Chapter Text
The gentle sun rose slowly over the horizon and cast it’s stunning golden rays over easily swaying grass, through vibrant and vivid greens including and yet not limited to trees, bushes, shrubbery, tomato plants and potato sprouts and various plentiful crops as well as dozens of variants of flowering blooms. Such heartwarming and earth-warming rays spread dappled light upon the ground where they would, leaving wonderful spotlights for the Shire critters to dance slow and rise fast on such a fine morning.
The Shire is perhaps the most relaxing place anyone can find anywhere, so unsurprisingly it was quite unknown unless you had some extremely specific or absurd reason to go there. This did not include adventures, hazardous travels or anything of the sort. The most excitement around were the parties thrown and the gossip around respectable romances and… whatever the Tooks got up to.
Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, was quite the gentlehobbit.
He was quite the strange one, but a fine specimen nonetheless.
No, really. He is quite a fair man (hobbit), polite even to the most unwanted guests. Always offering a pot of tea and a plate of scones to visitors however short the notice, albeit with great reluctance which he quashed down with lock and key. This was no surprise; all hobbits were alike in this way. They were well-versed in manners, propriety, and social mingling. The families were rich and dense, spanning generations and branches to rival even the hardiest of oak crowns.
Even I must admit that much. Peculiar creatures, indeed.
So, this hobbit of Bag End — a Baggins, of Bag End, quite hilarious! Woke up on what was quite a good day, as any other. It was not yet warm but the mild chill in the air was hardly a chill at all, and rather a gentle caress of still air a few degrees below ‘warm’. The pleasant kind of cool, the tolerable kind.
His morning was perfect. No disruptions, no grievances (yet) from that torrid Lobelia Sackville-Baggins or anyone else for that matter. He had a lovely breakfast of buttered toast and scrambled eggs, bacon, beans and a light dusting of grated cheese, hash browns and so on. Second breakfast was just as enjoyable. Bilbo did quite enjoy cooking; it was relaxing and the eating was just as satisfying.
It was only until just after Elevenses that the light-footed hobbit stepped out of the comfort of his smial, to rest on the comfortable bench just outside in his garden, to smoke from his pipe and relax and enjoy the pleasant weather. It was only right that he enjoys this pleasant day. Nothing could ruin this.
Something, or rather, someone, turned his day quite upside down.
It came in the form of… a tall folk. Just shorter than the height of Bilbo’s home. This fellow was dressed in a long grey robe, wearing a matching pointy grey hat with a brim that, for a moment, shadowed his eyes until he lifted his head. He wore a thick grey cloak, same colour as the rest of his clothes. He had a long, somewhat off-white beard and well, was rather devoid of any particular colour beside grey. Though, he wore a brown belt and held a wooden staff of similar colouring, that may very well be taller than his own height and twisted at the end. Upon lifting his head his eyes, vivid and ageless blue amongst wrinkles and cloth drained of all spirit, pierced the peace of Bag End. They sparkled, almost, or perhaps that was a trick of the light.
He did not give Bilbo any good feelings about this interaction. Hobbiton, and he, did not need this sort of nonsense!
“Uh… good morning.” Bilbo spoke after a moment’s hesitation. A polite greeting, as he was nothing if not an excellent host, and yet he could not restrain the confused tone nor his questioning, mildly suspicious expression. His hand, which was holding his pipe, hovered uselessly in front of him.
“Good morning? Do you mean that you are wishing for me a good morning? Or do you mean to say that it is a good morning whether I wish it to be or not? Or perhaps you mean that you feel good on this very morning? Or is this merely a morning for one to be good on?” The disturbance of Bilbo’s peace spoke, with the quirk of a brow and a slight twitch upward of his lips. He was enjoying this. Bilbo was, decidedly, not enjoying this.
“Well, all… all of them at once, I suppose.”
The man hummed in something that could’ve been amusement – if he was even a man at all, though Men were quite odd and much rowdier than hobbits, and rather... malleable, to boot. Though he was no elf. What could that possibly leave for him to be?
“Can I help you?” Bilbo was starting to feel more firmly that this was trouble, and he wanted nothing to do with it.
“Can you, indeed...” He trailed off and scanned the hobbit as if trying to read something in him. “I’m looking for someone to partake, to share in, an adventure-”
Bilbo cut him off straight away. It really was quite important, to listen to one’s gut, after all. “Oh no, no, an adventure!? I will give you my apologies and that is it! I will be doing no adventuring, thank you.”
The hobbit stood and continued his rambling, his neat mop of curls hugging his ears and brushing the nape of his neck and settled just above his brow. He should give it a trim. “An adventure- no, no one west of Bree will delight in an adventure of any sort.” Those stark, wise eyes followed him, turned up so slightly at the corners. “Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things... they’ll make you late for dinner! Hm...” Bilbo at least, was trying to be polite. Polite enough to someone who seemed to have no care for his wishes at this moment which only made him desire to be more adamant in his distaste for the wider world.
He leant briefly over his low fence to pluck a handful of letters and papers from his mailbox and rifled through them as if reading them. He did not read a single actual word, and most of them were sealed in envelopes so there wasn’t much to determine if any of them were actually important.
“Ah, well! Good morning.” He bid this strange, strange grey-clad man farewell. Or, what any hobbit or sane member of the greater world would recognise as a farewell.
The man stepped forward, staff in hand – he would call it a walking stick if it weren’t nearly the man’s height. “To think, I would live to be bid ‘good morning’ in the face of adventure, by Belladonna Took’s son!”
So he was sane then. He simply did not care for Bilbo’s wishes. “Pardon?” He would not cease to be polite, even still.
“You have changed, Bilbo Baggins, and not entirely for the better.”
This was getting rather strange now. Oh, never mind, it was strange from the moment this apparent stranger had stepped up to his gate.
Bilbo paused and took in a breath for courage – or perhaps to clear off a headache before it could sprout. “Do I know you?” He inquired directly, because beating around the bush nor asking him farewell were working.
“Well- you know my name!” He looked almost offended. It was a little bit funny. Just a smidgeon. “Although you don’t remember I belong to it. I’m Gandalf!” He stressed the name, arms spread slightly out from his sides in an exasperated, emphasising gesture. “And Gandalf means...” He paused and sighed as he struggled for an appropriate word. “...me.”
Finally the spark of recognition was lit in the hobbit, as he didn’t look so strained to appear pleased. He seemed to forget, even, the notion of adventure entirely for the moment. “Not the wandering wizard Gandalf who made such excellent fireworks! Old Took used to use them on Midsummer’s Eve!” Seemingly he remembered the wizard’s reason for his appearance, as his tone simmered down quite quickly. He stuck the end of his pipe in his mouth and took a much-needed drag. “I had no idea that you were still in business.”
Gandalf narrowed his eyes slightly. “And where else should I be?”
Bilbo cleared his throat and sensibly chose not to answer. His pipe was seeing quite a lot of use this morning, and likely would continue to so long as the topic of adventuring was anywhere in his vicinity.
“Well I am pleased that you remember something about me... even if it’s only my fireworks.” He definitely was disappointed now. For what reason Bilbo had no good idea. He was surely only a fauntling when Gandalf was last in the Shire, and Hobbiton. He took the barest moment to think and swapped his staff with his other hand.
“So it’s decided.” /What was decided?/ “It would be very good for you...” /Oh, no, Yavanna no!/ “...and most amusing for me.” There was a faint smile on his lips. /What a terrible wizard./ Then he smiled outright, and shifted as if to leave. /No, no, no, this was not happening./ “I shall inform the others.”
“Inform the who- oh, what- no, no.” Bilbo frowned, and then sternly pointed at the wizard with his pipe. Almost jabbing it in his direction, but that would be rude and Bilbo was anything but rude. Even to rude wizards with cryptic minds and overly-seeing eyes, and twisted senses of enjoyment. “Wait-” He muttered, and then hopped up to his top step and gestured the pipe at the wizard once again. “We do not want any adventures here...! Good morning!"