Chapter Text
Prologue
By the time that Bilbo Baggins was born, the Baggins were well used to secrets. Why, Bungo managed to hide a whole love for nearly twelve years, and Belladonna was so good a hiding grief that even she sometimes forgot her sorrow. Although, it must be said, that neither Hobbit was quite so good at secrets as Bilbo Baggins, who was born into one.
Now, it must be said that, for much of her early childhood Bilbo was not quite so good at keeping secrets and Bungo and Belladonna found themselves becoming quite adept at whipping out the odd white lie to explain some of the peculiarities that poor baby Bilbo had. Where words failed, Belladonna was prepared with a loud yell, a mean right hook and a gaggle of enthusiastic (if slightly confused) Took cousins ready to defend Bilbo against any perceived insult.
So, if Bilbo was a little slow to crawl, well that was just the Hobbit predisposition to sit kicking in early. And if Bilbo was a little slow to walk then Missus Baggins has something to say to you Amaranth Grubb if you fancy saying that to her face!
And if, when Bilbo said her first word; “cake” (never let it be said that Hobbits don’t have their priorities in order) at nearly six years old, the official Shire record already had her first word down as “Mama” …well. This lie was only helped by the fact that Bilbo’s first word was immediately followed by her first and second. “Please” and “Mama”. (Hobbits also know which way their bread is buttered).
But if, outside the doors of Bag End, Bilbo Baggins grew up a slightly odd (It’s the Took blood, the Baggins whisper) and a little shy (certainly those Baggins’ fault the Tooks agree) then inside was a different matter entirely.
Xxx
By Bilbo’s counting, she grew up with four parents. Two living Hobbits and two loving Ghosts. She belonged to all of them, and to none of them enough. Not quite a Hobbit, but not quite anything else either. She was raised on Uncle Sig’s recipe cards, fragile as a petal and handled like a memory by a weary father. She was raised on dwarvish tales of adventure and making, by a sorrowful mother.
There were pieces of all of them in the house. The knives and beads her birth father had left her mother. The crooked doorjamb in the study where Uncle Sig had failed to hold the wood straight. The quiet murmur of voices, reminiscing in the night when she was supposed to be in bed. There were pieces of them all in her too. Her mother’s passion, her father’s loyalty, Sig’s reckless call to adventure and enough of Bungo’s careful watchfulness to temper all three.
But the little sorrows that made up the marriage of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins were things that Bilbo could touch on, but not quite grasp. She knew that she was loved and loved fiercely by the dad that spent hours pouring over books with her. By the mother that sang songs and showed her how to throw a punch. By the father that showed her valour and glory, and the uncle that always thought it was a good idea to steal an extra apple pie.
So yes, despite her little quirks, there were very few people in the Shire who could deny that Bilbo Baggins was a happy child.
And then the Brandywine froze.
And childhood ended.