When Bilbo Baggins woke up the next morning in the home he really shouldn't have been in, he was modestly proud that this time he didn't feel an intense desire to empty his stomach all over his beautiful floors.
"It's the small victories - particularly for little folk such as myself - that count", he reasoned.
(He wondered, again out loud, whether it might be best if he tried to stop thinking vocally; not only did he look just a tad mental but he didn't want to start waffling on about things a 50 years young Bilbo shouldn't know.)
After all, it wouldn't be good if he started musing about how to deal with the Pale Orc in front of the Company one night, now would it?
Ah, the Company.
Well, there went Bilbo's good morning.
The Hobbit chuffed a sigh at the reminder of trials ahead before crawling out from under his fluffy duvet, his stout feet sticking ever so slightly to the cool wooden floor, creating a soothing padding sound as he strolled to the kitchen.
The sunlight, even at so early a time as this, was lovely and warm through his perfectly polished windows (Hamfast must've given them a wipe at some point). The kitchen fairly glowed in the golden rays and soon Bilbo had himself settled with a pot of breakfast tea and a hearty spread of pastries.
Despite this, a frown of severe thought was still firmly plastered to his too smooth, not wrinkled forehead.
He'd told himself last night that there wasn't much he could do in preparation for Gandalf and the Dwarves.
But, after a hearty rest, like most issues, Bilbo felt much more optimistic towards his capabilities.
Nay, optimistic wasn't the right word. Maybe, more like…
"Determined." Bilbo asserted out loud before rolling his eyes at his violation of his promise to stop thinking like that.
He may not be a warrior but he'd given a good few smacks of Sting back in the day.
Alas, Sting was not yet his but any short sword would have to suffice for the time being. Bilbo counted himself lucky that he, aside from his uncle the Thain and cousin 'Tin', had the strongest claim to the family heirlooms. Which should, if memory served, include a few scant pieces of armour and some swords (which were thankfully still in good nick).
So, Bilbo started a mental checklist, He'd have to drop by Uncle Is's at some point (hopefully for tea; his aunt's teacakes were renown).
He'd also head down to the market, no time like the present to start stocking up on travelling necessities and long-lasting foods for the second pantry.
"Ai! Much to do," Bilbo exclaimed quietly as he savoured his last sticky bite of honey pastry and final gulp of tea.
And with that, the Master of Bag End prepared for the long day ahead.
-oOOOo-
The sun may well have been lovely that morning at (first) breakfast, but outside it was simply glorious.
Bilbo felt the tightness in his chest, an invisible grip that had clenched since he'd first awoken here, ease in the serenity of the neighbourhood. The grass was the most luscious shade of emerald, wafting lazily in the gentle breeze from atop the Smials and beside the pale pebble lanes. Everything here was so bright and wholesome it soothed Bilbo's aches. Aches he'd barely noticed until they were gone.
He'd almost forgotten why Hobbits loved their home until now.
In that moment, he felt just as he had before at the prospect of leaving home. After he'd returned from the Quest to Erebor, his heart had been ignited and he had spent much of his life restless for the world again. But now…now he remembered just why he'd been reluctant the first time around to leave, why he'd been so eager to return home.
His spirit felt soothed to look upon the place of his childhood once more.
And so, as his firm feet trotted down the lovingly maintained footpaths of the Shire, his best velvet jacket jingling with the weight of his money pouch, his golden curls softly ruffled in the wind, Bilbo felt renewed confidence in the journey that lay ahead.
Well, until he saw the figures of Drogo and Primula out for their daily stroll, at which point he ducked his head to hide his ghostly face and scurried onward to his Uncles.
Maybe not that confident.
The walk was a brief one and, despite the glimpse of his dear cousin, Bilbo thought he'd done very well. (In fact, he did tell himself just that; it wasn't until he saw two little fauntlings gape and giggle at him that he realised with a cherry-red blush he'd once more spoken aloud. He really must break that habit…)
Bilbo had made it to the Market place good and early (mainly to avoid any folk who were a bit too close 'to home'). His pocket had been considerably lightened by the cheese rounds alone (he remembered how dear Bombur had 'eaten them by the block', as Bofur had put it).
Alongside the large cart of food he had sent up to Bag End, he also decided to invest in some heavier duty clothing and some leather wear. In his paranoia for the surprised look Master Gramshaw the tanner had given him, he'd explained how he was writing a storybook and so might need basic protective gear as a reference for sketches. Whilst some could wonder at the expense – why not simply ask to borrow such things for a few sketches without buying them – the wealth of Bag End was well known and so such expenditure did not bat an eyelid.
There was a reason that Bilbo had been the best storyteller in all the Shire before he'd left at 111; he was marvellously convincing when he put his mind to it.
After that rather expensive morning, Bilbo only paused in his errands to drop off the purchases he'd kept on his person and then grab (or as close as you can get to 'grabbing' a hearty hobbit meal) lunch before setting off again, this time towards the 'Great Took' Smial on the outskirts of the Shire.
If Bag End was a mansion in the standards of men, then the Family Took (Uncle Is's) Smial was something akin to a Castle. Bag End was the envy of the Shire due to his prime spot (lovely views) and the high standard of building. 'The Great Took' on the other hand was, whilst not as lavish as Bag End nor in such a good spot, simply massive.
Big Folk thought Smials were akin to Rabbit holes. Bilbo wondered if The Great Took was the cause of such assumptions.
Most Smials were either built into mounds or several to a hill; The Great Took had an entire hill to itself. Bilbo had once, as a young fauntling, tried to count all the rooms; So many Years had passed that he couldn't remember if he had succeeded, but he did remember almost collapsing in the corridor he had been so tired and getting lost several times.
A grand and mighty oak stood atop the hill; it had supposedly been there as long as the Shire had existed and its gnarled roots were what had protected the Great Smial for generations. Most rooms, if Bilbo remembered correctly, actually had the roots visible through the ceilings or running down the walls.
The scene, however, was a peaceful one and Bilbo took a moment to stand quietly at the gate and admire a scene he hadn't gazed upon in what felt like an age.
The peace didn't last long, however, and a bang pierced the lull of the day, followed by raised voices.
Ahh...Tooks, Bilbo thought fondly.
The gate creaked as it always had done when he passed through it and his Aunt's pansies filled the front lawn as they always did.
Two firm raps with the badger knocker and his Aunt Dorathea's voice paused from her scolding's to call "In a minute!" from somewhere inside. Some things never changed.
A few scant moments later (Bilbo took them to straighten his jacket and tell himself not to lose it) and the periwinkle blue door was opened to reveal Dorathea Took nee Proudfoot, Lady Thain of the Shire. She looked rather harried.
She was, and always had been, a strong and independent Hobbit, standing tall at almost 3'7". Her long curls, almost waist length, were the colour of mulled wine and her eyes like that of her prize-winning caramel. Even as she grew older, she was still quite the beauty and melted many a heart with her soft eyes and wicked laugh.
Her cheeks were flushed a warm pink (no doubt from the tongue-lashing Bilbo had interrupted) but she nonetheless flashed her motherly smile at the sight of him.
"Bilbo, my darling!" her arms flung around his shoulders; Bilbo had always been proud of his tall height, a shocking 4 foot, and was quietly pleased that she had to reach up to do such a thing. "Aunt Dora," he grinned back as she bustled him inside.
"Your Uncle and I were just settling down for tea, dearest, won't you join us?"
Bilbo only had time to flash her a smile and nod his head (Aunt Dora was setting quite the pace, but then again in a Smial this big…) before she bustled into one of the sitting rooms.
This room had been whitewashed and then painted a lovely peach rose. An ancient oak table was the centrepiece, surrounded by matching wooden chairs, their cushions quilted with various fabrics that Bilbo knew his Aunt had done herself. Another table took up the remainder of the space towards the back of the room, its counter covered in various fabrics and ribbons; his Aunt was up to her sewing again. The main table had an enticing spread of cakes and cold meat; Bilbo's eyes automatically sought out those delicious teacakes and he couldn't stop the grin that stretched his lips at the sight of them steaming on his Aunt's best Farthing crockery.
"Aye, Dora, He doesn't miss a trick this one; doesn't even spare a glance for his old Uncle before he starts salivating over those teacakes!" a gruff voice broke Bilbo's attention and he couldn't stop the violent flush that spread over his face, down his neck and made his delicately pointed ears feel like they'd caught fire. He'd been caught drooling like a fauntling! By the Valar, He was well over 100! Then again, he'd not had Aunt Dora's treats in almost a century…
His eyes broke from the food to settle of the chuckling figure of the Thain. Isumbas Took IV was grinning in self-satisfaction at Bilbo's reaction, one hand hurriedly stuffing his poorly-concealed pipe into his pocket as his other tried to discreetly waft the smoke away.
His efforts were in vain for Aunt Dora was on to him like an arrow from a particularly merciless bow as her age-old rant on smoking in the Smial was recited; Bilbo, after seating himself and helping himself to one of those piping hot teacakes, wondered how such a graceful hobbit could snarl so effectively. He was also impressed that he could still remember large sections of this particular lecture off by heart.
Once his Aunt had (once more) gotten it out of her system and his Uncle looked (once more) properly admonished but still relatively unapologetic (only for the time wasted away from food; Bilbo figured he rather enjoyed riling Dora up; she did look beautiful angry), they sat down and had the loveliest tea (even if Bilbo had already started without them; he wasn't ashamed for they always did this so no one batted an eyelid if you occupied yourself whilst they had a 'moment').
When the dishes had been thoroughly cleared, Uncle Is gestured for Bilbo to follow him back outside; no doubt he wanted an actual uninterrupted smoke this time. They settled themselves on the bench in the front garden. Some of the younger Tooks (fauntlings, really) scampered past with a breathless "'Llo Bil'o" tossed over their little shoulders as both hobbits set about lighting their pipes.
Bilbo decided to get the topic going as it were.
"Uncle Is, I've decided to write a storybook."
His Uncle peered at him around his great, long pipe. Bilbo noticed once more how much he took after his Uncle; same hair (riotous curls that "shone like rays of pure sunlight" his mother had once said) albeit Is's was now faded to a pale golden grey, and the same warm chocolate eyes, the older hobbit's surrounded liberally with laughter lines.
He looked rather like Bilbo had in the decade before he'd left for Rivendell.
At that moment, however, his Uncle looked shrewd. Bilbo had never felt younger.
"And what can I do for you, then, if that's the case?"
His Uncle was Thain after all and quick as a wit.
It was strange to think that, if not for his cousin Fortinbras (II), he might've been in line for Thainship. Thank Yavanna for TinTin.
"I want the stories to be rather accurate, Uncle, so I would like to request permission to hold some Heirlooms at Bag End. The stories will be very much a collection of our own history alongside local tales and I may well need some things for sketches and what not." Bilbo thought he was rather convincing if he said so himself.
His Uncle looked appeased and puff congenially on his pipe. Although Is was sharp as a tack, he had no reason to think Bilbo wanted these things for anything other than scholarly purposes. He was the highly respectable Master of Bag End after all.
"Well then," he paused to blow a smoke ring, "I see no issue with that, my boy."
'Boy, indeed…' Bilbo lamented. He was older than the wise Thain beside him.
He shook himself from those melancholy thoughts for now; there would no doubt be plenty of time for that in the months to come.
For now, he fancied himself a catch-up with the hobbit who had taken him under his wing.
-oOOOo-
When Bilbo made it back to Bag End, the sun had finally set into a cool summer's night.
He was absolutely tuckered out and so stuffed he almost feared for the seams of his best waistcoat (Aunt Dora had not let him loose till she'd gotten another two meals into him).
His arms were filled with an assortment of antiques from Uncle Is and were aching like they hadn't in decades (not since he'd travelled over a year with a company of 13 Dwarrow and a wizard whilst beset with orcs and other foul creatures).
Bilbo resolved to work on that in the fortnight he had left as he stretched out his stiff limbs after dumping his hoard on this broad and study desk. It still groaned at the sudden weight.
Not to mention he'd not been physically taxed in decades.
Although…he conceded morosely, towards the end, any movement had been physically taxing. Even the luxury of walking.
His arms didn't hurt so much now after all.
Shaking loose his sobering thoughts, he turned instead to the items spread across his desk.
Some scrolls, a few knickknacks (for variety, he didn't particularly want anyone to see him walk all the way back from his Uncles with his arms filled with swords) and a portrait or two.
And what was useable of the armour of Bullroarer Took.
Bilbo was extremely pleased with himself for that particular find.
The heirlooms had all, at least those not gracing the walls of the Smial, been collected in a large side chamber. It had been filled with such things alongside trinkets and older furniture. That's not to say that it was a dump of a room, merely a busy one. The room had been filled with natural light from the windows (it was to an outside-wall) which was conjoined with the great Library. Thankfully, whilst well maintained, the room was not well-visited and so he'd managed to sneakily try on what armour he could find that was still serviceable.
The legendary warrior Took was a very large hobbit though and so, despite Bilbo's own impressive height, he had still not been able to fit most of the equipment. The greaves however and the mail had fit surprisingly well. Also, despite the equipment's rather impressive age, it was still in very good shape. The leather had been tanned a lovely mahogany brown and was very impressively covered in Ancient Hobbitish writings. Although the language was no longer generally spoken, Bilbo in his later years had become something of a linguistic Master, perfecting several dialects of Elvish, mannish and several others – and, of course, Ancient Hobbitish. In brief, the words were the standard for honour, strength, victory and so on but they did indeed look very important. Bilbo thought they'd garner admiration from both Elf and Dwarf alike.
Most importantly, Bilbo had found a very nice little sword, also engraved in Ancient Hobbitish, that, whilst it wasn't Sting, was still a handsome and sharp weapon that would do very nicely.