#gentlehobbit

[zxrysky-writes]

wanderlust (part 2/?)

He hadn’t believed the story of Bullroarer Took, the outlandish (and simply not respectable but oh so very interesting) story of him using a wooden club to knock the then Goblin King’s head clean off and down a rabbit hole, inventing the game of golf (now that was respectable) by the while.

But when Bilbo had been ambushed by goblins, and his secret Took aggressiveness – he was the son of Bungo in the Shire, respectable and honest, but out here, in the forest, in the wilderness, he was the son of Belladonna, the poison hidden under a layer of beauty – had come out, Bilbo had involuntarily announced the fact that he was a “Took, and if you think a couple of you creatures will scare me, well you’re wrong! My great-grand-uncle Bullroarer Took killed your King, so there!”

The goblins had reared back, eyes blinking, before ushering Bilbo away, this time with less pointy sticks out and their rough bustling had become a tad gentler.

“He says he’s a Took!” One goblin whispered in Black Speak.

“He doesn’t look like one, if the rumors of Bullroarer Took are to be believed.” Another replied, head turning to stare at Bilbo for a second.

Bilbo’s cheeks turned red, and he angrily snapped back that “I am a Took, and we Hobbits are very proud of our genealogy, so I would thank you not to assume that I’m lying! Why would I lie about my heritage anyways, it’s nothing to be ashamed of!”

“He knows the Black Language!” Someone hissed.

Bilbo flushed a brighter red at this, and cursed for letting his temper get the better of himself. The hobbits in the village of which he was Thain had travelled the world far and wide, and they knew many languages, most of which were passed down from generations. They knew Sindarin, they knew Black Speak, they knew the language of animals, and they even knew the secret Khuzdul.

Bilbo lapped everything up eagerly, and had promised not to use the ‘illegal’ ones unless absolutely necessary, and look at where he was now.

“If you are truly the descendant of Bullroarer Took,” a goblin dressed in heavy armor declared, eyes heavy and focused on Bilbo. “Then the throne of the goblins is yours.”

“M-Mine?” Bilbo repeated, panicked. “Oh no, I couldn’t, I really couldn’t, I mean, I’m already Thain of another village, I simply couldn’t be your king as well, no, surely there is someone better…?”

He looked around, seeing the rubble piled up at the side, the small cave in which they lived in, the tired faces of goblins – they seemed wiser than the goblins that had brought Bilbo here, that was certain. If goblins could even be called wise. – and he swallowed his words.

“It is customary for the victor to take over the throne,” the same goblin continued. “And we have lived for decades, waiting for our king. The hobbit had left, and no one returned to rule over us. We have devolved into nothing. We were magnificent once, with a proper king. It matters not the direction or path that the king chose for the entirety of the goblin population, no, the fact that we had a king made us magnificent. And now, the throne beckons. Goblins yearn for a leader once more.

“Will you lead us, Bilbo Baggins, descendant of Bullroarer Took?”

“Eep,” Bilbo replied, and his head nodded without his consent.

No, he thought. I’ll lose my entire reputation back at the Shire. “I’ll be your king,” his mouth said. “But if I’m to be your king, we need to have some changes around here.”

---

Bilbo thought it was sad, so, so sad, that the first time he went to Rivendell was for the sole purpose of establishing a proper trade system and getting an alliance drawn up. The goblins were sneaky little fighters, fighting without any sort of preamble at all. If they saw an opening, they would take it. They weren’t like dwarves who preferred fighting “honorably”, even if it meant going into battle with an opponent who didn’t fight honorably.

They would kill you from above if they could, kill you in your sleep, kill you with food and drink, kill you from underground. Frankly, Bilbo thought it much more sensible, even if he didn’t like violence.

Lord Elrond, the man his mother spoke of so fondly, had welcomed him with open but slightly hesitating arms, especially when he saw the small entourage of goblins trailing after him.

“We come in peace,” Bilbo declared. “As much in peace as we can.”

Elrond nodded after a pause, albeit a bit tiredly.

The goblins followed Bilbo into Rivendell, weapons down and heads up, feet silent as air. That was a bit startling for the elves, for what they knew of goblins was that for all they were small, they were loud.

Hearing them pass through their halls like- no, more like not hearing them pass through their halls made them shiver.

But then again, the procession of goblins had never before been led by a hobbit- a gentlehobbit, no less, and perhaps that meant changes were in order.

It could even mean that goblins now had manners. 

[zxrysky-writes]

wanderlust (part 1/?)

Bilbo found his life at Bag End strangely bland. His mother, Belladonna Baggins had been a Took before she had become a Baggins, and she had had something other Hobbits called “madness”, but something Tooks called wanderlust.

And Bilbo, a gentlehobbit of Bag End, son of Belladonna and Bungo, had inherited this wanderlust, the same way he would one day inherit Bag End from his parents. He appreciated a good book and a nice cup of tea as much as any other Hobbit, perhaps more than most, his genes from Bungo having seen to that, but sometimes his feet tingled and his ears twitched, and he longed to throw open his door and wander with the wind.

“You’re like most Tooks,” his mother had told him one night, sitting next to his bed after he had confided in her about his strange desire to just go. “But it is stronger in you than most.”

“I want to go somewhere, but I don’t know where to go…? Is this normal?”

“Oh Bilbo,” Belladonna smiled, reaching out to tuck his curls behind his ear. “We all feel that way. I didn’t know where I was going, the first time I left my home to go on an adventure. I just let my feet bring me to wherever they wanted to go. And it brought me to your father. Wanderlust is not something we understand, it’s something we do.”

Living as a gentlehobbit, learning the ways of a Baggins and a Took had taken up most of his childhood, as well as learning how to defend himself and attack when need be, and Bilbo didn’t have time to let the wanderlust control him. His parents were his world, his studies were his life, the wanderlust took a back seat in these early days, quiet and steady, humming slowly beneath the surface of his skin, never breaking out to make him just want to up and go, but always there, close enough for Bilbo to feel it dancing in his soul.

When they left, going back to the lands of the Green Lady, from where they had first come from, Bilbo tried to tell himself that it was just wanderlust. That the wanderlust had taken them, that his parents had just wanted to go, somewhere, anywhere, and they had left on an adventure. It was just an adventure that they wouldn’t come back from.

But without them, without his two most important people holding him back, the wanderlust came back. It always sat at the back of his mind, when he went to the market to shop, when he went to parties, when he stopped that irritating Lobelia from taking his silverware, when he hosted his own parties.

His feet tingled and his ears twitched.

He wanted to run with the wind.

And so, with a haphazard decision after one too many bottles of ale, Bilbo packed up some of his essentials, slung his bow (not really his, it had been his mother’s but she had left it to him) across his back and strapped his daggers (not really his either, imagine both Bilbo and Belladonna’s shock when they found out Bungo’s secret daggers hidden in the pockets of his pants whenever they went out of Hobbiton – Bungo had laughed and claimed that Belladonna had changed him for the better, and he had wanted to at least learn a weapon of his own to keep up with his precious people) to his legs, and left.

Of course, he told the Gamgees next door to take care of his garden and inform the Thain of his adventure, and prevent Lobelia Sackville-Baggins from attempting to not only take Bilbo’s silverware, but also full ownership of Bag End. It was a simple affair to pack up and press the keys to his house (and his parent’s house before that, the house of respectable Bungo Baggins and the mad but still relatively respectable Belladonna Baggins who had once been a Took) in the open palm of Hamfast Gamgee.

He set off with a smile on his face, feet tracing the path of the wind and following the footsteps of his mother. Belladonna had once spoken of adventures, large and small, following her own wanderlust or being pushed on a journey by a mysterious wizard with long white hair (“He’s old, Bilbo, older than the Thain himself, I would think. His beard is immense!” “Is it really? Is he really that old?” “Of course he is, do you think your mother would lie to you?” “But he plays with fireworks!” “He can do a lot more than play with fireworks.”).

Belladonna had told him the story of The Last Homely House East of the Sea, and Bilbo wanted to see it for himself. But the trek from Hobbiton to Rivendell was a long and tiring one, and Bilbo decided to take random breaks here and then.

And in those random breaks, he somehow managed to amass quite a number of odd jobs.

---

Bilbo had been a gentlehobbit all his life, and he was terrible at farming. Oh, he was as good as the next gentlehobbit, which was to say, not at all, and he paled in comparison to Hamfast Gamgee.

When he stopped over at a village of hobbits – it had been a surprise to find them, the tiny village wasn’t on the map, nor had anyone ever informed anyone of the village – he was temporarily adopted into a family of hobbits who were brilliant farmers. Bilbo was sorry to say that he hadn’t been able to ration his food properly, and by the time he had reached this small village, he was running thin on food.

Hobbits were nice people, very respectable and hospitable, but Bilbo didn’t want to be a free loader and take advantage of these good people’s kindness, so he made himself useful and learnt how to farm.

On odd days, he worked the plots, planting seeds and tilling the land and watering the plants. He learnt how to use a sickle, how to use an axe – sometimes, when a farm was left alone long enough, it would become overrun with foliage, and logs were one irritating thing that kept reappearing. Chopping them up into wood made a lot of sense, and Bilbo finally understood why Hamfast always insisted on taking the logs away and not just dumping them in the river to be washed away down the current.

On even days, he learnt secret cooking recipes for food that could be found on the road. Bilbo secretly suspected that the hobbits living here were relatives of the Tooks – it explained why they were so keen on adventures, and knew so much about living on the road. Bilbo learnt which plants could be eaten, which couldn’t, which could be used to treat wounds, and which were poisonous (even if they didn’t look it), and the meanings of rarer flowers found on the roads. 

Hobbits were usually very secretive of their recipes (they were secrets, family secrets and heritage passed on down their bloodlines and they were sacred, sacred things that were as important as one’s life) but they were willing to share with Bilbo, share with him all their knowledge and their secret recipes and everything. It was stranger than strange, but the hobbits had assured Bilbo that it didn’t mean anything, and most definitely not in that sense.

And if Bilbo helped them with their expenses, taught them the finer arts of trading, how to manage finances and made sure that they earned more than they were spending, Bilbo didn’t mind. They had helped him, and Bilbo would help them back. Some hobbits didn’t know how to write or read, if that could even be believed! Bilbo took it upon himself to adequately educate every last hobbit in that small village.

It was with that whirlwind of activities that Bilbo became the makeshift Thain of the village. He hadn’t wanted to be a Thain, any Thain, at that. He had intended for Fortinbras to take over the position of Thain even back in the Shire, and that seemed proof enough that Bilbo really disliked positions of authority!

“But you help all of us, Mister Bilbo!” Little Olly insisted, nodding her head furiously. “You’re real nice, and you teach us our letters, and you help Ma and Da with their money, and isn’t that what a Thain does?”

“B-But surely, you wouldn’t want a stranger to be your Thain!” Bilbo cried out in a flustered manner. “I’ve only been here for two months, that’s-”

“That’s enough to be a Thain,” Olly’s mother replied, eyes twinkling as she hustled Olly off to take a bath. “Two months is enough for us to accept you, Mr Baggins, we’ve accepted others for less. You’re already one of us. It’s an unofficial title, of course, seeing as we don’t really need a Thain, but it’d be our little gift to you, as thanks for you helping us with so many things.”

Bilbo flushed a bright red, and was hence bestowed the title of unofficial Thain of the little hobbit village hidden out of sight.