Chapter Text
Mahal looked to the east and wept.
He could not bear to hear the desperate cries of his children. His beloved children, who now walked so far from stone and mountain. His beloved children, scared, starving and homeless. Their pain burned him like dragonfire.
Yavanna looked to the west and frowned. Her youngest children looked up to her in prayer. They had found a home, had overcome their loneliness. Her youngest children had found shelter and happiness. But they had become forgotten. They had found a home but no safety. They were destined to burn.
Then they turned and looked at each other and decide to change their children’s fate.
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Belladonna Took had always been the outgoing one of the family. When her siblings hung at their mothers’ skirt she hung on trees and bushes. When others surrounded the table and hoped to get one of the freshly baked cookies, she stared at a bee in the rosebushes and sung sweet songs about honey. She had a deep connection to growing things, living things. She valued her tulips more than she valued gossip and decided as a tween that she would rather talk to wild rabbits than her grandfather, who would tell the little one’s stories of heroes and princesses. She loved all growing things, living things. Yet she did not belong to one of them.
Bungo Baggins had always been a very respectable Hobbit. No, not only a hobbit, but one of the finest gentlehobbits the shire had ever seen. When he reached the age of 15, he planted an oak tree on a hill and declared before his whole family that he would someday build a royal smail underneath it. It would be a growing smial, he had said, and it would grow with the people who lived in it.
The two of them met shortly after his declaration. They were both 20, not even adults yet, and instantly in love.
Ten years and seven and a half months later they got married beneath an oakling.
Their marriage was a happy one. They moved in the smial that Bungo had built Belladonna and filled it with as much life and happiness as possible. But they never managed to grow it. Belladonna, who loved life so much, was not able to grow it herself.
On their third marriage anniversary they began to pray to Yavanna and Aulë.
Growing children and loving family had always been one of the most sacred things to Hobbits, and they valued nothing more than that. Not being able to grow a child, to make a family to love, to fill a home with life and happiness, was the worst thing that could happen to a Hobbit. So, everyone got together, and prayers were being held every day for three months. Not even the fauntlings broke the silence that the prayers left, no one dared to break the connection that the Hobbits tried to build to the mother of all growing and living things, to Yavanna herself.
On the first day of the fourth month Belladonna and Bungo were sent to the old forest, the forest that still smelled like magic of the old days, to presume their prayers there.
“To grow one can’t be alone.” Belladonna had whispered to her beloved husband, and then had laid down her offerings on the ground. Everything that lived, everything that they could care for, was placed in a small stone circle. A rescued bunny that had broken his legs and had been unable to heal them alone. A rescued bird who had fallen from its nest and hadn’t had the strength to fly up to it again. Mushrooms and flowers in little pots, acorns from their oak tree. All offerings that had been taken care of for a long time, to show Yavanna that the two Hobbits were capable of taking care of life.
The animals snuggled together; they never felt the urge to run away from the hobbits that had rescued them. The flowers seemed untouched by the wind and shone in vibrant colours.
“No, my dear. Let us include him tonight.” Stones were moved on the circle. Glittering stones that had been polished until they shone brighter than Belladonna had thought it to be possible.
Ten they offered their voice and their breath to both gods in unison.
They prayed to Yavanna and Aulë and waited patiently.
Seven months later, Belladonna was growing life.
They knew that the life that grew beneath her heart was not a Hobbit. Everyone knew after Belladonna had not gone into labour after the normal six months, and after the tenth had passed, everyone had accepted it. It had been a life given by Yavanna and Aulë, a life planned by the gods. No one questioned why the life was not one of a Hobbit, no, the shirefolk celebrated every day that passed and whispered to the young thing that they were waiting patiently for it.
On the four hundred and fiftieth day, a freshly born fauntling opened its bright green eyes.
They named him Bilbo and wrapped him in blue fabric, before presenting him to the family.
Everyone knew that Bilbo was no true Hobbit. But he was at least half one, and so they celebrated his birthday like every birthday of every Hobbit and clothed him in the finest Hobbit clothes.
When his third birthday came around, his family began to suspect that he had been made both from Yavanna and Aulë, and thus was related to Hobbit and Dwarf. He had nor stared to speak at that point and spent most of his life sleeping. He did not scream when he was ready for feedings, nor did he make a sound when something unpleasant like a bath was forced upon him. He simply blinked at the world and at his family and grabbed their fingers or locks of their hair.
The only sounds that escaped him was the happy laughter of a baby that was being tickled, or his silent snoring when he was in such a deep sleep that even his screaming cousins couldn’t wake him.
His un-hobbitish behaviour made sense in some ways, he was growing slower than his year-mates, and seemed to prefer looking at stones than to watching trees. When the Train noticed this, he began to collect books about Dwarves and their culture, and slowly filled the Hobbit’s knowledge about different species that inhabited this world.
Belladonna was the most adventurous one of the Took family and made adventuring and gaining more information about Dwarves and what exactly they were, her primary life purpose.
Bungo opted to stay at home with Bilbo and tried to let the boy live out his imagination. They were not sure about his diet, what exactly did a Dwarf eat? Letting Bilbo choose his own food became a time-consuming task, and Bungo soon became the Shire’s most respected cook. He made more food than any Hobbit could eat in a day and tried to find out what exactly his growing son like to eat the most.
When Belladonna returned from the elves, she carried heavy tomes and scrolls and grinned so wildly that Bungo feared for her cheek muscles. The tombs were helpful, they learned about the growing speed of Dwarves (some of them aged up to the age of 300), about their diet (it primarily contained meat), and about how they lived in mountains and castles made of stone. They also learned about how Dwarves spoke in a secret language that they did not teach to non-Dwarves, that they were battle masters and that every Dwarf had a craft that they were called to.
Some things that they learned were troublesome for the little shire folk. How Dwarves always seemed to pursue war, how they dismissed everything that grew and lived, how they spent most of their days beneath stone and earth and how they thought themselves to be above anything and anyone else.
But Bilbo was not like the Dwarves that they read about. He was a silent but sweet little boy. And everyone loved him dearly.
When Bilbo spoke for the first time, Belladonna nearly cried.
Bungo quickly grabbed his son and waked through the little village and made everyone who had a few seconds to spare to listen to his little boy saying “Mama”.
Bilbo’s first memory was a dream about fire and death. He never told his parents about it and tried to forget it as soon as he woke up from the dream. But the dreams continued. Sometimes he dreamed about big thrones made of stone and crowns full of jewels that sat upon his head. He dreamed about walking through deserted land and watching the stars, dreamed about crystal clear water and the darkness of caves.
He dreamed about war and pain and sometimes he awoke screaming and struggling for breath. He dreamed about death and pain and things that he wanted to forget about, but he couldn’t.
He dreamed about different lifetimes as something that was less Hobbit than he was now. He dreamed about a different language and runes and rituals of hair braiding and forming beads.
But when he woke, he was not able to speak the language any more, and the runes were blurry, and he could not recall their shape.
Sometimes he remembered his name in his dream. He remembered how the people that he dreamed about called him.
When he told his father about it, Bungo nearly collapsed.
“Durin” Bungo whispered and shook his head. “We suspected but to have it confirmed…” he fell silent when he saw his son’s tears.
“What is wrong with me?” Bilbo asked and gripped his father’s hands so firmly that they turned pale. “What did I do?”
“Nothing, my dear son. My precious, precious boy. Everything is alright. Now come let’s visit grandpa Took and hear about his tales of Dwarves and mountains.” But his words did not calm his son like they usually did but made him panic even more. “NO! No more mountains! No more Dwarves!”
He embraced the small hobbit child and smoothed down his hair.
“Shhhhh my boy, it is alright. Come, let’s go and forget this fright.”
Bungo took a long scarf and bound it around bis belly and shoulders, then placed his boy in the sling. He carried him to the Thain and sung silently an old song about ents and flowers until his boy slept.
“What is known about Durin?” The Hobbits held a meeting the following evening. Every head of every clan that lived in the Shire was present, and together they tried to make sense of Bilbo’s dreams.
“Durin the deathless. First dwarf to walk the earth. It is said that he was the one who named the mountains and sees and that he would be reborn seven times to aid his kin. Six Durin’s are known by now. The seventh one remains to be born.”
The hobbits mulled over the meaning of this, recited the prayers that helped Belladonna and Bungo receive their boy.
“We prayed to Aulë… To Mahal. It would make sense that he gifts us with a child of his own. But why a Durin?” Bungo was not happy with the new revelation. Not because his son was part Dwarf, but because he resented the thought of his son suffering. As Durin he would remember his past lives. He would remember war and pain and death. Bilbo was too innocent and pure for such an amount of pain.
“We do not know why but we must accept it. But do not speak of it to anyone that is not of our blood, for the Dwarves will take him from us to make him one of their own.”
And so began the life long task of hiding Bilbo Baggins.
Hiding him from Dwarves was easier than hiding him from himself. Sometimes Durin would look through the eyes of Bilbo. Sometimes, Bilbo couldn’t remember who he was and asked if someone could take him back to the mines. Sometimes he would pick up an axe and stare at it so longingly, it made his families hearts ache. The older he got, the clearer he remembered things that he didn’t want to remember. He could recite the runes now. Could speak a language that he had never learned.
He was not a full Hobbit. He was also Dwarf. Everyone accepted it. Everyone except Bilbo.
“I am a hobbit.” He would say. “I dream about being a Dwarf, but when I’m awake I’m a Hobbit. Nothing more.”
And his mother wanted to believe him, really, she did. But she could not watch away when her son would slip and curse in a strange language that no one had ever talked in or when he took the smith’s workplace over and did what came nearly natural to Dwarves.
He soon grew to be slightly taller than the standard hobbit man. Not extraordinarily tall, but still taller.
His feet stopped growing when the feet of others never stopped doing such. He sprouted sideburns when his father hadn’t even begun to grow his beard.
But he was still a Hobbit. He was gentle, could hear the trees sing, could feel the earth’s thoughts, could coax the birds into siting on his hands and eating the grains right out of his palm.
And he tried. He tried to not let his dwarvishness pull him away from his Hobbit family. But when his cousin got marries and began to grow a life herself and all the other cousins followed, he still resembled a tween. And when they celebrated his 35th birthday and his family told him that he should call his cousins his aunts and uncles and their children his cousins because the young ones wouldn’t understand why their uncle would always remain younger than them, he complied and acted as if it wouldn’t affect him.
The only times when he would let his frustration go was when he worked at the forge. He worked during the nights, when all the young ones were deep asleep, and when no one would pass by the little building. He would put on a fire so hot that it would scorch any Hobbits skin and would reach in it with his bare hands, rearranging the coal and coaxing the fire to burn brighter and hotter. He would imagine how Yavanna and Mahal must have made him, in a forge and then in plants, or maybe first in plants and songs and then in fire? He did not know. But his dwarven blood sung when he reached into the flames, and he knew that any fire besides the one from a foul beast would welcome and comfort him.
When Dwarves passed through the Shire for the first time since he had been born, his family had panicked and hid him in his bedroom for several hours. It had been completely unnecessary; the Dwarves had not lingered in the shire and after getting supplies at the market had left the Hobbit’s lands without mention of any lost Dwarven king. They were not aware of Bilbos existence.
His father had tried to explain him why they had hidden him.
“If they find out about you, they will probably try to take you away from us. It might be a bit selfish to hide you, but we could not bear to lose you, my son.” He had sounded so tired and broken, and Bilbo had spoken without giving it much thought. “But Da, that’s alright. I’ve lived so many lifetimes as a Dwarf already, I really want to be a Hobbit this time. And I really want to stay. Don’t be sad, Da, please… I will stay here, as a Hobbit, I promise.” His father looked at him, startled. “You have memories of a life as a Dwarf?” Bilbo had never told anyone about his memories. About him knowing that he had lived and died and lived and died and lived and died over and over and over again. How he knew about who he was. How he could remember more about his past lives each day. His family had assumed that he hadn’t remembered anything about himself as Dwarf yet.
“Yes Da. I have. But it doesn’t mean anything. I am a Hobbit.”
And that was that.
The shire continued to hide him when Dwarves were nearby. He never complained.
All was well, until fell winter came.
Bilbo heard the first howls during twilight.
When he heard the first Hobbit scream, Bilbo left and Durin ran out of Bag End.
The colour drained from his eyes and only left a sickly pale blue and white. His face was set in stone, and nothing indicated the burning rage that cursed through his body. His axe was light now, he barely even felt it’s weight it in his hands. The warg opened its jaw, ready to take the Hobbit’s head, but then hands wrapped around it, held it open, pulled, pulled, pulled… The jaw opened wider still, wider, faster, more, red, pain.
Muscles tearing, tendons pulling, bones snapping. The wolf’s spine broke under the pressure. It hadn’t had enough time to realized that it hadn’t gotten to its prey before it died.
He could hear an orc screaming, felt the warmth of foreign blood on his skin.
The Hobbit couldn’t breathe, fire was burning in his lungs. Stone was painted blood red, blood flowed down his face, his arms, covered his tunic. The setting changed. His mind was no longer in the shire.
Isn’t it winter? He thought and watched his kin burn. He looked down and saw his feat covered in boots, the points protected by a thick layer of steel.
Hobbits don’t wear shoes; he thought and ran to the fire.
Balrog’s don’t exist in the shire; he thought and charged the beast.
Then darkness took him.
Four days later he awoke in his bed. Three blankets covered him and protected him from the cold, a lit candle had ben paced on his night stand. His mother walked into the room quietly.
“Who are you?” she asked and gripped the handle of the door.
“I don’t know.” He answered and stared at her through pale blue eyes.
No one mentioned what had happened during that particular night. The ones that had observed Bilbo thanked him for saving the village, but no distrust or hatred filled their minds. Bilbo was just the Dwarf-hobbit that had protected them. They had not seen how his eyes had changed, or how he had forgotten where he was, how he had been trapped in a dream for the following days and nights.
His parents tried to reassure him, tried to tell him that there was nothing wrong with him. But he knew. He knew that his past lives tried to force themselves upon him and began to meditate to get a better grip on them. He remembered ancient methods of meditation that he had practised in his very first life and began to practise them every day.
When winter passed, his parents began to fade. He hadn’t even reached his forties.
They passed three months after the sickness had broken out. Bungo left them first. Belladonna followed him in the same hour.