The next week passed by in a horribly predictable blur.
Bilbo had known, known in his gut, that time was even shorter than his calendar had shown- but goodness gracious, he was in a tizzy!
The morning after visiting his Uncle Is', Bilbo had tried to swing his new 'borrowed' sword around a few times (some practice couldn't hurt after all) only to once more realise that just because he was playing some sort of 're-life' didn't mean he was any more of a warrior.
(As a matter of fact, practising had hurt; Bilbo, still unused to his strong limbs, had swung the sword so hard he'd toppled over and stubbed his big toe on his mother's glory box, Ouch!)
However, the flaxen-haired time-traveller had resolved himself to a make-shift exercise routine (within the private confines of Bag-End, of course). He ran from the front door in the surprisingly large circuit through the main rooms before finishing in his office, by the front door once more. Bag-end was hailed an impressive smial for a reason, after all; even with his reasonably spritely youth, it took Bilbo just over five minutes to sprint his 'track' and a few laps had him huffing and puffing. However, he knew he'd be grateful later for whatever endurance he could build up. He also hefted his heavy grain jars around in his second storeroom to help his arms and shoulders, and he wore the armour as much as possible to become as accustomed to the weight and restrictions of it before the journey.
The sword still wasn't very successful.
Resigned once more to the life of a weapon-less scholar, Bilbo became consumed in his book. Knowing how short he was on time, and how much he had to remember and write down, Bilbo very neatly scribbled down all he could remember into a little leather-bound journal. However, the unassuming 'manuscript' wasn't exactly 'book-material'; Hamfast had popped his head in once or twice and Bilbo had had to reason to him that he would get the bare bones of the story down before properly writing the story out.
As the day of Gandalf's visit loomed ever closer, Bilbo spent more and more time in his study writing. His sleep suffered and soon he was missing meals like second breakfast, elevensies and supper; he didn't even bother to eat at the table, rather taking his meals to the study and continuing his writing between bites.
It took a visit from Primula and Drogo to snap him out of his stupor.
Bilbo had been writing since sun-up and when the three sharp raps on the door broke his concentration, he realised he was still in his sleep clothes. Eyes blew wide knowing that he had a visitor waiting on his steps, Bilbo sprinted back to his rooms for his best dressing gown.
A glance at the clock showed it to be almost noon.
Oh, Dear, Bilbo tutted at himself; he was getting away from himself!
Mumbled voices outside the door reminded Bilbo that he was keeping someone waiting most rudely.
"Oh indeed, I am sorry!" Bilbo cried, pulling the door open with a strong tug.
On the steps, framed becomingly with morning sunlight, the happy and fair faces of Frodo's soon-to-be parents (they were still courting) peered at Bilbo with concern.
"Bilbo, good morning! Are you alright, cousin? Not seen you around these few days! Prim' and I thought we'd pop round so see where you'd got to." Drogo, so like his son it hurt, smiled warmly at his cousin whilst Primula winked mischievously at Bilbo's embarrassed blush.
"I-I, er, that is-". Mentally, Bilbo smashed his face into his palm; where on Arda was his composure, ay?
Drogo's laugh, so different from Frodo's (Frodo's, even after all his adventures, had remained clear and crystal as a delighted child's; his father's was a deep hearty laugh straight from the belly) was just the kick Bilbo needed and he forced himself to join in.
"Of course, I apologise my dear friends; my head was merely stuck in my writing still and you surprised me. Please do come in." At the mention of his writing, Primula frowned whilst Drogo eagerly stepped over the door-jam and started asking if Bilbo had any gooseberry tart.
Walking to the kitchen, Bilbo couldn't keep his blush down as he realised how ill-prepared he was for company; books and maps were strewn everywhere and his kitchen had dirty dishes needed washing- the shame! What hobbit wasn't prepared for company at any given time?
Thankfully, his two companions were tactful enough to not comment although Primula looked at Bilbo with even greater concern and Drogo's friendly arm flung over his shoulders tightened briefly in comfort.
Primula, dainty even with her strong hobbit feet, stepped between parchment to gently peel back the cover of the journal; her lovely azure blue eyes (the same exact as her son) flared wide with wonder.
"Bilbo…this is wonderful! The whole of Hobbiton knows that you are writing but, my dear friend, this is a real treasure!" Drogo grinned in triumph and bumped shoulders with his cousin. (Some older hobbits had been very sceptical of Bilbo's sudden turn to authordom; Drogo was chuffed that he had been right in claiming that Bilbo's work was sure to be marvellous.)
Bilbo, composure finally under wraps once more, dipped his head in thanks and flashed the lass a grin. "It's only the rough version mind you, but thank you very much." Primula carefully stepped her way back to her two friends and then continued down to the kitchen. As soon as he entered the kitchen, Bilbo swiftly moved to the table and swept away the crumbs before heaving the large metal teapot over the fire. Drogo and Primula, who had visited so many times that they immediately set about to help, collected the tea service and various foods from the first pantry.
As the trio settled down for a light meal, Primula breached the conversation first.
"Bilbo, dear friend, are you sure you're quite alright? You seem terribly out of sorts, pet, and it simply won't do for you to do yourself a harm writing like this! Why- you didn't even go to market Thursday-last! You never miss a Thursday!" Primula's voice, whilst low and gentle as always, held a wealth of compassion which had Drogo nodding earnestly in agreement and Bilbo flushing like a fauntling to the line of his curly hair.
"Prim-Dear's right, cousin. You shouldn't be missing meals nor neglecting other things. The book is sure to be a real gem- but it shouldn't come at the cost of your health, 'Bo." Drogo, whilst not as outspoken as his beloved, spoke with quiet surety which seemed beyond his years.
Bilbo, even discounting his 'extra' years, felt very very young.
"I am very grateful for your concern and companionship, my dearest friends…" the master of Bag-end trailed off, wondering how to get out of this situation as smoothly as possible. "And I promise to try harder. Forgive me."
Bilbo forced a sheepish grin onto his face, which Drogo beamingly returned (Prim was a bit more suspicious of his easy admittance), and on some level, Bilbo knew they both spoke the truth. He could not afford to arouse any more attention than he obviously unwittingly had and it would do him no good to make himself sick just as the Company arrived. Some part of Bilbo, however, felt every single tick of the kitchen clock reverberate in his mind and knew intimately how little time he had left.
"Brilliant!" Prim beamed; Bilbo felt his gut sink in anticipation.
"You'll have no excuse to miss the Summer Solstice party tomorrow then!"
-oOOOo-
When a triumphant Primula and deeply amused Drogo finally stepped back out into the afternoon light, Bilbo was in the mood to swing that sword around again.
Even as a young and very proper Hobbit, Bilbo had never enjoyed Solstice parties; it was, after all, terribly fabulous luck to extend/accept a courtship on such a day.
As Master of Bag-end and head of the Baggins line, it was something of a waking nightmare for poor Bilbo.
Well, except for TinTin, Bilbo consoled himself. Only the Thain's Heir had it worse.
At least he wouldn't be the most miserable.
Second was better than first place in this instance.
All Hobbits adored an excellent party, but hobbit lasses were surprisingly vicious in pursuit of a lad and, at such events, Bilbo and TinTin found themselves akin to the last slice of treacle tart. That is- prey.
And Drogo and Primula had proven to be heartless in their wrangling; then again maybe they had done him a small service.
Bilbo was completely certain that if he had left TinTin alone to face all the eligible hobbit girls, he'd be a dead hobbit walking.
But he didn't have time for this!
A party was a time-consuming thing and that's not just considering the event itself but also helping set everything up, as everyone was expected to do, and the morning after!
Dear, dear me!
Indeed, Bilbo was in quite a tizzy!
The mere thought of time wasted had the lovely sword unsheathed and firmly grasped in both of Bilbo's stout little hands.
He was surprisingly proud of the callouses that had begun to form on them; a testament of his hard work.
One, two! One, two!
Bilbo pretended he knew what he was doing. It was similar, he vaguely remembered, to how Kili and Fili had looked sparring…he thought.
(it wasn't.)
Step forward, slash right! Swing, swing! Dodge!
(Bilbo felt rather ridiculous.)
Parry! Attack! Defend!
(He looked it too.)
"Oh, indeed!" Bilbo finally relented, two minutes in (he was sure it was twenty). "How can I learn to fight if I know nothing about it?!"
Sting had been different, he remembered; that had been an instinct for survival and jolly good luck.
But, now? Learning with purpose and intent? Completely different.
He remembered his mother- long, golden curls brush his face, soft soft skin and raspberries blown into his tummy, mama's laugh and shining brown eyes which were soft as freshly tilted earth- and the two small daggers she had kept safely tucked into the folds of her travelling skirts- "just in case, 'Bo, my darling. After all, poppet; a hobbit is always prepared!"
Maybe a dagger; to start off small?
Unfortunately, his mother's knives had been lost in that terrible winter. After a rummage around, his two best filleting knives appeared to be the best choice.
"Well, if I can throw a knife; that's better than nothing."
Knives, Bilbo somehow discovered, were not so different from throwing conkers.
Bilbo as a child had been an excellent shot; he'd never thought it would translate to weaponry though!
Over the following hours, until it became too dark to safely handle pointy things, Bilbo flung his knives into the woodwork of his wood-chopping log. It may have been outside, but the noise was almost the same as that of his small axe and so no one would bother looking.
The first few hours were spent trying to actually get the blade into the wood, or really, anything but the handle!
Knock! Knock! Knock! The handles of his strongest kitchen knives smacked uselessly into the side of the log.
It was three hours later, both shoulders on fire (Bilbo had never been more thankful for his ambidexterity), that the blade hit the stump.
It took 45 minutes more until he could actually get it to stick.
His shoulders and arms feeling like Aunt Dora's cranberry jelly (wobbly to the extreme but somehow still in once piece), Bilbo made his way back inside to fix supper.
He felt just a little bit more in control. A smile of genuine achievement pulled at Bilbo's face. In the dim candle light, face framed by his halo of sunny curls and a small grin on rosy lips, an observer would understand how lasses would have pursued the young Baggins, even without all his wealth and status.
Soft-as-fudge eyes fell on the used tea tray abandoned on the kitchen table, left over from his cousin's visit.
Like a candle being blown out, the moment was broken when Bilbo remembered what was in store for himself and TinTin the following night.
"Dash it all, Primula!"