The snowy wind battered the smial. Bilbo was grateful to be indoors around the hearth with family and tea. This winter already had a few giving it a name despite it only being January. The Fell Winter. Constant cold. Constant snow. The worst the Shire had ever experienced, they said. Bilbo knew it was the worst of his life, but he was only twenty-one. Many of that opinion were two or even three decades older.

His first cousins Flambard and Sigismond animatedly discussed pretty lasses they’d encountered recently. Bilbo sighed lightly to himself. To this day, he never understood the way the other lads felt about girls. He himself had never once been attracted to anyone in that way, lad or lass. 

Glancing at his grandfather, Bilbo noticed the Old Took was asleep in his chair. Even his grandfather thought this was the worst winter yet and he was a century older! 121! Would he, Bilbo, ever grow that old? Most didn’t. Then again, longevity had a proclivity for running in families. 

“Tea’s good, isn’t it?” Bilbo remarked to Sigismond, who’d just been regaling them on Nina Peabody’s luxurious curls. 

“Suppose so. Already drank it all.”

“Best get more then!”