Chapter Text
On the morning of Bilbo's ninth birthday, she is woken up very early by the scent of sausages, and she immediately throws off her bedcovers and rushes into the kitchen. Her father, bustling about the kitchen in a frilly apron and wielding a formidably sized spatula, bids her good morning and then asks if he may cuddle her. Bilbo graciously accepts, and is quickly swept up in a lovely snuggly hug that smells of tobacco and baking bread. As Bungo finishes cooking and toasting and stirring, Bilbo goes over to the window and climbs up onto the sill, so that she may look out of it and see if there is anybody coming up the path. She is so excited that she cannot bear to sit still even to eat - a rare thing for a hobbit. Today is a very special day, and she is all over jitters; it is not only her birthday, but it is also the day that she will meet her mother.
Belladonna Took is something of a legend in the Baggins household, and is widely regarded as a legendary nuisance in the rest of the Shire. Her infamy may doubtless be ascribed to her very unhobbitish love of adventures, such as the one that she has been occupied with for the last five years, aiding the Blacklock tribe in the Orocarni Mountains. She sends letters very frequently, and on her every birthday she is sure to send a gift or two for Bilbo and Bungo, but it isn't at all the same as seeing her in person. When last they parted Bilbo was far too young to remember much of her mother, and so she has hoarded the letters and gifts very carefully, so that she always remembers that she is loved. Bungo has done a fine job of raising her, Bilbo supposes, but her father is very Bagginsish, and not at all the sort to have adventures. With her mother around to join her Bilbo might finally be able to go properly exploring in the woods, and past the borders of the Shire. Perhaps she might even go so far as Bree!
There are elves in Bree, she knows, because Lobelia Bracegirdle told her so. They only pass through every so often, usually on their way to the Grey Havens, and they rarely speak very much with strangers; but Bilbo can be very charming if she wants to be, and she is quite certain that she could coax a good story out of even the dourest of elven travellers. Bilbo would dearly love to meet an elf. She can read a smattering of Sindarin already, though she cannot speak it, since all her learning was done from the books in her father's study. Her aunts and uncles all tell Bilbo that she is a very precocious child, and they do not mean that as a compliment, but Bilbo cares very little for their opinions. She does what she likes, just like her mother.
At Bungo’s coaxing, Bilbo manages to eat a little porridge and honey, and then he helps her to get dressed. She allows this without the usual fuss, unwilling to risk missing a knock at the door just because she doesn’t like having to wear underthings. (They go under your clothes, so nobody ever sees them anyway. Bilbo doesn’t see the point.) After she is dressed, in the simple tunic that most young fauntlings wear at her age, she returns to the window, clutching a little book of fairy-stories to keep her occupied. The book is one of her favourites, but today it fails to hold her attention. Every page or two she looks up to see if there is anyone coming. Occasionally she catches a glimpse of someone passing by, but it is only the neighbours wandering around, and none of them ever come past the gate.
Second breakfast comes and goes, and Bilbo manages to eat enough to make up for her paltry first breakfast. It doesn’t occur to her to worry that Belladonna will not show up. Bilbo’s mother is a hobbit of her word, because she takes care to only ever make promises that she knows she can keep. She will be here.
Her patience is rewarded: near midday there is a creak as the gate is thrown open, and a sturdy little figure in a long blue cloak begins to ascend the steps to Bag End. Bilbo throws her book down and runs to the front door, closely followed by her father.
Now that it has come to it, Bilbo finds that she is just as terrified as she is excited. Her heart is in her throat and she can’t seem to stop clenching and unclenching her hands.
There is a knock upon the door, finally, but Bungo is already partway through opening it, and then the person on the other end cries out his name and falls into his arms.
Suddenly shy, Bilbo remains behind the shelter of Bungo’s legs, clutching onto his apron-strings for comfort. She risks a peek, and sees that Bungo and the hobbit in the cloak are kissing fiercely, and that her father has started to cry. Bungo cries at everything, though – he cries when he stubs his toe, and when there is a happy ending in one of Bilbo’s fairy-stories, and when Bilbo runs away for an afternoon and gives him a shock – and she is familiar enough with the way her father’s breath hitches in his throat to know that these are happy tears, and not sad ones. As they continue to kiss, the hood of the hobbit’s cloak slips down, revealing a riot of dark hair.
The cloaked hobbit whispers something quiet into Bungo’s ear, and then she crouches down so that she and Bilbo are at eye-level.
“Hello, my darling,” says Bilbo’s mother.
Too curious to continue hiding, Bilbo steps out from behind her father’s legs, and inspects the new hobbit carefully. Belladonna has a bright smile on her face, but she doesn’t say another word, enduring the scrutiny patiently. Her ears are pointed, like Bilbo’s own. Her hair is black, and her skin is a little darker than her daughter’s; Bilbo thinks that she must take after her father in looks, since Bungo is quite a bit fairer. There is a long scar trailing down the left side of Belladonna’s face, starting just above her eyebrow, and over her left eye, and then ending below her cheekbone. The eyelid bisected by the scar droops a little, and the eye beneath it stares out, unseeing. There is another little scar just under her earlobe, and when she offers her hands in greeting there are fine scars all over them as well. Bilbo bypasses the hands entirely and throws her arms around her mother’s neck.
“Oh, my darling,” says Belladonna, over and over. “I missed you. How I missed you.”
At that Bungo starts to bawl in earnest, and he excuses himself in search of a handkerchief.
Belladonna and Bilbo stay hugging in the hallway for a while, and then Belladonna stands up and takes her daughter’s hand, leading her into the kitchen. It is time for elevenses, and in the pantry there are pumpkin scones with fresh butter and jam, and a big jug of orange juice. Belladonna leaves her cloak and travelling-things in the front hallway, and then she unstraps the sword from her hip and hangs it up over the mantelpiece, but apart from that she does not move to wash or unpack. She is dusty from travel and obviously tired, but she is also hungry, and eager to catch up with the child that has grown up in her absence.
Bilbo is overflowing with questions about Belladonna’s travels, and Belladonna is happy enough to answer them, though Bungo seems somewhat concerned that some of her stories might not be appropriate for young ears.
“You’ll give her ideas,” he says meaningfully, raising his eyebrows, but Belladonna only laughs.
“Good,” she says. “Isn’t that my job?”
Bungo grumbles under his breath for a while, but eventually subsides in the face of Bilbo’s enthusiasm.
“Did you really fight Wargs?” she asks excitedly, clambering up onto her mother’s lap and accidentally kneeing Belladonna in the stomach. “Did you see a dragon? Did you meet elves? Can you introduce me?”
Belladonna laughs, a deep belly laugh that has her shaking all over in mirth. “Yes, I fought Wargs – a whole pack of them – no, I have never seen a dragon, thank Eru, and yes, I have met elves, but only briefly. Maybe when you’re a little older we can go to Rivendell together, and I will introduce you to them then.”
“Bella!” says Bungo, scandalised, but Belladonna only grins wickedly and pecks him on the cheek.
“You can’t keep her penned up forever, Bungo,” she says gently. “If she wants to travel, she will travel, and all we can do is supply the tools to aid her in her journeys.”
“I know,” says Bungo unhappily, “but does it have to happen so quickly?”
“They grow up fast,” says Belladonna. There is an old pain in her eyes, and she bends down to press a kiss to Bilbo’s curly head. Addressing her next words to her daughter, she says, “And you have grown up faster than I could have dreamed! Why, it feels like only yesterday that I was watching you take your first steps across this very floor.”
Bilbo wriggles a little, distracted by the sudden serious turn of the conversation, and then she says, “Can you teach me how to sword-fight?”
Belladonna’s eyes light up in glee.
An hour later, to Bungo’s intense horror, and to the shock of all their surrounding neighbours, Belladonna and Bilbo may be found in the garden practicing defensive drills. Belladonna has fashioned a tiny wooden sword out of firewood for Bilbo, and for herself she is only using a walking-stick in place of her actual sword. Bilbo has pinned her tunic up above her knees so as not to restrict her range of motion, exposing her hated bloomers and causing more than one passing relative to faint clean away at the unseemliness of it all.
“All right,” says Belladonna, circling warily around her tiny opponent. “Watch my steps. Left, and forward – don’t cross your feet – and keep your knees bent, that’s it…”
Bilbo bites her lip in concentration, and follows the steps as instructed, glowing with pride when Belladonna praises her for it. They move from defensive drills onto attacking ones, and Belladonna teaches her daughter how to assess and then take advantage of an enemy’s weaknesses. Bilbo is a willing student, but even when she comes at her mother from her blind side she still cannot manage to catch her off-guard. Belladonna is too old and too wily for that.
They practice hard for the rest of the day, only stopping briefly when Bungo brings out a picnic lunch, skipping teatime entirely, and then stopping again for dinner. By the time supper rolls around they are both thoroughly exhausted and ready for bed. Bilbo’s parents tuck her into bed and then retire to their own bedroom, exchanging kisses and biscuits, and conversing in low tones well into the night.
The next morning at the crack of dawn Bilbo barges into their bedroom with all the subtlety of a rampaging oliphaunt, and wakes them both when she launches herself onto their bed, demanding more fighting lessons. Belladonna moans and grabs at her pillow, but is ultimately powerless against her daughter’s cunning charms. Bungo watches the proceedings with a jaundiced eye, seemingly resigned to the fact that he could never deny his spouse or his daughter anything – something which Bilbo, at least, is fully capable of taking advantage of.
“You’ve created a monster,” he says to Belladonna later, with a helpless little smile.
“We have created a monster, thank you – and a very fine one too,” she replies acerbically. “A finer little demon I have never seen. You are to be congratulated, dear one, for raising such a hellion.”
“I did nothing,” denies Bungo, “she takes after her mother.”
Belladonna raises an eyebrow at that. “I do not think it is only hereditary,” she says. “Surely upbringing has something to do with it too.”
“Perhaps,” allows Bungo, with a private grin, and they do not speak of it further.
They fall into a pattern of sorts. In the mornings Belladonna practices sword-fighting with her daughter, and they trade stories and wild imaginings. In the afternoons Bilbo stays inside with her father, helping him to bake or to cook that evening’s dinner. Sometimes during that time Belladonna will take off into Hobbiton and not be seen for hours, roaming the hills or exploring the markets, but she is always back by dinnertime. They spend the evenings together, all three of them cuddled up by the hearth, and gradually it stops feeling strange and starts to feel perfectly ordinary.
Over time, the neighbours stop whispering, or at least they are quieter about it. Belladonna does not leave on any significant trip until two years later, and even then it is only for two weeks, to see to some business in Bree with an old travelling companion of hers. During the next decade Belladonna rarely leaves for more than a month at a time, and occasionally on the more placid trips she will even take Bilbo with her. The neighbours do not like this at all, of course – Bilbo has taken to wearing breeches rather than petticoats, and she speaks Sindarin quite fluently, and Quenya too, though it is little more than a scholarly language now. She knows a smattering of Númenórean as well, and if she could find a teacher she would surely have learnt Khuzdul and the Black Speech of Mordor. These are not at all seemly pursuits for a young lady of the Shire, but Bilbo doesn’t give two figs for the opinions of the town gossipmongers, so it all works out all right in the end.
When her mother allows Bilbo to tag along on her travels, they do not go very far; only to Frogmorton and Tuckborough, and sometimes walking around the woods over the hill and across the water. Very rarely they will even go to Bree, and Bilbo will be transported with delight, rushing about the market-stalls and getting under the feet of all the Big Folk. She has not yet met an elf, but she knows that it is only a matter of time.
As much as she loves adventuring, Bilbo does not resent the time that she spends at Bag End. She loves her books and her maps, and she loves the precious time in the kitchen that she spends with her father. Sometimes it is exhausting, being around so many people at once, and Bilbo appreciates the time spent alone to recharge.
Bungo Baggins built Bag End with his own hands, as a wedding present for his wild-hearted spouse, and Bilbo begins to think that he had done so to ensure that no matter how far Belladonna wandered, she would always have a home to come back to. And, truly, these days Belladonna’s adventures are much quieter than they used to be, though her love of travelling has not dimmed. It is more that she has thicker ties to bind her to home, now. She has duties and responsibilities that she will not buck. She and Bungo do not always see eye-to-eye when it comes to Bilbo’s upbringing, but they learn to compromise.
And then the Fell Winter happens.
It begins innocently enough. The winter is colder than most, but not so cold as to be truly worrying – at least not at first. Gradually the winter grows colder and colder, and the food grows scarcer and scarcer, until even the hobbits of the Shire, with their fertile fields and enormous pantries, begin to run dry of resources. Those in Bree-land do not fare much better, and they find themselves having to send off as far as the dwarven kingdom of Ered Luin for trade. The food they receive in return is bland and uninteresting fare, but it is enough to live on.
When the Brandywine river freezes over, that is when the real troubles start.
For as long as anybody who lives in the Shire can remember, the Brandywine river has been the best defence against the foul creatures that dwell north-east of Bree-land, near the Ettenmoors and Mount Gundabad. Even without that border, though, the Shire and its neighbours do not usually have much to fear from that direction; and yet the fierce winter has driven the wolves and the orcs further afield in search of food and shelter. The white wolves from the frozen wastes of the North have also ventured further south than they would usually dare, whole packs of them roaming the countryside and plaguing the scattered communities of hobbits and humans.
Awful rumours begin to trickle south, of babes snatched up from their beds, and whole towns put to the torch, and yet still the hobbits of the Shire do not seem to fully grasp the severity of their situation. The incredible cruelty of those tales seems like something out of a fairy-story – in real life, surely, no thinking creature could commit such atrocities against a people who have done them no harm.
Bilbo, who has familiarised herself with the histories of Middle Earth, knows differently. She is sceptical of the tales that say that orcs or wolves are intrinsically evil, or bad from birth. There is no such thing as a thinking creature that is inherently terrible, even though some of the stories say that the orcs were created with a dark purpose in mind. Still – there are many things that a thinking creature who is not intrinsically bad will still be driven to out of desperation. The winter is harsh, and the orcs are hungry. Bilbo has read the tales of the war against Sauron, and of the Battle of Dimrill Dale. She knows what is coming for them.
Still the hobbits of the Shire are oblivious to the danger. Some of the wiser of them begin to board up their windows and barricade their hobbit-holes, but most of the Shire folk carry on as if everything is as normal, albeit a bit colder than it usually is. The terrible rumours come closer and closer, stories of caravans attacked on the road, and families attacked in their homes.
Two months into the coldest winter in Shire history, the wolves finally cross into Hobbiton, and Waymeet, and Michel Delving. At first they strike at night, hiding behind shadow and rumour, so that their prey will be taken unawares; and then they become bolder, attacking during the day. The hobbits stay in their homes, frightened, and the post is no longer being collected, so it is difficult to get word out, and nobody knows what is going on.
Three days later Bungo leaves for the market and doesn’t come back.
Belladonna tucks Bilbo into bed in the cellar that night, with a little lantern beside her, and some heavy barrels to roll in front of the doorway should the need arise. After Bilbo is settled, Belladonna kisses her on the forehead, straps on her sword, and leaves in search of her husband.
She does not find him.
Something inside Bilbo knows that it is already too late.
The food traded from Ered Luin is running low again, since the bounders in charge of transporting it have been drawn away to guard the borders of the Shire. Belladonna packs all of the food that they have left, and she fills up several water-skins, and a bag for each of them.
“Be brave, my love,” whispers Belladonna, stroking her daughter’s hair, and giving her a set of little daggers to hide on her body. The daggers will not be much use against wolves and orcs. They are too little, and by the time the enemy is close enough to stab it will already be too late. Bilbo could throw them from a distance if she was really in trouble, but then she would have lost her weapon. She is a fair hand with a sword now, but she does not have a lovely shining blade such as Belladonna’s; she only has her wooden training-sword. She is not even a tween yet, and Bungo had put his foot down at the thought of his young daughter owning a sword of her own that she might hurt herself with. Bilbo curses that oversight, now, and keeps her wooden sword with her anyway, for luck more than anything else.
They leave the next morning, very early, so that they will have as much daylight as possible to travel in. Belladonna wakes her daughter when it is still dark, and they eat in silence, spellbound by a grief that neither of them can bear to name.
Outside everything is pale and ethereal, and there is not a soul to be seen in the streets. The sky is grey, and snow drifts down lazily at first, and then more steadily, so that it is difficult to see anything through the blizzard. Bilbo is scarcely aware of where they are anymore. Their surroundings look so alien that she can hardly tell one hobbit-hole from another, and of course all the signs are snowed over. Belladonna has her compass, though, and they move quickly enough that they reach Frogmorton by mid-afternoon.
When they knock on the door, nobody answers at first. Bilbo is briefly worried that they are not here – that they have fled – that they have been killed – and then there are footsteps rushing to the door, and it swings open to reveal her Uncle Longo.
“Come in,” he says at once, and they stumble into the warmth of the smial, stamping their feet on the floor to remove the caked snow. Longo leaves the door open for a moment, staring out of it as if he expects someone else to show up out of the blizzard, and then he turns to Belladonna and asks, “Bungo?”
She shakes her head. Longo’s face tightens, and he looks away for a moment, and then he shuts the door and ushers them into the kitchen.
The kitchen is packed. Uncle Longo’s wife Camellia is sat by the stove-fire, nursing baby Otho, who is only a year old and far too small for his size. Beside her are Primrose and Blanco Bracegirdle, and their son Bruno, and their daughter Lobelia. Bilbo rushes at once to Lobelia’s side, and they embrace rather tearfully. Bilbo has many cousins, but for some reason it has always been Lobelia that she is closest to, Lobelia who is not related to her at all. Perhaps it is that they are both outcasts of a sort – Bilbo is too strange, too fascinated by the things outside of the Shire, and Lobelia is too outspoken, too unwilling to be trodden on.
“I can’t stay long,” says Belladonna in an undertone, speaking quickly and quietly to Longo in the doorway. “I need to travel to Buckland – why they haven’t sounded the Horn already I’ll never know, and if I am there I can get word to a friend who may be able to help. If all goes well I will be back in three days. Look after Bilbo for me.”
Longo nods, tightly, and looks down in an effort to conceal the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “Be safe,” he says roughly, and claps a hand on Belladonna’s shoulder.
“I’ll do my best,” she says, and then she pulls Bilbo aside, and kisses her cheeks.
“I don’t want you to go,” says Bilbo, half-mad with fear. “You’ll get hurt. What if you don’t come back?”
“Oh, my darling, I am sorry,” says Belladonna, cradling her daughter close. “Some things we cannot choose. If I could stay with you forever I would, but I must leave so that I can be sure you will be safe, or else we will all die here.”
“All right,” says Bilbo in a whisper. “Don’t – don’t take any unnecessary risks.”
Belladonna cracks a smile. “You sound like your father,” she says, some unknowable emotion in her eyes, and then she leaves, and Bilbo is left to sharpen her daggers in the kitchen with the children.
That night they are all woken up by a terrible noise, a horn-call that echoes off the distant mountains, a huge caterwauling that seems to shake the very foundations of the earth. “AWAKE! FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE!” it calls, and Bilbo shivers in her shared bed, clutching Lobelia and Bruno to her sides. Though the two of them have very dark skin, they are paler than usual, and Bilbo herself is positively ghostly.
Uncle Longo comes into their room to check on them, and when he sees how terrified they are he gives them a little smile, and offers them some dry biscuits to calm them down. “Your mother has sounded the Horn-call of Buckland,” he says, “to rouse the hobbits of Buckland and Bree-land to action. We sorely need the aid. Do not fear the noise.”
Still, they do not sleep again that night.
It is six days, not three, before Belladonna returns, and she comes bearing fantastic stories of incredible bravery, of the Rangers of the North who came to the aid of the Shire, and of Gandalf the Grey, a wizard of amazing strength who pitted himself against their foes. She speaks, too, of the hobbits of the garrisons of Buckland, and of the courageous Master of Buckland that led them all to victory, a hobbit named Mirabella Brandybuck. Better than stories, Belladonna comes bearing food, bread and preserved meats provided by the Rangers, and with the hunger in their bellies sated the terrors of the past weeks seem much further behind them.
Bilbo and her mother stay in Frogmorton for the next several days, until they can be sure that all of the wolves have been driven off, and that it is safe to return to Hobbiton. When they do return, they are accompanied by a little procession of their neighbours, who had also fled from Hobbiton when the enemy started venturing closer.
They settle back into Bag End, and for the first time in months they have food, and firewood, and comfort, but Bilbo finds that she cannot relax even for a moment. She is constantly on edge, constantly clutching for her daggers, and at night she is plagued by nightmares that are so vivid she finds herself lost in them, unable to tell the difference between waking and dreaming.
A week after their return, the bounders find Bungo’s body, half-eaten and frozen in ice near the outer border of Hobbiton.
The nightmares worsen, after that.