the party toward the bedrooms and who’d immediately fetched her husband.  Together husband and wife surprised her just as she was looking to secrete a pair of silver shirt studs within her bodice, and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins found that Bess Greenhand had no such qualms about delving within a lady’s bodice as did Longo Sackville-Baggins.  Then she was being marched back through the hole and made to stand before Bilbo, Bess carrying the pilfered items within her apron, which she’d folded into a bag of sorts.

            “I’m sorry, Master Bilbo, sir,” Holman intoned, “but we found this ’un in the bedrooms, sir, and the missus here took these off her.”  So saying, he signaled to Bess, who spilled the contents of her apron onto the surface of the great chest that stood beside his chair.  All looked at Lobelia in surprise at her brazenness, including Bilbo, once he’d done a quick mental inventory of the objects Bess had retrieved. 

            At last he stood and lifted his eyes to examine those of his cousin’s wife.  “I see,” he said coldly.  He turned toward Otho.  “What was that, cousin?  You fear you cannot tarry longer?  Ah, but I do understand.”  He turned to Hamfast.  “Master Gamgee--if you could get the cloaks for these two?”

            Suddenly there was a flash of light outside, and all turned toward the nearest window to look out over the Westfarthing.  While all had been intent on what Bilbo had to tell, they’d failed to notice how the wind had begun to blow more clouds in from the west, or how the day had grown darker as a full storm let its fury loose on the Shire.  A roll of thunder boomed through the hole.

            Otho looked from the storm to his wife, then to the others, inviting all to share his concern for her pregnancy.  “You,” he said haughtily to Bilbo, “would send a lass in Lobelia’s condition out into a storm such as this, unprotected save for her cloak, which is still damp from the journey here from across Hobbiton?”

            Bilbo examined his younger cousin’s eyes, and his own took a harder expression.  “Send her out unprotected?” he echoed.  “Oh, so you would accuse me of being harsh, then?  I see.”  He was plainly calculating, then suddenly smiled.  “Oh, but how thoughtless of me--I’d neglected to give you my gifts to you for my birthday.”  He looked back to the gardener’s lad.  “Let me get my guests their cloaks, Hamfast Gamgee.”  He slipped past Holman and Bess and went into the entranceway, and after a few moments had returned with the two cloaks and two umbrellas from the stand by the door.  To give him his due, they were rather nice ones, one definitely intended for a gentlehobbit, black with a steel and oak shaft and a handle carved marvelously into the head of a duck; the other a warm orange, its handle accented by a sphere of hawk’s eye. 

            At the sight of these Lobelia felt her mouth open slightly in surprise, and she found she had to take herself firmly in hand to keep from blurting out the words she found herself almost saying.  No, Lobelia Bracegirdle! she told herself.  It doesn’t appear he’s noticed.  Say nothing!  Say nothing!  Then she found herself doing her best to keep a smirk off her face, to continue to look as if she were upset at having been caught with so many small yet valuable objects in her possession.

            “Here, Otho, Lobelia--and I thank you for coming to my party.  May they give you years of service.”

            Lobelia accepted the umbrella given her and pulled it to her bosom as another flash of lightning lit the Shire, hoping that the others would interpret this as shock.  She allowed the thunder to sound, and widened her eyes as if in fear.  “You would hold this against me, Bilbo Baggins?” she asked.

            Bilbo, however, refused to feel guilty.  “At least you shall have more shelter than we knew climbing the pass through the Misty Mountains east of Rivendell,” he said.  “And do bear my respects to your father, Otho,” he added as he opened the door for them.

             Otho wrapped Lobelia’s still damp cloak about her and fastened her brooch, for she was clinging to the orange umbrella with all her strength; he then did the same with his own.  With a final glare at Bilbo he started to lead Lobelia out of the door, but stopped at the top of the stair when he realized his wife wasn’t with him.  “Lobelia!” he hissed.  “Don’t make a further spectacle of yourself!”

            “Otho,” she whispered back, not moving her lips, “open your umbrella and come back for me--wrap your arm about me!”

            “Why not use your own?” he whispered back.  She didn’t answer, but glared until he did as he was directed.  At a nudge from her he said rather loudly, “Come, my dear--I can see what Bilbo’s disapproval has brought you to.”

            She gave him the tiniest of nods of approval as she allowed herself to be led out the door, both of them sheltering under the black umbrella.  Down the steps they went and through the gate, and down the lane, turning toward the village.  Once they were fully out of sight of the windows and gardens of Bag End he stopped, dropped his arm roughly away from her, and demanded, “Now, Lobelia, after that stunt you can open that ‘birthday present’ of yours Bilbo just gave you and walk by yourself.”

            She stepped back under the rim of his umbrella, clutching her hands about the fabric of her own.  “No, I can’t, and I won’t tell you why until we get back to our own rooms.  Now, you can continue as we left Bag End.”

            He looked at her stubborn expression, shook his head in disgust, but allowed her to crowd him under the black canopy, although he rather spitefully allowed the edge to move sufficiently to allow the rain sheeting off it to drip directly onto her.  Lobelia didn’t appear to mind as she continued to grip that still-furled orange umbrella to her, her hands gripped possessively about it.

            Longo opened the door to admit them, shifting his eyes from his son to his son’s wife.  “You didn’t stay overly long, did you?” he asked.  “I’m surprised you even bothered, you know.”

            Otho turned the full force of his frustration on the older Hobbit.  “Stay?  At Bilbo’s party?  Humph!  Although as his proper heir not to go would have been unthinkable.”  He closed the black umbrella savagely and thrust it firmly into the stand.  “Come, Lobelia!” he snapped.  “Put that--thing--into the stand and come with me--I have something I wish to say to you.”

            Longo appeared surprised at the open anger Otho was showing to his bride, but wisely maintained his silence.  Lobelia, however, was shaking her head.  “Oh, no, Otho my dear one.  I wish to bring it with me.  You see, I will always treasure this umbrella Bilbo just gave me, and I wish to examine it more closely.”

            “But you didn’t even use it on the way home!”

            She gave an odd smile.  “Use it?  Oh, dearling, but I have used it--in fact, it’s already proven most useful indeed.

            Longo’s eyebrow rose as he watched the two of them head off down the passage toward their rooms, Otho plainly furious but Lobelia clutching her new umbrella to her with possessive glee.

            Once they were within the smaller room the two of them used as their private parlor and Otho had closed the door firmly against the rest of the Shire, he turned on her.  “Of all the impolitic things to do, Lobelia Bracegirdle Sackville-Baggins!” he hissed.  “To try to steal from Bilbo today--and then to get caught at it!  We’ll never be trusted there, you know, and then you’ve lost all you sought to take!”

            “Oh, no, Otho my dear,” she said, a superior smirk on her face.  “Definitely I didn’t lose all!”

            He looked at her with the disbelief he felt plain.  She merely shifted her hold on the umbrella and ran her thumb over the fabric, which bulged oddly.  “No,” she repeated, her voice full of a private satisfaction.  “I did not lose all I took today.  Without meaning to, Bilbo gave me several silver spoons, you see.”  So saying , she walked over to the table that sat between their chairs, shoved the lamp negligently aside, and shook out the contents of the umbrella.  Out fell three silver spoons, two of them sufficient to stir tea and one intended to serve out mashed potatoes or turnips.  “You see, I found them when I was collecting the money for the items your father had promised to the various people who’d made offers on Bilbo’s furniture, and I intended to bring them home that day.  But when I opened the door to find him there, I hid them inside this umbrella in Bilbo’s umbrella stand--and there they’ve been ever since!  Isn’t it marvelous!  He’s never realized they were there the whole time he’s been back!”

            Lobelia gloated over her treasures, holding the orange umbrella possessively under her arm.  “No, Bilbo never even noticed, and then in his pique today he gave me this umbrella, of the half dozen or so that were there!  So these are the birthday presents we deserved to get from him, the selfish old boor!”  She patted the stone ball that finished the handle to the umbrella.  “Oh, I shall indeed treasure this umbrella--the most useful gift I think I’ve ever received!”

            Even Otho was smiling by now as he lifted up the serving spoon and turned it over, giving the orange umbrella a quick, approving glance before turning his attention to the spoon and its maker’s marks.

Written for the A_L_E_C "Holiday Memories" Challenge.  For NancyLea for her birthday.  And thanks, as always, to RiverOtter for the beta.

Dancing the New Year In

            Bell Gamgee hummed as she finally settled into the chair in front of her mirrored dressing table.  Old Mr. Bilbo had given it to her as a wedding present when she’d come to Number Three as the new bride of Hamfast Gamgee, and she was that grateful for it, really.  She reached for her hairbrush.  She’d finally managed to see the five youngsters into their beds, Hamson and Halfred in the bed they shared in the second bedroom with little Samwise in his wee trundle bed at their feet, Daisy and May together in their bed in the third room.  She could hear her Hamfast in the parlor, seeing the Yule log lit using the embers brought from the great Yule bonfire, that fire lit as it was every year in the Party Field opposite the Hill.  He was more than humming--he was singing snatches of the songs that had been sung by the inhabitants of Hobbiton every year at the bonfire for as long as either one of them had lived in the village.

            Ah, but her Hamfast had been magnificent tonight, singing and stamping with the rest of the menfolk once the great stack of wood was set alight!  Even old Mr. Bilbo couldn’t match her Hamfast for dancing--not this year, she thought.  She shivered with delight at the memory of it--and of the warmth of his hands as he’d come to catch hers and draw her, too, into the dance as so many of those dancing were bringing wives and sweethearts to leap and cavort with them, and to join in the delight for the wildness of the flames, defying the now-defeated darkening of the days, the days which now must grow longer once again.  She’d danced with nearly as much abandon as he had, and together they’d leaped over the flaming margins of the pile.

            She drew her brush languorously through her curls, humming Yule Pursues the Dark of Night and smiling, her thoughts still out in the Party Field with the dancing.  But then the brush was suddenly lifted from her hand, and she raised her eyes to catch those in the reflection of her beloved husband, looking at her most suggestively.

            “A happy, blessed Yule to you, wife,” he said, the accent decidedly on that last word.

            “And to you, too, husband,” she said, giving him as bold a look as he was giving her.

            He wrapped one hand in her hair, and gently (if somewhat awkwardly) drew her to her feet, turning her to face him.  “You danced well.”

            “You were marvelous!”

            “Want another dance--here?  Now?”

            She smiled provocatively at him.  “Now?”

            He leaned forward to kiss her, and she could taste the beer and mulled cider he’d been drinking all evening on his mouth; then when he dropped his lips to the hollow of her neck she could smell the tang of smoke in his curls.  Again she shivered--this time in anticipation.  He lifted his face to hers, and she could see his eyes were dark with desire.  “Oh, yes,” he murmured huskily, “definitely now!”  He was fumbling with the laces of her festival bodice.  “Yes--now!”

            She laughed with delight, moving his hands away to loosen the bodice more efficiently, then allowing him to relieve her of it.  Then she was swiftly undoing his buttons....

            At last he lifted her into his arms, and she suppressed another laugh of anticipation.  Singing, “And light in the arms of day is returned,” he spun her about, then fell roughly across the bed, tripped by the rag rug.

            Both were now laughing aloud helplessly.  Finally she managed, “We must hush, or we’ll wake the children!”

            He gazed enraptured into her eyes.  “Let them know tonight as how much I love their mother.”

            Something in the way that he said that thrilled her most deeply of all.  “And let them never wonder as to whether I love their dad,” she said, suddenly solemn.  “And just as much!” she added, her eyes suddenly mischievous.

            His lopsided smile returned, and she felt the wiry muscles flow under his skin as he shifted up on an arm to gaze down at her.  “Want to prove that?” he challenged.

            “Oh, but that I do!” she said huskily, and then he was leaning down for a most--intimate--kiss.  “Oh, but I shall!” she murmured into his gently pointed ear, then kissed it delicately.

            Quite some time later they lay relaxed and sated.  He delicately caressed her belly.  “Five time you’ve borne me children.”

            She smiled, her heart filled with her love for him.  “And perhaps there will be a sixth--soon enough?”

            He laughed and turned to take her in his arms.  Spooned together, the two of them drifted into their first sleep of the new year.

Written in response to RiverOtter's birthday challenge posted at Henneth Annun.  A series of true drabbles.  Beta by RiverOtter as well!

Changing Views on Wisdom

            “Remember, children, that a proper Hobbit is always dependable.  And it’s easiest to be dependable if others know from the start what you will and will not do.”

            Bilbo nodded his acceptance of the wisdom of these words.  Who would think to question the truth of them?  He noted that his cousins Dora and Dudo were also indicating their agreement.  Only Drogo appeared not so certain being predictable was necessary.  He was looking to Belladonna quizzically.  For the first time Bilbo noted the indulgent expression in his mother’s eyes that indicated that she might not quite agree with her husband....

 *

            A proper Hobbit was generous and hospitable.  On Wednesdays it was Bilbo’s practice to let it be known he was “at home,” at which times he could expect his friends and relatives, of whom he had many, to drop in for luncheon and tea, and perhaps even for dinner.  Always he had copious amounts of tea and cakes prepared, and a few extra fowl purchased the preceding day from the village butcher.

            But as he watched that ambitious Lobelia Bracegirdle entering Bag End on the reluctant elbow of her local cousin he began questioning the wisdom of such open hospitality.

 *

            That Wizard Gandalf--he wanted Bilbo for an adventure he was managing?  What kind of Hobbit did he think Bilbo Baggins was?  And he thought perhaps Bilbo might like to be involved in a profitable venture?  And he thought he would find the endeavor entertaining?  Ah, no, thank you!  Bilbo had no intention of getting caught up in some Big Folk’s idea of entertainment!  Making certain the door was bolted shut behind him, Bilbo hurried to his favorite pantry, glad he was wise enough not to give in to the schemes of Wizards.

            But he dreamed of fireworks that night....

 *

            “But why on earth did you think to pick the troll’s pocket?” Gandalf prodded.

            How could Bilbo explain to the Wizard that he’d only thought to prove to the Dwarves--and himself--that Gandalf had been right in naming the Hobbit as the proper one to serve as the burglar for this quest?  So far what good had he done?  None!  And a fine burglar he’d proved himself, seeking to pinch whatever he might find in a troll’s pocket and getting caught at it!

            They’d do well to pack him off home right now--it might prove the wisest course.

 *

            Gandalf watched the eyes of the Hobbit light up as Elrond found the moon letters on Thror’s map, and saw Bilbo’s ears twitch as the words were read aloud.  Wise of the Baggins to listen now and commit them to heart!

            He’d done well, he knew, to choose Gerontius’s grandson as a companion for the Dwarves.  Behind that fussy exterior was a far wiser mind than the Hobbit yet appreciated; and he’d undoubtedly prove far more capable than he’d yet shown.

            But he’d felt the Creator’s urging in his heart at the sight of the Hobbit smoking on his doorstep.

 *

            It was a miserable and much thinner Bilbo Baggins who accompanied Thranduil’s guards into the Elven King’s pavilion.  He was wet and sneezing, and looked absolutely wretched.

            “It’s the heart of Thorin Oakenshield,” he’d said as he gave the Arkenstone into Bard’s hand.

            Gandalf was humbled.  Bilbo saw to the heart of the situation--there should be no such quarrel here, for were Thorin and the other Dwarves not caught in the spell of the dragon sickness they’d recognize the validity of the Men’s claim.  Wise indeed was Bilbo Baggins proving himself!  Now, to waken that similar wisdom in Thorin....

 *

            Bilbo was much changed, Gandalf noted.  He still let it be known he would usually be “at home” on Wednesdays, but had less care as to who might choose to take advantage of that hospitality.  Nor, if he was traveling abroad, did he appear to feel uncomfortable at the thought someone might come to call and find Bag End empty.  He was paying more attention to his younger kinsmen, and had definitely scandalized the family by announcing he was now a practicing copyist!

            The Shire might find Bilbo foolish since his return, but Gandalf found him a much wiser individual.

 *

            “Drogo and Primula died a month ago,” Bilbo told the Wizard solemnly.  “They left their son Frodo an orphan.  I’d thought, since he’s a Baggins by birth, that I should take him in as my father did with his father, his uncle and aunt when their parents died, but my Brandybuck kin have dissuaded me--for now, at least.  But I don’t like the apparent intention of Menegilda to protect the lad.  True he has a whispering in his heart....”

            He looked up, clearly thinking.  “Could you ask Lord Elrond how serious such a condition might be?”

            A wise question.

 *

            “What is it?” Elrond asked, seeing the Wizard’s brows rise as he read the letter given him by the Dwarves passing through Rivendell.

            “It’s from Bilbo--he’s decided to adopt that young cousin of his who was left orphaned about ten years ago.  Frodo, I think the child was named.”

            Elrond looked interested.  “He’d adopt another?  Why?”

            Gandalf laughed.  “To keep his Sackville-Baggins cousins out of Bag End for the most part.  They’ve never seen eye to eye with him, and he appears to loathe them, and apparently with good reason.  Wise of him to pick a more comfortable heir.”

 *

            Gandalf watched Bilbo and Frodo as they came together into the dining hall in Elrond’s house.  Bilbo appeared somehow fragile, and Frodo defensive.  Something had plainly occurred between the two of them while Frodo was visiting in the older Hobbit’s rooms earlier, and it had left Frodo feeling vulnerable and Bilbo terribly guilty.

            Something, perhaps, to do with the Ring? Gandalf wondered.  Had Bilbo asked his younger kinsman to give it back, perhaps?

            Frodo gave Bilbo a sideways glance, and the Wizard saw pity and love there as well as wariness.  Then It has not yet tainted their mutual wisdom....

For Awallen for her birthday, and for all the Mums on here!

A Mother’s Day

            “How long since the last one?” asked Doncella Sandybanks of Bell Gamgee.

            “Just afore Yule, ’bout the twentieth o’December if’n I member right,” Bell said, her eyes concerned as the other Hobbitess pressed her ear to Bell’s belly.  “But ev’ry other time by now, I was feelin’ things.”

            Doncella straightened, smiling reassuringly.  “Well, it’s not so unusual for there to be nothing to feel.  It’s early yet.  And each time is different from the others--you ought to know that by now.”

            “I know, Missus Doncella; but----”  Her voice faltered.

            “But what?” the midwife asked.

            “Well, it’s my birthday, you see.  And I’d hoped t’tell Ham, as my gift t’him, you understand.”

            Doncella smiled consolingly.  “He’ll be just as glad tomorrow, or the day after.  Or even next week!”

            “But what if’n I’m wrong?  What if’n it’s one of them evil growths?  Or if--if’n it didn’t quicken?”

            The midwife examined Bell’s eyes, a thoughtful expression on her face.  “Well, your eyes don’t speak of any growth.  And there’s no heaviness there, or sign of any unusual drainage.  No, I don’t think you need to fret any.”

            “But I can’t help but fret, what with nothin’ t’feel.”

            The midwife indicated Bell should replace her skirt.  “Well, I want you not to worry until next week.  I want you to come on Mersday, and we will see what we can see at that time.”

            Disappointed and depressed, Bell took her leave and headed back to Bagshot Row.  She’d been planning just how she’d give the news to her beloved husband, but now....

            She got home to find Halfred sweeping the pavement in the dooryard.  It appeared several of Ham’s pots had been smashed.

            “What happened here?” she asked.

            “It’s the bairn--he tripped against Dad’s pottin’ table there, and if’n it didn’t fall over!  I repotted four plants, but there’s a few as was too damaged t’do aught with.”

            “And where’s Sam now?”

            “Daisy’s took him in t’change his clothes--again! Him was a right mess.  And there’s a bump on the side of his head where one of the pots hit ’im.  Didn’t hurt him bad, but he was wailin’ fit t’raise the dead!”

            “Young Ham up at Bag End t’help his dad?”

            “Nah--Uncle Tom sent t’borrow him--there’s somethin’ t’do with a balky cow havin’ trouble with the calvin’--thinks as since the cow likes Ham mebbe she’ll be better with’n him about.”

            “The one with the white flower on her shoulder?”  At the lad’s nod she sighed.  “Then it’s likely as him won’t be here for the rest of the day.  And what about May?”

            “She’s still helpin’ Missus Rumble.  Her husband fell this morning, you member.  It appears as him has a broken shoulder, and the healer’s with them still.  I’m sorry, Mum--we’ve all been that busy no one’s been able t’start nothin’ fer luncheon.”

            Further disheartened, Bell went into Number 3 to begin preparations for what looked to become a late noon meal.  The hole was only partially straightened, and the second broom stood against the parlor table, alongside a distinct hill of dust that was even now attracting the attentions of the cat.

            What a day for disappointments!

            Then she went into the kitchen.  The worktable was covered with the makings of a cake, and the batter had been started and abandoned, apparently as a result of little Sammy’s mishap with his father’s potting table.  “I warned and warned Ham t’put better supports on that table,” she muttered under her breath as she tried to decide whether to finish the cake or to pull out bread and cold meats and maybe that cheese Mr. Bilbo had given them last Highday.  Well, considering the dull appearance of the batter it would be best to put that back into order!  But, to be reduced to having to bake her own birthday cake?

            Within a half hour the batter had been poured into pans and the flour and other ingredients put away again, and she had the table clean and was rapidly preparing food for the noon meal.  At least she didn’t have to worry about Hamson, as he’d likely not be home till nightfall, if he didn’t stay the night at the Cotton’s farm.  Daisy came from the back of the smial and set Sammy, a bandage wound about his head to keep a damp compress in place over his bump, on the floor of the parlor with his farm animals to keep him busy while she saw to the finishing of the straightening.  “I’m sorry, Mum--I’d left the sweepin’ only so’s I could get the cake made afore you come back; but then the table fell and Sammy was such a sight!  I had t’bathe him and see him changed.”

            “There’s naught t’pologize for, lass--at least you was here t’see t’him when him was hurt.”

            Halfred came inside and saw the yard broom put away, and now set to to prepare the table for the meal to come.  “That’s done.  And we’ve enough extra pots Dad won’t be havin’ no trouble with the rest of the seedlings.  No great harm done, at least.  And Sammy looks t’be all right--nothin’ bad nor nothin’ like that.  And here, Mum--let me finish that!  It’s yer birthday, after all.  You go sit down and rest a time--hold Sammy.”

            It was a relief to be shooed off to the parlor and allow Half to take over.  True, she knew the cheese and ham would be erratically sliced; but it would be sufficient for them all.  “Here, my best lad,” she crooned as she held our her arms to her youngest--so far, at least.  “Let me see the bump now.  No, I won’t be a-hurtin’ you.”

            “It fell, Mummie,” he whispered into her ear.  “It fell, an’ it hurted me!”

            “So I hear.  Ah, but it’s not so bad after all.  And yer sissie’s done a right fine job seein’ it cared for.  She’s a good lass, yer sissie.  I bet as ye’re right glad as she was here while Mum had t’go into the village.”

            “Yeah.  Better now, with you.”

            She felt herself smile as she retied the bandage and held him tight.  “Is it now?  Now, that’s right nice fer a mum t’hear her faunt say.”

            She felt him stiffen.  “Too big fer faunt!” he declared

            Smiling more broadly to herself, she stroked his hair from his eyes.  “And are ye now?  Too big fer laps, then?  Too big fer snuggles?”

            She could feel his alarm at the thought.  “No, Mummy--not too big!”

            She laughed softly.

            There was a knock at the door, which Daisy went to open.  There was a quiet exchange, after which her daughter turned to call, “Mummy--it’s Mr. Bilbo--says as he’s got somethin’ as he’d wanted to bring down!”

            “Well, don’t keep him on the doorstep, lass--show him in!”

            “Thank you, my dear,” she heard Mr. Bilbo say in response to some comment Daisy made.  “You--take this for me?  Nonsense, child, it’s far too big for you!  No, no, I’m quite glad to carry it for now!  And your mother is in the parlor?”  He appeared in the doorway, carrying quite a large chest in his arms.  “Well, hello, Mistress Bell.  I must say that you are looking well today, and I wanted to thank you for the invitation to your party this evening that the Gaffer just conferred upon me.  It’s just that I wished to bring you this....” 

            He brought the chest to her and set it down with a grunt on the floor at her feet, and then knelt to undo the latch.  “I can’t really say that this is intended to be a gift for your birthday, you must understand--just something I was asked to pass on.  This belonged to my distant cousin Primula, the one who drowned in the Brandywine about the same time that little lad there was born.  She did a good deal of needlework, and collected a goodly amount of equipment associated with it.  Did knitting and hooked woolwork and embroidery, don’t you know.”

            He popped the lid open to display a tray filled with items for sewing and embroidery--needles and scissors, a ruler and sheets of steel pins of different lengths and gauges.  Bell felt her jaw drop at the wealth of pins alone!  Then he lifted that tray, and beneath it was a second filled with needles of all sizes for knitting; below that were hooks of all sorts--of steel, bone, wood, and wrought iron, for other woolwork.  Below that were bobbins for bobbin lace.  When he lifted out that tray he exposed yarn--all kinds of yarns in a wide variety of colors and sizes and degrees of coarseness.

            “Almost all who do woolwork and needlework within Brandy Hall have all these things, you see.  And Primula’s son Frodo--you remember him, don’t you?  Yes- of course you do!  Well, to keep it short, Frodo wished these to go to someone who could use them and would truly need them.  And when I suggested perhaps you might be able to use them he was delighted with the idea!

            “Now, there is more--I still have her sewing box itself up at Bag End, and her knitting bag, and another chest filled with threads and finer yarns.  The fabric she had left I gave to Menegilda and Esmeralda for use there in the Hall itself--they are always needing fabric, it seems, considering all who live there under my cousin Rory!”

            Bell was stunned.  Yes, she’d done hookwork and some knitting, and of course she sewed.  But to have such a trove of needles and hooks, bobbins and materials?  She couldn’t quite believe it was being offered her!

            Mr. Bilbo, however, was looking uncertain.  “Of course,” he said tentatively, “if you feel uncomfortable accepting things like this from someone who’s dead....”

            She looked up to meet his eyes, as she leaned down to set Sammy on the floor and took a ball of burgundy yarn into her hands, reveling at the warmth and luxury of it.  “Uncomfortable?  Oh, no, Mr. Bilbo, sir--it’s only--it’s only as it’s so wonderful!”  She held the yarn to her face and felt herself smile.  “It’s so much, ye understand, sir.  And it’s wonderful!  Why, I’ve but three hooks for woolwork t’my name.  To think of havin’ so many, and so many differnt sizes!  It’s but a bit overwhelmin’ like.”

            He appeared relieved.  “Oh,” he smiled, “I’m so glad you like them.  I’ve asked your husband to bring down the rest when he comes down for luncheon.  I so wanted to see them in the hands of someone who could really use them and would appreciate them, after all.”  He reached out a finger to touch the ball of yarn she held.  “Drogo would see different colors and textures of yarn and would buy some for her, so she always had more than she could use.  And she had quite the collection of hooks, I must agree.  Her mother left her several, and it seems that once it became known she used them hooks and knitting needles became the most likely gifts others would give her for their birthdays.  There’s quite a nice roll of them in her knitting bag that Drogo made for her....”

            Bell allowed Sam to hold the ball of yarn while she ran her fingers through the tray of hooks and then through the knitting needles.  “I can’t believe such as me could have all these,” she murmured.

            Bilbo nodded.  “They’re yours for the asking, Mistress Bell.”  He nodded into her shining eyes, and she realized they were now indeed all hers.

            There was a thud at the door, and Daisy ran out from where she’d been helping Halfred to open it again.  Bell could hear Ham’s voice from the entranceway.  “Here, lass--take this work bag--Mr. Bilbo says as its meant fer yer mum.  Think as it’s big enough, d’ye?  And I’ll carry in the sewin’ box.  Half--there’s another chest out in the barrow--carry it in fer yer mum, won’t you?”  He came into the parlor carrying a finely joined wooden sewing box, its sides carved with a vine of ivy.  “Ah, Mr. Bilbo, sir--does she like it?”

            Mr. Bilbo was busy replacing the nested trays.  “She certainly appears to, Master Gamgee.”

            Hamfast gave a grin to answer Bilbo’s satisfied smile.  “Well, I’d think as she ought t’do so, sir.  It’s a treasure as ye’d give her--a treasure fer one as is more’n a treasure fer me!”

            Bell found herself answering her husband’s grin----

            ----and at that moment she finally felt it--that tiny flutter that told her that the small life begun in her was finally beginning to make itself well known. 

            “Well, Hamfast Gamgee,” she said, “and just wait until ye hear as what there is fer you fer my birthday!”

            She looked at the work bag with the wooden stand for it that Daisy was setting up carefully beside her.  “And I’ll be bound as this’ll come in right handy,” she added.  And inside she felt the flutter repeat itself.  Yes--there’d be one more Gamgee in this hole in a few more months, and it would have the best selection of blankets of any child born in Hobbiton, thanks to this gift from old Mr. Bilbo!

For Marta for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Final Considerations

            How could I have threatened him?  He’s shown far greater integrity than have I, who named myself King Under the Mountain.  I spoke and acted from greed, while he acted from a desire for fairness and peace between Elves and Men and those of us who came expecting only to retrieve but a pittance of what Smaug stole from us!  Now I die, but he shall live.  Well, may he live in the blessedness he deserves!

            Ah, Bilbo Baggins!  May the hair on your feet never thin, may your table ever groan with food, may your heirs reflect your honor!

A drabble for Elena Tiriel for her birthday.  And thanks so very much to RiverOtter for the beta!

The Research Project

            Ferumbras examined Bilbo Baggins’s study with distaste.  Papers, books, and diagrams littered every surface, with a pile of five thick tomes on the floor.  “What is this?” he asked, indicating the stack of paper filled with Bilbo’s spidery script that lay in the middle of the desk.

            Bilbo looked about himself, obviously distracted.  “This?  Oh, nothing really, I suppose.  Was writing to Gandalf, explaining what I’ve learned of how it is that the feathering patterns on arrows help them fly.”

            Ferumbras found himself rolling his eyes.  Only Bilbo Baggins would want to waste time exploring why something like that worked!

Written for the B2MEM "Civility" challenge, and for a second challenge submitted by Celeritas.  For Celeritas and Dreamflower, as we've all wondered what this first meeting might have been like.  Beta by RiverOtter.

A Pretense at Civility

            Lalia Took, the Thain’s Lady, looked on the younger couple who’d accompanied Longo Sackville-Baggins to the meeting of the Family Heads being held at the Great Smial.  And was Longo actually reluctant as he introduced them?

            “My son, Otho Sackville-Baggins, and his wife, Lobelia, formerly of the Bracegirdles.”

            A Bracegirdle, eh?  Well, that fit well enough, what with that watchful, acquisitive look in her eye and the patently false courteous smile on her lips.  Lalia nodded an acknowledgment of the introduction.  “Otho, and—Lobelia, wasn’t it?  Welcome to the Great Smial.  And have you been introduced to my son Ferumbras?”

            Ferumbras turned impatiently from his conversation with Ferdinand.  “And who is this?  Oh, it’s you, Baggins.  Your cousin hasn’t arrived as yet.  Have you any idea what is keeping him?  He is usually far more punctual than this!”

            “Actually,” Otho answered him, “Bilbo hasn’t been seen in some months, not since he hosted those Dwarves in May.  There’s been talk that he might have left Hobbiton with them.”

            “Gone with Dwarves?  Has he gone mad?  Since when do Hobbits, and particularly Bagginses, go off with Dwarves?”

            Lobelia sniffed.  “Perhaps he has gone mad indeed,” she said.  “He certainly is failing to display the level of responsibility one would expect from the head of the Baggins family from what I can tell.  And, Mr. Took, I would remind you that my husband is not merely a Baggins, but is the heir to both the Sackville and the Baggins family heads.”

            Lalia noted the tone in her voice, and suppressed an inner smile.  Oh, but this one was so proud of that distinction, wasn’t she?  And now she remembered where she’d heard the name of Lobelia Bracegirdle before—from Adalgrim and his wife.  They’d had tales to tell of a young Bracegirdle lass who’d been pursuing Bilbo Baggins and doing her best to arouse his interest—just before she transferred her attentions to Bilbo’s younger cousin Drogo, who had retreated to Buckland to escape her attempts to seduce him.

            Ambitious, she thought.  Most ambitious, this one.  Well, it appears she has managed at last to land at least one Baggins, for all his pretensions of being a Sackville.  Amateur!

            Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, she thought, would bear watching—close watching!  And so the Thain’s lady put on her widest smile, the one she believed appeared most sincere.  In honeyed tones she cooed, “Oh, but you are most welcome, Mistress Sackville-Baggins.  Most welcome indeed.  I am so very sorry I could not have convinced Fortimbras to bring us to attend your nuptials—I remember that we did receive the invitation, but not, if I remember correctly, until but a month before the wedding.  But we did have other commitments at the time, to attend another wedding—a family wedding, I fear, in the Northfarthing.  One of our own had been betrothed to one of the North-Tooks, you must understand.  It would have been a family scandal had we not honored our commitment to attend, particularly as we had promised six months previous.”

            There—let this one chew on the fact her wedding was rather—hastily arranged.  Now, could it be….  Oh, but I do believe that these two might well have put the dessert somewhat ahead of the main course!  How delightful!

            Lalia found herself delighting in the anticipation as to how much entertainment she could know by being civil to such a one as Lobelia Bracegirdle Sackville-Baggins.

            The pretentious cow! she thought to herself as she placed her arm about the other’s shoulder to lead her into the sunroom.  Let young Mistress Sackville-Baggins see just what elegance in a smial actually was!

Written for the Tolkien Weekly "Elevenses" prompt.  For Baylor's birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Planned Snack

            He’d broken his fast by eating all the ponies he could find.  Most had been spiced with the scent of Dwarves, a scent he knew well enough as his current lair had reeked of it for years.  There were a few tunnels that were too small for him to enter that still retained that scent.

            But that one odd pony—what it had smelled of Smaug was not certain.  Not Dwarves, nor Men, nor Elves nor orcs.

            What are you, Barrel-rider? the dragon questioned in his mind.  Whatever that is, I intend to have you for my mid-morning snack!

For Maeglin for her birthday.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

A Favor Asked

            Barggh ignored the Small One who was approaching him.  After all, such creatures were (physically) beneath his notice, always hurrying through the rocky slopes the Giants considered their home, and where they entertained themselves by tossing boulders one at the other or bowling them down the mountain passes.  The Small Ones tended to be very fragile—Barggh had managed to crush two or three by accident before he’d finally accepted his mother’s warning that they did not make good pets or playthings.  Not, of course, that they appeared to like being caught in a blind canyon for purposes of study by young Giants—they were like to lecture one and demand their freedom, and to turn up their noses at a fine mountain goat or yeti offered for their sustenance.

            No, best to let them be, Barggh had decided about the time he was judged able to hold his own in boulder tossing with his father’s friends.  As sentient beings, or so his father insisted, they weren’t considered proper prey for meals any way, and particularly as they would protect their own fiercely and objected so strenuously to being so used.  Barggh’s friend Yonnit had acquired a good number of scars on his thumb and ankles when he’d thought once to seek his sundown meal among the hairiest of the Small Ones—not a good idea, that one!  Barggh could have warned him….

            Although the absolute worst were the dark, swarming ones that spawned in the lightless places within the mountains themselves.  No one liked such creatures at all, not the hairy ones, the tallest ones, or even the Great Eagles, who nested on the crags above the Giants’ heads.  The swarming ones tended to come out of their caverns and tunnels only on the darkest of nights, ordinarily, and were apt to mischief toward anyone they came across.  They’d savaged Barggh’s little sister once, assaulting her feet.  As a result, she would seldom agree to come down the slopes toward any of the lower rifts going east and west, and was self-conscious about her scars.  Even Barggh’s mother agreed such creatures should be stepped on without compunction when they managed to come along one of the ways of the Giants, although their ichor tended to cause the soles of one’s feet to burn.

            Barggh noted the current Small One primarily because he was climbing the steep slopes in an apparent attempt to approach the level of Barggh’s own face.  He was the only Small One Barggh had ever seen doing such a thing, actually.  His attention caught, the Giant watched with fascination as the creature climbed.

            It was dressed all in grey, save for the enormous construction it wore atop its head, which was blue.  Barggh crouched down some so as to see it more clearly.  Like the hairy ones, its face was obscured by a great beard, although this one did not appear to be as harsh as those of that much smaller folk.  Nor was it carrying the great shining axes that the hairy ones tended to prefer to use to protect themselves.  No, this one wore a long stick of metal hanging from its waist, and carried what appeared to have been the stem of a tree bound to its back.  He eyed that stem with interest, as it appeared just the right size to serve Barggh in cleaning between his teeth.  Not, though, that he was likely to offer said item to the Giant, he realized.

            “You!” it finally called, being not much lower than Barggh’s face now.  “Would you mind helping me pin some orcs within the mountains?”

            “Orcs?” Barggh grunted.

            “The creatures that come from within the mountains.  They’ve broken through into the pass, and are assaulting travelers, seeking to take them for slaves and the odd meal now and then.”

            Unwilling to enter the quarrels of the Small Ones, Barggh started to rise and turn away, but then noted a few of the swarming ones coming his way, apparently following the scent of the Small One who’d addressed him.  He grunted his displeasure, and moved forward to where he could stomp on the lot of them as they came into a clearer place.  There!  A few less of the foul creatures upon the mountainside.

            “Hooray!” called the grey Small One.  “Oy, you!  That was well done!”

            He turned toward the Small One.  “You don’t like those?” Barggh asked.

            The Small One was shaking his head.  “Of course not!  No one who is sensible likes Orcs!” he shouted.

            “Those you call Orcs?”

            “Yes!”

            Barggh thought for a moment.  “You want to keep them inside the dark?”

            “Yes!”

            Barggh gave a great smile.  “You show me where—I will bring stones….”

 *******

            His father and several of his friends helped in the end, and one rift from which the swarming ones had been issuing lately was filled with great blocks of stone not even the cleverest of their kind would be able to move with any ease.  And on hearing the nature of the project, Barggh’s little sister came down from the heights, herself arranging several of the greatest stones so that should any of the lower ones was disturbed, others above would come crashing down to crush those that sought to move them.  The Grey One assisted them as he could.

            As they were finishing their task, he noted the scars on the feet of Barggh’s sister, and he paused.  He caught Barggh’s attention.  “They did that to her?” he asked.  On learning this was true, he gave a great sigh, for such a small being, at least.  “I will do what I can for her,” he said, and approached her carefully.

            With the encouragement of Barggh and their father, she stayed still, although her brother realized she wanted nothing but to either stomp the thing flat or flee high up the slopes.  The Small One freed the tree stem from its back, and gently held it to the clearest of the scars.

            “Ooh!” she squealed.

            The Small One winced, but held the stem steady----

            At last he pulled away, and the glow that had gathered about him faded, but with it had faded the scars on Barggh’s sister’s feet.  She was looking down with amazement, then turned to look at the Small One, her face splitting in a smile of relief.  “Better!” she said.

            “Good!” said the Small One.  “It was little enough I could do to thank you all.”

            But Barggh, his hand on his sister’s shoulder, watched after the creature as it hurried away down the slope.  He noted that it was following the way that the last party of hairy ones he’d seen had taken.  At last he and she turned to follow their parents back upwards, satisfied that no more of the swarming ones would be coming out of that rift, at least.

 *******

            “And where were you during the night?” asked Bilbo of Gandalf.

            “I was convincing a friendly giant to help stop up the exit the goblins have been using lately, as I explained I would try to do when we came this way before.”

            “You can speak to such creatures?” Bilbo asked, intrigued.  “Remarkable!”  But it was with a strong feeling of relief he followed the Wizard back down the slope of the pass as they continued their journey homeward.

Written for the Tolkien Weekly Father prompt.  For Marta on her birthday.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

A Father’s Duty

            “And where is your father?” asked the old Hobbit of his young grandson.

            Little Bilbo swallowed.  He felt a bit frightened of the old fellow.  He did manage, “Back in our rooms, with Mummy.  She’s not been feeling well.”

            Grandfather’s expression softened markedly.  “With your mummy, is he?  And that’s just as it ought to be.  He knows well, your father, that to be a good da he needs to care properly for his wife.  Remember that when your time comes, Bilbo-my-lad!  Now, would you like a sweet?”

            Bilbo accepted being lifted into Grandfather’s lap.  Not so frightening after all!

Written for the Tolkien Weekly "Sister" prompt.  For Febobe for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Home from the Sea

            “It’s true!  You’re home at last!  Oh, Isengar—how we have all worried for you!”

            Isengar Took turned.  He’d been taken by surprise by his sister’s voice, having apparently forgotten just how quietly Hobbits could move in comparison to the Men among whom he’d lived for the past two decades or better.  If her voice surprised him, her appearance surprised him even more.

            “Oh, Belladonna—you’ve gone and grown up while I was gone!”

            “And I’m married now, and a mother.  Meet your nephew, Bilbo!”

            His favorite sister, a mother?  He could hardly take it in!  How so?

Written for the Tolkien Weekling Gifts: Wisdom challenge.

Well Named

            Bilbo watched his young first and second cousin, once removed each way, as he sat amidst his pile of Yule presents in the center of the first sunroom, in the midst of Hall faunts who were also expected to open their presents unhelped.  “A silly tradition,” he sighed, watching as one of the older faunts grabbed packages from Frodo’s pile.

            But Frodo was watching, also.

            The package he finally opened held ribbons of taffy.  Was he offering some to the larger child?

            But as the other was seeking to unstick his teeth, Frodo was retrieving his own gifts.

            “Wise child!”

For the birthdays of Lindelea, Nimue, and AinuLaire, with special honor to the Master himself on this, his birthday!  Beta by RiverOtter.

Scandal Overheard

            Primula Brandybuck Baggins took her market basket and headed into the center of Hobbiton, eager to fetch a nice fowl and some hazelnuts from the Marish for dinner.  Plus there was some cloth at the tailor’s shop she wished to look at once more, as she now had decided just how she intended to design the shirt she was making Drogo for Yule.  Tunic length, she thought as she turned at the lane on the north side of the Hill toward the marketplace, in a soft yellow with white and brown embroidery of apple blossoms about the hem and about the placket, and it would go well with brown braces upon which more apple blossoms and perhaps a scattering of green leaves were embroidered.  It would be perfect for him to wear under his new waistcoat that her mother had had made for him, and would become him well.

            She did love seeing her husband looking well, after all.

            “Primula!” called out Cousin Iris, Ponto Baggins’s wife, as she entered the market square.  “What—you didn’t bring the faunt?”

            She smiled.  “Frodo’s up at Bag End with his Uncle Bilbo, who is undoubtedly spoiling his appetite for tea.”

            “Bilbo does appear to dote on the bairn,” Iris commented.  “And did you see the Dwarf silver that Aldo has in his shop?  There is such a lovely gravy boat—you will love it when you see it!”

            “And who has Angelica today?” Primula asked as they headed for Aldo’s shop.

            “Peony was watching over her nap.  She’s been a bit cranky—I suspect she’s getting a new tooth.”  Iris reached for the door and pulled it open, allowing Primula to go before her.  Primula smiled her thanks and started to enter, only to stop dead with but one foot over the threshold.  Iris shuddered as she heard a shrill cackle of laughter from within.

            “And of course,” Lobelia was saying, “Bilbo refuses to admit it, but we’ve all seen how he hovers over the child, particularly in times such as now when Drogo must be away on business.  I swear, he might as well raise a sign and proclaim it aloud!”

            Iris could see how stiffly Primula was holding her shoulders, but at last she raised her chin and completed her entry.  “And just what is it that Bilbo is supposed to proclaim?” Primula demanded.  “That he loves how his Cousin Drogo’s son is devoted to him and so interested in everything there is to see and hear?”

            Lobelia colored, but merely drew herself straighter.  She would not allow others to see just how being overheard by the object of her latest gossip put her out of countenance.  “Oh, is that how you are putting it about, then?” she asked maliciously.

            “And what is there to put about?” Primula demanded as Iris entered after her and closed the door so that those on the square outside would not so easily overhear the latest confrontation between Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her husband’s kin by marriage.  “Bilbo is family head for the Bagginses, and was there to see Frodo the day he was born.  The child has always delighted in Bilbo’s attentions, from the moment the two of them clapped eyes on one another, and Bilbo returns the affection.  There is nothing more to it than that, I assure you.”

            Aldo Strawflower, embarrassed to be caught listening to Lobelia’s latest poison, tried to interrupt, but neither Hobbitess was giving him any attention at this time.  Lobelia spoke over the shopkeeper’s attempt to redirect Primula’s attention to the display of Dwarf silver, speaking between gritted teeth.  “So speaks the conniving wench who sought so hard to marry into polite society!”

            Primula’s mouth dropped in surprise, and then she inexplicably laughed aloud.  “I am supposedly a conniver?  And this from the one who chased after Bilbo for a year or better, and so sought to capture the attention of Drogo Baggins that he fled to Buckland to escape you, and who then put the dessert before the meal with Otho?  And no matter how queer folk may think those of us who hale from east of the Brandywine to be, no one has ever accused us of being conniving!”

            Lobelia went first white, and then a beet red in response to this.  Neither she nor Otho had ever admitted that their first child had been conceived before their rather hasty marriage, and indeed in many ways the fact it had been stillborn had drawn sufficient sympathy that most chose to ignore that indiscretion.  For Primula to speak aloud the truth she’d refused to admit in the years since she and Otho had failed to become Master and Mistress of Bag End and the Hill as well as Family Heads for the Bagginses was unforgivable.  Primula could tell from Lobelia’s expression that she’d just made of her an implacable enemy.  “How dare you,” Otho’s wife seethed, “accuse me of indiscretion?”

            “What?  It is permissible for you to accuse me of playing my husband false, even though we were visiting my family in Buckland at the time when Frodo was conceived, with no visits from Bilbo Baggins at the time, but not for me to point out the facts behind your marriage?  At least Drogo and I were wed before any of our children were conceived.”  Primula’s face was pale, and her eyes flashing.  “You are a right fishwife, Lobelia Bracegirdle, and have been for years.  About the only good thing to be said of you is that you did not play your husband false when you conceived Lotho—only Otho Sackville-Baggins could have fathered such a shameless brat.”

            With that, Primula turned about and left the shop, banging the door shut behind her, catching poor Iris still inside.

            Iris turned one last look at Lobelia, who was so furious she could not speak at all, and shook her head in disgust before she pushed open the door and followed Primula back away from the shop.

            Aldo rolled his eyes toward the heavens, knowing he possibly had lost at least three good customers that day, and turned to herding the still speechless Lobelia out before he would be forced to hear what she might come out with next.  “I do believe, Mistress Sackville-Baggins, that I neglected to tell you that the gravy boat is already spoken for.  Should I be able to procure another such piece in the future I will be certain to let you know.  But I must close up now, for I have just remembered I promised to close for the afternoon so the Missus and I can prepare to travel to Overhill for dinner—with friends.”

            Iris, hurrying after Primula as Drogo’s wife stalked back toward the Hill, gave a glance over her shoulder just in time to see Lobelia Sackville-Baggins being thrust out onto the pavement before Aldo’s shop and the door closed behind her.

            As for Primula—well, it was likely Drogo and she would move back to Buckland with this type of gossip floating about.  Iris felt a wave of fury to match that Primula had entertained wash over her.  Why on earth did Lobelia have to be so blessedly hateful?  She turned her attention back toward her friend.  “Primula, wait!” she called, knowing that there was little she’d be able to say to relieve Drogo’s wife of the hurt she’d received that day.

For AWallens for her birthday, and for mothers everywhere.

A Last Gift to Mummy

            I have the dearest, most clever Mum in all of the Shire, and I love her very much.  Each day she tells me how much she loves me, and I find myself smiling whenever I hear that.  She has made my clothes and hats and scarves, and cooks my meals.  She makes certain that the water in the pitcher in my room is warm for me to wash my hands and face when I get up, and that the clothing I want to wear for the day is where I can reach it, ready to put on.  She lets me help her in the garden and the kitchen.  She loves what I draw, and keeps some pictures I’ve done by her all the time.  She and I pretend to be pirates, or to be princes and princesses hiding from dragons or brigands.  She laughs at my jokes, and sings me to sleep.

            I wonder if she realizes how much I love her and Daddy?  I wonder if she ever wonders what I think of them when they leave me for the evening to spend some time alone together?  Do they know I’m so glad that they have one another, and that they’ll still have one another after I’m a Hobbit grown and gone off to live in my own hole with my own family?  And I hope that when I fall in love, it’s with a lady who is as wonderful as she is, and that she knows I love her as much as Daddy loves my Mum!

            Bilbo Baggins took the little essay that Frodo had written out of his pocket and read it one last time.  He looked at where Frodo was preparing himself to go out to the burial grounds in spite of his aunt’s insistence he stay safely in Brandy Hall and take no part in the day’s proceedings.  No, he’d been right from the start—trying to coddle Frodo was the worst thing that could be done to the lad!

            Frodo had written this during Bilbo’s last visit to Drogo and Primula’s hole in Whitfurrow.  Bilbo had kept it, intending to have it properly framed so that the lad could give it to his mother for his birthday in September.  But now Primula wouldn’t be there to receive it.

            Frodo took up the wreath of white blossoms and early violets he’d woven that morning, indicating he was ready to leave the Hall.  Bilbo gave him a nod, and led the way out of a side door so that they could reach the burial grounds as swiftly as possible.

            Menegilda was glaring at them when they arrived, and Frodo refused to look at her after his first glance her way, keeping his eyes instead on the pine coffin in which his parents’ bodies would be buried.  His face was pale, yes.  But then, what did they expect?  For the lad to appear bright-eyed and cheerful, singing nonsense songs under his breath and dancing the Bounder’s Jig?  Bilbo was proud of Frodo, as calm and quiet as he was standing under the eyes of so many, both familiar and strange to him.  Now and then a tear would slide unnoticed down his cheeks, but he was not crying out, wringing his hands, or otherwise making a spectacle of himself.  Dora was giving him looks of concern and pride, even as she wiped continually at her own eyes.

            Bilbo found himself using his own handkerchief, and surreptitiously offered a second to Frodo (he tended to carry more than one upon his person any more, since his adventure when he’d run off taking none with him at all).  The lad appeared a bit surprised and accepted it gratefully, but didn’t really use it much, his attention again on the coffin.  That horrible, simple, double coffin that ought not to be needed on this beautiful day.  That coffin that this dear child ought not to be having to consider, for he ought to be heading home to Whitfurrow with his parents, perhaps with that pony Drogo and Primula had planned to acquire for him during this visit to Brandy Hall!

            The time came at last for the words to be done with, and now Merimac and Saradoc were stepping forward with Dinodas and Dodiroc and a few others to take the ends of the ropes over which the coffin had been placed.  Carefully they moved to either side of the grave, and lifted their ends of the ropes so as to move the box over the hole, and finally began slowly allowing it to drop down to its final resting place.

            They all heard it settle against the earth at the bottom, and Frodo squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of it, taking a single deep breath to steady himself.  As the closest mourner, it was now his right to step first to the open grave to drop onto the coffin his wreath and throw in the first handful of dirt.  Bilbo briefly set his hand on the lad’s shoulder, then removed it.  Frodo gave a slight nod and moved forward, his eyes infinitely tired as he let the wreath fall, ignoring Saradoc beside him carefully coiling up his rope.  He then reached down for a handful of soil and cast it into the grave, flinching slightly as the pebbles could be heard making soft thunks on the top of the coffin.  He then turned, almost uncertainly, and gave a watery smile to Bilbo as he stepped back to his place, allowing Bilbo to step forward next.  He, as family head for the Bagginses, would be among the first to offer his handful of dirt in honor of Drogo.

            Bilbo dropped the lily and primrose blossoms he carried, then looked at the carefully folded missive that Frodo had written a month back.  The paper was already looking somewhat bent, after having spent so much time in his pocket in the last two days.  He closed his eyes and bowed his head, and allowed it to fall.  “There, Primula, Drogo,” he whispered.  “Always know how dearly your lad loved you both.”  He leaned forward to scoop up a handful of dirt and allowed it to sift through his fingers into the grave, and stepped back to again place his hand protectively, supportively, on Frodo’s shoulder.  He’d have to fight Menegilda for the lad he knew, but in time he would insist on taking Frodo to Bag End, and would teach the dear lad just what it meant to be a Baggins, and greatly loved in spite of his loss.

            And he seemed to hear Primula whispering in his ear, “Thank you so, Bilbo.  I know you’ll always be there for the lad, as long as he needs you.  Bless you.”

            He smiled unconsciously as he straightened and tightened his hand briefly, assuring the blessed lad that he wasn’t alone—not today of all days.

Written for the LOTR Community Humor Challenge.  Also for RiverOtter for her birthday.

Empty Handed

           Lobelia Sackville-Baggins rang the bell pull at Bag End with what she imagined was authority, and waited impatiently for Bilbo to respond.  It ought to be the other way around, of course—after abandoning his home and the Shire for a year and a day, Bilbo had been declared legally dead.  That he could just walk back into Hobbiton and take up as if nothing had happened—well, that was just too bad, of course.  Longo ought to have taken the role of the Baggins at that point, and Bilbo ought not to have been able to do anything about it on his return.  But instead, Bilbo had shown the bad taste to turn up disgustingly alive, and with more than enough funds to buy back those items that had already been sold—except, of course, those things Lobelia herself had disposed of before the day of the sale whose purchasers she’d never divulged.

           So, here she was at the door as a visitor where she ought to have been the mistress, which was quite the opposite of the way she’d intended things to be.

           She’d just reached this point in her reveries when the door opened, with Bilbo standing inside, a once-white cloth over his shoulder and a second knotted about his waist, holding that awful faunt Frodo in his arms.  “Yes, yes, and what can I do for you, Lobelia?” he demanded.  “I fear I have little time to visit—I have young Frodo here to care for today while his parents are off to Overhill on business.”

           “It has to do with the charity fete for the Sandybanks in Overhill,” she said importantly.  “You heard, I’m certain, about how their hole was flooded when the Water backed up a few weeks ago.”  She carefully ran her hands down the fawn-colored fabric of her new skirt.  She knew that it and the yellow bodice she was wearing became her well enough, and certainly indicated how well off and important she and Otho were, and how she couldn’t be bothered with fancywork like most common Hobbitesses.  “We were hoping you would be willing to donate one of the prizes for the raffle that will be part of the fete.”

           “And you had to come for such a thing today of all days!” muttered Bilbo, not quite under his breath.  “Oh, don’t stand there on the doorstep.  Come in and seat yourself in the parlor.  I’ll give you some tea and a seedcake or two and then see what I can come up with.”  Not quite the most courteous of greetings, but not as nasty as many of the exchanges the two of them had known over the years.  “And who’s watching young Lotho today?”

           “My Cousin Dock is up from Hardbottle, and is kindly watching the lad for me while I’m off seeing to organizing the fete.” 

            She considered claiming Bilbo’s own chair, but thought better of it.  Besides, it smelled strongly of pipe smoke, and she wasn’t all that fond of Old Toby.  She primly settled herself upon the chair that had been favored, it was said, by Belladonna Took Baggins during her days as Mistress of Bag End, and looked at Bilbo expectantly.  He set off down the passage to the kitchen, and she could hear him telling the small child, “Now, my young scamp, you sit there on the corner settle and be good while I fetch Mistress Lobelia some tea.  Good thing I’d already set the kettle over the fire, don’t you think?  Here—here’s a biscuit for you.  Now—a few for Lobelia, and a couple of seedcakes….”

           In minutes he was back, and she had to admit that the plate he brought for her was generous enough—two seedcakes, six ginger biscuits, slices of apple and pear, a boiled egg, and a scone with brambleberry jam, alongside a small pot of rosehip tea.  And if the cup and saucer weren’t from the best service in the hole, still they were large enough to hold a fair amount as well as being nicely serviceable.  She thanked him as he again disappeared down the passage, going past the kitchen this time to the bedrooms and storage rooms in search of a mathom proper to be raffled off to the benefit of the Sandybanks family.

           Having eaten the biscuits, she took a seedcake in one hand and her cup in another, and rose to steal to Bilbo’s study.  She’d heard rumors that he had a new silver inkstand, and she was dying to see it.  Probably gifted to him by those awful Dwarves he insisted on calling his friends.  She didn’t approve of the friendship, of course, but had to admit Dwarves were excellent craftsmen and their works were marvelous.

           And there on his desk it stood, and a marvelous thing it was!  Room for four bottles of ink, each of which was a jewel in its own right, plus a groove in which lay three quills and one steel pen with a silver nib.  But the stand itself—it was worth the risk of being possibly caught by her host (not that she intended to experience any such thing!).  Was there a maker’s mark on it, she wondered?  She had to look….

           There wasn’t room enough on the flatter surfaces of the desk to set the four bottles of ink as well as the pens and her cup, so the bottle of red ink she set on the footstool that stood near the empty hearth.  The steel pen was new, she noted, and it quickly found its way into her bodice.  As for the inkstand itself—what a work of art!  It was fashioned to look as if it were a branch from a rose bush, with sprays of leaves supporting each bottle and with very life-like thorns to the stems.  Each leaf was so well modeled she almost expected it to quiver in the breeze from the open window.  And the one single bloom at one end had a delicately formed bee positioned over its petals.

           “Beautiful!” she whispered to herself, lifting up the stand to look at the bottom of it.  No, not the hammer and anvil commonly seen on the items she knew had been crafted by Dwarves—this had a silver ship with a swans-head prow and a star upon the upraised mast.   “Elvish work, I’d say,” she commented privately.

           Just then, Lobelia heard a sound she had never wanted to hear.  “Petty!  Petty!  Nice red!” followed by a splashing sound as ink was poured out upon the tiles of the passageway floor.  She turned to see little Frodo, who couldn’t be more than two and a half years old, happily setting the now empty bottle that had held the red ink upon the carpet in the hallway before he deliberately began paddling his small hands in the ink.  “Petty!” he declared again, just before he planted his hands on the wall opposite the study door, leaving two slightly smeared red handprints on the white plaster.  As she watched, frozen with horror, he examined his handiwork, shook his head, and turned to the pool of ink once more to paddle before he made a second pair of handprints, not quite as streaky this time.  “Yes!” he said, obviously pleased.

           “No!” she exclaimed, suddenly hurrying forward. 

            But Frodo was faster than she was, and already was paddling once more in the ink.  Finding her skirts brushing the back of his neck, he rose up on his knees and turned.  “No—go ’way!” he said, and batted at the skirt, leaving predictable red stains on the crisp fawn of its cloth.

           Her second exclamation of “No!” was enough to fetch Bilbo from the back of the smial, a mirrored globe meant to be hung in the frame of a window in his hands.

           “What is it?” he demanded, then paused as he watched Lobelia Sackville-Baggins lifting up little Frodo, holding him at arm’s length, obviously intending to shake him soundly.  “Lobelia!  You’d best not do that!”

           She turned, instinctively pulling Frodo to her bosom at his shout.  “Not do what?” she blustered.

           “You’d best not shake that baby!” he said, a dangerous glint in his eyes.  “I’ll not stand by and see anyone shake so small a child.  And what in Middle Earth are you doing in my study?  You were left in the parlor to enjoy your tea!”  Then, as both of them observed the red ink beginning to run down the dip of the grout between the tiles, he exclaimed, “And how did Frodo here manage to put his hands on my bottle of red ink?”  He looked back up into her eyes, his face disgusted.  “So—you just can’t be bothered to behave properly, can you?”

           Frodo, however, had noticed something prodding him through the fabric of her bodice, and was putting a hand inside her blouse.  “Hard!” he said, reaching for what had caught his attention.

           “No!” she moaned again as she sought to remove a small hand from inside her clothing.  She drew out his hand, but not before he’d managed to grasp the hidden steel pen and pull it out of its hiding place. 

She stood there, red stains on her skirt and on the yellow of her bodice in a most suggestive place as Frodo placed his other hand on the outside of her left breast to steady himself.  He drew the blunt end of the pen into his mouth to suck on it, and grinned at Bilbo around it.  “Petty!” he announced, waving his other hand, now it had left its mark on Lobelia’s bodice, at the prints on the wall.

            Bilbo let the ball fall.  Fortunately it did not break as it hit the carpet, and it rolled away toward the wall where Frodo had made his handprints, resting there on the tiles as if to mark his handiwork.  He scooped Frodo out of Lobelia’s arms, saying, “I think, Lobelia, that it’s time for you to go.  I will send an item to your hole that will be suitable to be raffled off for the Sandybanks family.  But you have definitely worn out your welcome.”

            He herded her past the parlor to the door, and she just had time to reach for her hat and umbrella from the hooks on the wall of the entrance as he opened the door and indicated she should leave immediately.  At least, she noted, turning to hurl her parting shot of “And if you can’t control that horrid little faunt, I’ll give his mother an earful she’ll not forget soon!”at him, he now also had red handprints on his golden waistcoat.  A small recompense for coming away from Bag End empty handed, she thought.  But the humiliation wasn’t over yet.  It appeared that Paladin Took, his wife and sisters had just arrived, and she found herself having to brush by an openmouthed Esmeralda as she hurried down the steps and through the wicket gate to her waiting trap.  They had heard all of the interchange between her and Bilbo at the door, including Bilbo’s charges that her Lotho was a spoiled brat!  She scrambled into her trap and slapped at the pony with the reins before she remembered that the brake was set and released it.  With a jolt she started on the return journey to Sackville Place, her bodice empty but with added bitterness in her heart against Bilbo and little Frodo Baggins.

Written for the LOTR Community Potluck Challenge.  For Lindelea for her birthday.

A Matter of Attraction

            Lobelia Bracegirdle stood looking sourly at the sprays of her name flower hanging from the windowbox under the parlor window of her parents’ home.  It was her twenty-third birthday, and she didn’t wish to spend it at home in Hardbottle, in her mother’s garden, looking at the windowboxes there.  She’d wanted to spend it in Hobbiton as a houseguest of Bilbo Baggins in Bag End.  What were the gardens of her family home in Hardbottle compared to the gardens surrounding the Baggins home on the Hill?  And there had been lobelia planted in the windowbox right beside the front door, alongside the geraniums and nasturtiums.  She’d seen them just last month when she’d visited Cressette again and just happened to take a walk up the hill!  Surely this could be no coincidence!  He must have been thinking of her since her formal visit there last summer during the garden party she’d attended with her cousin Cressette Sackville.  It was while on that visit she’d heard Mr. Baggins—dear Bilbo, she’d thought of him--advising one of his Boffin relations that he was planning a house party this month. 

            But the desired invitation to visit at Bag End—properly chaperoned, of course—had failed to arrive in the post.  And when she’d approached Mr. Baggins in the marketplace in Hobbiton to inquire about whether her invitation had somehow become lost, he’d expressed startlement that she had ever expected such a thing.

            Why couldn’t he appreciate that he was just exactly the type of gentlehobbit she had always dreamed of marrying?  True, he wasn’t especially good looking, although he was far from ugly.  Truth be told, her hair was her best feature, so neither he nor she had a good deal to be overly proud about.  His looks didn’t much matter, then.  He was smaller than she, but that she considered a plus, as she felt it a good thing that her husband should look up to her.  There was no question that Bilbo Baggins was decidedly more than comfortably well off, and that he had connections to all of the wealthiest and most prominent families in the Shire, owned the most desirable home in the Westfarthing, and had those beautiful gardens that she so adored.  True, he was rather bookish in nature, but she was certain she could break him of that; and, if not, his love of reading might yet be utilized to keep him sufficiently absorbed and distracted that she might have a free hand in the ordering of the house--and of items for herself.

            Why had he spurned her so?  It just wasn’t fair!  She felt terribly embarrassed, and was certain that everyone throughout the region of the Hill must be talking of her naïveté in assuming that she, whose family resources had been exhausted by a father plagued by bad business dealings, would be welcomed as a houseguest in Bag End, or thought of attracting the attentions of the likes of Bilbo Baggins, perhaps even dancing with him!  He was reportedly the best dancer in the whole of the Shire, after all.  What might it have been like to be his partner?

            But within her bosom beat a passionate heart, one that yearned for the respect her father’s profligacy had denied her.  And Bilbo Baggins was the first whose attentions had excited her, caused her heart to flutter!  She’d had such dreams of a successful union with such a husband, one who could provide her with lovely, valuable gifts, and on whose arm she would excite envy rather than pity from other Hobbitesses.  What was she to do when it appeared this love was lost to her?

            She drifted out of the gardens of her father’s home and toward the village center.  A cup of tea at the Cuppa and More could perhaps lighten her mood, she thought vaguely.  She believed she just might have the price of it in her reticule—the results of slipping a few coins off of Cressette’s mother’s dressing table during her recent visit to Overhill.  Certainly she deserved a good cup of tea and perhaps a sweet currant bun or two.  But just short of the teashop she was stopped short by the clop of hooves.  She turned to see four gentlehobbits, all well turned out, riding northwards through Hardbottle toward the Three-Farthing Stone.  Her attention quickly fixed on the tallest of the four, his hair a decidedly warm dark brown, with eyes green as alder leaves, his riding cloak billowing about him and showcasing the intricate embroidery that decorated his rich waistcoat and the collar and cuffs of his well tailored jacket.  His expression was genial, and his smile most reminiscent of Bilbo Baggins.  Realizing her eyes were fixed upon him, he dipped his head politely as he rode nearer.

            “What are you looking at, Baggins?” demanded one of the other three, a Goold if she knew her Hobbits.  “We’ve no time to waste if we’re to arrive at Bilbo’s before dinner.”

            “Best return your attention to the road, Drogo,” advised another, who had the looks of both a Boffin and a Took to him.  “There are all number of children here in Hardbottle, and my experience is that they tend to pop out from behind garden gates and run across the lanes right under your pony’s nose with no warning at all.”

            The tall Hobbit gave each of his companions a glance.  “Good advice,” he responded as he passed Lobelia with no further attention.  “And I intend to eat well in Bag End this evening.  Cousin Bilbo sets a fine table, after all.  Do hurry, Otho,” he called after him to the fourth, who was lagging behind, and urged his pony forward.

            So, that was Drogo Baggins, was it?  He’d probably been seeing to some of his business dealings in the Southfarthing, then.  It was said he had farm shares in the Goold pipeweed plantation.  Goolden Lynch was said to be fine leaf, although nowhere as popular as Hornblower Brand or Old Toby.  And there was no question he was a fine figure of a Hobbit, well rounded and with as fair a face as a lass could wish for. 

            Pfft! for thoughts of Bilbo Baggins.  Drogo Baggins was a far better catch, she reckoned.  And he was younger than Bilbo, closer to her own age.  She could definitely do worse!  No, she’d forget Bilbo and set her cap for his younger cousin who was said to live in the older Baggins family hole at the foot of the Hill.  With her attention mostly fixed on the retreating Drogo, she barely gave the fourth rider much thought, although she automatically smiled as she realized he, too, was nodding politely to her as he passed, his attention more evaluative than had been that of his companions.  He favored Bilbo more than did Drogo, and she suspected this was Otho Sackville-Baggins, Bilbo’s cousin.  Another to keep in mind, perhaps. 

            She watched after the four of them as they reached the edge of the village and turned to ride across country toward Hobbiton.  Well, denied one Baggins, certainly she had a chance at another.  They were all well off and all related to better than half the Shire by blood or marriage.  As long as she had the chance to rejoice in those lovely gardens and perhaps inherit some of the delightful—and expensive—ornaments she’d seen in her visit to Bag End!  She fingered the watch chain she’d lifted from Bilbo’s own room and that she wore as a bracelet around her wrist.  At least she had this to remind herself of her first true attraction.  Hopefully it was a promise of more from the same source in the future!

            With that thought in mind, Lobelia went into the Cuppa in search of that cup of tea and two—no, three!—currant buns.

Written for the LOTR Community Lazy Summer fixed-length challenge:  323 words.  For Mews and Celeritas for their birthdays.

A Catch along the Brandywine

            “Do you think we’ll catch many fish?” Drogo Baggins asked Bilbo as they settled down on a fallen log on the edge of the Brandywine with rods, lines, and a small pot of earthworms between them.

            “I can usually catch enough for a meal or two,” Bilbo promised, choosing a likely looking wriggler from the pot and threading it onto his hook.  “And dear Primula will undoubtedly bring down a meal or two for us from the Hall while we fish.  Although I suspect she will most likely head for the bay to swim after she brings us elevenses.  Now, there always seems to be a trout or two lingering over there, right by that rocky outcrop where they’re protected from the main current.  Try baiting your hook with that bit of bread I suggested you put in your pocket.”

            In minutes both had lines in the water, and soon they were joined by their hosts, as both Gorbadoc and Rory arrived with their own gear, trailed by Rory’s son Saradoc who carried a large stoneware jug for the fishermen to share.

            “I brought you a basket of bread rolls with chicken and cress for elevenses,” said a voice, and all turned their attention from their lines in the river to the lass with her basket .  Primula was indeed dressed for swimming, wearing a shortened coarse shift such as the maidens from Brandy Hall favored for their play within the water.

            Drogo’s eyes were caught by the vision of her, and his mouth fell open in surprise and pleasure.  But, then she was a delight to look at in any costume she might choose to wear, Bilbo knew.

            Sara elbowed Bilbo.  “Drogo has a fish hooked,” he whispered hoarsely, giving the inattentive younger Baggins a sideways glance.

            Bilbo laughed.  “Oh, but Primula’s hooked a larger catch,” he murmured back.  “I suspect that as of today Drogo’s bachelor days are well behind him!”

Written for the LOTR Community "The River Runs Through It" challenge.  For Nierielraina's birthday.

Overcoming his Reluctance

            “Won’t you take me out on the river?” begged Primula Brandybuck Baggins of her husband.  “The sky is clear, the Moon is bright, and the night is warm.  It will be oh, so romantic!”  Seeing the anxiety becoming obvious in his handsome face, she began to coax.  “Oh, but do give it a try, Drogo dearling!  You are already far more comfortable crossing over on the ferry, and you know it.  You will find out it’s much the same in a rowboat.  You don’t even have to row or pole, you see.  I’ll push it away from the bank, even, if you like.  All you need do is sit still in the stern—that’s the back of the boat, you know—and let me lie with my head in your lap while we float with the current down to the bay where we Brandybucks swim.  Or, if you’d prefer not to see the water around you, I’ll sit in the back and you can lay your head on my lap.  Oh, do be a dear and go with me!  You’ll see just how beautiful it can be!”

            She’d asked the same thing every time they visited Brandy Hall, and he’d always managed to beg off.  But tonight Drogo had been playing at draughts with Primula’s nephew Saradoc, the two of them exchanging jokes and taking a drink whenever taking one of the other’s pieces, and as a result of his multiple wins he was feeling particularly expansive and even a bit reckless.

            “If you truly wish it, beloved,” he said.

            Fearful he might just change his mind once he should have time to think on it, she immediately handed him a basket of viands she’d prepared, took him by the hand, grabbed up the blanket roll she had ready, and led him out of the apartment that was theirs any time they visited Brandy Hall and out of the great warren of a smial.  Sara’s younger brother Merimac was standing out front, smoking his recently granted first pipe and feeling particularly grown up, and he looked quite surprised when she sent him with the bundled blankets to ready the Hall’s largest and most stable punt for them.  He wisely kept his mouth shut and hurried off to do her bidding, and she and Drogo followed after, Drogo carrying the basket while she described its contents as seductively as possible.

            “I brought some of the leftover duck Saradoc prepared for dinner tonight—you know how good his duck is, sweetling!  And a salad of late spring greens, and a large wedge of that white cheese you are so fond of that Mother makes.  And there’s something more, a surprise provided by Bilbo from a secret gift he made me last fall at his birthday!  Oh, and some of that delectable herb bread that Esmeralda makes—she gave me two loaves this afternoon that she made fresh this morning.  I’m so glad that Adalgrim’s brood came, too, to celebrate my father’s birthday!  Isn’t it lucky?  And there’s something in there that I made, also.  Oh, but I do hope you will like it!”  And she kept slapping teasingly at his hand each time he tried to lift the striped cloth that covered the basket’s contents.  She’d thought that at least she might talk him into going up atop the Master’s parlor to share a late picnic supper under the stars, but to actually get him to agree to floating down the Brandywine?  That was far more than she’d hoped to experience tonight!

            He was so besotted with her description of the contents of the basket and with herself as well that he barely noticed that they’d arrived at the upper landing where many of the Hall’s boats were kept.  Mac had the desired punt ready, the pole carefully positioned athwart just in case it might be needed, the thickest rug in her bundle laid on the bottom of the boat and the rest ready to draw around the passengers should the evening grow more chill.  She sat on the low seat at the stern while Mac helped Drogo into the vessel, where he was coaxed to sit in the center of the rug and then lie back with his head in his wife’s lap.  At a nervous nod from Primula, Mac settled the basket to Drogo’s right, and with no warning gave the punt the shove it needed to slip out into the current.

            This finally startled Drogo into the awareness that he was actually afloat on the surface of the river, and he started to sit up, only to be pressed back by his wife.  “Oh, but do lie still, Drogo,” she urged him.  “The punt will rock far less if you do, you must realize.”

            “But it’s rocking already!” he objected.

            “But isn’t it just right, this rocking, almost like a cradle?  Just think what it is like sitting in our great rocking chair at home with me in your lap.  You’ve always loved that!  Only this time your head is in my lap, and the night breeze is soothing, and the frogs are peeping along the bank of the river, and the water is flowing gently by us, all singing to us, rejoicing that we are here with them, rejoicing that we are so much in love!  For I do love you, Drogo Baggins.  I love you and the way that you love me and have overcome so many of your fears for my sake.  And if you are very, very good, I shall feed you sultanas, one by one, and slivers of white cheese, and bits of herb bread, and bites of Sara’s roast duck….”

            He smiled up at her, and opened his mouth as she held out some spice cake she’d pinched off the slices she’d set atop the rest of the food in the basket, and swallowed a sip of Old Winyards she squeezed out of a wineskin….

            Before the night was over, Drogo Baggins was already looking forward to his next sail along the Brandywine River with his so beloved wife!

Written for the LOTR Community "Dark Side of Love" challenge.  For TwentiethCenturyVole and PoppyMuddyfoot for their birthdays.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

A Campaign Begun

            Lobelia Bracegirdle examined herself critically in her mother’s looking glass.  She could not see anything about herself that any gentlehobbit might take exception to.  Her feet were perhaps a bit long and narrow, but the hair on them was healthy and had a slight shine to its dark curls.  Her ankles were fine enough.  Now, her legs were not her strong suit by any case, being straight and rather skinny, with knobby knees.  Thank heavens those were decently covered by her skirts!  But she knew for a fact that many lasses her age had legs that were far uglier than hers, yet they still had lads who would gladly walk out with them.

          Her shape wasn’t particularly bad—but neither was it particularly good.  Her bosom showed promise, a promise her mother had informed her would probably not come to its full proportions until she was older and had put on more weight.  The thought of having to eat in order to have a more substantial bosom made her shiver with frustration, for this would also most likely thicken her middle, which was pleasantly narrow, at the moment.  Well, she thought, looking again, perhaps not quite that narrow!  She was almost straight up and down, she realized, with a bit of allowance for that bosom of hers.  One could use corset stays to accentuate one’s figure, she knew.  Perhaps she should try that tonight.

          Her arms were more pleasingly shaped than her legs, and her hands were not reddened and rough as were those of lasses of the working class.  She at least had decent looking shoulders, she thought, turning slightly to examine them more fully.  Her carriage was straight as a rod, and she did not believe that this could possibly be a detriment.

          Her nose was—determined, she decided.  Her eyes were dark, and her brows straight.  Her mouth might have been perhaps a bit more generous.  Yes, she was rather tall for a Hobbitess, although she believed that made her even more attractive, being unusual.  Her hair was thick and full—her best feature, her mother had always held.  She did not recognize the disapproving set to her mouth or the rather sly expression in her eyes, and so did not realize why many gentlehobbits tended to give her so wide a berth.

          She was determined—absolutely determined—to have her name added to the Baggins family Book!  And, since Bilbo Baggins had made it clear he would not purposely invite her to his home and refused to be seen in her company, and since Drogo Baggins had looked aghast the last time she’d sought to join him at a table in the dining room at the Ivy Bush and had recently made a well announced visit to Buckland so as to visit with his Brandybuck relatives apparently intended to avoid her advances, left her with little choice.

          Otho Sackville-Baggins was not a bad looking Hobbit, she thought.  And he was definitely the logical heir to his Cousin Bilbo as the Baggins as well as that of his father as the Sackville.  Once Bilbo was gone, Otho would inherit Bag End, and it was definitely Bag End she wanted, even more than she did Bilbo.  No, with his love of reading and history, not for her Bilbo Baggins after all!  What would she possibly have in common with him other than their mutual love of the gardens?  Besides, she’d found that Bilbo was far more aware of things about him than she’d thought—that last visit there to Bag End with her Uncle Leander had proved that as Bilbo insisted that she return the stickpin she’d just put into her hatband.  No, he was far too observant, she now knew. 

          She would play upon her own youth and alleged innocence tonight when she walked out with Otho, she decided.  She would hang upon his words and appear rapt by his conversation.  She considered for a moment, and with a quick glance to assure herself that her mother wasn’t spying upon her and so wouldn’t be likely to interfere, she slipped her mother’s perfume bottle off the dressing table, putting a generous dollop of the liquid behind each knee and each ear, and then, with careful thought, between her breasts.  There!  Hopefully that would sufficiently addle his senses!  There was one way to ensure that a gentlehobbit of—well, decent if not particularly good—character should marry a lass, and she intended to see to it that Otho Sackville-Baggins should have no choice but to take her to wife.  Now, she’d managed to filch a firkin of brandy from Uncle Leander during her last visit with him.  She would have to convince Otho that she was not too young for a tipple, she knew, once she’d inveigled him into that garden shed down the lane.  She’d made certain that there was a comfortable pile of old cushions in there where they might at first sit.  They’d not be the first, she knew, to put the dessert before the main course, and she found herself anticipating her coming adventure with satisfaction.

          And with her mind filled with plans to seduce Bilbo Baggins’s cousin, she set off to her own room to finish her dressing.  Yes, she would definitely use that corset to her own advantage, and removing it might help to inflame the lust she intended to rouse in him!

Written for the LOTR Community Laugh/Rhymes challenge.  For Elveses and Rhyselle for their birthdays.  Enjoy!

Four for Bilbo!

There once was a Hobbit named Baggins

Who liked his beer served him in flagons.

            He went with Dwarves for a lark

            And played riddles in the dark,

And ended up fencing with Dragons!

 ******* 

Though renowned by his own for solidity,

Dwarves thought him the height of timidity.

            But they learned he could think

            On his toes, at the brink!

And their respect for him grew with rapidity!

*******

For fear that in barrels they’d sink

For air he dared not leave them a chink!

            So the lids he tamped down

            And though not one did drown

Of apples they sickened of the stink.

*******

He came home a far wiser man,

And the buyers from Bag End he ran.

            Though Lobelia got his spoons

            He found poetical lampoons

Drove her bats, so he sings them when he can!

For Dreamflower for her birthday.

Taken In Remembrance?

            “Well,” Longo Sackville-Baggins said as he poured himself a second cup of tea from his newly acquired teapot, “yesterday certainly was—interesting.”

            Otho looked up from the slice of toast he was buttering to meet his father’s eyes.  “Interesting, you say?  Rather a disaster!  For that—person—to appear, claiming to be Bilbo----” 

            He shook his head, apparently unable to properly express how improper the behavior of the one who’d interrupted the auction of goods from Bag End the previous day.  Neither he nor his father was as yet willing to admit that the person was indeed Bilbo Baggins, who after all had been missing for a year and a day and had officially been proclaimed dead after running off against all propriety in the company of a troupe of scruffy, not to mention hirsute, Dwarves of questionable character.  They had agreed that there was no way to ascertain that the Hobbit who’d appeared on the Hill with a pony and two trunks filled with who knew what kind of goods was indeed the individual he claimed to be, no matter how he addressed everybody present at the auction by name and insisted that this item be returned to his dining room and that to his study and the other back to his bedroom where each object had come from.  Holman Greenhand and his apprentice, Hamfast Gamgee, gardeners to Bag End, had both answered to the interloper as if he indeed was their employer, and certainly young Mr. and Missus Rumble had greeted him happily enough.  Even Ponto Baggins had acted as if it were truly Bilbo returned from the dead, while young Drogo had been ecstatic to order the auctioneers to cease and desist immediately! 

            For Longo the arrival of this—pretender—foiled his attempt to settle Otho and his difficult bride in their own hole long before their expected child should arrive.  Longo was not thrilled with the idea of having a howling bairn in his smial at this time in his life, and was even less happy to contemplate having to deal with Lobelia on a daily basis for the foreseeable future.  For the moment he was satisfied to know she was still in her bed, having insisted that yesterday’s upset had left her with the vapors, although he could think of no one less likely to suffer from such a malady than Lobelia Bracegirdle.

            Otho had turned his attention back to his toast, which he was in danger of crushing to crumbs considering the force he used in spreading his currant preserves upon it.  Longo eyed his son’s expressed frustration with a mixture of empathy and distaste, and carefully stirred a spoonful of honey into his teacup.  When the pounding at the kitchen door started both of them turned their head that way in surprise just in time to see it burst open, a furious Hobbit stomping into their presence followed by an embarrassed Shirriff.

            The one who insisted he was Bilbo glared at them, his gaze sweeping the table.  “So Uncle, Cousin, this is where my teapot and butter spreaders ended up, eh?  I certainly did not see either listed amongst the lots for the auction on the inventory list I obtained from Mato Burrows.  When I could not find them anywhere in Bag End or described as part of the goods that had been auctioned off I suspected I should find them here.”

            Longo had gone pale, save for circles of distinct pink on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.  “I will have you know that my brother told me years ago that when he died I should receive this teapot and these butter spreaders to remember him by!”

            Their unwanted guest gave a distinct snort of disgust.  “You say that, Uncle Longo?  Nonsense!  First, you have always insisted that Dwarves were incapable of making anything that was the least bit delicate, although you have lusted for that teapot for as long as I can remember, even though it was not Father’s at all to begin with but was part of my mother’s dowry.  And I know that she did not promise it to you, telling you plainly enough after Father died that she had no intention of letting it go to anyone but me.  As for the butter spreaders, those were a gift from Grandfather Gerontius to me when I left faunthood, for I’d always thought them the most remarkable things when we visited with him at the Great Smial.  He’d had them from the Elves of Rivendell, and was delighted to know that I appreciated Elvish work.  So, I will have them back—now!  And I demand to know if Lobelia got into my collection of silver spoons?  I’m missing at least four of them, and they aren’t on the inventory, either.”

            Longo turned to the Shirriff.  “You can’t allow this person to demand we return things to him when he has failed to prove he is indeed Bilbo Baggins!” he insisted.

            The Shirriff shrugged, holding out several pages covered with writing.  “What can I do, Mr. Sackville-Baggins, sir?  Mr. Ponto and Mr. Drogo Baggins and Miss Dora Baggins all say as he is Mr. Bilbo Baggins, as does Holman Greenhand as works for him, not to mention several others.  And he knew well enough as such things as a silver teapot and a set of butter spreaders such as you have there were missing, and the descriptions he gave me match these, as do the descriptions of the missing items given me by Miss Dora and Mr. Drogo and Mr. Dudo, all of whom stayed in Bag End for a time after the deaths of their parents.  I’m sorry, but since Mr. Bilbo’s not dead I must insist as they need to be returned, as they weren’t sold in the auction sale.”

            Otho began a loud objection, but the Shirriff just shook his head and insisted that the items must go back to Bag End.  In the end they took also the toast rack, whose decorations of pussy willow catkins matched still another item on the list held by the Shirriff that had been described by both Bilbo and Dora.

            Bilbo paused before leaving, clutching the teapot, butter spreaders, and toast rack against his chest.  “For someone who says he doesn’t believe in Elves and who has always spoken badly of Dwarvish work, you seem to like it all well enough to take what you please of it from my hole, Uncle Longo.  And I do wish to have those spoons returned!”

            “I tell you, I don’t have them and have no idea where they are!” growled Longo, glaring between Bilbo and the Shirriff.  “Now, if you will allow my son and me to finish our second breakfast….”  He looked meaningfully at the door.  And as the one who insisted he was Bilbo left and shut it after him, Longo made a mental note to make certain that the inkstand in the study and the set of silver pens he’d also appropriated should be locked away out of sight before Bilbo should return to insist on searching his study.

A bit late, I know, but written for the Twenty-Second and The Birthday.  For Claudia and Kitty with love for their birthdays.

A Wizard’s Blessing

            Gandalf was looking forward to spending a few weeks with Gerontius Took in the Great Smial.    He had spent several months trying to get the Men of Gondor, Rohan, Eriador, and Rhovanion working with the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills and the Elves of Mirkwood, Lórien, and Imladris to oppose the Necromancer, but it appeared that no one would commit to cooperating with anyone else.  The Men of Gondor refused to recognize the remnant of the Men of Arnor as being worthy of any consideration at all, while those of Rohan spoke of Elves as if they were witchy beings likely to betray the trust of honest Men, and the Dwarves seemed to look on all other races with suspicion and intolerance.  Surely within the Shire he could put his frustrations behind him for a time!

            As he crossed the Brandywine Bridge he saw that the larders, storehouses, and barns of the Shire would be full this winter.  Pumpkins and marrows ripened in the fields.  He saw bushels of apples and taters gathered together into wagons intended for market, and stalls run by goodwives along the roads offering pots of jams and preserves, jars of pickles, and bunches of carrots, radishes, turnips, and beets to those who passed by going either east or west.  He could smell the rich odor of baking everywhere, and the cider presses were busy.

            Roofs were being thatched and mortar between bricks and stones renewed, barns cleaned, and the sheep were being given their final shearing for the year.  Wise farmers were seeing to it that the walls of their barns and sheds were sound, and both hay and straw were being laid in for the needs of winter.

            There was a fair in Whitfurrow as he passed through it, and for some reason he purchased a ball of knitted yarn made in bright colors, although he could not say why it had taken his fancy.  A farmer’s wife near the Three Farthings Stone proudly offered him a serving of her apple crumble, which he savored with great pleasure and delight.  How it was that such creatures as Hobbits could manage to produce such delectable foodstuffs from the gifts of Yavanna he could not fully understand, but he certainly blessed the Creator for such a gift given them.  He offered the goodwife his sincere thanks and compliments as he returned the plate and fork, and called a special blessing upon her orchard that its fruit always be sweet and on her kitchen fire that she not fear burning anything cooked over it or baked in her oven for the next seven years.  She was flushed and filled with wonder at such a “spell” offered on her account, but she was delighted on her own behalf to receive such a reward for her gift.

            As he approached the turnoff to Bywater he paused, considering if he should go on until he reached Tuckborough or if he should stop briefly at the Green Dragon, which as he remembered it had the best roast chicken in the Shire as well as a passable brew.  But before he could make up his mind he heard a hail from a mixed group of Hobbits approaching on ponies.

            “Gandalf!  I say, Gandalf!  What luck!  Do wait up, won’t you?”

            “My heavens,” Gandalf said to himself.   “It would seem I don’t have to go all the way to the Tooklands to see Gerontius after all.  Gerontius Took, what in Middle Earth are you doing all this way from the Great Smial?”

            “Going to see Belladonna in Hobbiton.  Bungo sent over one of the Twofoot lads to fetch us.  I’m going to be a grandfather again in short order, it seems.  Do come with us, dear Gandalf, and stand by us.  At least this time she was able to carry the child to term, and the word was that things were going fairly well.  Bungo is said to be a bit overwhelmed, and surely you can help to distract him.  Do say that you will come!”

            “Another grandchild?  And how many does this make?”

            “Does it matter, my friend?  And just how am I to keep track of precisely how many there are anymore?  Come along now and walk by me and tell me how things are going in the outer world for what time it will take to reach the Hill.”

            Laughing, Gandalf did as his friend asked as they took the road into Bywater.  At least I appear to have a good use for this ball, he thought, and he began telling the tale of one of the daughters of the Steward of Gondor, who’d thought it a clever idea to set a turtle loose in her father’s fishpond in one of the gardens behind the Citadel.  Soon all were laughing with glee.  Gondor meant nothing to any of them, of course, but a child setting a hungry turtle loose where it could feast on kept fish they all could appreciate.  Soon Gerontius was telling of the hedgehog his youngest had been keeping in his own room that somehow managed to find its way into the Mistress’s parlor.  It awoke from a nap under a padded settle just as a good number of Took wives settled into their chairs to gossip over a formal tea, and crept out to examine a piece of dropped scone just as Cousin Honoria, who’d always been a bit tiresome, began boasting about how clever her little lad Benigard was.  It rubbed across Honoria’s foot just as she began repeating for the third time that she had to have the most intelligent young Hobbit in the whole of the Great Smial, causing her ceaseless bragging to change to a most undignified shriek, at which Adamanta snorted with laughter and assured the Wizard that it was perfectly true, and how all the other Hobbitesses present had felt pleasure at the unexpected interruption.

            They rode across the bridge over the Water in single file, Gandalf following the Thain’s Lady closely, and were soon climbing the lane from Bagshot Row to Bag End.  Children poured out of the gaily painted doors along the Row and ran alongside of them, all chattering excitedly while two tweens ran ahead, banging the gate in the hedge surrounding Bag End loudly as they took the steps two and three at a time, calling out, “The Thain!  Thain Gerontius is here!”

            The green door of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins flew open, and Donnamira came out upon the porch.  “Mum!  Do hurry!  It’s almost here!”

            Adamanta slid off her pony with no ceremony and hurried up the stairs, gave her youngest daughter a pat on the shoulder as she pushed by her, and disappeared into the hole, closely followed by Donnamira.  Donnamira was replaced by her sister’s husband, who was visibly shaking as he greeted the Thain and his party to Bag End in a voice that tended to squeak with excitement. 

            “Welcome, Adar Gerontius!  Cousins!  And—and Gandalf?  The Grey Wizard here, in Bag End?  My stars, but the neighbors and my kin are likely to be scandalized!  Oh, but who cares for them?  Do come in—all of you!  And thank you, Naddo, for riding off to the Great Smial for me!  You, too, Gandalf.  Do come in.  I think that you will be able to stand up in the parlor—Belladonna had so hoped you might deign to visit us here, you know, so she insisted we have at least a couple of rooms where you wouldn’t have to stoop.”

            As he followed Gerontius through the entrance hall, taking care to duck under the hanging fixture for candles so as not to bang it with his head, Gandalf murmured, “Adar?  He calls you that?”

            The Took turned slightly to smile wryly at him.  “He’s a Baggins, you see, and could not bring himself to speak to me as his father-in-love in common terms as Dad Gerontius as if I were a common Hobbit, not when I am the Thain of the Shire.  So, when he learned that adar means father in Elvish, he decided that was how he should address me.  And I fear it has stuck.  The majority of my children all address me as Adar or Ada or just as Da now rather than Dad.  I must suppose it is better than all of them calling me Father—that would be far too stuffy, don’t you agree?”

            Gandalf tried vainly to suppress a snort of laughter, and he saw answering amusement in his small friend’s eyes.  It was going to be quite a visit, he supposed.

            He had to admire the smial as he followed his host and his friend into the parlor, for it was quite as lovely as any home he’d seen anywhere throughout Middle Earth.  In fact he suspected it outshone a few homes he’d seen in his old life, before he came here as one of the Istari.

            How do they do it? he wondered as he finally straightened below the arched ceiling.  How do Hobbits manage to make a home dug into a hill or bank seem so open and comfortable, as if it were constructed of wood, stone, or brick? 

            Bungo Baggins was making introductions.  “My brothers Longo and Bingo, and my cousin Fosco.  I fear my father’s been ill, so he and Mum are staying close within Number Five for the moment.  I shall most probably take the bairn down to show them once the midwife assures me all is well with it and Belladonna.  My sister Belba is busy in the kitchen, while Linda is back in the bedroom assisting the midwife with Belladonna alongside Donnamira.  You know Thain Gerontius and his sons Isengrim, Isumbras, Hildigrim, Isembold, and Isembard, don’t you, Longo, Bingo?  And I must suppose that Hildibrand is staying close by Crocus right now as she is also due within a few weeks.  And this is Hugo Boffin, Donnamira’s husband.  They have chosen to live in the Great Smial.  I’m not certain as to when we should expect Mirabella, who’s been visiting in Buckland.  I suspect that Gorbadoc will be escorting her here.  We sent off word yesterday by way of the Quick Post as soon as we were certain it wasn’t a false alarm this time.  I suspect they won’t arrive before three days, although if they left Brandy Hall when they got the message we sent a few days ago when we thought the bairn was coming they might be nearly here now.  I do wonder when they will admit they are smitten with one another and that they intend to marry.  Oh, well, there’s no rushing romance, is there?”

            Bungo was quite prattling with nerves, the Wizard noted.  Although he supposed it was only to be expected.  There had been at least one other pregnancy before this one, one that ended tragically at five and a half months, as Gandalf remembered it.

            The young gentlehobbit identified as Longo gave a single shake to his head, apparently in response to his older brother’s babbling.  Quite a handsome fellow, or he would be if his expression weren’t quite so sullen and discontented.  Bingo was a much merrier chap, while there was no question that Fosco was very handsome indeed, tending to be both taller and more slender than average for a Hobbit, with a warm, intelligent manner.  Almost a Took for looks, thought Gandalf, feeling himself well disposed to Bungo’s cousin.

            There was a cry from the back of the smial, and Bungo Baggins grew pale with distress.  “What is happening?” he gasped in anguish as he turned toward the passage back to the bedrooms. 

            At that point, however, Gerontius came to put his hand on the Baggins’s shoulder.  “Best stay here if you don’t wish to hear things said about you your wife will not wish you to have heard within a short time,” the Thain advised him.  “Believe me, this is women’s work, and it’s best you stay far, far out of the way.”

            Bungo turned eyes that were even more alarmed his way, and Gandalf had to again suppress a snort of amusement at just how disconcerted Bungo appeared.  There was another great cry of mixed pain and triumph, after which there was silence—a profound silence that was unnerving.  At last, however, that silence was broken by a different wail as an infant took exception to having been forced so violently out of its warm womb into a new environment.

            “Well,” Fosco commented, raising the mug of tea he’d held since their arrival, “it appears that the bairn is now officially born!  Don’t look now, Cousin Bungo, but it does seem that at last you are a father!”

            It still took a while before Adamanta Took came out carrying a small bundle warmly wrapped in a shawl, her face filled with pride and gentleness alongside a healthy share of humor.  “At least it wasn’t me lying there cursing you, my love,” she commented to her husband.  “I do think that our daughter had even more horrible thoughts of what she might do to Bungo than I ever dreamed of toward you.  But there is a new lad within the hole now.  Come here, Bungo Baggins, and meet your new son.”

            Bungo’s expression of alarm and terror changed as the bundle she’d carried was forced into his arms, swiftly transforming to wonder and joy.  “A son?  I have a son now?  How wonderful!”  With a tentative fingertip he gently uncovered the face and looked down into it.  “Well,” he said, a big smile upon his face, “he’s no real beauty, is he?  Just look at how scrunched up his face is!  And he’s so red!  But----”

            The infant opened its eyes, looking up at his father with as much wonder as one could see in the older Baggins’s expression, and Bungo smiled happily down at him.  “He knows his old dad, doesn’t he?  Don’t you, my beloved son?  You know your old dad, you do!  Oh, yes, and I shall take you out and teach you to play roopie and conkers and----”

            Adamanta laughed aloud.  “Not today you won’t, my dear lad.  No, today he’s going to rest alongside his poor mummy and get used to living out where there’s light and air.  Now, give him to my dear husband before he snatches the child away.”

            Gerontius Took was definitely a practiced hand at holding babies, and soon had the child exposed so all could see that all the bits were in their proper places and all perfectly formed.  “I agree, this one isn’t perhaps as beautiful as many bairns I’ve seen.  But there’s no question he’s already learning as much as he can about the world he sees.  I predict he’ll be a smart lad indeed, and definitely one to be proud of.  Here, you take him, Gandalf!  And just maybe you’ll have a blessing to give him?”  The Thain looked up hopefully at the Wizard as he lifted up the child for Gandalf to take.

            A blessing?  And just what kind of blessing am I expected to offer a Hobbit child? the Wizard wondered as he reached down to take the infant into his hands.  How small it was!  Even Men’s babies usually needed the support of his arm, but not this child!  It barely extended beyond the palm of his left hand as he lifted it up to peer into its face.  Again those blue eyes opened wide, staring short-sightedly up into the face of its new bearer, and Gandalf was enchanted—first enchanted and then surprised as he was presented with a succession of images of what this Hobbit’s face would undoubtedly look like as he matured.  He saw the same type of alarm he’d seen earlier in Bungo’s expression, and the determination he knew so well from the baby’s mother and grandfather.  He saw the type of compassion he’d so often seen in the face of Adamanta and the stubbornness he’d seen so often in the Thain’s other children.  And he saw courage….

            Suddenly he knew the blessing appropriate for this child, although, he thought wryly, it’s as much a curse as it is a blessing.  Aloud, he murmured to the baby, “May you live in interesting times.  And may you always face such times with humor and fortitude.”

            As Gerontius received the child back and prepared to return it to his wife, Gandalf could see the satisfaction his friend felt.  No, the Thain and the Took did not want his progeny to live too comfortably….

            It was with mixed feelings that he fished the wooly ball out of his pocket and presented it to the baby’s father.

Written for the LOTR Community Potluck challenge.

Contrasts in Character

As a Baggins our dear Bilbo

Was once known for his gravity.

But since he left with thirteen Dwarves

He’s thought the height of depravity.

Written for the LOTR Community Riddle Poem challenge.  For RabidSamFan for her birthday.

Time on One’s Hands

a riddle poem

I have time on my hands,

            But not always the same.

In Harad I am water,

            In Gondor a flame.

* 

Dwarves catch me in iron,

            In ratchets and wheels;

Elves see me in seasons,

            In the stars in their reels.

* 

I’ll sit on the mantel

            And my heart beats away.

What I measure is formless

            And too oft slips away.

* 

No one asks me a question,

            But consult me they do;

And if they neglect me,

            My tale won’t be true.

* 

Although I run always,

            I can’t stir a foot.

I have hands but no arms,

            And my foot wears no boot.

* 

Now guard I a letter

            Left at the dawn of the day;

And if he fails to look soon

            His chance slips away.

…Time to work and time to play,

And so it sings throughout the day.

From an old nursery rhyme. 

Written for the LOTR Community "Waiting" challenge.  For all of those whose birthdays I've not written to in the last few months.

            Otho would have been Bilbo's heir, but for the adoption of Frodo. He read the will carefully and snorted. It was, unfortunately, very clear and correct (according to the legal customs of hobbits, which demand among other things seven signatures of witnesses in red ink).

            'Foiled again!' he said to his wife. 'And after waiting sixty years.  Spoons? Fiddlesticks!' He snapped his fingers under Frodo's nose and slumped off.

(FotR, Book 1, Chapter 1, "An Unexpected Party")

Heirs-in-Waiting

           Lalia Took had deliberately seated Bilbo Baggins beside Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and across from Otho at the dinner for the heads of the important families of the Shire that the Great Smial was hosting.  She, at least, found the situation most entertaining, particularly as throughout the meal Lobelia continuously sniped at Bilbo, spending the first half hour once again treating Bilbo as if he were a complete stranger only pretending to be the Master of Bag End.

           Bilbo held his own, but it was plain to Lalia that he was at least sufficiently upset in spite of his apparent self-composure that he failed to eat most of what was served him, while between verbal jabs Lobelia shoveled whatever came before her into her mouth, surprised at one point to find she had a spoonful of rosewater intended for rinsing of hands between courses more than halfway raised to her lips.  The young Hobbit who’d held the bowl before her was looking at Lobelia with shock, uncertain whether or not he should hold out the towel he also carried.

           Once the meal was finished Bilbo excused himself before anyone else had the chance to even rise from the table, and with a gesture at Beslo Grubb, who served as his personal lawyer, to attend him he left the dining hall, awaiting Beslo in the hallway.

           “Sorry to draw you away from filling up the corners,” Bilbo said as Beslo joined him at last.  “But what those two, and especially Lobelia, were saying was so offensive I could not bear it one more moment.”  He turned and headed down a particular corridor that Beslo recognized led to the offices of Bernigard Took, who had been Master of the Shire’s Guild of Lawyers for some years now, and was generally considered the sharpest mind regarding Shire law in the whole of the Shire and Buckland.  Spying young Reginard Took passing by, Bilbo caught the young tween by the shoulder.  “The meal is finished in the dining hall.  Would you please go in and ask Rory and Sara Brandybuck to join me in Bernigard’s office, Reggie?  I take it that as he didn’t attend the meal but I did see him last night that that is where we’ll find him.”

           “Oh, yes,” Reggie assured him.  “I’ve just come from there.  I’m one of Cousin Berni’s apprentices, you know, and he’d just sent me to call for Paladin regarding a contract he’s preparing for the sale of barley from Pal and Lanti’s farm.  It wouldn’t cause problems if Paladin comes, too, would it?”

           But Bilbo was already shaking his head.  “Oh, no,” he assured the younger Hobbit.  “At this point, the more the merrier—for me, at least.  It will give me a number of witnesses right off for the papers I intend Beslo here to work up with Berni.”

           Reggie and Beslo exchanged questioning looks, at which point Reggie ran off about his errand.  Beslo turned to follow Bilbo as the older Hobbit continued on his way to Berni’s office.  “So, you intend to do something about disinheriting Otho and Lobelia, do you?” Beslo hazarded.

           Bilbo paused and half turned toward the lawyer.  “Disinherit Otho, my own first cousin, my Uncle Longo’s lad?  Do you truly think I would do such a thing?” he asked with exaggerated surprise.  “Now why should I think of doing any such thing?  Perhaps because he and his detestable wife would deny me my own home and my place as Baggins Family Head, do you think?”

           He shook his head and again turned to walk even faster, leaving Beslo scurrying to catch up.  “You weren’t close enough to hear her, but she was playing the old game of me being an imposter.”  His voice went high as he mimicked her:  “‘It’s just not right that you should have been allowed to live in Bag End all these years when you cannot be the real Bilbo Baggins!  It should have been ours, Otho’s and mine!  And you can just believe that when you are gone we shall make certain only those who are truly respectable will be allowed to visit us there!  And it’s a terrible injustice that you, a stranger who appeared out of the Wild, should be allowed to serve as Baggins Family Head when that office should have gone to Otho when Bilbo disappeared so long ago!  Well, he’ll be Baggins Family Head himself soon enough, I suppose.  I mean, you can’t live all that much longer, after all!’”

           Beslo noted that Bilbo’s face was rigid with the outrage he felt.  At last he asked, “But why is she doing this now?  She knows that Ferumbras, the Mayor, and Master Rory all recognize you as yourself and have done so since you returned from Outside, as did Longo.  All that show about you being an imposter and poser was given up by them years ago, or so I’d thought!”

           Bilbo gave a sigh and a brief shake of his head.  “I suppose it’s due to what Peony told them about me planning to bring young Frodo to Bag End in May.”

           “Peony?”

           “My cousin Peony, who’s married to Milo Burrows.  You know—Ponto and Porto’s sister?  She’s terrified of Lobelia, and does her utter best to keep on the good side of her by pretending to be her friend and confidant every time they come back to Hobbiton from Brandy Hall.  As Rory’s great nephew, Milo is well aware that Frodo will be returning to Bag End with me in May, and what he knows he readily shares with Peony.  They arrived in Hobbiton six days ago, and she’s already let Lobelia know all about Frodo’s impending arrival.  And, as a result, Otho and Lobelia are already foreseeing that this could mean that I’ll make Frodo my primary heir rather than Otho, which will deprive the two of them of ever inheriting Bag End and the office of Family Head to the Bagginses as the two of them so heartily desire.  I cannot fathom why Otho is so obsessed with becoming family head to two families at once, but there it is.”

           “I’d think that being the Sackville would be enough for Otho without taking on being the Baggins as well,” Beslo commented.

           “So would I.  But Otho’s dad always believed he was cleverer than my dad and that he ought to have received the title rather than his older brother.  Longo was so angry when Grandfather refused to pass over my dad in his favor he moved out and bought that place in the Ridge the other side of Hobbiton.  After all, Grandfather Mungo had suggested that Longo dig a new hole for himself higher on the Hill, but Longo would have nothing to do with the scheme.  If he couldn’t be the Family Head he wanted nothing further to do with the Hill.  So, when Dad was courting Mum and the two of them decided to dig a new, more elegant hole where Longo had refused to do so, Longo was angry, somehow figuring that the site was his since their father had offered it to him first, in spite of him refusing it.”

           Beslo asked, “Is that why Otho and Lobelia want Bag End so—they think that it’s owed to them?”

           “Perhaps,” Bilbo agreed as they came to a place where they must change direction.  “Although from the first time I met Lobelia Bracegirdle she wanted to become the Mistress of Bag End and the Hill.  She would even have taken me as part of the bargain if it would have given her her desire.  Not that I could have borne such a marriage!”

           “I was told she was sweet on you when the two of you were younger,” the lawyer said, his gaze shrewd.

           Bilbo shuddered.  “I’ll have you know she was far, far too young for me, Beslo!  She was nowhere near being old enough to marry when she began making it plain she’d accept my suit.  Finally she got it through her head I was not in the least interested in marrying her, so she began to pursue poor Drogo.  He finally fled to Buckland to avoid her, and I will have you know that this was a sign of his desperation to avoid an entanglement with her, he was so frightened of crossing the Brandywine!  So she finally settled for Otho.  After all, he was a Baggins, too, and would most likely become my heir one day.”

           “So why are they so keen to take possession of Bag End?  Sackville Place is a very nice hole.”

           “It was nicer before they moved into it and renamed it from Warm Smial,” Bilbo noted wryly.  “As I said, Lobelia has wanted to live in Bag End since she was a mere slip of a lass, and she and Otho thought they’d achieved her ambition when Longo agreed to have me declared assumed dead after I left with Thorin and the other Dwarves.  He didn’t even wait the full year and a day to start the process, either.  I must suppose he was anxious to get Lobelia out of his own smial by that point, and having her and Otho move into Bag End would have served his purposes nicely.  Only I arrived home in time to interrupt the auction of my goods, and they had to continue on there in the Ridge.  They’ve been waiting for me to conveniently die so they can move in and serve as the Baggins Family Heads for an additional forty-nine years now, and they don’t want to find out their wait has been in vain.”

           He paused with his hand on the knob to Bernigard’s office door.  “I’d almost decided that as long as I can enjoy Frodo’s delightful company I’d allow Otho to remain the one to become the Baggins after me, but their treatment of me today has convinced me that they are totally unsuitable for the position.  So, if Frodo will agree, I will officially adopt him in a year’s time, and he will get both Bag End and the job when I finally leave the Shire.  And as for Otho and Lobelia, not to mention that brat of a son of theirs, they can just continue to wait—vainly!”

           And with that he turned to knock, barely waiting for Bernigard Took to call out “Enter!” before he opened the door and ushered Beslo inside.