Once again, I should mention that I do not own the Hobbit, nor the characters. Just this idea. Enjoy. By the way, Expect this story to be loooong.
Hobbits, as a general rule, loved spring. It was a time for new beginnings, life, and most importantly, love. The air hummed with the buzz of bees and the soft rustle of budding leaves, while the smell of freshly turned earth mingled with the sweetness of blooming flowers. Gardens came alive with color, and the rolling hills of the Shire seemed to glow with an emerald brilliance that could inspire even the most cynical to poetry.
In the Shire, spring was the season of courtship. The most important decision of a hobbit's life, for once a hobbit completes the marriage ritual, known as Bonding, their anatomy is forever tied together. Once bonded, their hearts would beat as one, and their very being became entwined. They could sense the other's joy, sorrow, and even physical pain. Strength could flow between them in times of need, and if one suffered, the other could send comfort or healing. Which was why courting was so very important. This connection was not without risk. Breaking the bond was impossible—the only way was through death—and was nearly always fatal for the partner. A hobbit might linger briefly afterward, but the severance of such a connection would leave a wound that no herb or healer could mend.
Each step taken together, every meal shared, was a glimpse into the future—a chance to envision a life built side by side. These quiet, tender moments of courtship were steeped in meaning and Hobbits cherished these rituals, strolls through the woods, hand-in-hand; picnics on sunny hillsides; and, of course, the sharing of poetry under the light of the first stars were all time-honored traditions. For hobbits, it wasn't just about finding a partner—it was about celebrating life itself and finding someone who would share it with you.
For most hobbits, spring was a joyous time. For Bilbo Baggins, it was something else entirely.
It wasn't that she hated spring. The season was undeniably beautiful, with its fields of wildflowers and long, golden afternoons. No, it wasn't the flowers or the sunshine that soured her opinion of the season—it was what the season brought with it: an endless parade of would-be suitors who seemed to believe that a pleasant smile and a few well-rehearsed lines of poetry were all it took to win her over.
For years, Bilbo had endured their fumbling attempts, spring had become, in her mind, less about new beginnings and more about dodging. Dodging overly eager hobbits who had no genuine interest in her beyond her position as Master of Bag End. Dodging awkward conversations over garden fences. Dodging the ever-so-slightly smug smiles of her neighbors, who insisted that this year would surely be the year she'd finally settle down.
Honestly, Bilbo was simply baffled at how many still persisted even after all this time. Most of her pursuers were almost half her age at this point, it was disgusting! Those that weren't, well, there was a reason no hobbit woman married them. And still, the efforts of the meddling mamas and aunts to marriage mark her were relentless.
She supposed she couldn't entirely blame them. Hobbits were a simple folk, and in their eyes, an unmarried woman her age was something of a mystery, or perhaps a scandal in a harsher light. But the lack of understanding—or worse, the presumptions—grated on her. It wasn't that she was opposed to the idea of love; it was the shallow, performative nature of what she'd been offered that made her weary of the whole affair.
Each spring seemed to bring the same uninspired pattern. The flowers might be different, the poetry slightly reworded, but the sentiment was always the same: an attempt to win her favor without truly knowing or caring about the person she was. They wanted the title, the estate, the prestige that came with being tied to Bag End—not her.
They did not like her disagreeing with them, they did not like her voicing her opinions on something, and they definitely did not like her insistence on doing things her own way. Bilbo Baggins was no one's idea of a docile, agreeable hobbit, and that alone seemed to unsettle many of her would-be suitors.
The Hobbits who came courting would huff or flush an angry red when she questioned their plans or suggested better alternatives. They would scoff and roll their eyes at her love of books—particularly ones about far-off places or adventure— They would grimace and scowl when she wasn't afraid to challenge what was considered "proper" for someone of her station.
Most of all, they didn't like her independence.
Bilbo could see it in their carefully controlled expressions when she politely but firmly refused their offers to take over her accounts or manage her garden. She could hear it in the strained laugh that followed when she mentioned how she had repaired the back gate herself or handled a particularly stubborn tenant dispute without outside help.
And it wasn't because they loved her, not in the way her father had loved her mother—with genuine care, a desire to shelter without stifling, and an unwavering devotion. No, these men didn't want to care for her; they wanted to control her.
Their eyes wandered, not in admiration but in calculation. They looked past her, to the polished windows of Bag End, the lush garden surrounding it, the rolling hills it presided over, and sometimes, even to other Hobbit lasses that passed by. To them, she wasn't Bilbo Baggins—intelligent, capable, and fiercely independent. She was a stepping stone to status, a prize to be won that came with land, title, and influence.
No, what these suitors wanted was a quiet, agreeable partner who would step aside and let them run the show—a decorative piece to complement the title of Master of Bag End, rather than someone who had earned it.
And that was the crux of it. She had earned it. Every brick in Bag End, every blade of grass in the garden, every carefully kept ledger—it all represented years of effort, care, and responsibility. She had grown into her role as Master not because it was expected of her but because she chose to.
But as time went on, it had only gotten worse.
It wasn't that she had hardened her heart entirely. Bilbo could imagine herself loving someone—In truth, her expectations weren't all that high, the only thing she wanted was to be loved and respected, just as she was, and she certainly wouldn't settle for anyone who thought they could change her.
But not all who sought her hand had such shallow intentions. There were a handful who genuinely liked her for the person she was, who saw beyond the title and the estate. Yet, even with them, love simply wasn't in the stars. Those connections never blossomed into romance, but they grew into something equally precious: friendship.
Bilbo cherished those friendships, the mutual respect that came with shared laughter and honest conversations where romance had no place. Yet for most, it was painfully clear: they didn't value her for who she truly was, and their wandering eyes always gave them away.
So, when the first blooms of spring appeared each year and the familiar pattern of awkward courtship began again, Bilbo found herself retreating. She avoided the gatherings where neighbors would try to slyly play matchmaker. She kept to the edges of the market, slipping away before anyone could corner her for a "friendly" conversation. And when suitors came knocking at Bag End's green door, she met them with polite disinterest.
And so, spring had become the season of dodging. A season of strategic retreats into the quieter corners of her garden and well-timed errands to avoid "coincidental" encounters. For Bilbo Baggins, it wasn't a time for love—it was a time for endurance.
Still, there were always moments of peace to be found: the quiet of an early morning before the neighbors were awake, the sight of a butterfly flitting between the flowers she'd planted, and the gentle warmth of the sun on her face. Those were the moments she clung to, and they reminded her that spring wasn't entirely lost to her.
But for all its beauty, spring remained, without a doubt, her least favorite season. And soon, the spring of Bilbo's 58th year would become the worst spring of her remembered history—and the one that inadvertently changed the course of her life.