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Chapter Text

Time had lost all its meaning for him, but he did remember that once he walked on the shore for days and nights uncounted, until his strength failed him completely. He remembered falling full-length on the sand, each time exhausted and maddened by the endless mutter of the waves and the near-voices he heard in them, reproaching him for his every thought, word, deed and omission. Hands, legs and feet burning, he would lie still and gather his strength to get up and walk again, not aimlessly but not knowing his destination, following the coastline until it ran out and he had to return the way he had come. It was a kind of madness.

Occasionally, to give himself respite more real than collapsing in exhaustion, he would sing but the songs were none he knew. They all started familiar and ended in laments, each one different from the last.

And one day, without knowing why, without putting the thought into words, he picked a tributary, a river, and spent the day walking in it, letting the fresh water rinse the salt from his tattered clothes, battered body and wild hair. The river was less vocal than the sea, more willing to forgive and compromise. In some measure, it restored him. He followed it into a kinder climate, into land blessed by Yavanna, fruitful and temperate. Instinct moved him and skills he’d used intermittently over the years came back to his suffering hands, which responded to his thoughts, if more clumsily than they used to.

He built a simple shelter near a good source of water. It would keep the rain off, but the rain here, even at its hardest, was not much more than an inconvenience. He hunted, poorly at first, but gradually he regained an adequate prowess that he had known in younger days. Eventually, he renewed his acquaintance with the language of trees, listening for a long time to their whispered conversation. Time passed, unmeasured. But after a time, men made a settlement too close to his shelter. One night, driven more by curiosity than need, he stole a few simple tools from them. It was nothing they could not easily spare. He left the area, again following where good water led him.

Chapter Text

While it may be a truth universally acknowledged that a single hobbit in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife, it does not necessarily follow that a single hobbit in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a husband. How exactly indeed, it came to be public knowledge that Belladonna Took (aside from whatever she might eventually inherit upon the demise of her dear papa) possessed her own personal fortune is a story for another day, although the wise might fairly attribute this lapse in modesty to either Donnamira or Mirabella.
(Whether they put this information out to add luster to their sister’s fame or out of pique that more of the fortune was not spent on hair ribbons, frocks and other desirable, sharable commodities, who can say?)

At any rate, suffice it to say that it was well known in the Shire that Belladonna Took had money that was not to be sneezed at. Where had it all come from? The neighbors and many potential suitors were interested to know! At a mere twenty-five, Belladonna had taken the unusual step of making a tour of the Shire and Bree, by herself, on foot. At the time, she had said that it was to satisfy her own curiosity. But at some point, she had disappeared, not unlike her older brother, Hildifons. Although she was last seen talking to Gandalf in an inn in Bree, for a short time, rumor ran rampant that she had fallen into a river or a marsh and died.

However unlike Hildifons, a tired but triumphant Belladonna returned. She returned without Gandalf but with an unfamiliar pony laden down with heavy sacks. Some said Belladonna’s treasure was a dragon’s horde which was, of course, nonsense. She herself only ever said that it was an inheritance from Hildifons, who was dead. Belladonna was not at all forthcoming on the specifics of his death or how she had an inheritance from him.

Perhaps the potentially unsavory nature of her fortune helped to discourage fortune-hunters amongst the young hobbits of her generation. Whatever the case, the only hobbit who asked to court her was none other than Bungo Baggins.

Bungo was entirely conventional in most senses, considered a sensible hobbit by his neighbors in Hobbiton, if perhaps overly ambitious with his plans for the plot of land he’d been left by a relative on Bag End. The location itself was reasonably well-placed but at the time of inheritance really no more than a primitive smial in the ground. What he needed was capital, and as soon as possible in order to move out from his own family’s smial which was too cramped for the number of hobbits who inhabited it.

Be that as it may, at heart, Bungo was indeed a romantic and could not imagine marrying only for money. It is true that he heard of Belladonna’s wealth before he met her in person, but once met, he was intrigued by the unprepossessing but confident young hobbit lass a few years his junior and yet wise beyond her years. And in return, what did she see in him? Well, Bungo had a special weapon of his own, and not one that many bachelors could boast of.

Aside from ambitious architectural plans, Bungo was also quietly renowned among the gourmands of Hobbiton at least, for being a master of cakes, scones and other baked delicacies. It is true that all hobbits highly value their provender but a few, like Bungo, took their appreciation a step further to something which could be called an art. In point of fact, it was interest in building with cake that had originally inspired Bungo in the direction of smial architecture and home design.

It is not necessary here, and indeed it is another story for another day, to go into the mundanity of their courtship. Suffice it to say that over many and varied cakes, endless cups of tea and some perhaps somewhat breathless (following upon so much cake) rambles on well-trodden paths in the Shire, the pair came to an understanding.

This understanding was something of a surprise even for Belladonna herself. Well before Bungo got down on one knee she had tried to dispel some of the worse rumors around her adventures, saying at first that there was much that she had not told him and did not wish to speak of- painful memories and dark tales. But Bungo was not only an excellent listener but a sage counselor when she wanted one. And he had simply told her this: “That, my love, is what you did and not who you are.”

For all that she sometimes enjoyed her own notoriety, Belladonna treasured those words. They had an elaborate wedding at her family home in the Tooklands, preparatory to their departure for the building site at Bag End. It was a great relief to many hobbits that Belladonna was now safely married off and there seemed to be no danger of Gandalf being in the neighborhood looking for curious hobbits for who knew what.

Chapter Text

It seemed that the happy new couple had the world at their feet-a loving marriage, and a beautiful smial under construction. Choosing to be so personally involved in the building of their smial was an oddity but one that Hobbiton society tolerated better than most other oddities about the couple.

Although the fortunate pair worked on the plans together, making sure that there was planned space for everything (no easy task!), they distributed the actual labor of the work amongst such hobbits as were interested and well-qualified to undertake the work. Further notoriety attached itself to them when they insisted on moving in as soon as the most basic necessities were ready- the first and most luxurious bathroom (water-closet separate, all carefully vented) and the spacious, well-lit, well-appointed kitchen.

They shared a kitchen bed like very young hobbits, right by the stove. Visitors did well to not give the arrangement too much thought and instead usually complimented the structural reinforcements or the speed at which the work was progressing.

This remarkable speed had to be further increased as another result of the sleeping arrangement made itself known and Belladonna was in what the most demure members of Hobbiton society called ‘an interesting condition’.

The nursery was finished in record time, a cozy little room properly equipped with everything the new family member would need, either bought new by maiden aunts and bachelor uncles or handed down by more experienced family members from both sides of the family.

The pregnancy was unremarkable. Belladonna was of an average age for it all and came from what was generally considered to be good stock, not only in terms of wealth but in terms of health.

Nannie Hogg, the most experienced Hobbiton midwife, had been generally unconcerned throughout the pregnancy, simply advising Belladonna to take what exercise she could and to perhaps avoid certain foods and drinks that tended to upset pregnant stomachs. Belladonna seemed cheerful enough throughout.

Bungo, however, could not shake an uncomfortable feeling of impending grief. He chose discretion as the better part of valor, and tried not to even think about it all. Unfortunately, it turned out that his plain hobbit sense was on to something.

Although Belladonna went into labor at term, Nannie Hogg had to tell them that their little daughter had gone off to dance among the stars. They named her Amethyst. The night Amethyst had made her brief entry into the world, Bungo had sent the midwives and mourners away with slices of cinnamon cake- and burned the last batch when he forgot time and sat with a very unfamiliar Belladonna. She was silent, she refused to cry or talk or even eat for hours. He never made cinnamon cake again.

It was the first thing to upset their remarkable life together. They had a loving marriage, and a beautiful smial. Now they also had an empty cradle.

Chapter Text

Well-meaning relatives tended to make matters worse. Belladonna’s mother, sisters and sisters-in-law all visited in turns and sent letters which led to further letters and more visits when Belladonna did not reply promptly. Despite that, the Bagginses resisted the temptation to completely withdraw from Hobbiton society, although they did not venture out very much, nor did they choose to entertain guests for much more than a cup of tea and scones, the bare polite minimum. They kept their own counsel, even with each other. But that autumn they finished the bedroom and were happy to move out of the kitchen. That winter proved to be particularly bitter cold and at one point it even snowed them in. Bungo finished their joint (and extensive) family tree in elegant calligraphy and Belladonna cataloged their entire library. Other traditional hobbit pastimes for privately whiling away winter also ensued.

Bungo was not a stupid hobbit. He worried almost endlessly but also privately, saying nothing of his fears to Belladonna. In the spring he threw himself even more into the project of finishing the smial as soon as possible. Belladonna, with the paid assistance of some of the Gamgees, cleared, pruned and planted the various portions of their garden as necessary.

Spring brought changes to daily routine. In the winter, the big meal of the day had been a long, lazy breakfast, always with a conversation about the weather for the day and if it was too cold to go out much. But in spring, the big meal of the day was the luncheon, which they took in the kitchen, talking of inconsequential things and generously helping themselves to bread, cheese, salads and beer. Luncheon neatly divided two halves of a very busy daily routine.

One warm June morning after breakfast, but before second breakfast, when neither hobbit was expecting either guests or workmen, there was a knock on their round front door. Bungo was in the midst of totting up sums and Belladonna had been washing dishes in the kitchen. They could have afforded some Gamgee help with that too, but Belladonna claimed to like washing dishes. She said it was a good distraction.

“I’ll get the door!” she called.

Bungo was grateful for that; sums were not his favorite activity but these were important sums related to the planned cellars and storage space. Perhaps it was foolish, for if there would be no one to inherit did it even make sense to have such space? He took himself to task almost immediately- of course there would be someone to inherit, even if it ended up being a Sackville-Baggins. That thought made him shudder slightly.

Eventually, he finished the sums and rubbed his eyes. That had not been amusing. They could do it, and would still have money left over. He wondered in a vague way who their visitor could possibly have been and padded out of his study to find Belladonna and ask.

There were voices in the kitchen, one familiar and one not really.

“The garden is coming along well,” Belladonna was saying as Bungo walked in to see his wife making tea for three- presumably for herself, himself and their tall visitor. “Ah, here’s Bungo! Did you make it work out in the end, dear?”

“Yes, darling,” Bungo said, eyeing their visitor a trifle nervously. “Err… Mr. Gandalf I presume? I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced?” he proffered a hand but nervously, half afraid the old wizard would try some kind of trick.

“Ah, Mr. Bungo Baggins,” the old fellow said, gravely extending his own hand to shake. “An honor to meet you. You must be quite an extraordinary fellow to have caught young Belladonna’s eye!”

Bungo wasn’t quite sure how to take that but he said he was sure he was honored himself and at the wizard’s service and that of his family. He was more than a little nervous but Belladonna herself seemed perfectly at ease and that was comforting.

“I congratulate you on your smial — there is some fine workmanship here,” Gandalf said, gesturing about the kitchen.

“Oh yes,” Bungo said, eager to be on familiar territory. “All the mod-cons you know. Why our range is the very latest model and you won’t see a finer, more evenly heated oven in all Hobbiton. I tested it the day it was installed- a dozen plain scones and they all came out perfect.”

“Bungo is quite an accomplished baker,” Belladonna said, smiling.

Bungo couldn’t help but preen a little at that. “Our Hobbiton bakery isn’t bad at all but I’ve always thought that making your own baked goods is more satisfying. The best work is work you can eat!”

“Is this excellent seed cake your recipe too then? My word!” the old wizard said appreciatively.

Bungo noticed for the first time that the seedcake he’d planned on them having with their tea had made an early appearance on their neat little blue and white plates. “Ah! Yes, my mother’s recipe although I have made some improvements I think.”

“Delicious,” the old fellow said. “Dear Belladonna, I am delighted to see you have fallen on your feet! Bungo, are you planning any sort of dessert of special magnificence for the birth?”

Bungo goggled at the wizard. Belladonna’s jaw dropped.

“Oh my,” the wizard took in their expressions. “But you are… pregnant, aren’t you?” he asked Belladonna.

She blushed.

Bungo’s heart sank to his hairy toes.

“I didn’t want to say anything yet because of…well… I wrote you all about it, Gandalf,” she shrugged.

She had? This was the first Bungo had heard of that.

“Dear, dear Belladona,” the old wizard sighed. “I know that your grief for her is still fresh. But do not let that diminish your chance of joy today. Mourn in the appointed time, and not before it.”

“That’s easy enough for you to say, you’ve never been a mother,” Belladonna reproved, somewhat sharply, Bungo thought.

“No, that is true,” the wizard replied seriously. “But… one need not be a mother to know great griefs and tragedies. Today, while the sun shines and that little life grows within you, try to be at peace at least, if you cannot find joy.”

Bungo wondered how Belladonna would take that. For a moment she looked truculent, a look Bungo knew all too well. But it passed like a cloud blown by on a windy day. It was her turn to sigh. “To tell the truth, I am tired of grief,” she admitted. “I’d like to be happy or joyful but I suppose I’ll try to settle for peace.”

“And when, more or less, should we expect the blessed event?” Gandalf asked.

“Mid-September, Nannie Hogg said,” Belladonna reported.

Did she indeed? That was more news for poor Bungo who was by now beginning to feel quite left out. He cleared his throat. “I should like to suggest a ‘B’ name this time,” he said, feeling self conscious now that he actually had the attention of both his wife and the wizard. “Perhaps Beryl for a girl and Bilbo for a boy? Both good family names,” he justified his selection.

“As long as this little one is healthy, you can call them whatever you like,” Belladonna smiled. “I haven’t dared to think of names yet.”

“So that’s settled. Bilbo he is,” the wizard smiled.

Bungo started. “It might just as well be a girl,” he pointed out.

“No, no, a boy. I’m quite certain,” the wizard said, tapping the side of his nose in a mysterious fashion. “A boy with his father’s good hobbit sense and his mother’s sense of adventure.”

“No adventures, if you please,” Bungo protested. “I think Belladonna’s had quite enough of those and I myself would rather not be a father to a… a… rapscallion adventurer.”

Belladonna laughed aloud at this. “Oh darling! It’s true my adventuring days are over but you can’t deny someone who isn’t even born yet a chance to express his Tookish side!”

Bungo sighed. “No, I suppose not. Well, hopefully I’ll be long gone before the urge to hunt botanicals in the wildest parts of the Shire overcomes him.”

Bilbo Baggins came into the world on 22 September 1290 in Shire Reckoning.

Bilbo’s birth had been in the afternoon, so Bungo had spent the whole day in the kitchen and made two varieties of savory tarts and a large quantity of honey biscuits.

The first six months of his life flew by for Bilbo’s parents, a blur of well wishing family members trooping in and out of Bag End (at what felt like all hours to the sleep-deprived new parents) bearing an assortment of food, drink and other useful household items.

Gradually their homelife fell into its new rhythm, a process that was rendered infinitely easier when little Bilbo decided to start sleeping through the night.

Despite this, however, there were often nights when Bungo found himself suddenly awake, conscious of missing Belladonna. At first, he’d dismissed these absences as a call of nature and had fallen back asleep in short order when she returned. But after a few lengthier absences, Bungo’s curiosity or concern got the better of him.

He found her in the second place he looked, the nursery. She stood by the cradle, gazing down intently at their little one. He, for his part, slept soundly. His tiny chest rose and fell in the normal respiration of sleep. Bungo saw the little grimaces cross his face, even a smile once or twice at some unknowable baby dream. “He’s fine, darling,” Bungo whispered. “You can come back to bed now.”

“Maybe we should put his cradle in our room?” Belladonna murmured.

“Wouldn’t that be silly, considering that we built this room especially for him?” Bungo pointed out. “I’m sure he sleeps better without us worrying over him.”

Belladonna did not look entirely convinced but she yawned and did return with Bungo to their bed.

Motherhood had changed her, Bungo thought, squirming slightly to find the most comfortable position for sleep in their lovely warm bed. She worried more than she ever had before. Bungo was not quite sure what to make of it all. He still loved her dearly, there was no change in him regarding that, but he felt that he understood her less well than he thought he had. That thought troubled him but, as is often the case, sleep deferred further thoughts along those lines for an indefinite period of time.

Chapter Text

The morning post contained only one item of particular interest to the Baggins family of Hobbiton. It was an elaborate cream-coloured envelope addressed to Mr and Mrs Bungo Baggins and Family. Bungo opened it, half-suspecting he knew what it was. The missive therein was as follows:

The honor of your presence is respectfully requested at the wedding of Miss Mirabella Took of Tuckborough to Master Gorbadoc Brandybuck of Brandy Hall, to be held on the first Saturday of April this year at two o’clock in the afternoon on the Green in the village of Newbury. Reception to follow at the Silver Perch. Regrets only.

What did surprise him was that on the back, in Mirabella’s neat, readable hand was an additional note.

Dear Bells,
We were absolutely devastated to hear about little Coral arriving too early. I can’t imagine the grief of losing one child let alone two! At least Coral and Amythest are certainly together. Please, please take good care of yourself and don’t come if you need more time to yourself to recover. Mamma made me send you this invitation to be polite but I worried that it would be ruder if I didn’t add something to say I’d understand if you didn’t come.
Love always,
Mimi

Well, that seemed clear enough, they wouldn’t be going. Bungo appreciated his sister-in-law’s thoughtfulness both in sending the invitation and in the additional note on the back. He walked back to the kitchen where little Bilbo sat on the floor, very slowly shelling peas under the occasional supervision of one of the Gamgee girls who had come over by arrangement to help with plain cooking. While Bungo still baked for the household, he had been convinced by both Dr. Whitfoot and his mother-in-law who said that additional household help was more than appropriate.

“Everything all right, Miss Gamgee?” he asked politely from the doorway. He could never remember their names, the girls- sisters? cousins?- seemed to rotate on a schedule that only they knew. At least so far they had all fortunately answered to Miss Gamgee.

“‘E’s good as gold, Mr. Baggins,” the young hobbit lass said, smiling at Bilbo. “A little slow with them peas but I don’t need ‘em until supper anyhow. I’ve done a tray for the Missus’s lunch, do you want to take it to ‘er?”

“Of course,” Bungo said, putting the invitation neatly on the tray and taking it as directed.

Even though it was lunch time, their bedroom was still dark. Belladonna slept curled up in their duvet, in the middle of the bed. Bungo sighed. She hadn’t had a proper, good night’s sleep since Coral’s birth but at least during the previous night there had been no sleepwalking.

Bungo set the tray down on Belladonna’s bedside table but in the process something he hadn’t noticed clattered to the floor.

Belladonna started awake.

“Sorry, dear,” Bungo apologized quickly.

“What was that? Bungo? What time is it?” Belladonna asked quickly. She glanced briefly at the tray and then dove down for the bright something that had fallen to the floor.

“It’s almost lunch time, dear,” Bungo said in answer to her question. “And you’d know better than me, what it is anyway?”

Belladonna was cupping it in both hands like something precious. It was a small metal box, bronze, Bungo thought by the look of it. “It’s Hildifons’s tinderbox,” she said quietly. “I got it out of one of my trunks because I needed somewhere to put the lock of Coral’s hair.”

“Ah,” Bungo said. He didn’t know what else to say. The envelope on the tray came to his aid. “We’ve had an invitation from your sister to her wedding,” he said. “But she says she’d understand if we didn’t come.”

“I don’t think I can go,” Belladonna said slowly, still looking at the little box. “But it’s not fair to make Bilbo miss a chance to see his cousins. And it’s not fair to you either, is it, to stay here with me?” It sounded like a question although it seemed like it was one that she was asking to herself.

In the event that the question was aimed at him, Bungo decided to reply as honestly as he could. “Darling, I’d rather stay here with you than deal with your sister and the rest of your family, but I’m happiest to do what would make you happy,” he said.

And that was how Bungo and Bilbo found themselves in Newbury on the first Saturday of April. Bungo was relieved that the trip had been without incident. They had traveled alongside the River for most of it, and Bungo had spent most of the trip terrified that Bilbo would fall into the River. Contrary to these fears, Bilbo had proved to be an excellent, placid little traveler, content to walk or ride as they occasionally hitched a ride on a cart going in the correct direction. He had new clothes for the occasion of the wedding, and as a special treat, his first real cap. It was forest green with bright brass buttons that Bilbo was fond of rubbing with his fingers when he took off his cap periodically to admire it.

When they arrived in Newbury, Belladonna’s absence at her sister’s wedding was met with only sympathy, as far as Bungo could tell anyway. Almost immediately, Donnamira whisked Bilbo away to meet his cousins and a whole host of aunts.

Bungo joined his brothers-in-law and other male relations for drinks at the Silver Perch prior to the wedding, as was customary. At first he was shy and spoke very little, but after a few pints of the Silver Perch’s ale (which was almost as good as that at the Golden Perch), he found himself fitting in quite well and, against all expectation, having a good time.

Bilbo, for his part, was not quite sure what to make of Auntie Donnamira. She looked a lot like Mama but not exactly and this was confusing. Even more confusing was the chaos into which he had been dropped.

The youngest members of the wedding party, far from only being expected to sit quietly during the wedding proper, were currently running amok in a field by an orchard on the outskirts of Newbury, supervised in a desultory fashion by a few older hobbit girls.

Most of the cousins and their friends were bigger and stronger than Bilbo and while they weren’t intentionally unkind, they were more rambunctious than he was used to. His only immediate ally was Tismon, a little cousin who was about the same size and age as Bilbo but seemed more adept at dealing with the chaos.

Tismon and Bilbo, tired of fruitlessly being ‘it’ in a game neither really understood, held council in a quieter corner of the orchard by an old, low stone wall.

“Hat,” Tismon pointed to Bilbo’s cap.

Bilbo took it off and gave the already shiny brass buttons another rub. “Hat,” he agreed.

Tismon fished a shiny silver spoon out of a pocket. “‘Spoo,” he announced.

Bilbo nodded agreement.

Tismon proffered the spoon for closer inspection. Bilbo saw that it was quite a good spoon, just the right size for his hand, not too big like most spoons seemed to be. And this one had a pretty pattern on the end that wasn’t for eating with.

Tismon held out a hand. First Bilbo tried to give him back the spoon, even though he was reluctant to do so, but then he realized that Tismon really wanted Bilbo’s cap. He handed it over. Tismon put it on his own head and giggled. “Hat! Hat!”

Bilbo considered. It was a very nice hat and new to him but this spoon was even newer and much more useful than a hat. You couldn’t eat soup with a hat. His stomach rumbled and the meal he’d shared with his father quite some time ago seemed a long way away. There might be soup later, and in that case he’d be better off having a lovely new spoon than a hat.

“My spoon?” he asked Tismon.

“Hat!” Tismon pulled it a little further down on his head. Then, as if afraid his cousin might change his mind, Tismon made good his escape, leaving Bilbo with the spoon.

From his cozy corner of the orchard, Bilbo watched as Tismon was press-ganged into yet another game by the older cousins, this one being apparently called ‘house’ and Tismon was the baby. It looked ridiculous, Bilbo thought, glad that so far he appeared to be overlooked in his quieter corner of the orchard. The low stone wall was nice and cool against his back and the grass tickled his toes but not unpleasantly. Something small moved in the grass and Bilbo lay down to get a better look at the little bug that was on some mysterious bug errand of its own, moving quickly along.

When Bilbo got tired of looking at it, he looked up at the beautiful sky. It was so pretty. He yawned. It was so bright, there was no way he could possibly fall asleep. He was tired though, they’d walked and taken so many carts it seemed like they had been traveling forever and now was the first moment he had to himself somewhere quiet. He yawned again. If he did sleep, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. If there was food someone would come and get him.

Chapter Text

Bungo Baggins was thoroughly fuddled. He did not drink very much at all at home. Certainly he had both beer and wine at Bag End, but those were usually for when company came over and company had been less frequent what with Belladonna’s difficulties. He’d had a drink to be friendly and then had been included in rounds and had to stand a round himself and it was funny but he could have sworn that his dart game had improved with alcohol. The alcohol alone wouldn’t have been so bad but then the wedding was out of doors in Newbury on the Green and the weather was warm enough that more than one hobbit had peacefully dozed during the quiet parts of the ceremony, only to wake up at the end to cheer and head in the direction of the refreshments tent.

Despite Bungo’s fuddlement, he had a vague feeling of unease. He found Donnamira but it was difficult to get a word in edgewise with her since she was sharing the responsibility of hostess with her mother.

“How’s Bilbo?” he asked when the opportunity presented itself in a rare moment of relative quiet.

“He’s fine, he’s having a lovely time playing with the other children in the orchard,” Donnamira reassured him. “And they’ll have their own little feast and Farmer Chubb is letting them all sleep in the hayloft tonight.”

Well, that seemed clear enough, Bungo thought. “I hope it isn’t too much for him,” Bungo fretted. “He’s a very solitary child.”

“Then this is exactly what he needs to bring him out of his shell,” Donnamira said cheerfully.

Bungo thought about this as seriously as he could, as he failed to inveigle himself out of another game of darts. The only animals he could think of with shells were snails and it was a well-known fact that if you took a snail out of its shell it would die. People used such funny expressions. Sometimes it seemed like they hardly thought about the most natural things.

The wedding party lasted, as wedding parties were wont to do, until late into the night (or early into the morning, if you preferred to look at it that way). Bungo thought the last time he’d experienced such chaos (and fun, in a funny kind of way) was his own wedding. But it was more fun being a guest at a wedding than part of the principal party, he thought. It was late, late now. The darts team had packed up on the darts when the light grew too poor and they’d moved to drink around one of the camp fires that had been specially set up on the Green. There had been round upon round until they’d finished a barrel and now only Bungo and Hildibrand Took were awake and very drunk.

“Good party,” Hildibrand muttered contentedly, staring at the dancing fire.

“Quite,” Bungo sighed. “I only wish Belladonna had been here too. I can’t help but think it would have done her some good.”

“Absolutely,” Hildibrand agreed. “Why didn’t you bring her along?”

“She didn’t want to come,” Bungo said sadly.

“Not at all like our Bells to miss a party,” Hildibrand mused. “Poor Bells. Poor you.”

“It’s much worse for Bells- Belladonna than it is for me,” Bungo said quickly.

“Yes, but still I can’t think you’re not unhappy thinking about what might have been,” Hildibrand said heavily. “Wait a minute…” he concentrated and mustered his thoughts. “I mean, I think you might be unhappy still. I know I’m that way myself. People think papas don’t have any feeling about it because they don’t carry the little ones but we do. I was beside myself when Eglantine lost the little one before Sigismond.”

Bungo frowned. “I had no idea,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

Hildibrand shrugged. “It was a few years ago now. We didn’t tell anyone much because it was so early on. But still.” He let out a long breath. “Still sometimes I think about Sigismond’s older brother or sister. How he’d be different, have someone to look out for him a little. Our own family was so big there was never a moment’s peace but I think a sibling or two is essential. Eglantine won’t have it though,” he smiled wryly. “She says one’s a handful enough and I suppose she’s right. She usually is.”

“I think we might be in the same situation,” Bungo said. “I love Belladonna and I can’t bear how she is now. I don’t want her to ever be this unhappy again and if that means that Bilbo is an only child, I’ll face it.”

Hildibrand raised his mug of beer. “To one and done!”

“One and done!” Bungo repeated, accepting the toast. “We should look in on our lads before we turn in.”

“Oh leave them be!” Hildibrand stretched. “They’re fast asleep, there’s no sense in waking them. We’ll see them at breakfast at the Silver Perch. Meantime we should turn in before it gets cold!”

Bungo Baggins had never slept in a common room before but the common room of the Silver Perch had been converted to a large common sleeping area for out of town guests. He found an unoccupied sleeping mat and a comfortable blanket and had the strangest thought that as uncivilized as it all was, it was a little fun at least to sleep somewhere so unusual. All was right with the world somehow.

Chapter Text

It was time to move again, and he knew it. He knew it by the itchy feeling on the back of his neck, something that had no discernable physical cause. He knew it too, when he looked around at the comfort of his shelter. It was always time to move when things became too settled. He’d made a low table of a large stone, on top of which he stored his few precious tools and his carved wooden eating bowl and cutlery. He’d spent the winter here in too much comfort, warm and cosy in this structure he had constructed from woven branches, mud and skins. His firepit was properly vented and correctly delineated from the rest of the floor by its smooth stones. It was an easy walk by one of five paths to his nearest source of running water. Worst of all, he had so much free time that his hands had found themselves making a crude bone flute after one of his hunts. The bone flute lay on the stone table, silently taunting him, daring him to play it.

He would resist. He would not fall to that temptation. He left the shelter anyway, just to be sure of that. Above, the night’s stars shone and he looked up resentfully at the one he knew was no ordinary star. He made a rude gesture but left it at that because something else caught his attention.

It was the trees. That was another sign he had stayed in one place for too long. The trees trusted him and passed him information. Some of that information was useful- where the deadwood was and how much he was permitted to use, for example. Some was less useful, just an update on the number of owls or squirrels who called the trees’ bodies home. And some was entirely unexpected. She was awake. She was awake and that had leaves shivering with news far and wide. The news began with the reminder that they must not be hasty- but… but….

Through the shiver of the leaves and the creak of wood bending, he was being summoned. If ever there was proof that he had remained in one place for too long, it was in being recognized by one who had stayed in one place for so long that she had put down deep roots.

He knew what he had to do. He had to pack up his tools, pull down his shelter and leave. And yet instead, he decided instead to answer the vague summons of one of the onodrim. It was madness. But madness was nothing new to him.

She blended in very well under the light of the stars and the moon. She looked like any other flowering apple tree in a mild April, the hard lines of twisty branches softened out by the profusion of flowers. The only thing that set her apart aside from her height was her intelligence and the eyes that regarded him with such a wise, slow, unblinking look that for a few moments he felt like a youngster again.

She introduced herself, a long, beautiful name which floated past him like a bolt of fabric being unwound slowly and carefully by a merchant. It had been so long since he had met an onod that he had quite forgotten how long their names could be. Panic started to brew within him. He had not spoken for such a long time and now he had to remember-

“But you may call me Orf, for now,” she finished. “Your people are so hasty.”

He opened his mouth to speak and was not entirely surprised to find that he still could not.

This did not appear to disturb Orf very much and their conversation continued in the realm of thoughts.

Orf was the guardian of the orchard. True, the little folk who thought they were its guardians had put a wall around it and pruned the trees and took their fruit when it was the season, but it was Orf who saw to the balance of the soil and the harmony of its inhabitants. And it was Orf who was alerted when something was not as it should be. That something in this case, was a someone.

This someone lay in the corner of the orchard, asleep now but his chubby little face was streaked with tears. He was so small and so still.

The words pushed themselves out of him, beyond his control as he croaked in a voice hoarse from disuse: ‘Where is your brother?” The sound horrified him, even as the memory of the young twins when they’d first found them and worse, the memory of the boys who had been lost made his head spin and his stomach churn.

This little sleeper made no reply.

He would have fallen had he not rested against Orf for support. She seemed puzzled by his pain. It was overwhelming and impossible all at once.
By contrast, for Orf, it seemed simple enough. The baby could not stay in her orchard. She could not look after him and someone had to. And that someone was him.

“No,” he grated. “He has his own people. They will come for him soon.” Speaking was still difficult but he forced the words out, finding that doing so helped him to steady his own thoughts and stay in the present.

“They were here and they left him,” Orf replied in kind, a voice like the rustling of leaves now. “I am the guardian of this place. I cannot guard him. He needs more shelter than we can give him.”

“This is a kind land,” he countered. “It is spring. In the morning, his people will return.” But as if on cue, a raindrop brushed his cheek. He looked up. The sky, which had been clear with the light of the moon and stars, was clouding. He checked the direction of the wind and the movement of the clouds. There would be rain, heavy rain even, before dawn. He sighed heavily. Yes, he could wrap the child up in his cloak and stand here in the orchard holding him until the storm passed. Surely that was the wisest thing, the easiest course of action and the one most certain to reunite the little one with his desperate family, who probably were panicking even now.

With the deepest possible reluctance, he bent to pick up the tiny child. It was as if the little one weighed nothing. The small body was cold but alive. In response to being picked up, he stirred slightly in his sleep, then instinctively snuggled against newfound warmth. Memories threatened, of younger brothers and cousins and of the twins. He took a deep breath and willed all of those thoughts away. For now he was here, in the rain, in an orchard.

Chapter Text

Bungo Baggins woke in the common room of the Silver Perch. He had slept soundly, but this had been due to the drinking of the previous night rather than the comfort of the inn's sleeping mat. Yawning, stretching a body aching in unaccustomed places, he contemplated breakfast and hoped that Bilbo’s hayloft had been more comfortable.

A generous breakfast was catered by the Silver Perch in a tent outside. On his walk to the tent, Bungo noticed that the ground was still very damp from the rain that had rolled in during the early hours of the morning. Mud squidged between his toes uncomfortably and he wished that the breakfast arrangements had been a trifle less rustic. But once he started tucking into a large plate of bacon, eggs and mushrooms he was in a more forgiving mood. At the far end of the tent, the children had their own low table and Bungo was glad to see a familiar green cap bobbing in the midst of the little group. It seemed as though Bilbo had fit right in. He needn’t have worried.

Then a thought struck Bungo and it refused to let go. Hadn’t Bilbo been wearing his new clothes? The yellow shirt and the blue overalls that had been bought specially for the occasion? He turned to look back at Bilbo, squinting hard. He still was not ready to admit that he needed glasses. But even without glasses Bungo could see that the child was definitely wearing a white shirt with red trousers. They hadn’t packed that as a change of clothing. Perhaps he’d had an accident? But Bilbo was usually so good at taking care of his business, he’d trained up in less than a week with almost no problems, happily bribed with biscuits.

The mystery solved itself when the little hobbit finished his breakfast and ran for Hildibrand, who had been sitting a little farther down the table from Bungo. “Sigismond!” Hildibrand grinned and swept his son up in a hug. “Have you been good?”

A vigorous nod in reply.

Bungo turned back to his breakfast. Well that explained it. And here he’d thought that the little green cap they’d bought for Bilbo had been so unique. Perhaps the haberdashery and fashions of the East Farthing were quite the same as the good old West Farthing.

But then… “Wherever did you get that hat from?” Hildibrand asked, sounding puzzled.

“Excuse me, Hildibrand,” Bungo found himself saying. “Could you check the lining of that cap? I have the idea it might be Bilbo’s. You know how children are, always sharing things,” he said, feeling that it was a somewhat inane comment as his own Bilbo never had to share anything but also feeling reluctant to outright accuse young Sigismond of theft, especially without asking Bilbo what had happened.

“Aha. ‘B.B.’,” Hildibrand confirmed, glancing at the inside lining. “Here,” he held it out for Bungo to retrieve.

“My!” Sigismond protested. “My hat! My! My!”

“Look, this is yours!” Hildibrand quickly distracted him with an almond pastry. “Yum! Much better than a hat!”

Grateful for the distraction, Bungo got to his feet to find Bilbo and return his cap. A quick, closer range inspection of the children's table did not reveal Bilbo, however.

Bungo checked outside the tent, then checked the ground floor of the inn and the Green where some children were already playing after their breakfast. Still no Bilbo. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach which suddenly felt too full.

Chapter Text

The situation was definitely improving, Bilbo thought, munching on another piece of sweet tasting, dark and dense bread.

At first when he’d woken up in the quiet orchard, he’d been happy to see that the chaotic situation had resolved. There were no cousins playing or arguing anywhere near him. This happiness had quickly turned to dread and grief when he realized that he was completely alone. He had cried and cried but no one had come for him and eventually he tired himself out from crying and fell asleep.

When he next woke, he was being held by someone. For a long moment he rested there, simply content to know that he had been found. And then his tummy rumbled insistently and he started crying from hunger. This had galvanised his finder into action and in short order Bilbo found himself in a new and interesting place. He was gently placed on a soft pile of somethings. The texture of the somethings reminded him of Dog who sometimes visited their hole but lived with the Gamgees. It was distracting for a moment before he remembered he was still hungry and cried a little more.

Then food had quickly been pressed into his hands. It was bread, but not the bread-and-butter that he was used to. It was decidedly better and he ate it without hesitation. Occasionally Bilbo glanced at his benefactor, trying to figure him out. Eventually he concluded that this individual must be an uncle. Everyone he had met in the recent past was an aunt, a cousin or an uncle. An aunt was ruled out because aunts were usually soft and squishy. Not a cousin, because cousins were loud and annoying. Bilbo had not met as many uncles as he had cousins and aunts, so this seemed to be the best possible guess. Uncle was currently playing with the fire which was in the middle of the strange room they were in. Bilbo was not allowed to play with the fire in the kitchen at home so he watched with great interest.

Eventually the uncle looked over at him and smiled. Bilbo smiled back. Tummy finally full, he stretched out on the soft stuff, running his fingers over it again and again. He knew without any words being needed that the uncle was nice and would keep him safe.

Chapter Text

“Don’t panic,” Bungo ordered himself. “Don’t panic. It won’t help.” He wasn’t really sure he was able to take his own advice. He’d just come from Farmer Chubb’s where he had checked the hayloft just to make sure that Bilbo hadn’t been overlooked. Before he’d left on that errand he had asked, with Hildibrand’s help, where Sigismond had last seen Bilbo. It was hard to be sure because the little fellow was so small and so vague but it seemed as though they had definitely been together in the orchard. He’d asked the older hobbit girls but they had said there were so many little children it was hard to be sure where everyone was but certainly they’d all left the orchard together, it had been time to eat!

But there hadn’t been any grownup hobbits with them, Bungo understood now. It would be all too easy for a newcomer with no siblings to get left somewhere. And it had rained hard last night. He didn’t know what he’d do if he got to the orchard and Bilbo wasn’t there. He thought of his tiny son alone and afraid in the storm of the previous night and cursed himself for ever letting the boy out of his sight.

“Don’t panic,” he repeated futilely to himself. “Don’t panic!”

The orchard was empty of hobbits. The fresh rain would have obliterated any traces if there were any to begin with. Bungo had never felt unsafe in the Shire but the Westfarthing was quite different from the Eastfarthing. The Eastfarthing had the Brandywine, a dangerous river, and worse, the Old Forest. And Newbury was right by the Hedge. It was all too easy for Bungo to imagine something dark and horrible emerging from the Old Forest, looking for easy prey and finding a small, defenceless hobbit child.

“Don’t panic.”

Bungo knew what he should do. He should go back to the wedding party at the Silver Perch and on the Green and raise the alarm. He should alert everyone, maybe somehow, despite his careful search, Bilbo was still somewhere in Newbury, had made friends and gone to visit their holes or houses. Bungo had Bilbo’s cap, perhaps someone had a dog that could track scents to try to find him. Whatever the case, Bungo needed help- expert help. Maybe someone could even send a message to Gandalf to try to help. Bungo knew what he had to do. And he knew that if he did that, if he went back now and told everyone how he’d lost his son, the news would quickly find its way back to Belladonna. And she would never forgive him for losing their only child.

His heart pounded. “Don’t panic.”

Whatever he did, he knew what he should not do. He should not venture to the Hedge by himself without even the first clue or indication that Bilbo had gone that way. He should not try to force his way into the Old Forest. He should not go off without telling anyone what he was doing or where he was going. To do that would be to risk leaving Belladonna with neither son nor husband. He had nothing with him, not that anything he had packed among the few things to bring to the wedding would be much use now.

“Don’t panic,” he repeated, willing the words to do something for him. He wanted to do the sensible thing, to go back as he knew he should. But a certainty took hold of him that Bilbo was in the Old Forest and at the same time as that certainty, anger- most of it anger with himself for being careless and letting Bilbo out of his sight, but also some anger at the hobbit girls for losing their little cousin, and even a little anger at Bilbo for not staying with the group. “I’m not panicking.”

The Old Forest was the stuff of nightmares for hobbit children and even some grownup hobbits. Bungo had never felt less ready to confront it but he could not go back without trying. He’d give himself until mid-afternoon, certainly that would be enough time to find Bilbo and bring him back. And if he hadn’t found him… no, Bungo wouldn’t think of that.

Chapter Text

His visitor had eaten a week’s worth of bread in a very short space of time. He had hesitated briefly, afraid of overfeeding the child. It had been such a long time since he had dealt with children. But he remembered his own mother saying such a very long time ago that it was almost impossible to overfeed a child- they stopped when they were no longer hungry. So he had doled out progressively smaller pieces of bread and breathed a sigh of relief when the little one had settled into watching him and then eventually had fallen asleep on the pile of furs.

He reflected now, in the peace and quiet of his shelter. He would have to move, would have to leave, once he returned the child to his people. But was it that simple? What if the child had not been merely overlooked? What if there was a more sinister aspect to it all? What if he had been intentionally abandoned? By his family’s enemies? And what if the child’s own family were all dead? The dark thoughts pressed on him, stirring memories that he did not want to consider too closely. He had to get away from those thoughts, from that darkness…

He fled his shelter into the dappled mid-morning light. The forest was calm now after the storm. He breathed in the air, still heavy with moisture. He calmed himself. This was a kind land. Its inhabitants were not his relatives or his enemies. All he had to do was put the sleeping child back where he had found him and keep watch until the child was found by his own people.

A light breeze stirred leaves and brought him a message that perhaps his own situation was about to become easier.

Chapter Text

The Hedge hadn’t been all that much in the way of protection of the East Farthing from the Old Forest, Bungo thought. “Bilbo!” he called. “Bilbo, where are you?” If he could force his way through a hedge into the woods, certainly something could do the same to come out from the Old Forest.

Bungo tried very hard to not think about the fact that he was no longer certain he could find his way out of the Old Forest. He’d started following what he thought was a trail but it had terminated abruptly. When he looked back the way he had come, there was no visible trail. It was impossible, except for the apparent fact that it had happened. “Bilbo!” he shouted.

No reply.

Quite suddenly, Bungo felt his strength desert him. The nervous energy, the panic held in check had burned through him and kept him going for what seemed like a long time now. Bungo sat down suddenly, to keep from falling down. He felt as though he’d run a long distance or climbed an enormous hill, he was quite out of breath. It occurred to him that he was now lost in the Old Forest, alone. He didn’t even have a good reason to suspect that Bilbo was in the Old Forest somewhere, he’d moved by instinct alone and that instinct was now distrusted. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going. They would both just disappear and Belladonna would be alone and it would be all his fault.

Bungo’s eyes stung and he refused to cry. He was a grown hobbit. He hadn’t cried in ages. He hadn’t been this upset in ages. He hadn’t cried many times when he was upset… “I’m sorry,” he choked out, knowing it was stupid to speak, that there was no one there to hear him. “I’m sorry, Belladonna, I’m sorry, Bilbo…” the words tumbled out of him. For a long moment he sat there, shoulders heaving with the effort of not crying. Then he lost the fight with himself and stretched out full length on the ground to cry into the sleeves of his shirt.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. When he woke, he thought it was mid or late afternoon from the light in the sky and where he thought the sun was, although he couldn’t be sure because of all the trees. His head ached and his empty stomach rumbled but he felt strangely better. He’d hit bottom and was still alive. Now he had to climb back up. He had to find Bilbo.

A curious sound reached his ears. At first he had not even noticed it, had thought it was a birdcall. But after a moment or two, Bungo realized he was hearing someone playing a flute or a pennywhistle.

At the very least, if there was someone else in the Old Forest, Bungo could ask for help finding Bilbo. He got up and started walking in the direction of the sound.

Following the flute music eventually led to a little clearing where the sky showed more easily through the trees. At the foot of one great tree a tiny hobbit child was looking up into the tree branches and laughing.

“Bilbo!” Bungo ran to his son and hugged him, perhaps a little too tightly as Bilbo squeaked a protest. He was real, not some trick of a forest that could move paths and trees at will. He was unhurt, Bungo thought, quickly checking him for any injuries. “How did you get here? What happened?”

“Uncle,” Bilbo pointed up into the tree.

Bungo realized that the flute music had gone silent. He glanced up into the tree, but of course there was no one there. “Hello?” he called anyway, feeling foolish but at the same time reasoning that the music had to come from somewhere. Had this all been a stupid prank by some tweenage hobbits who had lured Bilbo into the Old Forest?

“Which uncle?” Bungo asked.

“Uncle,” Bilbo repeated. “Big uncle.”

Bungo knew enough of his son’s ability to distinguish sizes to know that ‘big’ was a rather useless descriptor. Everyone bigger than Bilbo was big. He sighed. “Big uncle,” he repeated.

“Up, up!” Bilbo pointed into the tree again.

But there was no one there, or no one that Bungo could see at least. He shivered a little. Finding Bilbo had preoccupied him but now that he had found his son they had to find the way out of the Old Forest. “Let’s go home to Mama,” he suggested. Bilbo nodded an emphatic agreement to this and they set off through the forest together.

At first, Bungo held his son’s hand, feeling as though he should never let go again for fear of losing him again. After a while, inspiration struck him and he swung Bilbo up onto his shoulders. “We’re going to get out of this stupid forest and go home and never go on another adventure again,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Nasty, horrible, uncomfortable things, adventures! Make you late getting home to your family!” He’d lost the better part of the day. If they did get out before nightfall, there was no possibility of setting out for home in the dark. They had at least one more night in Newbury. Bungo dared to hope that maybe enough wedding guests had gone home and there might be a room with a bed available at the SIlver Perch.

At last, Bungo recognized the denser vegetation of the Hedge. As before, it was not very difficult to wiggle through if you were determined enough. Bilbo was small enough to fit through easily.

A surprise awaited them in Newbury, in the common room of the Silver Perch. Sitting at one of the tables with a pint in front of her was Belladonna herself- but not Belladonna as Bungo had last seen her. This Belladonna looked worried and was sensibly dressed for adventure. She had braided back her dark hair and even wore a leaf-handled dagger on a belt. “There you are!” she called to them and hurried over for a hug and to pull little Bilbo down from Bungo’s shoulders. “My darlings!” she kissed them both. “Is everything all right? Hildibrand didn’t know if you’d started off home yet and Gandalf sent me a message that you might need my help with something.”

How on earth had the wizard possibly known that? Bungo was dumbfounded. “No, no!” he said hastily. “Everything’s fine, just fine- no problems at all here. We were just off on a little walk and lost track of time,” he improvised. Later he’d tell her everything but not here and now.

“Uncle,” Bilbo prompted.

“Yes, uncle! You met your cousins and Sigismond probably told you all about your Uncle Hildibrand!” Bungo said quickly. That was definitely the uncle. No tree climbing involved.

Belladonna was giving him a funny look. She knew somehow, Bungo thought, feeling unnerved. But after a moment she just laughed. “Hildibrand is probably my favourite brother right now. We’ll have to stop by for a visit again before we head back. For now, what do you gentlemen say to bacon and mushrooms for supper?”

Bilbo brandished his spoon. “Supper!”

“I think that’s a yes,” Bungo interpreted. “Where on earth did he get that spoon?”