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Chapter Text

Gandalf is many things, a Wizard, a Guardian of Middle Earth, a Maiar, but perhaps the most prevalent is stressed for time. Gandalf may never be late nor early, but he rarely gets to spend as much time as he’d like enjoying Middle Earth as he does spend time traversing it to ensure it and its people endure. He would much rather enjoy the calm and contentment of the shire, or the beauty of Rivendell, or the splendor of Gondor, but alas, he has work to do. 

Perhaps 3,000 years ago he may have been able to, back when there were five wizards. Before they were deceived, the five wizards of Middle-earth were enough to handle, advise, and care for the denizens of Middle Earth. Saruman, himself, and one of the blue Wizards, though he can’t remember which, gave aid to the races of Middle Earth. Saruman to the elves, the forgotten Blue Wizard to the Dwarves, and himself to men. Although Gandalf has always tried to aid those forgotten peoples of Hobbits when he has had the chance. They are so much more open to his council than the courts of men. The other Blue Wizard was meant to aid Radagast in his stewardship of the wild. Alas they are now an order of three, not five. 

Radagast is often isolated in his duty, being now single handedly responsible for the nature of Middle Earth. But he was a loyal Maiar of Yavanna in Valinor, he will still follow her will in this land as well. He is still stretched thin as it is, and Ganald has not heard from him in some time. Saurman and Ganalf are spread thin as well, what was once meant to be the work of three wizards has now been left to only two. Saruman leads the order to the best of his capabilities, as the oldest and perhaps wisest. He now councils not just eleves, but the leaders of all races, where he can. And Gandalf attempts to protect and aid the masses, where he can. 

But Saruman is but one wizard, and not all leaders listen to him. And Ganalf is but one wizard himself, and cannot be everywhere at once. He must pick his battles, and stay on the move. Saruman can stay in his tower, to study the history and await guidance from the Valar to pass on to the Kings and Queens of Men and Elves, but Gandalf cannot listen to all of Middle Earth from a single place. Radagast’s movements are a mystery to him, so he cannot say if he does much the same as himself or if he follows Saruman’s lead. Perhaps as the third he has his ways, or mayhaps a bit of both. 

Still, as much as Gandalf awaits a moment of rest or relaxation, he is a wizard of action. He feels the call deep within his bones to do, to move, to better, to help, and to fix what he can. He could not rest or relax with the weight of the world upon his shoulders, he must act. So when Saruman related to him the portents of an old prophecy, and he saw the signs, he had to act. Erebor must be reclaimed, for many a reason. Because the portents say so, because the evil must be vanquished, because the Dwarves of Erebor deserve their home, because the Kingdom of Erebor could better the region, etc. 

So now Gandalf returns to this Kingless land, for Arnor had fallen long ago to the dregs and weathering of time, to find the 14th member for a quest. He must make a company that can complete a perilous journey, slay a terrible foe, and restore an incredible kingdom. He will not find another dwarf, for Thorin Oakensheild has rallied all who were bravest to come, and any who would not come after Thorin’s words will not come thanks to Gandalf’s, so his options are limited. Thorin will not trust an Elf not to betray him nor any Man to be brave enough not to run in the face of danger. So Gandalf is left with few choices, he must find a Hobbit brave enough to face horrible danger and kind enough to last Thorin’s disdain and earn his trust. 

Gandalf has just such a hobbit in mind. Belladonna Baggins was a formidable woman when she was a Took, perhaps the favourite daughter of the Thain for her adventurous spirit. She was only more formidable as a Baggins, for now she had a foundation and safe place to return to. With Bungo Baggins keeping their reputation and home safe while she was away, Belladonna was able to travel farther than any Hobbit had since their nomadic days. She made it all the way to Rivendell, an honored guest of Elrond and she was named Elf-Friend for her troubles. Sadly Belladonna had long passed, along with Bungo in the Fell Winter. Elrond delivered the news to him, and Gandalf scarcely had time to mourn before Saruman called him away to help the denizens of Middle-earth in the wake of that horrid cold. 

But Belladonna had a daughter, one Bergenia Baggins. He remembers a precocious child, who much like her mother was entranced by stories of the world outside the Shire and her books. She wielded a wooden sword like it was real. Gandalf does not believe she could have learned to wield a real one in his absence, and should the journey go well she should never have to, but hopefully she has kindled her spark of curiosity into a flame. A Hobbit to be their lucky number, a Hobbit to burgle a hoard from a dragon. Gandalf knows he asks a tall task, but he also knows Hobbits like the back of his hand. There is much more to them than meets the eye, more than the other races of Middle Earth care to see. 

So Gandalf does not wander all the way through the Shire and onto Hobbiton for a spot of rest and relaxation, he wanders with purpose, as most wizards do. He meanders his way to Bag End, to find a Baggins, to accompany thirteen dwarves on a quest. For he is a wizard of action, and Erebor will see the line of Durin on it’s throne once more.

Chapter Text

The Shire is many things, and peaceful is perhaps the most important although rare one. Oh, for certainty we are not subject to the chaos of other lands or races or places the like of which my Mother wrote of in her travels, but we have our own troubles. The panic of parties, the strife of society, the nosy-ness of neighbors, etcetera, etcetera. But we are gifted with much peace. The peace of a quiet, blissful morning. The soft wind, the green foliage, and that is the greatness of peace. 

It is peace I so love to bask in, which is why I sit on my bench this fine morning. The sun is bright yet not blinding, the wind is cool yet not shivering, and it is a good day. Although this peace is broken by a shadow falling over me. I open my eyes, expecting to see a cloud or some other thing, but instead I see a tall person! A tall person in the Shire no less! Taken aback, I carefully ask the man clothed in grey robes and an equally grey and pointy hat –

“Good morning.”

The man harrumphs very rudely, and then begins a spiel that goes something like – “What do you mean? Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or, perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning, or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?” He stamps his large wooden staff on the ground like a child in a tantrum, and I have to ponder his words for a moment. 

I land on – “All of them at once, I suppose? I'm sorry, can I help you?” I stand up, and come towards my front gate where he stands as I say this. I’ll not be rude, even to this man of riddles who calls to my Smial door. I put out my pipe while I’m at it, and the man responds in a low grumble – “That remains to be seen. I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure.”

I bark a short laugh, and shake my head. What a strange tall man this is. If he is serious then he is sorely mistaken, and if this is humour then the intricacies of man escape me. “An adventure? Now I don't imagine anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner! Good morning.” I explain, politely as one expects of a Baggins. That should settle him. 

Instead he puffs up in disdain and annoyance, and looks a decade older in a single minute. “To think that I should have lived to be good-morninged by Belladonna Took's Daughter as if I were selling buttons at the door.” He comments, looking truly bothered. I raise a delicate brow at him. What is his problem? Not only am I more than my Mothers Daughter, as much as that pains me, who is he to use my Mothers name? 

“Beg your pardon?” I ask. 

The man shakes his head, and his shoulder slump. “You've changed, and not entirely for the better, Bergenia Baggins.” He rumbles, and my nerves and curiosity are beyond peeked at this point. “I'm sorry, do I know you?” I take a gander and ask, which seems to be just what I needed to say. 

The old man’s posture straightens, and he exuberant and enthusiastically replies. “Well, you know my name, although you don't remember I belong to it. I'm Gandalf and Gandalf means me!” He trails off at the end, and who he is hits me for the first time!

Oh I remember him now, the man who comes to the Shire every couple of decades. He came once when I was young, and my Mother had told me she hadn’t seen him for forty years before that. I think there was something of an incident with a wooden toy sword, so improper for any young Hobbit, when I met him, but I can’t quite recall. 

“Not Gandalf, the wandering wizard, who made such excellent fireworks! Old Took used to have them on Midsummer's Eve! I had no idea you were still in business.” I delightfully answer, happy to finally have some semblance of an explanation. A wizard indeed, almost certainly here for a good laugh. That is what I remember most, the laughter in the Shire when he visited.

“And where else should I be?” Gandalf asks with a petulant tone, which brings a small indulgent smile to my face. I imagine this man, sorry, Wizard is much like my own Grandfather, the Old Took. He will stop working the day he dies and not a moment before, not while there is still daylight to be burned. “Well….” I trail off, knowingly. 

“Well, I'm pleased to find you remember something about me, even if it's only my fireworks. Well then, that's decided. It will be very good for you and most amusing for me. I shall inform the others.” Gandalf says, and with a stamp of his staff on the ground, he turns right around and walks off. What? How rude, and confusing! He didn’t even end his joke!

“Inform the who? What? No, no, no! We do not want any adventures here, thank you! Not today! I suggest you try somewhere over the hill or across the water! Good morning!” I yell after him, but there is little dignity to be saved in that conversation. How impolite of him! To walk off without goodbyes, implying he’d bring uninvited guests. Goodness, I hope I am quite done with this debacle. 

. . . 

My Smial is homely, if larger than most. But my parents were large personalities, however much the Baggin’s argue the opposite, and needed plenty of room to let those personalities breathe. I do not think I am nearly as large as my parents, and sometimes my large home feels too empty. But it seems it’s not to be empty today, if the knocking at the door is anything to go by. 

“Now who could that be? Oh bother me, it better not be that wizard.” I murmur to myself, and drag my feet as I make my way to the front door. I wouldn’t want to be too eager, and perhaps if they think I'm not home, they won’t call again. A hobbit can wish, can’t she? 

“Bergenia Baggins! You open this door! I am not some solicitor!” A very familiar voice calls angrily from outside the door, and I perk up. I quickly rush to open the door and embrace my good friend. 

“Lobelia! What a wonderful surprise!” My smile is wide as I hug her, and she hugs me in return. She squeezes me with all the might she can, which may not be much by the standards of man, but is plenty in the minds of Hobbits. 

“It better be! You have no idea the encounter I have had today!” Lobelia says, as I step aside to allow her inside. As I take her coat from her I bemoan my own conditions, not unlike hers. “Oh Lobelia, I could say the same. I had just the strangest conversation this morning.”

Lobelia sighs, and makes her way through my Smial with familiarity. It’s well earned, I have had her over often. “Do tell me yours first, I am still too angry to put my grievances into words at the moment.” She comments, taking a seat across from my favorite armchair in the parlor. 

“Yes, of course. Do you remember Gandalf?” I reply and take my seat. Lobelia raises a brow at that, giving me an inquisitive look. “That wizard with the wonderful fireworks?” I nod. 

“Yes, yes, I said much the same! He came by today, talking riddles.” I continue, and Lobelia nods along with me. “That sounds like him. I know you were very young when he last came but I do remember some of him. An odd fellow, to be sure, but always liked a good joke if my memory serves me well.” She ponders allow, and I pause to note that piece of information away. 

It supports my own theory that the adventure he proposed was a joke in poor taste, a rusty attempt to make me laugh. “Hmm. That may color some of what he imparted on me today. He was talking of an adventure.” I humm and respond. 

“Goodness, was he a fan of your mother?” Lobelia adds, with a roll of her eyes. I giggle a little at her antics, because I honestly agree. “I thought so too. Anyway, I told him he would find no adventurers here, and sent him off.” I finish.

“Good riddance, I wish I had such an easy time with my troubles today.” Lobelia carries on, smoothing out the fabric of her blue skirt so that it lays nicely in her lap. I recognise it as a calming habit of hers, something to do so that she doesn’t throw the nearest crockery at the source of her anger. Lobelia has always had quite the temper. 

But there is one hobbit that earns her ire more than most. “Dare I guess, Otho again?” I venture, and Lobelia hisses through her teeth, which is all the confirmation I need. “Indeed it was! You guessed correctly again. Otho came to my door on his high horse to try to discuss wedding plans!” Lobelia rages. 

I gasp appropriately, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Otho, like many men in the Shire, can be very insistent. “Again? When will he learn you are not and never have been engaged?” Lobelia throws her hands up at my interlude, and sags in her chair. 

“I’m beginning to suspect this is not simple or willful delusion anymore, but in fact a serious medical issue.” Lobelia says with exasperation, and I play along. I sadly do not think it is a medical issue, but a knowing game that Otho plays. “How on earth are we meant to get him to a doctor in that case?” I ask. 

Lobelia sighs again. “I haven’t the slightest clue, really.” While Lobelia almost always looks a little angry, her eyes always look a little sad. I know how she feels, for the Shire is peaceful, of course, but peace and kindness do not always go hand in hand. The Shire has not been kind to us. Not since when we were young, before the Fell Winter. 

The Fell Winter took much, from everyone in the Shire. I lost my parents, but many parents lost their children. Oh, Hobbits love a full pantry, but they have never loved it more than they do now. The Fell Winter taught the Shire what an empty pantry tasted like, and it was terrible beyond measure. Now every Hobbit always strives to have a full pantry, and it has never been easier to do so. There are less mouths to feed than there once was. 

And that is change the Shire is uncomfortable with, and it’s understandable. The more empty the Shire the harder it is to move on. The streets are not as lively as they once were, there are less children playing in the fields and stealing hot foods from Smial windows. The Shire does not thrive on being empty, it thrives on being full of life. So the Hobbits of the Shire have pushed harder in the last decade to fill the Shire again with the gifts of youth. 

That has led to more pressure on the women of the Shire to marry and have children quickly. I remember my parents were both near seventy when they married and had me, and no one had a word to say in opposition. It was a perfectly proper age to marry, there was no rush nor worry. But now, now that is no longer the case. I am still a perfectly aged 56, and I have had to turn down too many strangers who have proposed to me. It has made me something of the talk of the Shire, if only for the combined fact of my status and my refusal of so many offers of marriage. 

And Lobelia, her parents were 89 when they married and had three children after marriage. But Lobelia, at her fine middle age of 68, has been shamed for not yet being married. Hobbits have always been very fertile, and will have little trouble having kids at any age, but still, thanks to the grief from the Fell Winter, now rush into these things. We may be empty, here in the Shire, but it won’t be for long if everyone just let things progress naturally. Hobbits who marry for love always have more kids. 

So yes, I understand perfectly why Lobelia is so sad. The days of being able to wander around without worry, to go at our own pace, are long behind us. All it took was one Winter to ruin it. But I cannot stand that sad look in my friend's eye. 

Gandalf may have been unable to make me laugh this morn, but I am no wizard. I know how to make my friends, distant or otherwise, laugh easily enough. “You know, perhaps marrying him wouldn’t be the worst thing.” I tease. 

Lobelia sits upright in surprise, and stares at me with an incredulous glare. “Bergenia Baggins! Have you lost your mind?” She exclaims, and I let myself smirk a small bit. 

“We would be cousins then.” I answer. Lobelia stares at me in surprise for a moment, her expression blank, before it cracks into a smile and she barks a laugh. “You had me worried for a second, Bergie.” She tells me through her chuckles. I smile at her mirth. 

“And you would not be an outcast like me” I can’t help but whisper to myself under my breath, still pondering the society we now live in thanks to the Fell Winter. But of course, Hobbits are never hard of hearing, and Lobelia questions – “What was that?”

“Just that Otho will be quite the outcast soon, should his actions keep up.” I quickly lie by the skin of my teeth. Luckily, before Lobelia has the chance to call me out, the door to my Smial swings open and closed and with a bang. I’m about to stand and confront the unwelcome intruder when Bell Goodchild comes running around the corner. Her yellow skirts and green apron whirl with her speed and panicked movements. 

“If Hamfast asks, I am not here!” She exclaims, pointing at the both of us, before running off to hide further inside my Smial. There are then some more polite knocks at my door, and I share a look with Lobelia. Lobelia purses her lips, and stands with a stern grace. 

“Bergie, go comfort Bell, I’ll handle the disturber of the peace.” Lobelia bites out, and I nod and stand much more hesitantly than my friend. I place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Alright, but be polite, Lobelia.” I caution, and Lobelia huffs. 

“I’ll be as pleasant as a Pansy, now off, before the poor dear cries us a river.” Lobelia says with finality, before marching off towards the front door. I trust Lobelia, she can handle my gardener, and thus I go off to find where Bell has hidden herself. My bet would be my bedroom. 

. . . 

Bracegirdle has never been the most renowned of families in the Shire. We’re not Baggins, Tooks, Brandybucks, Stoors, or Sackvilles. But neither are we as unknown as the Goodchilds and the Gamgees. We sit in the middle, and I have been content with that all my life. I have never wanted to marry into a family with more fame or respect, nor do I feel I would be losing something by marrying into a family with less than mine. 

But by Yavanna I know the families that would wish to marry me all too well. Otho Sackville-Baggins, so pretentious as to carry both family names, has felt entitled to my hand since he first saw me. I haven’t the faintest idea of why, although my suspicion is that his high horse has scared every other lady off. But I refuse to marry the twit, for his attitude, for his treatment of me, and everything else about the Hobbit I can name. 

And I will not stand for any of my friends to suffer my same plight endlessly. Otho is mine and mine alone to deal with, I will not bend, buckle, or break under his pressure. But I will not let this Hamfast Gamgee give good Bell Goodchild the same treatment. I will not, I tell you. 

As the knocking persists against Bergenia’s perfectly painted door, I whip it open with force and glare at the offending man. 

“Who calls?” I growl as much as a hobbit can. 

“Hamfast Gamgee, Ms. Baggins. Please, I just need to speak with Bell.” Hamfast does not even bother to look at me, just trying to peer around me and into the Smial. He wrings his hands anxiously, and I sneer at this man. Why Bergenia still bothers to hire him as her Gardener I’ll never know. 

“It’s Lobelia Bracegirdle here, Bergenia is busy with the stove. There is no Bell here, so I ask, who calls?” I demand, holding my chin high. Many hobbits think me pompous, but I think I am simply right. And Hamfast Gamgee has no business here. 

“But she ran this way! Where else would she go?” Hamfast cries, looking pathetically weepy at losing sight of his paramour. Bah, thank the Valar he did, or I would have to cut the roses of his own garden in spite. Maybe sprinkle some dandelions, see how he likes persistent annoyances. 

“She ran? Why would she be running, Mr. Gamgee?” I inquire, pushing Hamfast to sweat nervously. 

“It was just a misunderstanding, Ms. Bracegirdle. If I could just see her, I could explain.” He pleads, and I shake my head in disdain. “Then you waste your time, Bell is not here.” I answer. 

“Truly?” He asks, his eyes wide in an attempt to change my answer. 

“Truly.” I solemnly reply. 

Hamfast seems to wilt, but he does step back from the door. “Alright … Goodnight, Ms. Bracegirdle.” 

I do not dignify him with a response, and slam the door in his face. Now, to find my two friends. I imagine Bergenia did not let them stay where Bell first hid –

“I am sick of him, Bergenia! Sick!” I hear Bell exclaim, and I follow the sound to the Parlor where Bell first found us. Bell is in Bergenia’s favourite armchair, it belonged to her father I believe, and Bergenia is pressing a cup of tea into her hands. Bell looks wrecked, in a sense. Her hair windswept from running, her cheeks flushed for the same reason, and her eyes red with unshed tears. 

“First he half-heartedly courts me, then engages me, then has the gall to lay with another! Now he puts more effort into renewing our engagement than he did in courting me in the first place! I can’t take another loathsome speech of forgiveness from him, I can’t!” Bell expounds, and Bergenia nods along knowingly. 

“I know, I know. No one hates you for refusing him, all the Shire is on your side.” Bergenia comforts, but it doesn’t seem to do Bell any good, or comfort her very much at all. “All the Shire save Gamgee himself! He will not give up!” She cries, and pulls out a handkerchief to wipe at the corner of her wet eyes. 

“He has no choice, you will never say yes and no one can force you too.” I say, sternly, walking to stand beside where Bell sits, and resting my hand on her shoulder. This makes Bell pause for a moment, before she looks down at her tea, her anguish reflecting in it. “I wonder, the Shire may grow annoyed enough to make me just to shut him up.”

Bergenia shakes her head vehemently. “My Grandfather would never allow it.” She says, certainty in her tone. I wince though, at the implication. Bell pouts at Bergenia in response, laying out the quiet facts we all know. “Your Grandfather, kind though he is, has little sway over the Shire and you know it.”

Bergenia looks to me for aid, and I can only shrug in response. “Can he not set precedence?” Bergenia posits, and Bell shrugs this time. “Will precedence be enough? It hasn’t yet.” 

I squeeze Bell’s shoulder in assurance. “Enough of this talk, Bell. I know you are hurting, but giving up will do you less good. Wallow later, for now, you are safe.” I say, and this truly makes Bell pause. She takes a sip of her tea, and a deep breath. As she lets it out, she understands. “… You aren’t wrong.”

I smile teasingly and let go of her shoulder. “I rarely am. Are you hungry?” Bell looks up at me, and gives me a small smile back. “I could always eat.” As any Hobbit should. Bergenia sighs a sigh of relief, and stands from where she was kneeling. 

“Good, that’s a much better plan. Let us begin Supper, and put today's trials behind us. You can both stay here tonight.” She says and she pats down her skirts to lay flat. Bell puts down her tea on the side table and also makes her way to stand. “Thank you, Bergie.” She whispers. 

Bergenia smiles, and rubs at Bell’s arm. “You’re not alone in this, Bell.” Bergenia says in a quiet voice, and now standing, Bell nods. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s a hard fact to remember.” She quietly responds. I put my hands on my hips, and declare – “As long as you remember it is fact, all will be well.”

But our good mood is short lived when more insistent knocks ring through the hallways, traveling to us from the front door. Bell goes pale immediately.  “Oh no.” She whispers, and I feel my ire peak. 

“I swear I chased him off!” I defend, and Bergenia holds up a hand to calm us both. “Wait, girls, there is no Hobbit in the shire who would come back after being told off by Lobelia Bracegirdle, it must be someone else.” She calmly suggests, and I feel my ire already start to calm. Bergie’s always been good at that. 

“It better be.” I mutter under my breath. But Bell still looks upset and scared, and in a small and squeaky voice asks – “Would you be terribly sad if I hid in the kitchen, just in case?”

Bergenia shakes her head. “Not at all, off you go, Lobelia and I shall answer the door.”

Bell sighs in relief, and quickly walks off to the kitchen, throwing a curt –  “Thank you.” over her shoulder as she goes. 

Bergenia and I make our way to the front door in tense silence. Bergenia could be right, it could be anybody else. But she and I have had our fair share of persistent bastards. It could still be Hamfast. 

Because of this, Bergenia doesn’t open the door when she asks – “Who calls?”

What responds is not the voice of a Hobbit lad, but indeed the airy bell-like pitch of a Hobbit lass with a twinkle of mirth on her tongue. “Oh I wonder, who could it be? Perhaps the cousin you had invited for dinner two weeks ago?” The voice says, and a second one soon joins it. “Or maybe the friend who tagged along? You never know, it could be anyone, really.”

Bergenia smiles widely, and quickly throws the door open to embrace the two Hobbits on the other side. 

“Esmerelda! Eglantines! What a wonderful surprise!” She says, and I smile at them as well as I recognise them. 

Esmerelda Took, in her rusty orange and brown skirts, worn from hours of work, smugly hugs Bergenia. She’s always quick with a comment or a quip, and the best to bring with when you want the best bargains in the markets. And with her is one Eglantines Banks, smartly dressed in purple, and always a ray of sunshine when you need it. Whenever one feels down they need only have a word with Eglantines to see the bright side of things. 

“You know, we wouldn’t be a surprise if you kept as good of a track of your calendar as you did your books.” Esmerelda comments, pulling out of the hug with Bergenia to let Eglantines get her hug in as well. 

“Oh, but it’s a pleasant surprise, isn’t it?” Bergenia replies, hugging Eglantines something fierce. Truly, we haven’t seen eachother in a good while. 

“Tonight? Yes. Tomorrow? Who knows?” Esmerelda continues, and I roll my eyes good naturedly. “Oh Esme, stop teasing. You know we have to pry Bergie from her Smial if we want her to have a social life.” I say, and lean into her for my own hug. It’s a warm, comforting thing. 

“I resent that.” Bergie says, pouting once Eglantines pulls away to give me a hug as well. “Ah, but you can’t argue it. I’ve missed you!” Eglantines says with an infectious smile. 

“And I you, it’s been too long. How have you been?” Bergenia says, her shoulders relaxed. Eglantines shrugs. 

“Here and there, you?” She answers. “Much the same.” Bergie says with a nod.  

“Enough standing in the doorway, come in, come in!” I interject, trying to move us along. But if theres one thing any Faunt learns young in the Shire it’s that moving Hobbit women they are talking takes more than a few mules. 

“I agree, what’s for supper?” Esme says, clapping her hands together. 

“We’ll ask Bell. We left her in the kitchen, and I’ve no doubt in her stress she’s already begun to cook.” Bergenia answers, holding out her arms to take the girls coats. 

“Oo! I can’t pass up a dinner made by a Goodchild!” Eglantines excitedly says, shrugging off her shawl to hand it to Bergie politely. “A Goodchild with access to a Baggins Pantry! We’ll eat very well tonight!” Esmerelda titters, adding on her obvious comments. 

“Alright you two Harlequins, you’ll handle dishes just for that.” I say, as I move myself behind the two to usher them inside. 

“What do you think, Elle, a fair trade?” Esmerelda says, looking to Eglantines for an answer and she also takes off her shawl. Elle shrugs, but there's a knowing smile on her face. “I think so, Esme, very fair.” She teases back. 

Bergenia takes Esme’s coat, and then turns inside her Smial, calling out – “Inside! Inside!” I lightly put my hands on the smalls of the two girls' backs, and they enter easily enough. I close the door behind us, and then follow the rest of the Hobbits to the kitchen. 

Bells’ tense posture falls when we all walk in. “Oh thank the Valar it’s just you two.” She lets out. “Were you scared it was someone else?” Elle asks as she raises a brow. Esmerelda scowls. “It was that Hamfast fellow, wasn’t it?” She grounds out, looking like she’s swallowed lemon. 

“You got it in one.” Bell sighs tiredly, and raises her teacup in cheers to the right guess. “Curse him, he’s been bothering you for ages!” Esme riles herself up, with righteous anger of course. 

“Don’t I know it!” Bell bemoans. 

“Alright girls, Supper first, then we can all gossip at the table.” I interrupt, before we have all the important conversations in the kitchen and never get to Supper. 

“And I thought gossip with food was bad manners.” Bergenia giggles. I pull my handkerchief out and swat at her good naturedly. “Among polite company, yes. In this company? I think it would be rude if we didn’t.” I jest. 

Esme laughs and picks up a teacup of her own to raise. “Cheers to that!” And Elle chuckles with her, throwing in her own – “Agreed!” Yes, I think a good supper and talk is just what we all need. 

. . . 

I rush through the winding hills and burrows of the Shire with haste unbefitting of a proper Brandybuck, but I could care less. The sun is setting and if I go any slower I’ll be late for Bergie’s suppertime. It would be a terrible surprise if I showed up late to supper, instead of a good one if I show up on time and with dessert. 

Luckily I have dessert all taken care of, a raspberry pie stuffed safely in a picnic basket made just for holding pies. Yavanna, if I wanted to I could even carry three pies in this, there are stackable trays! But enough about pleasant things, I have to race the sun. 

And so I do, managing to knock on Bergenia Baggin’s door just as the last light of dusk disappears. And I do knock with exuberance, which should be telling. 

“Oh dear, so many guests tonight, who calls?” I hear her mutter from inside, finally saying the last part louder so that I may hear it through the door. 

“Your favorite relative!” I cheerfully call. I hear my cousin gasp, and the door swings up as Bergie smiles and says – “Primula!” I rush her with a hug, and I can see cousin Esme over her shoulder. “Hey! What am I, chopped liver?” The Took asks, and I giggle. It seems I’m not the only one here for supper. 

“The one and only! I brought pie, if you’ll have me for supper!” I say, and present Bergenia with the basket. She smiles contendly as she takes the basket, and leads me inside. As I’m such a common guest I take the time to take off my own coat, hang it, and close the door. 

“There's always room for one more at my table, come in, come in. I’ll take that off your hands.” Bergenia says all the while, and I love my cousin so much. No-one better to make your day. “You're a Rose, Bergie, a Rose I tell you.” I compliment, and follow Bergenia as she blushes and leads me to the dining room. 

“Oh, don’t flatter me. Come, join us.” She says, and I take in the kindly crowd at the Baggins table. Lobelia Bracegirdle, Esmerelda Took, Eglantines Banks, and Bell Goodchild. Tonight will be a good night indeed. 

“Yes, before your cousin blushes beyond measure and has another fainting spell.” Lobelia says with a laugh, and Bergenia fakes an offended gasp in the name of humour. “Flattery then slander! I am accosted from all sides today.” 

Esmerelda snickers, and gestures for me to sit between her and Elle. I do so happily. “Ignore her, Prim, she’s being as dramatic as always.” She stage whispers to me once I sit down, and I stage whisper back – “It wouldn’t be Cousin Bergie without it. How have you all been? I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.” And the truth is that I haven’t. I know I struggle to stay still, but really, I should make more time for friendly company. 

“Could be better.” Esme says with a shrug. I look to Elle, who shrugs as well. “Same.” I look between the two, a little confused at their non-answers. 

“What? What’s been happening?” I ask. 

Esme and Elle share a look of a thousand words. Those two have always been close, and if they weren’t Took and Banks, and two years apart in age, they could be mistaken for twins. The same wavy brown hair, the same brown tones of their dresses, etc. 

“I’d hate to bother you all with it.” Esme eventually breaks the silence. “It’s a small burden, if we want to talk of happier things.” Elle tacks on at the end. 

Bell scoffs, and gestures for them to keep talking anyway. “Don’t hold back for our sakes, what are burdens for if not to share? If they weren’t meant to be shared they should not be so heavy.” She says wisely. 

“Agreed. Spill.” Lobelia commands, leaning forward. Bergenia nods when she comes back, sitting down after setting the pie at the end of the table for later. “My Smial is open to you, strife or not.” She says. 

Elle sighs, but breaks first. “Oh, alright. Paladin won’t leave me alone, and Esme has been fending off Saradoc more often as of late.” I hiss through my teeth, my neck flushing with embarrassment. “Yavanna, I’m sorry, Esme. Saradoc has been inappropriate beyond measure. Barley of age, my nephew really, chasing you is beyond terrible. Truly, I’m sorry.” 

And really, I am. Hobbit families are always complicated, and children often have decades between them. Now, usually there is filling in between those decades, but not always. My older brother was already out of the house by the time I remember my youth, and back in it with his wife and child on the way when the Fell Winter hit. 

It’s very odd to be so close in age to my own Nephew, and the boy never gives me a drop of respect. I’m barely even a babysitter, and if we weren’t related I’d worry he’d chase me as he does Eglantines. I love my brother, but he didn’t raise a very polite boy. 

“Believe me, I am as embarrassed of Paladin as you are of Saradoc. Saradoc may be persistent, but he’s a boy and I can brush him off easily enough. Not your fault, more your brothers really for raising him so.” Esmerelda interjects, looking sour at the thought of her own relatives. I shake my head. 

“Still, I wish I could tell him off for you. But he doesn’t listen to his Auntie, as I’m only ten years older.” I try to explain, but Esme waves me off. “It’s alright. My brother is worse, acting like he’s entitled to Elle, like I’ll convince her for him.” Esmerelda complains, and rightly so. At least Saradoc never asks me to be his wingwoman. 

Elle pats my back in a gesture of solidarity. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, our families are pushing for the union more than Paladin himself is.” But Esme doesn’t take the forgiveness, likely feeling ashamed of her family just as I am at the moment. “Just more pathetic sods for me to apologise for being related to.”

I sigh tiredly. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Bergenia pipes up at this moment, changing the topic from Esme and Elle to me instead. But what are cousins for, I suppose. “Speaking off terrible terrorising sutors, any luck having Drogo back off? I know my nephew has been insistent.”

Which would be terrible if we were related, but sadly we’re not. Bergenia and I are cousins through our mothers, while Drogo is her nephew through her father. If only Bergenia’s bridge between our families was enough to make Drogo back off, but alas, it is not. “Oh, he hasn’t changed. But he's so young! He’s not even mature yet, and yet he sends me flower after flower telling of his undying love. It’s disturbing is what it is.”

I explain, and Lobelia puts down her teacup with force. “What is with the men of the Shire as of late? Have they no decency?” She asks, and I sympathise with the force in her voice. The Fell Winter hurt the Shire more than it cares to address, and its wounds are still felt even though they are no longer visible. 

“I’m convinced all propriety is lost.” Bell adds, taking a bread roll and tearing it to pieces on her plate in stress. 

“Come now girls, we can’t despair. Only wait it out.” Bergenia tries to rally us, and be the optimistic voice, but even Eglantines can’t muster a silver lining to this. I’d say we would all have to leave the Shire to escape it. But no Hobbit has ever lived outside the Shire, at least not one we know of or one in this Age. 

Our despondent supper and conversation is quickly interrupted by two sharp and forceful knocks at the door. I jump in my seat with surprise, and Bell flinches. Bergenia puts her hands on her hips and exclaims – 

“Yavanna save me! How many am I to host tonight? All polite company is already here!”

“It could be an aunt of some sort, come to shame you again.” I posit, but Bergenia just shakes her head. Lobelia moves to stand – “If so, let me face them. See how they like Bracegirdle hospitality.” But Bergenia gestures for her to sit down, and turns to face the door herself. 

“No, no, let me handle it. I’ll see who calls this time.”