Chapter Text
The autumn wind howled outside as congregants settled in the large stands. It was a Sunday, most of the town would come for the Mass, while on weekdays it was mostly retired folk and kids coming for the catechism school.
The families sat together, exchanging about the occurrences of the week, grocery prices and hunting for any small crumb of gossip. Kids mostly ran around the neatly planted garden, with stone paths and wilting flower archways. The priest shifted his weight between his feet, sipping his tea and reviewing one last time the passage he chose for the day’s mass.
He was a fine man, aged blonde hair, glinting in the morning sun that bathed his office, round amber eyes, with a permanent kind expression to them. His cheeks were round and freckles spread under his eyes, you could picture a perfect line of the edge of a gardening hat, the upper part of his face barely had any sun marks at all.
He was a Baggins, not the most respectable one. His father had been a preacher before him, he grew up in this very church, and the families before him today were the same families that always frequented the church. The adults around his age played with him in the garden, while the elders seemed ever nostalgic of his fathers kindness and knowledge, an unreachable standard.
But he wasn’t Bungo, he was Bilbo. He was told before that he wasn't half of the man his father had been, but he knew he was exactly that, for he was half his mother and half his father in equal measures. He had brought progressist themes to his mass, how religion should not be the antonym of science, and to vaccinate their kids, to welcome brothers and sisters from other countries, and despite their appearance and sexuality or gender. It was tumultuous at first, the elder churchgoers always adamant that his father would have been disappointed.
Bilbo Baggins knew better than them of his father, he was a strict man, yes definitely. They always had to say prayer before eating, even his very agnostic mother, who spoke of gods in trees and flowers. But his father would never deny another human his right to live and to choose, for that was not what his God preached, his words were ones of love and acceptance.
The families sat arranged on the same seats they had sat for generations now, when his father was the priest, and the man before his father, and God knew how long before that. The Boffins and Bracergirdle, the Brandybucks and Tooks taking over most of the left side of the Hall, all of his Aunts and Uncles and dozens of cousins, The Gamgees and the Goodchilds, The Proudfoots and Goodbody’s, and on the very front the Sackville-Baggins, that would not miss one Sunday.
He did not care for the lavish memorabilia, as his father before him did not, he was dressed in a simple button up shirt and the clerical collar, black dress pants and black leather shoes. As he made his way into the altar, the members quieted down, he could hear the children playing outside, he encouraged the parents to let them play during the Mass, for it was uninteresting for them, and most of them already frequented the lessons.
The silence fell over the congregation as he settled on the pew. The sun glittered inside in colorful waves, through the stained glass panels. A young man clad in a white shirt approached the altar, helping the priest with the candles.
“Ad Deum qui lætificat juventutem meam.” The boy said, climbing up the steps of the pew. Much to his parents' pride and joy, Sam actually enjoyed helping in the rites, Bilbo in gratitude often invited his family over for tea and cake after the ceremony.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” The priest, Sam and the Churchgoers signed the cross on their chests.
“Introibo ad altare Dei.” Bilbo 's voice echoed through the chapel as young Sam placed the herbs inside the insensarium. “Dominus vobiscum.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo.” The choirs from the voices flooded the church as they followed shortly.
“My dear brothers and sisters in Christ.” He had done this hundreds of times before, and had developed a habit of walking down the pew and around the stands, measuring the reactions of his flock. “As I stand before you this morning, I cannot help but feel the weight, and the grace, of time.”
“I remember standing right there as a boy.” He pointed to the pew where Sam swung the sweet smelling smoke in the metal pot. “ Shorter than Sam, in fact shorter than the altar rail,-” Laughter echoed as he smiled softly to his audience. “-holding my father's hand. He was your priest then, many of you will remember him. In his old age he would sit on that chair and still preach for you.” He pointed at the wooden chair with a crocheted flower cushion, now standing on the corner of the room. “The elder should remember how he always spoke a little too fast when he was nervous, how he never quite got the incense just right, and at times we had to rush and open the windows and everyone went home smelling like Sage and Thyme. But he loved you — oh, how he loved this parish.”
“I stand where he stood. He looked out at your parents faces, and maybe your grandparents. The very same families. The Boffins and the Bracergirdles, just where they always sat. The Brandybucks and the Tooks, shoulder to shoulder in the rows of the far-left, a little louder than they meant to be. The Gamgees, who’ve never missed a Holy Day. The Goodbodys and Goodchilds, as good as their name. And of course, the Sackville-Bagginses, first to arrive, and last to leave every Sunday."
“My father looked at you, or your parents, your grandparents, and he saw what I see now: a church not made of stone or wood, but of souls. Knit together by generations of weddings and funerals, baptisms and burials, feasts and not so much fasting.” Another burst of soft laughter echoed at the mention of fasting, for their community was very centered around food, most families had some kind of farming business, so crops and seasons were quite important for the town.
As he reached the far end of the church, he spotted some new faces, something that had not happened ever since the last child was born. Three men with well groomed beards and mustaches sat on the very last bench, by the door, as if they were expecting to be asked to leave at any time.
“And before my father, his uncle served here. And before him... well, God alone knows how far back our little hall echoes with psalms and promises. For the Lord is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His truth endures to all generations. And truly, we are the proof of it, this little congregation in this little green corner of the world.” He heard the gossip of new people moving to the Shire, something to do with the neighbouring town that had a massive mining operation that was shut down. A lot of families were coming in looking for work and a better life, a lot of them having lost everything because of the company.
The men watched him, almost warily, he could imagine how the locals had welcomed them. Despite the Shire being a warm place, with caring people, still they were distrustful of strangers.
“But we are not gathered here only for memory. We are gathered because of love, and unity. In the words of Christ Himself, Love one another as I have loved you.” Well, maybe a few kind words could help. “That love is not a polite smile or a whispered greeting at the door. It is work. It is a decision. It is carrying baskets for the widow, sharing warmth with the stranger, listening with patience when patience is worn thin. Love your neighbor, even when they’re loud in church. Love your cousin, even when they borrowed your garden spade and never gave it back. Love the stranger, the foreigners, the ones who do not yet know the customs of your town. The Lord watches over the sojourners; He upholds the widow and the fatherless.”
The door of the church creeped open, as a small family tried to make their way inside without interrupting. A loud creak had heads turning quickly, all the eyes curious to see which unfortunate family had been late this time, but their faces were not known by the townsfolk.
Bilbo watched intently as a tall man, with broad shoulders sat beside the other bearded men. His beard and hair were raven coloured, peppered in white strands, his blue eyes were stern, not less beautiful nonetheless. A woman followed suit, two small children grasping her legs, wide eyes with curiosity, her hair was pitch black and her eyes were blue and her expression was as serious as the man's, if not more.
The kids appeared to be different ages, a raven haired boy with brown eyes and a blonde boy with the blue eyes of his parents, and though they sat oddly quiet beside the adults, Bilbo took an imaginary note to speak to them about the outside playground. Where his cousin Primula usually watched over the children, even though the town was small, letting a collective of children unsupervised was not the smartest of ideas.
“And so should we.” His voice raised again, trying to get the attention back from the small family. “ If your neighbor is hurting, be their healing. If someone stumbles into this church unsure, unwashed, or unwanted by the world, let us be the ones to want them. For you know the truth as I do: God sets the lonely in families. And He has set us in this one.”
“And to you who are weary, who are carrying burdens you don’t speak aloud, I say to you with the Psalmist, The Lord is near to the brokenhearted; He saves the crushed in spirit.” My father told me once, near the end of his life, that this parish taught him that, to be a Vicar, was not just to preach. Anyone can open a Bible and read it, to use the words written there to favour themselves and their opinions, but to know it, is an entirely different thing.”
As he walked up and down the pew, between the stands, he could feel the strangers eyes burying into his skin. The intensity of the foreigners' gaze could melt ice into water within seconds, and his gaze had not left Bilbo for a second whatsoever.
“And I believe you know it too. Because I have seen your kindness. Your loyalty. Your faith that endures quietly like the roots of your crops under the soil. So go from this Mass not in haste, but in peace. And go as our ancestors did before us, strong in love, firm in mercy, slow to judge, quick to forgive.”
The sermon was nearing its end, and blue eyes bore into him like a drill, he could feel his legs shivering under his weight. Had he been rambling? Had he been the one staring?
“Go home with open arms and hearts, remember that His mercy endures forever.”
“Amen.” The chorus from voices following him broke him out of his haze, Sam as quick as bug had fixed the table ready for the eucharist, as the people formed a neat line crossing the middle of the church.
Bilbo stood behind the table, handing out the Body of Christ and his Blood in a chalice.
“Hoc est enim Corpus Meum...Hic est enim Calix Sanguinis Mei…”
The families came in their groups, and by last, the newcomers stuck together, the eyes of the townsfolk curious, prodding, as a ginger man with a long beard was first, he was considerably fat and had kind features. After him a man with black hair, almost completely stained grey, with a large scar on his forehead, his eyes were round and soft, his beard was not as neat as the man before him. Then came the brunette men, his smile was contagious, and Bilbo couldn't help but to smile back at him, as he turned to him in a thick accent and joked.
“It’s a nice church you have here, Mr.Vicar, but I miss them bones on your altar.” The man must have gotten what he wanted, for as soon as Bilbo covered his mouth in order to hide his laughter he exited merrily.
“Don't mind him, that's Bofur, he thinks he is very funny.” The woman stood before him, luscious black hair falling in waves and blue eyes as stark as the night.
“Oh, I find humor quite sobering.” He smiled at her as he offered the body of Christ. “Your husband is not interested in partaking in the eucharist?” She laughed at him, and his eyes widened.
“That’s my brother, Thorin, I am Dis. He is a bit of a stonehead, he has never even accompanied me to church before.” Her smile softened.
“My apologies.” His hand cupped his mouth and his cheeks bloomed in red, yet Dis seemed amused. “I hope you are well received to our church, you are always welcomed inside, God’s house is the home for all of his children.” He tried to sound reassuring, but he was sure he just sounded a bit foolish.
“Thank you, Father.” Her smile was warm, and her eyes seemed more welcoming than before.
Light spilled onto the stone floor through the open doors, as parishioners began to drift out, murmuring, nodding their heads politely to the newcomers who lingered near the entrance. Bilbo stood by the door, saying farewells to the families with warmth.
Dis, the woman that presented herself earlier had the small group surrounding her as she spoke in a harsh accent he could barely pick up. The men, he now knew was her brother, stood silently with shoulders like a wall, the round, red-haired man had his cheeks flushed and sweat still beading on his brow, the two men that accompanied him stood listening as well, the wiry, fast-talking man in a crooked hat, he knew was called bofur.
“You and your boys are most welcome here. If you ever need help settling in, my door is open.” Bilbo approached, rehearsing in his mind what he could possibly say to the people who had just lost their homes.
The woman turned to look at him. She had stern eyes, but seemed tired nonetheless. The boys clung to her sides, glancing up at him like they had been taught not to trust.
“We have a space for the children outside, they can play while you listen to the Mass, my cousin Primula, watches over them usually. If you are interested of course, most of our kids already come for Sunday school, so the Mass gets boring easily… She’s good with kids. Firm hands, soft voice. You know the type.” He forced a chuckle, then coughed to cover it. “Not that the Mass is boring, of course. I mean it's my work. Just, for children. Long. And... Latin doesn’t exactly hold their attention, so I've learnt.”
The ginger man behind the woman snorted and muttered something under his breath. Bilbo caught a smirk from the tall man—Thorin was it?—who still hadn’t said a word since Mass ended. His eyes, though. Still locked on the priest like an obsessor spirit.
“Anyway, just thought you should know. You’re welcome here. All of you. Even your bones, Mister Bofur.” He nodded at the funny man beside him, whose hat looked like it had been cursed by three separate tailors before ever being worn, the man grinned and tipped it in a mock bow.
“Don’t worry. It’s seen worse parishes.” He blinked.
“You should’ve seen him when we went to a protestant church a couple towns over. Some old Shepherd tried to swat it off his head mid-sermon.”
“I consider that a blessing. Came close to converting me.” Bofur smiled lazily. “Well you know me, I'm Bofur, these are my brother and cousin, Bifur, and Bombur.”
“Of course, I'm Bilbo Baggins…But you please call me Bilbo.” He shook their hands. “As I told Dis earlier, if you need anything, just ask.” He glanced toward the wall of a man standing quieter than the man who was literally mute.
“Thank you, Bilbo.” Bilbo’s ears flushed, he wasn’t sure if it was because the man was using his name or just the fact that he’d spoken at all.
“Anytime. I saw you during the sermon. You didn’t blink once. I was starting to wonder if I’d said something wrong.” He felt like an idiot, his father would never say something stupid like that. Thorin’s answer was only some form of grunt, and Dis elbowed his ribs.
“You didn’t.” He said shortly, looking away as fast as he spoke. “I used to think your kind was soft. No offense."
“None taken.” He had, in fact, taken offense.
“But you spoke from a place of grief.” The priest held his gaze, nodding softly.
“Things might not always be what you expect them to be, Mr. Thorin.”
The Ur’s and Dis told Bilbo about their prior churches, at this point even Bifur was smiling and signing slowly, so the priest could understand. Yet the man stood quiet and stoic like a statue, save for the moments were his nephews begged for his attention.
“But I meant what I said prior. A church is only a church if it has doors that open wide enough for those the world tries to lock out. You’ve lost a lot, you haven’t lost your place in this world. Not while I'm here at least.”
Bifur signed something quickly, and he could not keep up, looking at Bofur for help.
“Then maybe it’s the first real church we’ve found.” He said, a soft smile quickly being replaced with his corny jokes. “That, or we’ve stumbled into a cult. You serve a punch?”
“This town is famous for its festivals, you'll see very few places that have as much punch for harvest festivals as the Shire.”
They chuckled at that, and the priest started to step aside to let them through.
“Come back next Sunday. Or sooner if you wish, as my father used to say, the more the merrier.”
“We will.” Thorin muttered quietly.
“Good.” He answered, his throat suddenly dry.
The group walked off together, the two boys running ahead, laughing. The priest watched them go, then slowly closed the church door behind him.
Bilbo closed the church doors behind him that day, the interaction with the foreign family eating away on the back of his mind. He hoped they would keep coming back, maybe for reasons far more selfish than he realized.
The days that followed were quiet. The pews were filled with elders, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays, families brought their kids for catechism. It was a lonely week, like every other.
Bilbo liked his life, honestly. But sitting alone under the cross, watching families move in clusters of warmth, felt like penance. Maybe he wanted it that way. Maybe it made him feel closer to his father, or to God. Maybe he believed sacrifice was what made a life righteous.
He sat on the porch of the wooden house by the church, watching the stained-glass windows flicker as clouds drifted past the sun. Warmth kissed his skin, but the wind cut through it, sharp and cold. His garden was dying a little more each day, leaves tumbling across the stone path in dry spirals. He didn’t question God. He still felt the love of his Holy Father. But the path laid before him had grown murky. The older he got, the less he saw the beauty in parish life.