Chapter Text
A tall man dressed in worn grey robes travelled slowly down a well-trod road that ran between numerous hills. The hills themselves were covered in the most perfect jewel toned grasses while daintily scented flowers grew in brightly coloured clusters. Why, if one was over 6 feet tall and turned their head to the south, they would get an amazing view of a small lake made of water so pure and clear that it seemed almost as if a piece of sky had fallen and was content to stay were it had landed. All in all, it was quite idyllic and seemed like an area one would dream to live in, or at least vacation in.
Which is why it is no surprise at all that it was, in fact, a settled area, with quite a bustling population. Brightly coloured, round doors sat nested into the hillsides alongside little round windows. Little (and not so little, noticed the tall man amusedly) gardens were nestled in quaint front yards, or to the sides of hills, and why one even was encroaching on the top of the hill and road, snagging on both the man’s robes, hat, and staff!
After wrestling back his possessions (In which he was almost not successful, and doing so took an embarrassingly long time,he had to admit.), the man idly took note to avoid for the foreseeable future (At least until the winter, or a more proficient gardener was hired, whichever came first.) and continued on his way after plucking a rather enticing tomato in payment for his troubles. Yes, the man thought to himself, the Shire was always quite an adventure in and of itself.
Slowly but surely, the man made his way towards his destination. Finally, there it was; Bag End, of Bagshot Row, located in the village of Hobbiton, which itself was in far-eastern Westfarthing, of The Shire. (Which was the man’s 2nd favourite region of Eriador). Even better, his intended victim, er, target, was outside lounging in the sunlight. Smiling, the man readied himself. It was Showtime.
Hair the colour of freshly tilled earth shone subtly in the sun, in a way only brought on by living well and living long can. A soft patterned yellow vest was buttoned smartly over a crisp white shirt. With a pair of shin-length, taupe pants ironed and creased to perfection, the outfit was completed by a robin’s-egg blue silk ascot tied impeccably. Curious pointed ears poked through riotous curls, and even more curious where the disproportionately large feet topped by even more silken, brown curls. Yes, Bilbo Baggins was an exceptionally hobbit-y looking hobbit.
Bilbo lazily blew smoke rings, perfected then improved over the 20-odd years he had been smoking. Eyes closed, he cracked a smile around the stem of perhaps the ugliest smoking pipe this side of Arda. Carved from oak, it was dyed a startling, bright purple. As if the colour wasn’t gaudy enough, the entire bowl was made of a rose that, unfortunately, was more reminiscent of a cabbage due to an over-abundance of petals/ cabbage leafs and colour choice. Making matters worse, the stem was carved with the pattern of fsh scales. To top off this valar-forsaken pipe, the bit was a chunk of once brilliant copper; now badly oxidized and thusly green. (Caused by the pipe’s unfortunate luck of being owned by a member of the one race who didn't particularly care for the aesthetic pleasure of metals.)
One could wonder 4 things about this pipe.
- Who could have made this monstrosity?
- Who would BUY aforementioned monstrosity?
- Why would the unfortunate owner own/use this pipe almost exclusively?
- Did the inherent ugliness actually affect the taste of pipeweed?
3 of those 4 could easily be answered.
Belladonna Baggins, nee Took, purchased it from an unknown vendor on one of her last ‘adventures’. It was thusly given as a present to her only child, one Bilbo Baggins 24 years ago. (Hobbiton residents noticed The Pipe™️ immediately and kept track of how many years they were forced to be in its presence.) Uncommonly known was the fact Bilbo had a complicated relationship with it. Receiving it shortly before 26th birthday, he originally planned on keeping it just long enough to be considered polite before ‘misplacing’ it. (i.e.; breaking it and burying the pieces across the Shire, never to be reunited.) Unfortunately, Belladonna passed away before the polite time period was up, as well as before giving Bilbo another gift. So, Bilbo faithfully kept The Pipe™️ as a bittersweet memory of his beloved mother, and also because his parents had Melkor-damn near beat all 28 rules of Gift-Receiving into him as a faunt. (#15; Gifts recently given by the newly deceased must never be discarded or purposefully misplaced, broken, or forgotten. #16; Gifts recently received by the newly deceased must be used more than once a season, permitted they are not themed for holy days, celebrations, and/or festivals.) Lastly, Bilbo swore that the pipe did NOT adversely affect the quality or taste of pipweed. A fact which was not believed (How could they trust someone who only ever used said pipe to have an unbiased opinion?) to the point where taking a puff from “Mad Baggins’” pipe had become a rite of passage for the local youth.
As Bilbo continued puffing away, his ears picked up the sound of someone noisily walking up the road. Now, as Hobbit ears weren’t just for show, (the pointed ears were surprisingly sensitive,) the fact that this pedestrian could be heard approaching from over 30 feet limited this visitor to one person; Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.
Bilbo heard the (assumed) bane of his existence finally stop in front of him. With his eyes still closed, Bilbo decided to try and head off her tirade before it started.
“I’m afraid I can’t invite you inside for tea. Sudden case of gout. You know how it is. Yes, I’m feeling particularly gout-y today.” The sputtering was to be expected, but the deepness of the noise was not. “Yavanna have mercy, Lobelia. Have your eight pipes a day suddenly caught up to you?” Bilbo finally looked and.. Well. This was certainly not a lady hobbit in front of him. (Unless it was an exceptionally ugly hobbit, but that wasn’t something to be said before elevenses. No, that was something to say to Belle Gamgee over tea time.) Well then. Considering this stranger rudely interrupted Bilbo’s morning smoke, Bilbo felt no need to be polite. “Excuse me, but, who are you?”
Finally, being somewhat properly addressed seem to shake the man out of his stupor. Standing up, the grey man asked “Why, Bilbo Baggins, are you saying you don’t remember me?”
“Obviously not, being the reason why I’m trying to inquire who you are.”
“Why, I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me!”
“Gandalf? Gandalf, Gandalf, Gandalf…” Bilbo was forced to think about the name while he dumped the contents of his pipe onto the marigold bed. (He silently apologized to his gardener Hamfast Gamgee.) “Why, surely not the Gandalf who used to have such amazing fireworks.” Bilbo studied the wizened face in front of him as Gandalf seemed to grieve over the fact that he was remembered only for fireworks. “I do beg pardon, and not to be rude, but, if you really are Gandalf, how are you alive? I mean, Gandalf was ancient when i was but a faunt. If I’m remembering correctly, men typically do not live that long?”
After hearing this, Gandalf seemed vexed, but soldiered on to continue this increasingly off-kilter (for a Hobbit) conversation. “Why, to think I’d live to see the day Belladonna Took’s only son wouldn’t recognize me! Belladonna must have changed, and not for the better, if she never mentioned leaving the borders of The Shire with me. And I am not a ‘man’, for I am a wizard.”
Bilbo, choosing to ignore the slight against his late mother, responded with a quick “Oh, that was you? Terribly sorry, but she only referred to you as The Meddler.” leaning forward, Bilbo asked, “Now, what hare-brained scheme have you volunteered me for?”
To say that Gandalf had been prepared for this conversation was like saying Sauron had been but a minor inconvenience. Right away, all of Gandalf’s 378 Possible-Greetings-and-Responses were thrown to the wind. Gout? Gandalf had 700 years of interacting with Hobbits under his belt, and not once had one ever mentioned gout.
Then, it got worse. In rapid succession, he was unknown, then known for fireworks, then accused of being so old he should be dead, then dealt the final, killing blows of being referred to as “The Meddler” and being straight out asked what scheme he was here to force upon. Gandalf, with no time to recover, had dazedly mentioned a quest involving 13 dwarves to be discussed at dinner, that Bilbo would be holding,
The absolute fury on Bilbo’s face made Gandalf wish he was currently facing Smaug. Smaug would never yell about “stupid men and their unappreciativeness of proper Dinner-Party hosting”, or “There are reputations on the line!”. Smaug would never hit him with a truly awful pipe for drawing a rune on his door. (“I JUST HAD THAT PAINTED LAST WEEK!”) And lastly, Smaug would never deal such a crippling blow to his reputation by muttering “Idle hands make big plans? Idle hands spend time at the genitals, for Took’s sake.” on his way to the market. (Gandalf had been pleased with his “Idle hands make big plans” excuse. He, in fact, had been excited to defend himself with it before the White Council. At least, before a small 4 foot menace had ruined it.)
So, Gandalf did perhaps the most sensible thing he ever did, and beat a tactical retreat. As he was fleeing, dignity in tatters, he wondered if he should bring a bottle (or several) to dinner. Surely it would soothe Bilbo, to be a proper guest by bringing the host a gift. It also had the added benefit of, without doubt, being needed to keep Gandalf’s sanity during (and after) dinner.
While contemplating wine pairings, Gandalf felt a sliver of pleasure appear. For all that appearances may suggest, Bilbo Baggins was, without question, the most un-Hobbit-y acting Hobbit he’d ever had the (dis)pleasure of meeting. Yes, Gandalf had chosen well for this quest.