Disclaimer: I do not own Middle Earth, nor any of the characters or places
mentioned in the works of J.R.R. Tolkien in his incredible stories. I am
not making any money off of these stories, they are written purely for
pleasure, and the intellectual idea of alternate endings. ^_^ I promise
to bring the "boys" home in time for supper, none the worse for wear after
our little adventures. ^_^
Night had fallen some hours before, and all was quiet in Bag End...save one small hobbit lass. She had been tucked into bed, told a bedtime story and appeased with a final glass of milk earlier that evening, but had awoken to a strange feeling she could not explain. Something was wrong...no, not wrong exactly...just, unusual that still summer evening. Careful not to wake her older sister, the chestnut haired child went to the nearby window and peered upwards and outwards, wondering if perhaps the weather was turning.
But no, the weather was still clear and bright as before, with the stars shining down in twinkling lights from the Heavens, a celestial choir of tiny, tinkling voices. Bringing her gaze down to earth, the child peered out over the familiar landscape of her home, wondering at how such familiar places could be imbued with such mystery once night had fallen upon them. The front gate was closed as always, recently whitewashed by Frodo-lad Gardner, son of Mayor Samwise. The flowers were blooming all around in the garden, with seedlings and smaller plants in clay pots on the bench and windowsill near the front door. All was as it should be, even with the mysterious cloak of nightfall, but still the young hobbit lass was concerned at what felt so...distinctly...odd somehow. Something was off...but then it was also right too...and this contradiction puzzled the child in a way she was not accustomed to her in childhood world of black and white.
Making her way down the long corridor to the front of the smial, the child was careful and quiet as only a hobbit can be, creeping along, careful of creaking floorboards and dim lighting. Unsure of where she was headed to, she simply wandered along, clutching a stuffed Oliphaunt to her chest protectively. The toy had been a present from Mayor Samwise and Mistress Rose at their daughter Daisy's last birthday, and the lass had carried it everywhere ever since. Her older sister sometimes teased her that seven was too old for such toys, but the jest was clear in her voice, and simply made Dilly love her Oliphaunt all the more.
As she crept down the hall and past unused guest bedrooms, the lass surprised herself by turning into the doorway to her father's study, a room she wasn't really supposed to be in, at least not by herself. Normally a well-behaved child, this time Dilly let her curiosity rule, and quietly crept into the cluttered study, wondering at what she might find within. This room seemed to be the source of the odd feeling she kept having. That other-worldly feeling, of a person or place or thing that belonged, and yet didn't either. Rounding the corner, having been looking down at her feet, careful not to trip or knock anything over, she was surprised to look up and see a faint figure seated quietly at the big desk before her, a faint red glow coming from the empty hearth, as though reflecting the flames from a few months past. The light of a nearly full summer moon hung low in the sky, and filled the old study with a warm, white light, but the figure at the desk seemed to almost exude his own glow, and the red flicker from the fireplace was definitely not of the moon's making.
Chocolate brown eyes widening in disbelief as she crept closer, curious as to what she might be seeing before her...wondering if she was dreaming and not truly awake after all. But no, this didn't feel like a dream...not this-- this was real. Impossible, but real all the same. Looking more carefully to the figure at the desk, she realized it seemed to be becoming more...solid, less translucent, more opaque than before. The lass realized the figure was a male hobbit, older than her father, but not by much, at least not in this strange unreality. His hair was thinner than her father's still thick, graying curls, and this hobbit's curls were a silver gray, nearly white. He was dressed as a gentle hobbit, in a red brocade weskit, soft woolen breeches, and a thick, soft white shirt. He appeared shorter than her father, but something about him made her think of her Da, something in his posture perhaps? The figure seemed to be writing something, head down and one leg swinging slightly as a ghostly quill pen traveled over a red bound book before him.
As she looked harder, realizing that the figure now seemed almost wholly solid, only a few wispy tendrils about his hair and fingers remaining; the lass realized she could hear a faint humming coming from him, a happy tune full of bouncing notes and laughter. It made her think of summer picnics down by the Water, and playing hide-and-go-seek in the garden with Primrose and Ruby Gardner. Trying hard to listen to the notes, trying to figure out what words might go well with them, she was startled when the figure suddenly put down his quill and turned around, looking right at her, obviously just as able to see her small form as she was able to see his ghostly one. Mouth opening slightly in shock, she stood frozen for several moments, wondering as to how she was seeing this Hobbit before her. His eyes were a dark brown, very much like her own, his complexion on the fairer side, but with a ruddiness to his cheeks and chin. His skin was crinkled and worn, but seemed to be made for smiling and laughter. His face reminded her of her father...but more so of her own countenance when she looked into the mirror each morning as she brushed her teeth and attempted to comb out her unruly curls.
He smiled at the lass, setting her at ease with an easy familiarity, as if he had know her all his life...and she had known him all of hers. The feeling of unreality had left her, and the lass quickly accepted his invitation to come and sit on his lap. Grinning up at him, she patted his cheek, as if to assure herself that he was solid and at least somehow real before her. Apparently satisfied, she settled herself down into his lap, breathing in his scent of camomile tea, dusty books, pipe weed and the barest hint of roses that seemed to cling to the room, but him in particular. Looking up at him once more, she quietly asked if he might tell her a story, one with dragons and dwarves and adventures. It was a story she had heard a hundred times before, read from the Red Book, told to her by her father and Mayor Samwise, even occasionally by her mother, who had heard it herself as a child. She never tired of hearing it, and the story of her adventurous hobbit ancestor always thrilled her anew with each telling. Somehow she was certain that the telling from this figure would be the greatest she had yet heard. Soon the elderly hobbit was deeply into the telling of the story, and the lass was beginning to be overtaken by sleep once more. The last things she remembered before finally closing her eyes and letting her dreams take her, was the smell of roses, the sound of a fire crackling the grate behind her, and the warmth and gentle strength of the arms holding her small form in his lap, filling her dreams with images of brave Hobbits, trusty Dwarves, tall Wizards and terrifying Dragons and gold.
The old hobbit continued on with his tale, enjoying the sight of the lass in his lap, eyes lingering at times at the curve of her face, the slope of her forehead and the warmth of her small form in his arms. She took after her mother, sturdy but pretty in a classically hobbit way...not ethereal and elven as her sister and father were. She fit her name fully, a child of light and happiness, a sunny glow about her very suitable for the sunny yellow daffodil she was named for. A child of the shire. But, at last the story ended, and his time was swiftly drawing to a close. Carefully so as not to wake her, the old hobbit eased off the desk chair, and with familiar movements tucked her carefully into the large armchair next to the hearth of the study. Lingering a few moments longer, wanting to take a memory of her sleeping face back with him, he did his best to memorize her face. But also to imagine with clarity what she might look like in all her different moods. He had seen her for some years, but always from a distance, a far off place behind a curtain of silver glass. For the first time he was able to see her clearly, and the visits would be few and far between, and would probably be ceased altogether as she became older. Sighing softly to himself, he gently kissed the sleeping lass, and soundlessly made his way out the door. The figure quickly melted into the shadows along the corridor walls, leaving only a faint warmth, and a lingering, curious scent of heady summer roses, dusty old books, and fresh ink.
The next morning Dilly awoke early, with only the first lights of dawn creeping their long, rosy fingers onto the fields and beneath the doors and windowsills of the smials of Hobbiton. She was surprised to find herself settled comfortably in the worn armchair nearest to the cold and empty hearth in her father's study. She was wrapped in an old quilt, and snugly tucked in with what seemed to have been practiced ease. Rubbing one small fist across her eyes and yawning widely, she took a moment to try and figure out how she had arrived in that place. It only took a moment before the events of the night before came back to her with clarity and color rarely achieved by waking memory of nightly dreams. She pondered for a moment, her young mind trying to grasp the reality of what she had experienced.
Just at that moment a faint breeze stirred within the old smial, and the sun broke free of the hindering trees on the hillside. The study was flooded with morning light, violet and pink streaks flitting across the sky. It was then that the lass realized that there was something else in the air that morning, different from the typical study scent of books and ink and dusty tomes. The scent of camomile tea, pipeweed, and the slightest hinted taste of roses in the air. Grinning to herself in a way that was eerily similar to her father's dreamy, otherworldly smile, she slipped off the chair and began to make her way back to her bedroom and her own bed. As she reached the doorway and began to pull the door shut, she paused for a moment, glancing back into the study, and softly whispered "Thank you," and then quietly pulled the door shut behind her.
She knew that her activity for the next day would be to ask a few more questions about the mysterious Great Uncle Bilbo.
Night had fallen some hours before, and all was quiet in Bag End...save one small hobbit lass. She had been tucked into bed, told a bedtime story and appeased with a final glass of milk earlier that evening, but had awoken to a strange feeling she could not explain. Something was wrong...no, not wrong exactly...just, unusual that still summer evening. Careful not to wake her older sister, the chestnut haired child went to the nearby window and peered upwards and outwards, wondering if perhaps the weather was turning.
But no, the weather was still clear and bright as before, with the stars shining down in twinkling lights from the Heavens, a celestial choir of tiny, tinkling voices. Bringing her gaze down to earth, the child peered out over the familiar landscape of her home, wondering at how such familiar places could be imbued with such mystery once night had fallen upon them. The front gate was closed as always, recently whitewashed by Frodo-lad Gardner, son of Mayor Samwise. The flowers were blooming all around in the garden, with seedlings and smaller plants in clay pots on the bench and windowsill near the front door. All was as it should be, even with the mysterious cloak of nightfall, but still the young hobbit lass was concerned at what felt so...distinctly...odd somehow. Something was off...but then it was also right too...and this contradiction puzzled the child in a way she was not accustomed to her in childhood world of black and white.
Making her way down the long corridor to the front of the smial, the child was careful and quiet as only a hobbit can be, creeping along, careful of creaking floorboards and dim lighting. Unsure of where she was headed to, she simply wandered along, clutching a stuffed Oliphaunt to her chest protectively. The toy had been a present from Mayor Samwise and Mistress Rose at their daughter Daisy's last birthday, and the lass had carried it everywhere ever since. Her older sister sometimes teased her that seven was too old for such toys, but the jest was clear in her voice, and simply made Dilly love her Oliphaunt all the more.
As she crept down the hall and past unused guest bedrooms, the lass surprised herself by turning into the doorway to her father's study, a room she wasn't really supposed to be in, at least not by herself. Normally a well-behaved child, this time Dilly let her curiosity rule, and quietly crept into the cluttered study, wondering at what she might find within. This room seemed to be the source of the odd feeling she kept having. That other-worldly feeling, of a person or place or thing that belonged, and yet didn't either. Rounding the corner, having been looking down at her feet, careful not to trip or knock anything over, she was surprised to look up and see a faint figure seated quietly at the big desk before her, a faint red glow coming from the empty hearth, as though reflecting the flames from a few months past. The light of a nearly full summer moon hung low in the sky, and filled the old study with a warm, white light, but the figure at the desk seemed to almost exude his own glow, and the red flicker from the fireplace was definitely not of the moon's making.
Chocolate brown eyes widening in disbelief as she crept closer, curious as to what she might be seeing before her...wondering if she was dreaming and not truly awake after all. But no, this didn't feel like a dream...not this-- this was real. Impossible, but real all the same. Looking more carefully to the figure at the desk, she realized it seemed to be becoming more...solid, less translucent, more opaque than before. The lass realized the figure was a male hobbit, older than her father, but not by much, at least not in this strange unreality. His hair was thinner than her father's still thick, graying curls, and this hobbit's curls were a silver gray, nearly white. He was dressed as a gentle hobbit, in a red brocade weskit, soft woolen breeches, and a thick, soft white shirt. He appeared shorter than her father, but something about him made her think of her Da, something in his posture perhaps? The figure seemed to be writing something, head down and one leg swinging slightly as a ghostly quill pen traveled over a red bound book before him.
As she looked harder, realizing that the figure now seemed almost wholly solid, only a few wispy tendrils about his hair and fingers remaining; the lass realized she could hear a faint humming coming from him, a happy tune full of bouncing notes and laughter. It made her think of summer picnics down by the Water, and playing hide-and-go-seek in the garden with Primrose and Ruby Gardner. Trying hard to listen to the notes, trying to figure out what words might go well with them, she was startled when the figure suddenly put down his quill and turned around, looking right at her, obviously just as able to see her small form as she was able to see his ghostly one. Mouth opening slightly in shock, she stood frozen for several moments, wondering as to how she was seeing this Hobbit before her. His eyes were a dark brown, very much like her own, his complexion on the fairer side, but with a ruddiness to his cheeks and chin. His skin was crinkled and worn, but seemed to be made for smiling and laughter. His face reminded her of her father...but more so of her own countenance when she looked into the mirror each morning as she brushed her teeth and attempted to comb out her unruly curls.
He smiled at the lass, setting her at ease with an easy familiarity, as if he had know her all his life...and she had known him all of hers. The feeling of unreality had left her, and the lass quickly accepted his invitation to come and sit on his lap. Grinning up at him, she patted his cheek, as if to assure herself that he was solid and at least somehow real before her. Apparently satisfied, she settled herself down into his lap, breathing in his scent of camomile tea, dusty books, pipe weed and the barest hint of roses that seemed to cling to the room, but him in particular. Looking up at him once more, she quietly asked if he might tell her a story, one with dragons and dwarves and adventures. It was a story she had heard a hundred times before, read from the Red Book, told to her by her father and Mayor Samwise, even occasionally by her mother, who had heard it herself as a child. She never tired of hearing it, and the story of her adventurous hobbit ancestor always thrilled her anew with each telling. Somehow she was certain that the telling from this figure would be the greatest she had yet heard. Soon the elderly hobbit was deeply into the telling of the story, and the lass was beginning to be overtaken by sleep once more. The last things she remembered before finally closing her eyes and letting her dreams take her, was the smell of roses, the sound of a fire crackling the grate behind her, and the warmth and gentle strength of the arms holding her small form in his lap, filling her dreams with images of brave Hobbits, trusty Dwarves, tall Wizards and terrifying Dragons and gold.
The old hobbit continued on with his tale, enjoying the sight of the lass in his lap, eyes lingering at times at the curve of her face, the slope of her forehead and the warmth of her small form in his arms. She took after her mother, sturdy but pretty in a classically hobbit way...not ethereal and elven as her sister and father were. She fit her name fully, a child of light and happiness, a sunny glow about her very suitable for the sunny yellow daffodil she was named for. A child of the shire. But, at last the story ended, and his time was swiftly drawing to a close. Carefully so as not to wake her, the old hobbit eased off the desk chair, and with familiar movements tucked her carefully into the large armchair next to the hearth of the study. Lingering a few moments longer, wanting to take a memory of her sleeping face back with him, he did his best to memorize her face. But also to imagine with clarity what she might look like in all her different moods. He had seen her for some years, but always from a distance, a far off place behind a curtain of silver glass. For the first time he was able to see her clearly, and the visits would be few and far between, and would probably be ceased altogether as she became older. Sighing softly to himself, he gently kissed the sleeping lass, and soundlessly made his way out the door. The figure quickly melted into the shadows along the corridor walls, leaving only a faint warmth, and a lingering, curious scent of heady summer roses, dusty old books, and fresh ink.
The next morning Dilly awoke early, with only the first lights of dawn creeping their long, rosy fingers onto the fields and beneath the doors and windowsills of the smials of Hobbiton. She was surprised to find herself settled comfortably in the worn armchair nearest to the cold and empty hearth in her father's study. She was wrapped in an old quilt, and snugly tucked in with what seemed to have been practiced ease. Rubbing one small fist across her eyes and yawning widely, she took a moment to try and figure out how she had arrived in that place. It only took a moment before the events of the night before came back to her with clarity and color rarely achieved by waking memory of nightly dreams. She pondered for a moment, her young mind trying to grasp the reality of what she had experienced.
Just at that moment a faint breeze stirred within the old smial, and the sun broke free of the hindering trees on the hillside. The study was flooded with morning light, violet and pink streaks flitting across the sky. It was then that the lass realized that there was something else in the air that morning, different from the typical study scent of books and ink and dusty tomes. The scent of camomile tea, pipeweed, and the slightest hinted taste of roses in the air. Grinning to herself in a way that was eerily similar to her father's dreamy, otherworldly smile, she slipped off the chair and began to make her way back to her bedroom and her own bed. As she reached the doorway and began to pull the door shut, she paused for a moment, glancing back into the study, and softly whispered "Thank you," and then quietly pulled the door shut behind her.
She knew that her activity for the next day would be to ask a few more questions about the mysterious Great Uncle Bilbo.