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“Bilbo Baggins, everyone thought you were a little odd. There’s Took blood in you, no denying that now. But what you’ve done now outstrips all propriety.” Old Largo Baggins was a shriveled little curmudgeon, brother to Bilbo’s grandfather, but still as spry and nosy as a lad in his tweens. It wasn’t even a day after Bilbo had returned home from his adventures, that a whole of his extended relatives--and half the Shire it seems dawdled along behind as spectators--came banging down his door.
“Now wait a minute--”
Old Largo barreled on. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to show your face around here after running off without a word, disappeared to who knows where, then just biffing back and bringing home this, this--”
“Husband.” Bilbo interrupted, coolly. “He’s my husband.”
A gasp met his announcement. “You can’t mean to say you’ve gotten married?” This was Linda Proudfoot, Bilbo’s aunt, and her wide-eyed astonishment made Bilbo just a little bit remorseful, but he was determined to hold his ground.
“That’s right.”
Bilbo stuck his chin out proudly, not intending to be bullied by any hobbit, Sacksville-Baggins included. Bofur shifted uneasily at his side. The dwarf was of a cheery, lighthearted nature and not comfortable dealing with this sort of confrontation instead of the quiet homecoming that Bilbo had planned. A part of Bilbo should have expected this. It wasn’t everyday that a hobbit brings an outsider home and declares they’ve set up smial together. But he thought that after a few days of heady gossip, another week or so of whispers and gaping, surely things would settle down and Bofur’s infectious smiles and friendly manner would win the hearts of his fellow hobbits--just as the dwarf had slowly but surely found a permanent place in Bilbo’s heart.
“Oh, no! No, that won’t do at all!” Fortinbras Took exclaimed, looking scandalized.
Bilbo leaned closer to Bofur’s side in a physical show of support, his hand finding his love’s and grasping it. What did his cousin know with a wife like Laila, always harping on.
“No, there’s no sense in beating about the bush, Bilbo.” Largo continued to scold. “You’ve really stuck you foot in it. There’s no justification for getting married and not having a proper Shire wedding.”
“See here I--what?” Bilbo stuttered to a confused halt.
Bofur tipped his head. “Proper wedding? We were married by Thorin, King Under the Mountain himself. With no less than twelve witnesses.”
“But you see--”
“And a wizard,” Bofur continued, thinking back. “And a few elves and men hangin’ round to watch. Did it proper like, we did. Don’t want anyone saying I didn’t make a proper go of it, or making Bilbo not respectable.”
“No one’s saying anything of the sort, Master Bofur,” Auntie Linda appealed to him politely.
“No, nothing to be had.” Largo continued. “We’ve been waiting for full twenty years for a wedding party at Bag End and by thunder we’re going to have a wedding. Is four o‘clock convenient?”
The time was shouted out so that the hobbits at the back could hear, and a rumble of agreement with a round of nods met the suggestion.
“Then we’ll reconvene at four. And I suggest we get busy. If we’re to do it, t’were best that it be done right.”
A lass, Dora Bolger shrieked in delight and dashed off. The rest nodded, pairing off in twos and threes and colluding with each other as they all separated and scattered.
Young Esmerelda and Rosemunda Took bounced down the lane hand in hand. The two girls grabbed the first hobbit he strayed across, which happened to be Ham Gamgee. “Hey, wedding party, four o’clock today! Bag End. Spread the word. The whole Shire is invited!”
“Now, hang on.” Bilbo scrambled after them, but there were too many to follow. “What did she mean by that? Where are they all going? What do you mean ‘have a wedding?’” He gestured to Bofur. “Did you hear, we’re already married. There’s no way we can be more married than we are now.”
Auntie Linda appeared at his side, patting his arm reassuringly. “Now don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll all pitch in with a dish and Berylla will take care of the cake. Oh, I’m sure everyone will bring a spare chair or table.” She sniffed and put a hand to her face, smiling watery. “Oh, Bilbo, if only your parents could be here to see. They’d be so proud.” She started sobbing.
Bilbo could only gape at her, mouth working like a fish as he looked on helplessly. Bofur offered her a hankie.
Never let it be said that the Shire was a sleepy place where nothing at all interesting ever happened. Because even if this were true, there was one thing in the world that could get every hobbit up on his or her feet and racing around, carrying and fetching, turn the whole Shire on its head and get everyone in an uproar, and that was a good party.
Maybe it was because the last interesting thing that happened was the mysterious disappearance of one Bilbo Baggins--the incident with Falco, a pint of ale, and a rather irate goose not withstanding--the only other exciting incident this year had been the sudden and unheralded reappearance of same Bilbo Baggins, with promise of stories and rumors of the loot he’d pillaged off some dwarves--or was it elves? No, could have sworn it was a dragon. Or so the gossip flew.
So when these rumors were joined by the announcement that Bilbo had gotten himself hitched up with a dwarf--a very amiable one, Esmerelda Took proclaimed, with charming whiskers, her shadow Rosemunda chimed in beside her--and by the way, they were all to throw him a surprise wedding party today at four under the Party Tree, and you’re all invited, and seeing as it’s so last minute and we’d like to see Bilbo off well, could you perhaps be so good as to bring this, that, and the other? Oh, and some flowers to fling about and something festive to hang in the branches?
The news spread like a wildfire and everyone was happily dashing about, scrambling for whatever was in their larder to bring, dusting off their finest clothes, and piling up tables, chairs and tableclothes, plates, dishes, forks, cups, knives, and all descending like ants to a picnic on Bag End.
Bilbo watched the procession mournfully from his bedroom, craning his neck to see what on earth they were getting up to with all the shouting and banging about. This was not quite the welcome he had imagined.
The door opened and another cousin popped his head in. “Eh, all dressed then?” Falco grinned at him. He was a wide, squarish looking chap, taking more after the Chubbs than the Baggins side. “Auntie sent me to check on you. You won’t believe the sight of it when you get out there. We’ve all really pulled this one out of the hat. I tell you, you won’t believe it. You’ll be so surprised.”
Bilbo grimaced more than smiled, but it must have worked as Falco’s grin grew even wider in response.
“How’s Bofur?” He asked. “Where is he?”
Bilbo had been swept away from Bofur’s side, shooed into opposite sides of the house by his well-meaning aunts.
“It’s bad luck to see the groom before the wedding.” His aunt Belba chastised him when he protested.
“We’re already married. The whole thing is very much done, official, and consummated,” he protested for the umpteenth time, to no avail. He’d been barred in his room, the door guarded by any number of cousins as they brought him water and scrubbed behind his neck and ears like he was a wayward child, then set out his best shirt, waistcoat, and jacket. He could only imagine the treatment Bofur was getting.
Falco’s grin was so wide it almost split his face. “Your beloved is looking mighty pretty all scrubbed up. Wouldn’t believe he was a dwarf. Could almost pass for a proper hobbit.”
Bilbo froze. “Good grief, don’t tell me they’ve made him shave!”
When Falco failed to ease his mind, Bilbo gathered his courage and bolted for the door, shoving his surprised cousin aside. He dashed past aunts and uncles, Chubbs, Grubbs, Boffins and Bracegirdles, and nearly tripped over one daunting pair of Proudfeet.
He skirted and dodged, searching every room for the one sane person in all this mess, when he plunged face first into a very familiar, strong, and welcome chest.
“Hey, now, I hope you aren’t runnin’ out on me, love.”
Bilbo did a double take. Bofur had sure cleaned up nicely, his face scrubbed up and hair washed, brushed and gleaming, his striking whiskers neatly trimmed but still very much intact. There were even little flowers weaved into his braids. He fiddled with these nervously under Bilbo’s stare and shrugged. “The wee lasses seemed so excited to work over my braids. Said it was tradition for one or the other to wear flowers in their hair.” He grinned mischievously. “Didn’t think I’d be the blushing bride.”
Bilbo smiled back and covered Bofur’s hand that still toyed with the end of his braid.
“You look wonderful,” he said, honestly. And for all that he was still annoyed, Bilbo’s heart swelled to see his love look so happy, and to have him be accepted so easily by his family.
A cough broke the moment, and they looked up to see his Aunt Linda regarding them fondly. “It’s time,” she said and approached to place a crown of flowers on Bilbo’s head.
Bofur offered Bilbo his arm, and he took it, leading his soon-to-be-again husband outside into the sunlight and to join their waiting neighbors, family and friends.