A hobbit, no matter how much they may wish it not to be (though only the most un-respectable hobbits ever do), will always be just that, a hobbit; a creature who is more concerned with comfort, good food, and above all else, respectability than to try and go gallivanting across the River and off on something as horrid as an adventure. No hobbit in their proper mind would ever think of leaving their garden unattended or their house in disarray while they went trudging off to see far and distant lands only known to those in the Shire as nothing more than stories told before the warmth of a blazing fire in the comfort of one's home.
Well perhaps not all hobbits are so predisposed to live a life seeking only creature comforts. Such is the story of the Took family line. Their history, though not stretching as far back as the elves, is very long for beings such as hobbits. Thrill seekers they are, always on the lookout for more astounding material to add to their ever growing collection of stories to be passed down to their younger generations in hopes of inspiring in them a desire to seek adventures of their own.
Many hobbits in the Shire had thought the outlandish nature of the Tooks would end when a daughter of "The Old" Took, had begun to court and later marry a most respectable son of Mungo and Laura Baggins, whose life revolved around only what was deemed necessary by the hobbit community, that of hearth and home. If anything, her bizarre behavior only grew before finally coming to a climax when she became quite heavy with child. The younger hobbits whispered hopefully that perhaps bearing a child would quell her queer tendencies, while the old folk just shook their heads in amusement knowing full well that nothing on Middle-Earth could put out the fire that burned hot and bright within the hearts of the Took.
The birth of their young son seemed both a blessing and a curse when, as his first cries filled their newly built home, a wet body racking cough cut off his wailing.
A sickly child he was, constantly overcome by that terrible cough which was exacerbated in the springtime as the flowers, dormant from the cold of the winter, came to bloom once more. Of course, this did not stop him from being a most rambunctious lad. He climbed the tallest of trees, ran through the largest of meadows, and without fail, came home covered in dirt by supper time, face red and lungs heaving after running back to the warmth of his family's hobbit-hole from a day's worth of adventure and rough housing in the mud.
These Bagginses made quite the parenting couple. His father was forever scolding him for tracking mud within the house or soiling his mother's silk doilies with his "little grubby paws". His mother on the other hand was forever plotting with the wee lad on ways in which to cause mischief about the house and within the village. That is not to say his father was always straight as an arrow when it came to caring for the lad. More often than not the older hobbit snuck food and sweets from the kitchen when his wife had her back turned, sharing it with his young son, a sly smile on his face as he brought a finger to his lips in a silent request of "don't tell your mother." His mother could also be rather strict with her son, though only when he was guilty of having done something quite bad or when he soiled his clothes even though she had specifically told him not to get dirty. Such an act was met with the swift smack of her hand on the back of the boy's head before having him undress so that she could wash his filthy things, her scolding voice echoing throughout their home.
It was quite the life for the young hobbit who spent days running throughout the Shire in search of elves and dwarves, of orcs and ghosts that were said to lurk within the tall trees and undergrowth of the forests that lined the outskirts of his homeland. This desire to see the world only grew when his Grandfather, "The Old" Took, sat him upon his knee before the fireplace and regaled him with tales of the hobbits of long ago whose names and faces had been lost to time, but whose adventures had made them the things of which legends are made. He especially loved it when his Grandfather would tell him the tale of how his Great-Great-Great-Great Grand Uncle had knocked an orc's head clear off and invented the game of golf all in one evening so many years ago.
When Gandalf came, bearing his fireworks, magic, and long white beard, life was made all the more merry. For Gandalf too had tales to tell and so much life within that the young hobbit found himself wondering at times just how old the not-man was, as life and age old weariness battled for dominance within his eyes.
Time passed though, as it often does, and the boy could only watch as his world had begun to change. The Shire found itself shrouded in cold and difficult times when the Fell Winter came upon them.
He had come down with a fever at the start of the first snowfall. This in itself was not atypical of the young hobbit. From the tender age of seven he had been afflicted with such fevers whenever the harvest season had come to an end. They lasted for days at a time and left him much thinner than prior to his contraction of such an inconvenient sickness during a time he could have been using to search for dragons or some other mythical beast.
This particular fever was unlike any that had preceded it, made far worse by the famine that struck the Shire in the early days of winter. Never before had he been so violently stricken, delirious as the fever rose, moaning out into the night as heat burned within him. Any embarrassment he might have felt was cast aside as he cried out for the comfort of his mother like a small child when fevered dreams took hold in the dark of the night. His parents knew not what to do, unable to call out to any nearby family for help, cut off from the world in their small hobbit hole. Outside the winds roared, shaking the shutters while the howls of the wolves invaded the tender hours of the morning when the air calmed and sleep seemed so close in reach.
He could not say what exactly happened in those early hours of the morn as he lay on his bed, the door closed tight to keep out any draft. It was as though he were detached from his surroundings, not fully there but not fully gone either, a sort of in between. He could make out the muffled sounds of crashes and clangs, a high pitched shriek and then silence. Dry, cracked lips parted, and from them came a voice he couldn't believe was his.
"Mother!"
Silence.
"Mother!"
Silence continued to pour down into his ears, suffocating him in its tight grip.
"Mummy!"
Lethargic fingers grasped tightly at his bedding as he tried to blink away the sleep from his eyes.
"Mummy?..."
His door creaked open, light slowly piercing the darkness that had enveloped him and he had to squint against its harshness. Eyes adjusting he found it was his Grandfather who stood in the doorway, eyes cast down, a frown upon his lips. Aged eyes met fevered ones and somewhere deep inside himself knew that from that night onward, his mother, nor his father, would be there to quell his fears.
Again, silence rained down, pierced occasionally by the gentle winds whose touch felt refreshing to the young lad's skin. Then in a firm, but quiet voice, his Grandfather calmly spoke,
"It is time, my boy."
Now, for many years it had been speculated that the Tooks had the lineage of the Fae intertwined with their own. Most in the Shire brushed it off as nothing more than a fanciful story told among the families to try and square away the queer habits held by the family over the ages; more willing were they to see their 'gifts' as a mere bestowance upon them by the land which merely sought out a protector in the people it most graciously housed. Little did they know just how close they had come to the truth of the matter. For the Tooks had magic that coursed through their life's blood, that bound tightly to their bones, and resonated in their souls. An ancient magic it was, tied to the land as much as it was tied to the Valar.
It gave them strength in times of weakness and acted as a light when one was shrouded by darkness. A gift it was, from the Fae, brought to life by the Valar, and facilitated by the land in an unending cycle. With any other race, the fear of a misuse of this power would have most assuredly arisen, but as hobbits were simple folk, they wanted not of power, wanted not of worship, wanted not of the many things that the other races might have coveted. No, their powers were focused more upon their crop, on the healing of their neighbors, and on the safety of their homes. They sought no payment for their services, but were more than happy to accept an offered cup of tea and perhaps a biscuit or two if any were to be had, for one could not make something from nothing. A price was always to be paid sooner rather than later, some more taxing than others.
It was within the sanctum of Tookborough that he was taught the ways of his ancestors. Words spoken in a voice, still strong despite the ravages of time, ever constant in his mind.
"We draw our powers from the land, treat it well and you shall receive its aid."
"You must be willing to sacrifice as much to the land as you are asking to be given."
"It is a gift we have. A gift to do things far larger than ourselves."
And perhaps the most memorable bit of knowledge ever given him by "The Old" Took was that which came about on a cold winter's evening, a light frost clinging to the windows as he and his mother's family huddled by the fire.
"Grandfather." He had said, eyes taking in the sight of the old hobbit whose hands held a large mug of hot, spiced ale.
"Yes, my boy?"
"I was wondering about our gift, could it...do you think that perhaps one day I might be able to-"
"No." It hung heavy in the air as the boy took in the weariness that danced within the old hobbit's eyes, eyes which were fixated on the fire before them.
"Just as one cannot make something from nothing, one can also not defy death. Where life is infinite, death is all ending. Once a soul has crossed the halls of Mandos, it cannot retrace its steps."
He hung his head at this response, eyes taking on an unwanted gleam of tears. A hand, warm and with comfort, took repose on his shoulder at his Grandfather's next words.
"The land giveth and the land taketh away. Such is the way of things. The Balance is to be maintained, where life is given life must also be taken. Once does not do well to dwell in things long past. This you must understand above all other things.
He nodded and then, almost as though it had never even occurred, the air around them was suddenly light and just as he had when he was a young child, he found himself enraptured by another one of his Grandfather's famous tales of reckless adventure.
Once more the years began to pass, that first fateful winter's night becoming nothing more than a horrid nightmare, never truly forgotten but easily hidden in the closet with other unwanted skeletons. Soon enough, he found himself the sole resident and owner of his parent's home, much to his delight and the frustration of those sticky-fingered Sackville-Bagginses. His mother and father came to reside in those halls in the form of silk doilies, antiquated dishware, and a hand crafted pipe (slightly brittle with age and had been passed down from father to son before finally coming to rest on the mantle of his fireplace, remnants of some pipe-weed still within), among other things. Wanting to make his father proud, the young hobbit became quite respectable, liked among many in the Shire.
It is here that our story truly begins. For once, in a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat; it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. And on this particular morning, on this particular day, in this particular month, in this particular year, a respectable hobbit of fifty ("not a year more or less" he was very apt to tell you) sat outside taking in the sun with closed, relaxed eyes as he smoked a rather excellent batch of 'Old Toby'.
Cracking open an eye, Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End, noticed a tall old man, clothed in grey. A smile on his face and happiness in his heart, he greeted the old man with a hearty,
"Good Morning!"