Chapter Text
Peregrin Took was born on a cold morning in Whitwell, the sort of morning when the mist hung low over the hills and every chimney puffed a contented stream of smoke. The kitchen fire had been going since before dawn, the kettle was whistling for the third time that hour, and the scent of fresh bread mingled with the sharper smell of boiled linen and soap.
The Took household was not precisely peaceful that morning.
In the parlor, three little hobbit-lasses were making more noise than a flock of geese discovering a fox.
“Pearl, tell me why we can’t go in,” said Pimpernel, age eleven and outrage incarnate. “It’s our baby too!”
Pearl, at the sophisticated age of fifteen, gave her best impression of an adult sigh. “Because Mama said so. And because you’ll poke at things you shouldn’t.”
“I don’t poke things!” Pimpernel objected at once. “You poke things!”
“I do not!”
“Do too!”
“Do not!”
The argument was interrupted by Pervinca, age five, who was sitting on the rug with her thumb in her mouth and a stuffed pony clutched to her chest. “Baby?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yes, there’s a baby,” Pearl said, turning to her. “But we’re not allowed to see it yet because someone,” she shot a look at Pimpernel, “keeps shouting.”
“I wasn’t shouting!” Pimpernel shouted.
Pearl groaned and threw herself back on the couch. “Honestly, Nell, you have the manners of a troll at breakfast.”
At that very moment, the door creaked open and their Aunt Esmeralda peeked in, a finger to her lips. “Hush, dears. Your mama’s resting, and the baby’s here now. You may come in quietly—and I do mean quietly.”
The girls straightened as if preparing for battle.
Pervinca tried to tiptoe but mostly just toddled. Pimpernel darted ahead with wide eyes, and Pearl walked in last, trying to look important and entirely above the situation.
Eglantine Took was sitting up in bed, hair damp with sweat but face soft with a mother’s glow. A small bundle was nestled against her chest, wrapped in one of Paladin’s old shirts—green, of course, because Tooks were incapable of doing anything halfway, even baby blankets.
“Come see,” she said softly. “But no squealing, no poking, and no pulling faces. That means you, Pimpernel.”
“I don’t pull faces,” Pimpernel whispered, immediately pulling a face.
Eglantine gave her The Look. Every hobbit mother had one—it could curdle milk at ten paces and stop even the rowdiest child mid-word.
Pearl tiptoed closer, peering over the blanket’s edge. “He’s... wrinkly,” she declared finally.
“He’s new,” Eglantine corrected. “You were wrinkly once, too.”
Pearl looked deeply offended. “I was never wrinkly.”
“Oh, you were worse,” said Eglantine, adjusting the baby’s blanket. “You came out red as a beet and screamed loud enough to wake half of Tuckborough.”
“Mama!”
Pimpernel leaned over for her turn and squinted. “He looks like Da. Only smaller. And balder.”
“That’s because he’s a baby, Nell.”
Pervinca, who had been clutching Pearl’s skirts, reached out a chubby finger and gently poked at the baby’s cheek. “Soft,” she announced.
Eglantine caught her hand mid-poke. “Gentle, love. Babies aren’t taters; you don’t test them for ripeness.”
Pimpernel giggled. “He’s got funny ears.”
“He does not!” said Pearl automatically, even though she hadn’t noticed one way or another. “You’re just jealous.”
“I’m not!”
“Are too!”
“Are not!”
“Girls!” Eglantine said sharply, and the volume dropped faster than a sack of flour. “If you two start quarreling in this room, I’ll have you polishing every pot in the kitchen with sore rears. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mama,” they chorused.
“Good. Now—go fetch your father, will you? And tell him his son has arrived.”
They scampered off at once, with dignity —well, Pearl tried to walk with dignity, but Pimpernel tripped over her hem and sent both of them tumbling halfway down the hall. Pervinca followed after, laughing so hard she fell on her bottom twice before making it to the door.
Eglantine leaned back against the pillows with a weary sigh. “And that,” she murmured to the baby, “is your welcome to the world. Three sisters, a house that never stays quiet, and more opinions than sense among the lot of them.”
The baby squirmed, let out a small hiccup, and promptly fell asleep again.
She smiled down at him, smoothing a curl of fine, sandy hair from his forehead. “Well, you’ll fit right in, I suppose. Heaven help us all when you learn to talk.”
After a moment, she added softly, “Your father will be proud. Took men always are when they get a son. But I tell you this, my little Peregrin—your sisters will keep you humble. And if you grow up anything like them, I’ll never have a quiet meal again.”
The kettle whistled faintly in the next room, and the wind whined outside, rattling the shutters. Eglantine closed her eyes and let out a long breath, the kind that mothers give only when the house is finally still for half a heartbeat.
“Good luck, my dear boy,” she whispered, kissing his brow. “You’re going to need it.”
And if anyone had been watching closely, they might’ve seen the tiniest smile flicker on baby Peregrin’s face—like he already knew she was right.