Chapter Text
If he went to the market square, the ever-bustling market square, with its stands of ripe fruit and newly harvested vegetables, the tarts that seemed to spill from rickety shelves with sheer abundance, disturbed slightly with each passerby, and the tender scent of meat, roasting on a spit, he would tell you that despite all these fine fruits and meats and vegetables and tarts and whatever else that happened to be there at any given time, it was not a very fine place at all. In fact, returning home to the Shire, Bilbo Baggins would tell you that he supposed he had become the type to avoid places like that now. Not that the market, on any day, or especially Sundays, when it was most crowded for the new week, had gotten any less merry. Bilbo would then tell you that he figured it had only gotten exceedingly merry over the years, perhaps more so while he was gone on his adventure, than he had ever seen it. That is of course, considering you knew at least half of the hobbits there and you were on good enough terms with more than half of the farmers and blacksmiths and bakers to get you a bargain price...well then it could be a very jolly place indeed.
The Shire, in its entirety, typically tended to be a simple and down-to-earth place, all things considered. No monsters, no dragons, no war, and certainly no adventures. For all intents and purposes, the Shire was a domestic place for hobbits and their families to live unaffected and homely lives in their little hobbit holes. Bilbo knew what it was like to live that sort of life. Granted, not the wife and plentiful kids bit of it, but the parts of it which were focused on tea and armchairs and a strict tending to the flowers outside the door every morning. Bilbo knew it and yet couldn’t seem to relate to it anymore. His scope of the outside world had been expanded greatly in so short a time, and he simply couldn’t seem to remember what it was like to worry about dishes being broken, or waistcoats that needed to be patched. He was a gentlehobbit, that much was certain, tied to his identity like a wine stain on a collar, and yet, there seemed to be a great and unbridgeable gap between the Bilbo of the present and the gentlehobbit Bilbo Baggins of the past. And with this final thought, a small hand tugged on his shirtsleeve.
“Uncle Bilbo?” the hobbit-child whispered, hesitatingly.
“Yes, my dear Frodo?” Bilbo replied in turn.
“Have we gone the wrong way? We’ve been walking for ages, and my feet hurt! But we’re still not any closer to home!”
“So we are, Frodo,” Bilbo whispered, looking down at the ground. A sharp burst of shame overtook him. He had obligations and responsibility, he couldn’t wander the streets of Hobbiton as simple as you please. There were tasks to get done, chores to fulfill, and the most pressing matter at hand: a very hungry hobbit-lad to feed. He resolved to push his worries to the side, enclose them in a locked drawer at the back of his mind, and focus on the present. Get yourself together, Bilbo, he thought to himself. You can’t be fretting over this and that and identities and society and what have you at a time like this. Not when Frodo needs someone to look after him properly. And so, he turned himself around and, grabbing little Frodo’s hand, made a brisk walk toward Bag-End. However, just as he and Frodo were set to walk straight inside that round green door, he was caught off guard by a matronly hobbit woman, tapping her feet as she sat on the bench.
“Mr. Baggins!” she started, in her rickety voice. “Mr. Baggins, I have been waiting out here for nigh on an hour. Your gardener even dared to approach and tell me that I had ought to start on home, as he supposed you wouldn’t be around for who knows how long. The nerve!”
Bilbo tried to interject. “I’m terribly sorry-”
“Clearly, you aren’t,” she said pointedly, indicating toward his muddy feet and basket full of tomatoes from the market. “However, being an upstanding hobbit like myself, I won’t begrudge you for going off to the market when you weren’t aware that guests could be popping ‘round for visits. In fact, I’d encourage you to spend more time out of doors. You know, there are...folks, Mr. Baggins, and I won’t say who on my honor, but those who have been spreading awfully nasty rumors. What sorts? Well, I couldn’t say. You’ve gotten quite, shall we say, queer, in your advanced age. But I wouldn’t repeat anything that’s been going around, no indeed. Not while your nephew stands here. No indeed.”
“Was there anything else you needed from me, er, Mrs.-”
“What? Mr. Baggins, my good faith has brought me here upon your doorstep. For such reason alone I have taken it upon myself to rectify the wrongs I see in this society. I am the lone harbinger of good upstanding and fine hobbits in these lands, and I shall not see my lovely Shire degraded in such ways.”
“In what, um, ways, would that be?”
“What? Oh, well I’m starting small. Little fish, big pond, as they say. Firstly, these rumors. I wish to eradicate them entirely, I see no reason to debase high society with such, such, gossip. The only way I see to mitigate it would be for you to fix your faults yourself. Become the gentlehobbit you once were, Mr. Baggins, and I see no reason for anyone to speak of you in such terrible terms as they are now.”
“And how, ma’am, pray tell, would I ‘fix’ myself?”
“Why, marry a fine hobbit lass of course! Frodo needs a mother, don’t you see? He can’t grow into a fine hobbit-lad without the warm and comforting bosom of a caring mother! You see, I have a daughter myself, right around your age, would step right into the house and motherly duties right away. Awfully wonderful hobbit-lass she is, capable of multitasking and completing any chore you throw her way. She-”
Bilbo finally managed to interject. “I’m sorry, but I simply am not looking to marry as of this moment. I’m sure your daughter is, as you say, wonderful and comely, however marriage is just not something I am looking for, thank you.”
“Bilbo Baggins I am sure you will live to regret this. I am only trying to look out for your reputation and well-being.”
“Yes and I thank you, once again. Good day.”
The offended hobbit made a single huff and walked back down the hill from whence she came.
“What a piece of work,” Bilbo snorted. “Talking like she’s doing some great deed by telling me what I should and shouldn't be doing. As if I need help, ha!”
“Do you need help, Uncle?”
“What?” Bilbo whirled around to face the little hobbit. “No, no, I have done perfectly fine without... I don’t see any reason to start now. Unless...you, my dear Frodo, are feeling lonely? I mean, and it could be understood, that it is rather lonesome up here for a fauntling like you. Of course, it could be said that you miss living in Brandybuck Hall. I could see if the Brandybucks could send Merry up for a visit, that is to say that--oh, who am I kidding. Frodo, and I’ll say it plain, do you wish to live with a family again?”
“Uncle...no...I only,” And here Frodo stopped and dug his heel into the dirt. “You are the one who seems lonely. I mean--”
“Me?” Bilbo scoffed. Himself lonely? What a funny idea. Why, he’s been living alone since his own parents died, all those years ago. Books and armchairs and baked goods, what more could one need? Fill your belly up with warm bread, smell the freshly blooming flowers from out the rotund windows, what more, indeed. Of course, an internal voice supplied, there was that time when you weren’t lonely, when you had plenty of dwarven friends, and when you sidled up to Thorin, became an unlikely pair, and knew him, utterly-- striking and remarkable, and frankly, splendid, confident, kind, courageous, loyal, beautiful but-- Bilbo shook his head to clear his mind. It wouldn’t do to think about... No, Mr. Bilbo Baggins wasn’t lonely at all, and, if he was, you wouldn’t be able to catch it, not when he was out and about, visiting the square or the Green Dragon, no. But maybe in those quiet moments, when small peat fires turned into visions of dragon fire and dwarven battle cries, or when the queen bed in the darkness seemed to be ever so much colder, seemed to swallow him whole, would be softer and more plush than the hard outdoor ground, but as of that moment, simply not better than the warmth of thirteen dwarves snoring and the last remaining embers filling the campsite with smoke. Well then, indeed, maybe Bilbo was, a little, maybe just a tad, lonely.
Frodo tried to respond, “I don’t know uncle-”
“Now, Frodo, why don’t we head inside, we’ve been standing by this doorstep for long enough I daresay, and I’m certain you’ve been hankering for some supper by now.”
“Will there be mushrooms?” Frodo said, bright eyed.
“Plenty of mushrooms, indeed.” Bilbo responded with a gentle smile, ruffling the top of Frodo’s head. “Plenty of mushrooms, indeed,” he repeated, fondly, watching Frodo scamper off, leaving trails of mud in his wake. It was as if he was remembering his own days of frolicking and joviality. Far into the past were those days now, and yet, the passionate flames of youth still seemed to shake his core every once in a while, causing him to appear spontaneous and eager, adventure and fervency thrumming through his very bones. Those were the days when he’d find the chest of knickknacks he’d acquired through his adventure, all dusty and left behind, and pull out Sting, his old sword, waving it around and fancying himself a brave warrior, more dwarven than hobbit, and aching for the adrenaline there once was. But Bilbo once again cleared his mind with a small shake, he was simply a proper hobbit, living in the Shire. Nothing wrong with the Shire per se, it was just hard to shed that persona, like a snake, of his that he’d lived in for over a year. It was entwined with every part of his being, and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to shake it.
Much later, days later in fact, although a similar routine throughout, he found himself flopping into his armchair, early in the evening. A weariness crept over him, settling itself deep within his mind, like large, burrowed roots from a hoary willow. Would it be like this forever? Aging, aging, aging, while others never aged at all? While others, buried beneath stone, beneath frigid mountain tops, never moved, never breathed, encased evermore within the stagnancy of death? And yet, Bilbo would have to live and live and live and live, seeing bright new days with ever-failing eyes, until the sunrises and roads and books all became smeary in their umbers. And then through it all, would he be vastly and unerringly alone? Sitting there, in his familiar hobbit hole, he felt small and unimportant, as if nothing he had ever done, or ever would do, or was currently doing, had ever been of any consequence at all. A simple hobbit, just a simple, silly little gentlehobbit, not the same one who stood up against orcs, conversed with dragons, and, who in the midst of great battle, did not back down. Certainly not the same hobbit. While in this sort of trance, Bilbo inattentively watched the fading sunlight glance off the wooden panels of his home, not paying any mind to the passage of time. He thought maybe, that if he were to sit there, in that decrepit armchair, sit there indefinitely perhaps, that he would wither away to nothingness, become like nature itself, eventually succumbing to his own life-course. So lost was he in these thoughts that he did not hear the joyful singing from under the window, nor did he hear the door opening, and he most certainly did not hear the sound of little hobbit-feet scurrying towards the kitchen.
It was only when he heard the sound of something crashing, and, possibly, breaking, that he suddenly became alert. There, as he rushed to the kitchen, were two young hobbit-lads, covered from head to toe with flour, looking nearly ashamed, but mostly ecstatic at what they had created-a very lopsided and almost burnt raspberry jam cake.
“Look Mr. Bilbo! Look what we made! Cake!” called Sam, the second of the guilty hobbits, to Bilbo, standing dumbfounded in the doorway.
“Cake…” Bilbo mumbled to himself, sweeping his gaze at the mess. Pots and pans and cutlery stood covered in batter, lying across all the counters, dirty dish towels had been cast carelessly to the floor, and, from what Bilbo could see, the source of the crash he had heard seemed to have come from a great stack of prized silverware that had fallen off one of the taller shelves, landing scattered and everywhere.
Frodo’s gaze followed Bilbo’s and he flushed a little in embarrassment. “Sam’n’I will clean it up, honest!” he said, with a note of apology in his voice. “But we made this cake to celebrate, ‘cause we always have a party to-day, and you promised!”
“Party today…” Party...why, oh yes, it was that day, then. The day when thirteen dwarves invaded his home (and his heart, that pesky internal voice reminded him), and he made a decision to accompany them. The five year anniversary date since then, three with Frodo in his home, where he had taken to spreading out a splendid feast, akin to the ones the dwarves had made, after ransacking his pantry. It had slipped his mind with everything, but it wouldn’t do to disappoint Frodo and his friend Sam, who Frodo had clearly invited over for the occasion.
“Alright lads,” Bilbo said, putting a small smile on his face. “A very fine cake you made, but now let’s clean this up and start on the real meal. It wouldn’t do to have cake for supper and fill yourselves up on sweets now, would it?” He finished this statement pointedly, eyeing the lopsided cake with edges that had been clearly picked off by little fingers.
And with that, the children hurried to clean, not only themselves but the entire kitchen, and soon stood before Bilbo, bright eyed and full of mirth. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel gladdened by the sight, and his spirits lifted immeasurably. Maybe there would be times when he felt lost and insignificant, but there would also be times when gladness pervaded the home, and childlike wonder would abound, to combat it. Bilbo was sure that there would be plenty more days of despair to reckon with, but the sense of foreboding at the moment left him, and only a pleasant cheer remained. If he could do one thing right, it would be to raise Frodo, and he did this as best he could, with love, safety, plentiful meals shared with each other, and joy filled songs sung about the kitchen, the washroom, and anywhere that Bilbo felt deserved a song at any given moment. Children would always be children, in this age or the next, and Bilbo knew that, so he always tried to make room for Frodo and his spontaneous impulses; whether that be jumping into puddles, catching fireflies way past Frodo’s bedtime, or simply letting him go play out in the fields with Sam, skipping his lessons, then Bilbo allowed that as often as he could without being too remiss in parental duties. Yes, he had been a little off in terms of his mood as of late, even enough to start worries with the town-folk, as he had been so rudely reminded, and he acknowledged this, promising to do better. He simply needed to forge ahead, leave the past in the past, and focus on the concerns of now- not the ones that would wake him up in the middle of the night, instinct and memory calling to surface remnants of cruel, terrifying orcs, and shadows of friends saying their final goodbyes, gasping out last breaths in his arms. Yes, although the concerns of now were much less life threatening, they still needed to be looked after, and by Yavanna, he would try his hardest to follow them through. Something caught his eye, or rather, his nose, the smell of the supper permeating the kitchen, snapping him back to attention. He chuckled a bit to himself with this, he seemed nowadays like he was frequently shaking himself out of his thoughts, as if thoughts were just pesky louses needed to be shaken off. He tried to focus himself back into the moment, watching as the two friends chopped vegetables and stirred stovetop stews and mashed potatoes. The two were boisterously singing together, a string of nonsense rhyming phrases, bouncing each line off of each other. “Making a stew is a great thing to do!” Bilbo heard one call, off pitch. The other responded in turn, “And making stew is what we do!” And at this, Bilbo continued to watch as they sung the last line together arm in arm, Sam specifically swinging a wooden spoon wildly: “Oh stew, what a grand stew, made for me and you!” But before the last note could fully ring out, a heavy knock sounded throughout the house.