#and then everyone from the trolls to beorn calls him a bunny

[maryellencarter]

if he didn't want people to think bilbo was a bunny he shouldn't have repeatedly called him a bunny

i read the hobbit in 3rd grade and i thought it was really lame. however i liked bilbo baggins for some reason and i was fully convinced he was some sort of rabbit/mouse thing until i saw the lotr movies and was really, really confused

[scarletjedi]

Song+Ship=Fic prompt fill

@fishonthetree asked for “The Fires I Started” by Unwoman and any tolkien pariring--so I went with Bagginshield.

it’s sad, because that ship can be made of pain, but hopeful, too I guess. 

“I will end here listening

To the sound of my own breathing

To my many accomplishments

Though you never heard what I meant

I will leave your memory

To those who see you clearly

I will not carve you into song

I tell everyone's story wrong”

Bilbo had been back in the Shire for three years, six months, eleven days, and a score of hours when he woke to a rain that came down in buckets.

“Goodness me,” he muttered to himself, wrapping his patchwork dressing gown around his sleep shift as he peered out the window. Fall, it seemed, had arrived and the rain was not helping the chill of the morning. “It’s raining to wake the Rock Giants.”

And Bilbo paused. “Rock Giants,” he said, remembering the cold of the slick stone beneath his feet, the crash of thunder, and the way the lightning had lit the world bright as day for only a moment. He shivered, and went to put on tea.

Bustling about his kitchen, Bilbo set the kettle to boil and primed the pot with a darling blend that he had received as a parting gift from Lord Elrond, who had quite honored Bilbo by indulging him in a lengthy discussion about the merits of bergamot vs cinnamon in a black tea. It was the best tea Bilbo owned, and one he was reluctant to put out for visitors, save for his darling cousin Primula Brandybuck, who at nineteen, was already promising to be a very interesting relation. (Primula, you see, was often to be seen with Drogo Baggins. The dears were beginning to court, you see, and Bilbo was just enough of a romantic to help them along, so to speak. (It didn’t hurt that they had nothing to do with that dreadful auction, and treated him no differently for all the rumors of gold that were whispered around town. There was, in fact, a chest of gold, that had been buried in the troll hoard, but Bilbo had put that aside for a rainy day.

Bilbo had set out a pair of the scones he had made the night before, his pad of butter, the cream, and a little pot of honey (also a gift, from Beorn, this time. It was simply the best honey in the world), by the time the kettle whistled, and Bilbo set his tea to steeping.

He had only just sat down, ready to eat, when there was a knocking at the door.

Bilbo froze--had it been the wind? If it was company, they would knock again, but it was unlikely. No one would be out and about in this weather.

(Unless they had already traveled a long way without shelter, and this rain was not the worst they had faced, for even the hardest of Shire rains were nothing compared to rains on the mountain).

“Coming,” Bilbo called out, but something had stolen his voice and it came out in less than a whisper.

The knock came again, and Bilbo cried out, “Coming!” and ran to the door. He threw it open--

And there was nobody there, just a bit of branch that had snapped from his tree and was blowing in the winds. Bilbo knew that he should close the door, that his papers and books were getting all sort of blown about in the winds, that his front entryway was getting soaking wet from the driving rain--that he, himself, would soon be soaked--

But Bilbo couldn’t look away from where the grey stormclouds in the sky met the black shadows of the woods away on the horizon. That way lay Rivendell, and the mountains, and the dark Forest, and at last--Erebor. Bilbo’s heart ached, and he was filled with the sudden urge to step from his door, dressed only in his gown, and go running back, over hill and under tree, through lands where never light has shone, by silver streams that run down to the sea, to find, at last--

Bilbo stepped back. He closed the door. He leaned against it, and, pressing his hand to his mouth, he cried until his tears ran dry.

***

Seven years, eight months, and four days after Bilbo returned from the dead, Bilbo was walking in the market, looking at the wares. Hobbit made crafts were good, sturdy things, with pleasant, flowering designs, nothing at all like dwarven--

Bilbo put down the box he was holding, and went home.

***

Twenty-Seven years, two months, and five days since Bilbo returned home, he finally opened the Troll chest, as a wedding gift to Primula and Drogo.

Twenty-Seven years, three months, and twelve days since Bilbo fought Lobelia for his own teaspoons, Frodo Baggins was born.

Thirty-Nine years and eight months even after Bilbo returned, at last, heart-sick and weary, he brought home Frodo Baggins, pale and sad and a shadow of his former self.

Bilbo showed Frodo to his room, and put the kettle on.

***

Forty years to the day after Bilbo had stormed down Bagshot Row to declare himself officially not dead, Bilbo opened his study door. He had a cup of the tea blend Glorfindel preferred, acquired on his last visit to Rivendell, and three of the poppyseed cookies he had made earlier that day, to fortify him to answer the small pile of letters that had piled up.

But, when he went to fill his pen, he found the top had been left off his ink-pot, and the little that had been left at the bottom had turned into a sticky, gummy mess. Bilbo sighed--this ink never truly came back from that. He sighed. “Frodo,” he muttered, shaking his head. His nephew was finally starting to come out of his shell, and it was good to see, but Frodo was more of a

He did, however, have more ink powders somewhere, if he could only...Bilbo stood, hand on his hips as he looked around, trying to remember where he had put those powders. He started shifting books and stacks of papers, looking for that box that he just knew--

A leather book fell from where it had shifted, over the years, spilling scraps of scribbled writing, stained with grass and dirt and mud and what else, and Bilbo froze--a single piece of paper fluttered onto his feet; a drawing of himself as a younger hobbit, a gift from young Ori. With shaking hands, he lifted the drawing, and had to blink to see.

Ori had drawn the picture in Erebor, after everything. Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure why Ori had drawn him smiling, or how he could--Bilbo did not think he truly smiled for weeks after...

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo placed the picture on his desk, and bent to gather the loose pieces of paper. He would stop, from time to time, and read a sentence, a passage, and found himself thinking fondly of what had been the most painful and difficult year of his life.

He thought about Beorn, and being called a little bunny. He thought of his first meeting with Lord Elrond, and how Bilbo had been quite sure he had insulted Elrond until he had been told he would always be welcome. He remembered an unexpected party that had cleaned out his larders, and the singing that had made his heart swell and race.

He remembered Dori’s fussing over Ori and Nori, who had taken something from every place they paused. He remembered Gloin’s bluster and Oin’s bad hearing. He remembered Bofur’s laugh, and Bombur’s smile, and Bifur’s flowers. He remembered Balin’s twinkle, and Dwalin’s sweet tooth.

He remembered Fili and Kili and their love of song and dance.

He remembered Thorin, and for the first time in years, remembered more joy than pain.

He remembered Thorin’s poor sense of direction, the strength of his singing and the clarity of his harp. He remembered the way his words could move you, and the way he wielded his sword with deadly grace. He remembered the way he laughed, hidden, like a child sneaking a sweet they weren’t supposed to have.

Bilbo placed his notes on his desk, and stood, wish his hands on the leather cover, thinking perhaps it was time to begin thinking about writing his memoirs.

Yes...yes, he would call it There and Back Again: A Hobbit’s Holiday. It would make for a rather good children’s story, he should think, if he left out the harder, more emotionally messy bits. Nobody in Hobbiton ever liked to read the harder bits, anyway (Deep down, Bilbo thought of those bits as his, and perhaps Bilbo had spent too long around dragon gold as it was, because he was not inclined to share them. Not with Frodo, not with anyone).

Now, if only he could find that ink.