First shot at The Hobbit, not first fanfic though. I have read the book so don't get all grumpy and call me a stupid girl who only watched the movie. I'm likely to follow more of the books story line though depends what I feel like but the movies descriptions as they are far easier to picture and describe. Now this is going to be one of those annoyingly long A/N's but hey it's important. Will not be a Dwarf/OC, Hobbit/OC, Elf/OC, Man/OC, incest or slash story so sorry if that disappoints you. It will be an OC/OC story though.
If anyone would ask Bilbo Baggins whether his dear sister were quite right in the head, he would promptly suppress a growl (growling is most unhobbity) and say in a very no nonsense way, "Marigold is quite the average hobbit. Thank you."
And by all sense of the word Marigold was, she acted precisely as she should, like a Baggins. She read, sewed, cooked, cleaned, spoke with poise and manners and like any respectable Baggins she showed nothing peculiar.
"You are a hobbit little one," Belladonna would always tells her at the end of the day. "Perhaps not always by blood but you are as kind and polite as any young hobbit."
Which roughly translated meant not much. Young hobbits were notorious for causing mischief and getting into strife.
That is beside the point though as Marigold was no longer an adolescent. She was a fine young lady.
However she had been heavily influenced by her brother Bilbo's Took side as a child and, much to her parents dismay, had retained some of these traits.
Carefully hidden away of course, again much like her brother, but there all the same.
If it weren't for blasted wizards then neither of the remaining Baggins of Bag End would have discovered just how shallow the Took blood was.
Marigold was surprisingly sullen at 1st breakfast, she tied her apron around tattered skirts and begun on preparing the food. Hopefully cooking cheered her up, a sour sister was never a good way to start the day. Luckily for Hobbiton she was smiling by the time she had finished.
"Sister?" Bilbo asked as we finished our eggs and toast.
"Hm?" she raised an eyebrow at him.
"Is there anything you need from the market?" he questioned, rather considerately if you asked him.
"Oh, um, yes, some of Mr Longfoot's bread, he always bakes well on a Wednesday. Oh and perhaps some fish for Dinner?" she requested excitedly.
"Would you like to come along?" he stood up and begun to wash and sort the dishes. It was only polite to clean up if Marigold had cooked.
"Nay, I cannot, I promised I would help Mrs Brownhare with her chickens. Right pieces of work they are, always getting out," she added with a laugh. Bilbo joined in and shook his head at his sister's generosity. Although Mrs Brownhare did reward helpers quite handsomely.
"Have fun," he called back as he walked out of the freshly painted and down the paved lane. It was a jolly good morning, not a chance of rain. The perfect sort of day to sit outside of one's door and smoke their pipe.
Yes, best finish up at the market. Perhaps Marigold would like to take a walk through the forest? Yes, yes, the finely dressed hobbit thought to himself as he tapped the pavement with his walking stick.
He did his business at the quiet market, buying a loaf of bread, two freshly caught fish for dinner, some potatoes, some supplies for Marigold's latest project –a swing and tree platform for the young hobbit-girls and hobbit-boys –and he even conceded into buying himself a new book on Black Speech.
Burdened with his goods he returned to his now empty hole. He spent a time putting his goods in their rightful place and setting out Marigolds supplies.
Eventually all his jobs were done and he took his pipe and sat on the finely carved bench in his front garden. Bilbo was so intent on practising his smoke rings he almost missed the tall figure in front of him completely.
Marigold.
Marigold had forgotten quite how much she hated chickens. She only wanted to snap its neck! Why did they have to keep running away?
The brown haired girl was down to the last chicken, the one she had been putting off all morning. She'd named her Mustard as that is what she was destined to be eaten with.
Mustard dashed under the garden gate, a feat which for all purposes should not have been possible. Marigold hitched her leg over the low fence and continued the chase. Careful not step on anything which would bring a Hobbits wrath upon her she ran after the fair coloured chicken to the cheers of the younglings.
After 3 hills and over a dozen crushed tulips Mustard squawked and ran straight towards her. Blinking in mild surprise Marigold scooped up the chicken and promptly cracked its neck. They were past their prime egg laying age, it was time for them to be sold as meat.
She looked up to thank whatever had done her job for her only to be faced with a white furred neck. Straining her neck to new lengths she saw the rider of the steed. A man with very strange taste in hats.
"Good day my girl," the tall man said politely, tipping his hat.
"Good morning," she chirped, the dead chicken dangling in her hand. "Thank you for stopping Mustard."
"What a brilliant name for a chicken!" he exclaimed with a bright smile. "What is your name young one?" he asked with a kindly smile.
"Marigold Baggins, Sir," she replied with the ease of a well mannered hobbit. "May I ask what your name is?"
The old man decided to ignore her question completely. "Marigold Baggins! I haven't seen you since you were but a young lass under Belladonna's skirts! How are your wings coming along?" he questioned excitedly.
Marigold gasped and began to step away from the man. How would he know such a thing? With wide eyes the hobbit-lass ran back to Mrs Brownhare's garden, dead chicken swinging from her hand.
I'm sorry if the updates are slow, depends what mood I'm in