#meanwhile on ‘fics i had to write with both the prologue and the appendices open’

[frodo-with-glasses]

Hobbit history, Aragorn

Hobbit History

If Aragorn learned about hobbit history from anyone, it would have to be from Frodo and Bilbo.

I mean, let’s be honest, if he’s gonna get any information about hobbits, it would have to be from the horse’s—or rather, pony’s—mouth. Hobbits tend to keep to themselves, and their doings and goings-on are generally of little consequence to the world at large. Of course Aragorn might know some things in broad strokes—at some point, he likely would have read in a footnote of some book of histories in Minas Tirith of King Argeleb II of the North-kingdom and his agreement with the Halflings concerning the settlement of the Shire—but information would be sparse, and many of the things hobbits would deem important about their own history would be completely unknown to outsiders.

Out of the hobbits he had the pleasure of knowing personally (he could say with all sincerity, if a bit of an ironic smile), the Baggins pair would be the best bet. Sam, though he did read and write well for his family, wasn’t terribly book-learned. Pippin rarely paid attention to his studies, if he attended them at all. Merry was more knowledgeable, but he was just as likely to share information that actually answered your question as he was to info-dump about his hyperfixation on pipeweed—on which he was a particularly good authority, if you wanted to know about that sort of thing. And then, there was Bilbo and Frodo, two old rich bachelors with nothing better to do with their lives than spend all day with their noses in books.

I can only imagine that some of those months in Rivendell—after the Council and before the Quest began—were spent with Aragorn, Frodo, and Bilbo walking in the gardens, or sitting on a high porch overlooking the valley, or huddling by the fire when it was cold and Bilbo was getting a chill, as they talked about hobbits and what they’d made of themselves in all these hundreds of years.

Aragorn would be surprised to hear that the Shire-hobbits sent some bowmen to the aid of the northern King in his war against the Witch-King of Angmar; “I have read many histories of Men,” he said, “and also the old Record of Kings, and I have heard the tallest tales of many lands, but never have I heard tell that the Halflings did this thing.”

“Well, we did,” Bilbo said with a huff. “We prefer peace, of course, and seldom go out looking for a fight, but we aren’t so fragile in a pinch, I hope you observe. Or do you think our aim is good only for darts?”

At that, Aragorn laughed. “As for darts, have beaten me soundly, my friend, and enough times that I should learn my lesson. I apologize. I did not mean to offend. If anything, I am more incredulous that such an act of valor should go without thanks or record from the Men of the North.”

“Well, that’s no surprise!” said Bilbo with a grin. “We’re used to being overlooked. Comes with the height, I suppose.”

Of course Aragorn would be very interested to hear about the Battle of Greenfields and old Bullroarer Took, and about the Thain and the Mayor and the general structure of power in the Shire (or lack thereof), but he was also interested in the little things—what Frodo and Bilbo called “family history”, and the invention of golf, and the gossip and rivalry between the Tooks and Brandybucks, about which he asked many intelligent and altogether too serious questions.

He had two motives in this, of course. The first—and the strongest—was that he wanted to know more about his new friends, and learning about their mundane and colorful history was an excellent way to do that. The second—less personal, but no less important—was to do his homework concerning this settlement of halflings that was, technically, still within the jurisdiction of Isildur’s line.

When he became King, he issued a proclamation that no Man should ever enter the Shire, and that it was a Free Land under protection of the Crown. When he came to visit his friends in the year 1436, he did not step beyond the Brandywine Bridge—even a King must honor his own edict, after all—but before he left, he did press a sizable purse of gold into the hand of the Mayor (that is, of course, Sam Gamgee).

“See to it that the best of your histories, and Frodo’s book, are copied by your finest craftsmen,” he said. “Your people have made for themselves an honored place in the history of our world, and so your stories deserve a place in the library of kings. This ought to cover all expense, and if there be any left over, keep it as a gift.”

Sam’s eyes went wide for a moment—the sum could have bought all the property in Hobbiton twice over!—but he was a little older and a little calmer than he was when he first traveled with Strider, so instead of a long string of exclamations, he simply clutched the purse to his chest and promised, “I’ll make every cent count, Strider. They’ll be the most beautiful books you’ve ever seen; save the ones the Elves keep, maybe.”

The work took years, but Sam would only deign to hire the best. Years later, when Sam travelled to Gondor with Rosie and Elanor, he had in his little wagon—wrapped carefully in cloth, and packed in water-tight chests—a beautiful little stack of books, bound in leather, dyed brilliant red and blue and green, with gold corner caps and satin bookmarks and woodcut illustrations on the inside pages.

Those books were kept in the royal library in Minas Tirith, and tended as long as their keepers could maintain them, and painstakingly copied for years long after the hands that made them had passed away. It was exactly was Aragorn would have hoped.

After all, hobbit history was Middle Earth’s history too.

WORD ASK GAME!