Chapter Text
The day that Belladonna Baggins (nee. Took) gave birth should have been the happiest day of Bungo Baggins’ life. He had built their sturdy and respectable Smial under The Hill for her (mostly with her money) and cherished every moment they shared since he was little more than a tween. To bring their firstborn into the humble life of The Shire should have been the most marvellous moment of his life (not even trumping his wedding day or any other Faunts they were like to bring into the world in years to come). Instead, it was the worst day of his life.
Until the day he died, Bingo silently resented that day for two reasons. The first, Belladonna, despite the many adventures she had travelled along in the seven years that they waited patiently to be blessed with a child and the dangers they faced along the way, did not survive her labours. Before the pink Shireling was even shrieking its first breath, she had slipped away from Bingo. Slipping like the blood that years later still seemed to stain their marriage bed. And the other, and if at all possible, more heartbreaking fact that Belladonna had given him a daughter. A daughter born with a perfect head of tawny curls and dazzling green eyes. As he held her in his arms, Bungo knew that she was the most beautiful thing in the entire world. A precious flower that he wanted to nestle close to his heart. But a daughter, unfortunately, she was.
In the Shire, women cannot inherit. Everything always had to pass to the next male in the line and with the death of his dear Belladonna, Bungo knew that there was no hope of him ever having another child. Bella was his everything: his heart and soul. In those moments just after her passing, he knew then that he would be a widower to the end of his days, never to take another and sully her memory. There was only one thing to do.
No one else had seen the child. His Bella had not called for a midwife - that being half the problem when she realised that this birth was not going to be as simple as she first believed and so no one would ever know. So, not even an hour into the world, the child that would become known as Bilbo Baggins was announced as a son. And the Shire never suspected a thing.
As she grew up, the people of the Shire quietly noted to each other that Bungo Baggins’ faunt was a queer thing. Not in appearance. No one could doubt that Bungo had produced an almost identical son - though the child did have the same softness to his jaw as Belladonna had. It was something in Bilbo’s nature that made them pause. Bungo had always kept the child close, no doubt thanks to losing his wife so suddenly, and he himself was not a particularly sociable creature. But Bilbo was as standoffish as a Hobbit can be. He (for, of course, that is what her neighbours thought of her - so you will have to forgive the repeated change in pronouns by your diligent writer) rarely spoke with the other children, preferring to have his nose pressed deep in the pages of a book or he could be found scampering up a hill or tree somewhere along the paths away from home. He had been seen near Frog Morton once, on the hunt for pixies and elves; much to confusion of his neighbours. He wasn’t rude. No, he always politely discussed anything with his relatives and neighbours. In the schoolroom, he answered questions willingly and smiled when he and his cousins ate their meals together. But other than their short walks home, through the market, and at the dozens of parties that filled any respectable Hobbit’s social calendar, Bilbo didn’t really cross with the other Faunts. Behind their hands, the people of Hobbiton whispered how sad it was that the heir of Bag End would be that queer. He was so rich after all and from such a respectable family.
But, they all agreed, that he was part Took and no matter how steadfast Bungo was, that’s what came from being raised by a father alone.
Not that Bungo wasn’t a good father. He was. He was kind and patient and told fond stories of the mother his little Bilbo never met. Bilbo’s birthday was always happily celebrated, despite the sadness it brought Bungo. With the Faunt lavished with wonderful clothing and books that came from far beyond the Shire’s borders. Despite the cheer he tried to present over the hearty food and beautiful stories, Bible may have noticed that her father always had this look in his eye on her birthday. That he would glance up at the portrait above the hearth more often on that day; his eyes distinctly wet. But Bilbo had excellent manners and, even as a babe, never mentioned this.
And in the quiet of their home on the night of her fifth birthday, behind drawn curtains and locked doors, young Bilbo Baggins was told of what she was: a girl in disguise with a secret that must always be kept.
“No one can ever know,” Bungo had whispered as they sat together in a giant armchair. Presents of the day forgotten and two hefty helpings of dense birthday cake sitting on a small table near the roaring fire. The Faunt nested in her father’s lap, a blanket thrown over them both as they flicked through an old album filled with paintings and sketches of the late Belladonna and her many adventures. “This is our home. Bag End is ours. I built it for your late mother and the life we would have together. If ever anyone knew about it,” It being the secret that they had kept since Bilbo’s birth. A secret that from that moment on they would barely mutter aloud, just in case there were wandering ears nearby. “Then, when I join your mother in the earth, this home will belong to my Morgoth-awful brother, Longo, and his dreadful wife, Camellia.” Despite the serious conversation, Bungo couldn’t stop the laugh that spilt from his lips at the disgusted shiver from his daughter. “And we don’t want that, do we.”
“I won’t let that happen, da,” she said seriously, looking round at the lovely Smial she called home. Lavishly furnished and full of all the treasured memories that a small family could hope for. She couldn’t picture another person’s belongings on the walls or someone else sleeping in her bed. She decided then and there, that she would never reveal her secret to anyone. She would take it to the grave.
Gently, Bungo placed a kiss on her tawny curls. “I know. A Baggins must always live under the Hill.”
And a Baggins always did. Even after the Fell Winter, when half the population of the Shire was diminished: either from starvation or from those beasts that crossed over the frozen river. After Bilbo had buried her father next to her mother and lived alone in the lavish Hobbit hole: a Baggins remained behind the perfectly round porthole door, painted green, pressed into the side of The Hill. For years, this Hobbit was pitied by her friends and relations for her solitude. They could not understand why such a respectable Hobbit didn’t settle down: find a nice wife and fill their home with children. For Hobbits are want to have faults by the dozen. The people of Bree (the nearby Mannish town nestled a few miles from the Shire’s borders) often laughed about the folks in the Shire, comparing them to rabbits with the number of children that seemed to burst from their warren-like homes. No respectable Hobbit would ever admit to such a comparison. But, there was no denying it: not when you consider that, their carefree nature, and their hearty appetite for meals (seven a day, when they could get it, with snacks in between), that there was something Leporidaeic about a Hobbit.
Bachelorhood was all but unheard of for Hobbits … what is a Hobbit? It’s a question that has been asked many times by many people over the vast plains of Endor. For it is rare nowadays to find one of their kind outside of the Shire. They have become particularly shy of the big folk (as they call almost every other race, save perhaps the Dwarves, since they are so much shorter than them) and have somehow been able to keep their lands hidden from unfamiliar eyes. They are a little people: smaller than the Dwarves by a good foot, perhaps the size of a young mannish child, and have no beards. There is little to no magic about them, except the ordinary everyday sort which allows them to disappear quietly when large, stupid folk come blundering along. Their pointed ears helping them pick up noise almost immediately; though it isn’t as clear as an Elf’s, who can hear a fly’s wing beat from over a mile away. They are inclined to be fat in the stomach; they dress in bright colours (chiefly green and yellow); wear no shoes, because their feet grow naturally leathery soles and thick hair like the stuff on their heads (which is curly); have long clever fingers, good-natured faces, and laugh deep fruity laughs.
Now we have enough to continue.
Bachelorhood was all but unheard of for Hobbits. To the sensible people around her, no one could understand why Bilbo lived this strange life that she did. How she could selfishly live alone when so many Hobbit maids (and a few Hobbit lads too) flocked towards her home, desperate to ensnare such a catch. Though, despite how lonely she was and a desire to meet someone who clung to her heart, Bilbo kept the promise that she made her father. No one was to ever know her secret. And how in Eru’s name could she possibly give her heart and soul to another whilst keeping her secret just t?at. No, in her mind, Bilbo lived in her solitude, friendly to her neighbours but never allowing someone close enough to hope that they might become the next lady of Bag End.
By her fifty-first year, most of the population had given up hope of a marriage. Understanding that perhaps it was something a bit Tookish in Bilbo’s nature that made her act in the way she did. For, after all, it is common belief that one of the Old Took’s (Bilbo’s maternal grandfather) ancestors must have taken a Fairy Wife. Why else would one member of the Took-clan of another disappear off every now and then to go on ad?entures. They disappeared discreetly enough, and the family - for the most part - hushed it up. Belladonna herself was one of the few examples who would tell of her journeys from the Grey Havens all the way to Rivendell. And only because of how fond of her The Old Took was, laughing good naturally of her tails of men, eagles and elves that she met on the path towards the Misty Mountains, which she hadn’t dared to cross, was she not judged too harshly by her peers. Regardless, the fact remained that the Took weren’t nearly as respectable as some of the other Shire-families (though they were undoubtedly the richest). Perhaps, whispered the people of Hobbiton, that was why Bilbo behaved the way that he did. Of course, many thought that he might just be gay. There was nothing wrong with homosexuality in the Shire. A strange notion really. Homosexuality is accepted but women not allowed to inherit: but Hobbits have always been a strange people. No chip could be born from a marriage between two of the same sex. But the estate would pass on to the next male and all would be well. Her uncle’s son, Otho, and his equally horrid wife, Lobelia, both hoped that this would be the case. Whilst most would have kept these thoughts a secret, meant for gossiping in small circles around cups of tea and honey cakes, they instead crowed about it to anyone who would listen: planning incessantly what they would do with the seemingly endless halls of Bag End.
For Bag End was very grand, even by Hobbit standards. This hole in the ground was not nasty, dirty, or wet, filled with the ends of worms or an oozy smell. Nor was it dry, bare or sandy with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat. Behind the magnificent door was a tube shaped hall like a tunnel; a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats - despite her standoffish nature, Bilbo was very fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of The Hill and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for Bilbo: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (she had whole rooms dedicated to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage). The best rooms were on the left-hand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep set round windows looking over the garden and meadows beyond, sloping down to The River and the rest of Hobbiton.
Other than the odd Bachelor nature of Bilbo Baggins, it seemed (to the people of the Shire) that the Baggins-side had won. Bilbo was an almost extract replica of his late father and it seemed that he had settled into his home, and comfortable life, immovable. The curious nature she had shown in her youth had been snuffed out after the terrible winter. Though she did occasionally go off on long walks, it was no more than any other the other respectable hobbits had ever done, typically to seek out some relative or tenant or other. So, the Bookish side had vanished completely and her secret would stay just that: a secret.
Or so they thought.