Chapter Text
On a beautiful sunny Spring day at the edge of a meadow just West of Hobbiton, things were already going wrong. Not that any of it was young Bilbo’s fault.
“No,” said Jago, sticking his chin out and glaring. He really did have very goggly eyes. “We’re playing families.”
“But families is a stupid game!” said Bilbo, stamping his foot. Was he going to have to let Jago be the Brave Soldier? That wouldn’t work at all. It would be much better the way Bilbo wanted, and they were all just being mean.
Jago turned his back, ignoring him, and pointed to Dahlia, who was sobbing miserably. “You can be Mother,” he said. “I’ll be Father. Holman, you’re the dog. Ponto, you’re our baby.”
Dahlia’s snivelling stopped at once, and she wiped her nose noisily on her apron. She’d started crying when Bilbo told her she wasn’t going to be the Elven Princess, of course, and now her whole face was red and blotchy. It was hardly Bilbo’s fault she wasn’t princess material. Princesses had to be beautiful and special, and Dahlia Lockwood just wasn’t.
“Stop it!” said Bilbo. “We’re playing adventures! I made a map and everything!”
Jago gave him a withering look. “I suppose you can be one of our babies too,” he said.
“But I’m the Brave Soldier! I don’t want to play families!” said Bilbo, feeling his own tears prickle behind his eyes as his so-called friends started their new game without him.
“We don’t want to play with you. You’re too bossy,” said Dahlia smugly, slipping her hand into Jago’s. Holman had dropped to his hands and knees already, wagging his bottom as if it had a tail attached. Even Ponto, his thumb stuck in his mouth, only shrugged sheepishly. Well, jolly well see if Bilbo offered to make him a princess ever again.
“Fine!” yelled Bilbo. “Just fine! I’m going to go and have adventures on my own, and none of you are invited!”
He grabbed his backpack and stomped off towards the little wood along the edge of the fields, well aware that it was further than fauntlings were supposed to go alone. Once he was past the first few trees, he found a fallen stump and sat down, great hiccuping breaths bursting out of him now that no-one could see. Tears he couldn’t keep in a single moment longer ran down his cheeks and dripped off his chin, spotting his trousers.
He could just about hear Dahlia giggling and Holman barking out in the meadow and snorted to himself, scrubbing his wet face with a shirtsleeve. Playing families, as if they weren’t all going to spend the rest of their lives doing exactly that. Well, he hoped Dahlia and Jago got married and had a whole clutch of noisy, stupid, goggly-eyed, blotchy faced faunts when they grew up. It would serve them right. And Holman could go and get eaten by a warg and Ponto… Ponto could… well, Ponto could do whatever he liked. It wasn’t as if Bilbo cared.
If he walked along The Water he could get back to Hobbiton without anyone seeing, thought Bilbo, and set off, swinging his wooden sword savagely through the undergrowth.
They were all so stupid. After he’d spent the whole evening yesterday drawing his map and deciding who would be who. Mama had stroked his hair and told him it sounded like a wonderful game, and he’d been relieved and pleased and excited all at once. Especially since she’d been so vexed at dinner time.
The roast chicken had all gone and Mama had been dishing out some apple pie when she asked if he was going to play with Ponto tomorrow like she had suggested, and he’d said no. Then she had asked why, and Bilbo explained that he had asked, but Ponto was playing with his other friends instead. And then there had been an argument.
“Why can’t you join in?” asked Mama, and Bilbo had shrugged.
“I don’t want to. I want to stay home. Tomorrow’s Washday.”
Bilbo always loved Washday. Usually he would take one of Mama’s books of maps outside and hide between the washing lines, pretending he was on a pirate ship. Up on top of Bagshot Hill the oak tree creaked the way Bilbo imagined a ship’s mast would, and the drying bedsheets snapped like sails in the wind. He’d tried showing Ponto once, but they’d got in trouble after Ponto got bored and pulled one of the lines down, so now Bilbo preferred to captain his ship alone.
“Exactly,” said Mama. “You’ll be under my feet. You need to go and play with your friends, since the weather’s going to be nice.”
That didn’t make sense, though, because Bilbo never did get under her feet, and he could always go and read in the study with Father instead, or help him bake the bread, like most days. Pointing that out had only riled her up more.
“Bilbo Baggins, it won’t do! It’s no good reading about life and not living it. You need to go and get muddy, play with other faunts, and not come back until dark! That’s settled.”
So he had made a promise, and it didn’t matter that he didn’t like the other faunts much, and even Ponto was never as much fun when it wasn’t just the two of them. Now it was all spoiled, though he had certainly tried his best, and he didn’t dare go home yet.
Bilbo stopped under a willow tree, chewing his lip, and wondered what he should do. Sheer crossness had sped his steps enough that he would be back to Bagshot Row within an hour if he kept on.
Maybe he should go and have a real adventure after all. Or perhaps, more likely, he would just sit around in the woods alone until teatime. He wished he’d brought a book. There were branching bur-reeds growing along the riverbank, and Bilbo pulled a few of the little round flowers off and blew them onto the water, watching them float away. He wondered where they would end up, and if he would ever travel that far himself. It wasn’t that he was averse to exploring or being with other hobbits, not really, only that he liked things to be done properly, and so few folk seemed to understand.
He could hear music.
It was faint, and it kept stopping and starting, but it was definitely music. Listening carefully, Bilbo turned and took a few steps towards the sound. It was something like a harp, he thought, but all the harp music he’d ever heard was for dancing, whereas this was slow and solemn. It was nice, though. He walked closer, as softly as he could, to find out where it was coming from.
The woods grew quieter the further Bilbo walked from the stream, and darker too, with pale sunbeams slanting down between the trees. There were a few birds calling, and a whisper of breeze in the leaves, but not much more than that, so the music was easy to follow. It led him towards a little open glade up ahead and Bilbo dropped silently down into a patch of bracken, creeping forward to see.
Leaning back against a tall beech in a patch of warm light was someone Bilbo had never seen before, and that was unusual enough. They were sitting on some sort of black fluffy cushion and scowling furiously at a small wooden harp, plucking notes that sounded wonderful to Bilbo but clearly did not please the Harpist one bit. He didn’t have a shirt on, and black curly hair hung wild down his back and grew up onto his cheeks and chin, like the Men in Bree. A beard, that was what it was called. But he wasn’t a Man, because they were huge, and this person was certainly bigger than Bilbo but not by all that much.
He was strange, and looked unfriendly, and perhaps Bilbo should have been scared, but then the person reached up to scratch his hair under the floppy hat he wore, and Bilbo squeaked in shock.
It wasn’t a floppy hat. It was a floppy ear. And the creature wasn’t sitting on a fluffy cushion, either, but a fluffy bottom, with two hairy legs that bent backwards and ended in shiny black cloven hooves.
Had Bilbo been looking for an adventure? Here was one, sitting right in front of him in a little woodland glade full of primroses, and now staring straight at him with an extremely suspicious glower.
Bilbo scrambled to his feet, gripping his sword tightly. It might only be wooden, but it was better than nothing.
“Hello,” he said, noting with pride that it came out barely wobbly at all. The satyr stared at him unblinking as if he hadn’t spoken. There was a long pause. “Hello,” he said again. “Um. Can you talk?”
It nodded, silently and slowly, never taking its eyes off Bilbo.
“I heard your music,” said Bilbo. “My name’s Bilbo.”
The satyr continued to stare.
“What’s your name?” asked Bilbo. He dared to take another step forward, and whilst the satyr didn’t exactly relax, it didn’t jump up and run away, either.
“Thorin,” said the satyr after a long pause, and his voice was terribly gruff, as if he didn’t use it much. His accent didn’t sound like any Bilbo had heard before.
“Thorun?” said Bilbo.
“Thorin,” corrected Thorin, scowling again. He had great bushy eyebrows, but the eyes beneath were rather pretty, and blue as the sky.
“Sorry,” said Bilbo, and dared a small smile. He nodded at the harp in Thorin’s hands. “I apologise for disturbing you, Mister Thorin. I like your music, it’s nice, can you do it again?”
Thorin shook his head, and put the harp down on the grass beside him without looking. He still wouldn’t stop staring at Bilbo.
“Sword,” said Thorin, pointing.
“Oh!” said Bilbo, raising it in surprise. He gave it a dashing sort of swish. “Yes, because I’m a Brave Soldier, you see, going to fight an Evil Wizard and his goblins.”
Thorin snorted, his eyebrows twisted in a sort of confused, disbelieving frown. He glanced around the glade, as if goblins might pour out of the trees.
“A game, I mean,” said Bilbo lamely. “I’m not really going to. It was pretend. But I don’t have anyone to play it with.”
Thorin didn’t look much less confused by that. “I say,” said Bilbo thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you want to play, do you?”
There was another long pause, and then Thorin stood up. The fur on his legs ended just above his hips, except for a sparse line that ran up the expanse of his belly and widened again across his broad chest, and he had the most fascinating little flicky tail behind him. He folded his arms awkwardly under Bilbo’s captivated stare and nodded, once, looking terribly fierce.
“Really? Okay. Um,” said Bilbo, setting down his backpack to pull out the map and the folded paper helmet his father had made. “There was going to be a king and a princess and a wizard and a goblin, and I was going to fight them and rescue her and be knighted by the king, but now there’s just us two.” Bilbo looked back up at Thorin, considering, but not for long. It was obvious really.
He passed the map to Thorin and grabbed his free hand, striking out for where the captured city lay.
“You’ll wait for me over there in the castle, like what’s drawn in the map, okay?” he said, fired with enthusiasm once more. “You’ll be my princess!”
--
It wasn’t far from where they were to the little mossy hillock where a single thin silver birch sapling grew, and Bilbo led the way. There were several large dogwood bushes below for sneak attacks, with birches and ash trees behind them where the forest thickened out again. He climbed up and stood, hands on hips, beside the silver tree and explained.
“This is the Magical Tree, okay, and the Evil Wizard has captured the city, and you’re the Elven Princess,” he began, but Thorin shook his head.
“No,” he growled. “Not an Elf.”
Bilbo gaped. Who wouldn’t want to be an Elf? He just was about to get cross about it - couldn’t anyone just do as they were told? - when he paused. It wasn’t such a big change, after all, and there could be no doubt Thorin would make a wonderful princess of any sort.
“All right,” agreed Bilbo. “Just a princess, then. And the wizard’s tied you up here,” he grabbed Thorin’s hand and pulled him over to stand with his back against the bark and his hands crossed at the wrists behind the tree. Thorin allowed himself to be manhandled, looking bemused, but he was pliant enough, and soon Bilbo had him arranged suitably.
He stood back and sighed. It wasn’t quite right, but Mama and Father had both insisted he wasn’t to bring any rope, so it would have to do. The long dark curly hair falling over one shoulder was a particularly good touch. “A cascade of raven curls,” said Bilbo loftily, remembering something Father had once said to Mama, and allowed himself to be satisfied.
“Now,” said Bilbo, consulting his map as he made his way back down the hillock towards the trees. There was a large and mysterious hole at the top of it precisely where the Brave Soldier’s route had been marked. It was a ragged half-circle, and a little damp at the edges, like a bite had been taken from the paper.
“Oh,” said Bilbo in confusion. “Something ate my map.”
He looked up at Thorin, who was staring fixedly down at his hooves, as if avoiding Bilbo’s gaze. Surely not...
Well, it didn’t matter any way. He knew the route well enough and he could always extemporise if needed. Bilbo cleared his throat, stuffed the chewed map in his back pocket, and drew his sword with a flourish.
“Fear not, my El… my Princess, I’m here now, to defeat the Evil Wizard and rescue you!” he announced, bouncing through the bushes. A branch flicked back and hit him in the eye, but no Brave Soldier would let that stop him. The bushes were the goblins, decided Bilbo, since they didn’t have many other options, and he attacked them furiously, thwacking and slashing with all the strength in his arm.
“Have at you!” he cried, glancing over his shoulder. Thorin was watching him with interest, and Bilbo redoubled his efforts. He could feel a grin spreading over his cheeks, and soon leaves and twigs were flying everywhere.
“Death or Glory!” yelled Bilbo, battle fever coursing through his veins as he smashed his sword down onto the next bush. An angry chaffinch burst forth in a flash of russet and white, chattering loud enough to startle him into sitting down quite suddenly.
Pushing a lock of sweaty hair out of his eyes, Bilbo took a moment to survey the devastation. It would do, he thought, and scrambled around to run up the hillock, twirling once or twice to slay an invisible opponent or two. The ground wasn’t especially even, and he fell over once, but managed it with enough grace to pretend it was a deliberate duck. In fact, he decided, it must’ve been the Wizard’s magic.
“I should have known!” snarled Bilbo, rolling onto his back and stabbing into the imaginary figure (far harder than he could have hit one of the other faunts, it occurred to him). “Take that, Wizard! Here ends your wicked reign of wickedness!”
He covered his mouth with one hand to mutter the Wizard’s dying curses, then leapt to his feet again, running to where his poor captured princess awaited him.
“It is I, your Highness, the Brave Soldier come to rescue you,” puffed Bilbo, heart still thudding in his chest with effort, as he fiddled with pretend ropes around Thorin’s wrists. Thorin nodded eagerly, and bowed to him, which wasn’t quite as good as a curtsey but still looked impressively royal. Bilbo bowed in reply and led him down the hill to safety, past the carnage of imaginary goblins, kicking a few skulls dismissively out of the way.
At the bottom, Thorin looked around at the scattered leaves and broken branches, frowning a little. It had gone marvellously well, and Bilbo was just wondering what they might do next when the satyr reached up, stretching further than Bilbo ever could have, and grasped a branch of beech about as thick as Bilbo’s arm in one hand. He snapped it clean off with an almighty cracking sound, and Bilbo took a step backwards in shock.
“That’s… gosh, you’re very strong,” said Bilbo, staring as Thorin swiftly and neatly stripped the smaller shoots from the branch, then hefted it deliberately in one hand, testing the weight. He snapped it again, shortening it to about twice the length of Bilbo’s sword, and turned with a wide grin.
Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what was happening. He really hadn’t considered that Thorin might be able to snap whole tree branches like twigs in his bare hands, and it took him a moment or two to recover.
“Oh,” he said at last, seeing Thorin’s expectant look. “Oh, I see. Yes, you’re right, I think they have sent for reinforcements, your Highness. Shall we?”
Thorin nodded, and with one smack of his stick-sword sent a large chunk of dogwood bush flying halfway up the hillock. Well, if that was how it was going to be, thought Bilbo delightedly, why not?
--
A fair while later, Bilbo had collapsed back against the grass, laughing helplessly and utterly puffed out. The goblin-bushes were well and truly defeated, and he wasn’t sure he could’ve lifted his sword again even so. He rolled around for a bit until his giggles subsided, and opened his eyes to find a buttercup next to his nose. For a moment or two he stared at it, a new idea slowly forming in his head.
He sat up. “Thorin,” he asked, “Can you make flower crowns?”
Thorin lay beside him, arms and furry legs splayed out against the grass, panting as he got his breath back. He blinked a few times and then shook his head dumbly, as if he had never heard of such a thing.
“Oh,” said Bilbo in delight. “I can show you how, then. Let’s find some good ones!”
There were buttercups aplenty, which was good, because the long stems were easily braided. They found some dandelions, which Thorin seemed to like, so they picked some of those too, and primroses, forget-me-nots, ragged robins, and by a stroke of luck Bilbo found some red campions, with good thick stems, that would hold the whole thing together beautifully. He wasn’t quite as good at making crowns as Father was, but he could do well enough if he tried.
He was trying terribly hard, for once. It wasn’t that he wanted to show off to Thorin, either, or not only that. Really Bilbo just wanted to make the prettiest crown he could, because if anyone deserved that it was surely Thorin. He was easily the best princess Bilbo could have asked for, and a brave comrade-in-arms as well.
“The bluebells aren’t out yet,” sighed Bilbo, frowning down at his fingers as they wove and bound the flowers together. “Bluebells would suit you ever so. At least we found some forget-me-nots.”
Thorin nodded, leaning in close enough that Bilbo could feel warm breath against his cheek. He was watching most attentively, following every movement, although he hadn’t tried making anything himself.
“Why?” asked Thorin at length, and his voice was so deep and so close it quite startled Bilbo.
“Why, to wear, you silly!” he said, and plopped it, half-finished, onto his own head on top of his paper hat to demonstrate. Thorin gawked at him, mouth hanging a little open.
“Every day?” asked Thorin, and Bilbo shook his head, taking the crown back down to finish it off.
“Not really,” he said. “You could, I suppose. You wear them for parties and weddings and special occasions mostly.”
“We have braids,” said Thorin, and it was the first information he had offered of his own accord since they’d met. Bilbo stopped what he was doing at once and grinned up at the satyr, delighted.
“Braids? Like the little ones in your hair?”
“For weddings,” said Thorin, going pink in the face. He frowned again, as if annoyed with himself for having told, and Bilbo jumped to his feet.
“We’ll do both then,” he said, and settled the finished crown on Thorin’s head too quickly for any objections. Giddy as he felt, he managed not to grab at Thorin’s hair, but ran his fingers gently through the inky strands, separating them out for braiding.
“With this ceremony the Brave Soldier and the Princess join their love,” said Bilbo, fumbling Thorin’s hair into an approximate plait. That was what usually happened at the end of stories, after all. Thorin had lovely hair, and so much of it that it was easy to get tangled, but the braid worked well enough, and a spare stalk of campion was enough to secure it.
He knelt down beside Thorin, who was still red-faced, but smiling now. It rather suited him, and Bilbo smiled back, pleased with his work.
That was the moment when Thorin lunged, kissing Bilbo on the mouth, just like grown-ups did.
“What are you doing?” asked Bilbo, rearing back in astonishment.
“Married,” said Thorin. It took Bilbo a moment to understand because he pronounced it “mah-red,” but yes, of course, married people kissed one another.
It was perfectly in keeping with the game, once he thought about it, so he cautiously leaned forward to place his own kiss on Thorin’s mouth. Father and Mama sometimes did special married kissing, with open mouths and tongues, but Thorin didn’t seem to want that, which was a relief. Bilbo had always thought it looked rather disgusting.
Thorin seemed pleased, so Bilbo tried another, this time on Thorin’s cheek. The kiss was returned, and within a few moments Bilbo was discovering all sorts of places you could kiss a person’s face that had never occurred to him before. Kissing Thorin’s mouth felt quite different to his fuzzy, bearded cheeks, and different again to the soft velvet of his floppy ears. The tip of his nose was different from the hard nubs of his little horns, and the skin on his neck was soft, and smelled nice, like earth and warm bedsheets, a little damp still from the sweat of fighting. It was terribly interesting, and Thorin seemed to think so too.
They peppered each other with kisses for a good while, only stopping when Bilbo’s tummy began to feel fluttery. It was growing more so by the moment, he realised, not quite as it usually felt when he was hungry, although he didn’t see what else it could be. Kissing must be harder work than it looked, he thought. No wonder Father and Mama usually went to bed after they’d been kissing a lot.
Luckily he knew Mama always packed a snack in the bottom of his backpack, so he grabbed Thorin’s hand again and dragged him to his feet. The poor thing looked rather dazed, so presumably he was hungry too.
“Come on,” said Bilbo, and led the way back to where they had left their belongings.
The backpack and harp lay where they’d been abandoned, and Bilbo fell to his knees and pulled out his scarf and penknife and several handkerchiefs until at last, at the bottom, he found a bundle wrapped in a linen cloth and pulled it out.
“Ooh,” he gasped. “Thorin. Sugar buns.”
Sugar buns were Bilbo’s favourite. His father made them with cinnamon and syrup and the crushed-up little black seeds that came in green pods and had some Haradish name he couldn’t pronounce, and then sprinkled them with great big chunks of white crystal sugar. One or two was a great treat, and here there were five. Bilbo decided not to think about that number too hard.
“Here,” said Bilbo, holding one out to Thorin. “For you.”
Thorin took it gingerly, sniffing the bun as if it wasn’t to be trusted, then licked it, and his eyes went wide. He took a huge bite, chewing without even closing his mouth properly, and Bilbo laughed so hard several crumbs from of his own mouthful fell out.
“Good, aren’t they? Better than eating maps,” he said cheerfully, and handed Thorin another, watching with glee as the satyr sat with a bun in each hand, almost overwhelmed with his treat. When they reached the last one, Bilbo didn’t hesitate to hand it over. After all, who knew how often Thorin had even had sugar buns before?
When all had been eaten and fingers had been thoroughly licked, Thorin peered over at the bag again with a hopefully expression, his little tail wagging.
“Nope,” said Bilbo cheerfully. “That’s all there is.”
Although it wasn’t, quite. Thorin had a large sugar-crystal stuck in his beard, and Bilbo swooped in quickly, snatching it under the guise of a kiss. He stuck out his tongue with the sugar-crystal on it for a second before crunching it, and Thorin, who had looked rather pleasantly surprised by the kiss, made a grumbling sound. He pushed at Bilbo’s shoulder, landing him flat on his back again, but the mossy ground was soft and it didn’t hurt.
Bilbo lay back sniggering happily, looking over at Thorin, and thinking what a rather marvellous day it had been after all. As he watched, Thorin picked up the little wooden harp, and glanced back at him.
“Song?” asked Thorin softly.
Bilbo beamed with delight, and something else, a sort of feeling like the one when he woke up very early in the morning and watched the sunrise from his window. “That would be very kind,” he said politely. “Yes please.”
He watched as Thorin began to play, plucking the strings with quick, clever fingers, and looking so pretty with flowers in his long black hair. It was a lovely tune, and Bilbo didn’t know it at all. He closed his eyes, listening intently, and let the sound wash over him.
--
Bilbo woke to a large, gentle hand shaking his shoulder, and a faint chill in the air. The music had stopped and instead there was a nightingale singing somewhere nearby.
He yawned, sat up, and saw to his horror that evening was falling. “Oh gosh,” said Bilbo in amazement. “How long did I sleep?”
Thorin shook his head, as if he didn’t know. He seemed somewhat anxious at Bilbo’s alarm.
“Thanks for waking me up,” said Bilbo, laying a hand on Thorin’s arm instinctively, “but I have to go home now. I’ll be in proper trouble if I’m not back before dark. Will you be here tomorrow if I come back?”
Thorin nodded vigorously, and for a moment Bilbo nodded with him like a fool, charmed by the sight. He caught himself and blushed, turning to stuff his things back into his backpack and hoist it onto his shoulders as quickly as he could.
“Goodbye Thorin,” he called, setting off at a run. “See you tomorrow! We’ll do pirates, okay?”
It wasn’t as dark as all that yet, probably not even quite teatime, hoped Bilbo, as he crashed noisily through the bracken. He cut East away from The Water, running as fast as he could, and it wasn’t more than 20 minutes before he could see Bagshot Row, and the door of Bag End wide open with his mother standing on the step.
“Bilbo! Where in the Shire have you been!” she scolded, wrapping her arms around him in a ferocious hug. “The other faunts were all home hours ago, I had to send your father out to look for you! Great heavens above us, the state of your clothes!”
“You said to stay out ‘till dark and get muddy,” said Bilbo defiantly, once he could get enough breath to speak. Mama tutted at him, but it looked as though she would rather laugh.
“And what is this?” she asked, detaching something from his head that pulled at his hair and hurt and definitely wasn’t his paper helmet. She held it out between finger and thumb, eyebrows raised. It was a limp, lopsided flower crown of buttercups and dandelions, falling apart even as Bilbo looked at it.
“Wait!” he cried, as Mama made as if to throw it into the garden. “I want to keep it, please. Can we press it, Mama, and keep it?”
“This?” asked Mama, and pulled a face. “Of course. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” said Bilbo happily, dropping his pack and heading into the kitchen. There on the table was a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a bowl of apples, with a jar of pickle beside them and a glass dish of pale creamy butter. It was exactly what he needed, and he tucked in gladly as Mama fetched down the largest flower-press from the top of a cupboard and began the task of unscrewing it at the corners.
“Where did you go, then, my honeybee?” she asked, watching him closely as she worked.
“I played in the woods, with Thorin. He’s tall, and he can play the harp, and he likes sugar buns.”
“Is that so?” said Mama. “Well, that’s good, I suppose. Well done for sharing your buns.”
“I did really good sharing,” said Bilbo cheerfully, slathering his bread with pickle. “I let him have three.”
“You must have liked him a lot,” said Mama, pausing as she lifted the flower-press lid and set it down on the windowsill. She put a fresh linen cloth inside and delicately laid the flower crown that Thorin must have made upon it. “Do I know him?”
“I don’t think so. He’s very nice though,” said Bilbo, swallowing rapidly so he could tell her more. “He doesn’t talk much, and he was a princess for my game, and it was fun, and then he helped me defeat the wizard, although really it was just some bushes, and then I showed him how to make crowns, and he played me a nice song, and I fell asleep, but he woke me up because I had to go home before dark. I’m going to go and see him tomorrow too, once my chores are done. I’m going to show him how to play pirates. He’s my new friend.”
“A new friend,” said Mama, almost whispering it. She reached down to tidy a petal, and she was smiling. “Oh Bilbo, I’m so glad.”