Chapter Text
Bilbo had his doubts about going on an adventure. In fact, both he and Bungo had their doubts about going on an adventure-- especially if it was past The Shire's borders. His father, being a Baggins, had very much no desire for an adventure. Bilbo had doubts; he had his mother's curiosity in his blood, the urge of wanting to explore and the want to peek outside The Shire's borders, if not traveling out of it... basically what his father called his "Tookishness". He had inherited it from his mother, Belladonna, and it was true that it had been a lot stronger when he was no more than a faunt bumping into wizards' legs, playing with fireworks and creating his pretend games which often involved him defeating some evil creature in the forest. As for Belladonna, even at an old age, she had been absolutely up for an adventure as soon as the wizard showed up at their door and she had agreed. Bungo had worriedly struggled to convince her to not go.
She wouldn't hear a word of it.
"I need to go, my dear. This is my chance, I feel like it is right to go with them. And in addition, I'll be perfectly safe with them. Bilbo, offer me some support, son. Wouldn't you want to come as well?"
Bilbo had kept his mouth shut. Not only for his father, but also for his mother. He didn't want to say something foolish that would hurt either of his parents, so he remained in silence instead.
He didn't protest when the dwarves began to show up at the front door.
He didn't protest as his mother wrapped him into a tight hug along with his father on the morning she left in, but hugged her back and wished her luck like any good son would do. He made her promise she would be back, and she said she would return with new stories to tell, making him feel like a weak, little innocent faunt all over again.
He didn't protest as he and his father watched her leave with the dwarves, getting further and further away until she was out of sight.
A long time passed. Bilbo had counted the days since she had been gone, drawing tally marks to mark each day that passed on his bed's wooden head-board, hoping that everytime he drew one, that would give her luck and good will to continue going until she returned to them. Every day, he would check the mail box, hoping to find a letter or two from his mother. At first it was regular, but as the months went, weeks passed during which Bilbo feared the worst until a letter arrived to relieve him. Because each letter meant that she was alive.
Her letters almost always contained flowers, leaves and things as such, all of which Bilbo kept in a little tin box in his room along with the letters his mother wrote. She spoke of the most unimaginable things: trolls, elves, giant eagles, stone giants and their Thunder-battles... all of which written in such good detail that Bilbo could picture them.
Eventually the letters stopped arriving. Bilbo told himself that she probably couldn't send them to him, that she was busy with her troubles and that she might have not come across a post office lately. His father was a lot more pessimistic.
"She might be gone, Bilbo. We shouldn't have let her go on her own." Bungo lamented on one of those days, covering his face in his hands. Bilbo had sat next to him on the couch he was seated on, placing a comforting arm around his father's shoulders.
"She's not on her own. She's with Gandalf and those dwarves. She's probably busy; there might not be a town with a post office near by."
Bilbo didn't just say these things for his father, but also to himself. If he believed them-- and he did-- then it would be better than having Bungo's pessimistic views about her adventure.
Fourteen months passed.
Not a word.
Then fifteen. Sixteen. Nineteen.
And then the letter arrived.
Bilbo had been in the kitchen preparing lunch when his father went outside to check the mail. Bilbo glanced up, halfway through chopping a potato. But he froze when he saw the envelope Bungo was ripping open. He watched in silence as Bungo's face began to change, grief taking over his expression, his shoulders beginning to sag. Bilbo let the knife drop with a clutter as his father's knees gave away, the much older hobbit collapsing onto the grass outside by their little gate. Bilbo ran to the door, knocking over a bowl of freshly-cut tomatoes. He didn't care. He had to get to his father--
He slammed the door open and wasted no time in jumping down to his father, kneeling next to him. Bungo sobbed, bent over, shaking.
"Fa--" Bilbo's voice died when he saw the envelope. It wasn't like his mother's soft paper envelopes and there was a stamp. Bilbo swallowed.
"Father, wh- what's wrong?" he stammered. His father just shook his head in reply and pushed a paper to him. Bilbo took it in trembling hands. He read the words printed on the clean parchment. Tears welled up and rolled down his cheeks.
"No. No no nono!" Bilbo turned the paper around in his hands, hoping that it was all just a cruel joke. But the signature at the end of the letter looked real. Everything looked too official.
Bilbo pressed his fist against his mouth. It couldn't be.
"Father, this- this is all just a big rouse--" he said, but even then, he knew it wasn't. Grief was ripping open his soul. Tears were pouring out. He felt sick and his vision swam. Everything hurt, all at once.
"Master Baggins?" that was Hamfast, but he barely even recognized the voice. Bilbo just held out the paper. It was taken from him. A pause filled in with his father's sobs. Then there was a small gasp. "Oh my... I'm so sorry for your loss--"
Bilbo broke there. He lost all ability to think properly, breaking down into pieces, bending over, hiding his face away from the world. Murmuring was all around him, but he could only think of one thing.
Belladonna Took... was dead.