Chapter 25. Ruminations on a Bitter Morning

Bilbo awakened suddenly with the feeling that he'd only just fallen asleep, and yet...

When he'd gone to bed, certain in his state of anticipation that he'd never sleep, no, not a wink, his parents had been talking, and he'd listened for some time, secure in their quiet conversation. Oh, not the actual talk itself, mind, for they were in the kitchen sharing a final pot of tea and he was snug in his bed down the hall a little way; rather, he heard the rumble of his father's voice, his mother's tinkling laugh, even a cough from Uncle Isen as of a hobbit caught unaware by a witticism, mid-sip.

The smial was dark, dark and quiet, the kind of quiet that told Bilbo he'd been asleep some hours, and it was the middle night. There was a chill in the air, pinching his nose when he inhaled--unusual for September. He shivered and huddled closer under his bedcovers, which, he realised, were heavier than they'd been when his mother had tucked him up and kissed his forehead with wishes for pleasant dreams and peaceful sleep. She must have added extra blankets after he'd fallen asleep, and he was glad of it.

The next thing he knew, the windows were pale with morning light, and more. Bilbo sat up and rubbed his eyes, then stared. The frost faeries had been in the night, painting the most fantastical designs upon the windowpanes, a delicate gift to greet his birthday, short-lived--they'd disappear as the sun warmed the air--but all the more beautiful for that.

He jumped out of the bed and, without thinking, undid the catch and pushed open the window. The air was absolutely still, but his breath smoked outward as he thrust his face into the icy air, quite as if he'd taken up a pipe at his young age. He sucked in a breath, and the chill of it nearly took his breath away.

Bilbo thought for a moment he'd fallen into Fortinbras' diary, snow in September! ...before he realized that the landscape was white, yes, but no flakes were falling from the pale, clear sky, nor had they fallen, gently drifting into piles and heaps and drifts, inviting young hobbits out to play. This was, instead, a heavy frost, sparkling on the grass and the autumn flowers but not weighing them down to the ground as snow would have, outlining the trees and roofs, leaving the path just outside the garden bed pristine and white, unsullied by footprints. It was as if the world had been made new while Bilbo slept.

But cold it was, and the cold was flowing in through the window almost as if it were a malevolent force, bent on enfolding him in a deathly embrace. He pulled the window shut again and hugged himself tight, shivering to his toes as he stood there a moment more, admiring the lacework etched upon the panes by an invisible frosty hand.

...but what was he doing, standing here? (Not, of course, that he worried over taking a chill, though his mother certainly would have had a choice word or two to say about him standing in the leftover chill from opening the window, and not even a blanket wrapped about himself!) Why, here it was, his much-anticipated birthday, a day to savour, the first day of his tween years. He felt as if he stood (unBagginsly as it might be) on the brink of adventure!

He drooped a little, then, at the recollection that this would not be the special party he'd envisioned for this auspicious day. He ought to be arising early, yes, because the Twentieth Birthday was by custom a day of special celebration. If not for unforeseen events, he'd have been getting up early to see to the last-minute details of rather a large party, of his own planning and execution. Certainly his parents would stand behind him, to help him bring about his first social success, but the planning would have been up to him. If he'd had his way, of course, he'd have had fireworks, like the Old Took, but since old Gandalf had taken himself off rather suddenly, Bilbo hadn't had to work up the courage to ask for such a favour. Hah. As if he could... Still, no harm in dreaming, or so the gammers amongst the Tooks would murmur, though your typical hobbit would consider such a thought faintly reeking of scandal.

Ah, the food, now that was a topic worth considering. His parents had let him plan a tidy feast, all his favourites, but they'd been spared the expense of all the guests he'd hoped to invite, Siggy not the least among them.

He sighed. Guests.

Guest, rather.

When he'd brought up the subject of the Birthday, not long after their return to Bag End with Uncle Isen, his father had cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject, so quickly that Bilbo thought perhaps his mother and uncle hadn't even noticed. Bungo had drawn the lad aside later, taken him off for a walk whilst Belladonna and Isen were stirring up cakes in the kitchen, yes, taken him off for a walk and an Explanation.

Bilbo, my lad, he'd said, rather awkwardly, which had caught Bilbo's attention at once, for Bungo was seldom at a loss for the right word. Bilbo had looked up quickly, and Bungo had put his arm about Bilbo's shoulders as they walked slowly along under the heavily laden apple trees in the Old Orchard. The teen had been admiring the reddening apples and thinking of apple tarts and apple compote and all manner of pleasant things, but at his father's tone...

Bilbo, my lad, I know that your birthday will soon be here...

My Twentieth!

Ahem. Yes. Your Twentieth. A special day, indeed, the beginning of your Tween years, and leaving Childhood behind...

Bilbo hadn't been sure he liked the sound of that. His Tookish cousins were very free, as Tweens go, often going about on walking tours to visit various relatives, invariably arriving just before a mealtime, and staying until politely invited to go along home, "as your mother must surely be missing your company, my dear." It was said (quietly, of course), that the Old Took encouraged such a thing, to save the depredations on the pantries of the Great Smials. Yes, they'd left the strictures of childhood behind, but enjoyed the freedoms of Tweenhood without much burden of adult responsibility upon their shoulders. At least, that was the way of things in the early Tween years, even if they were required to look toward Coming of Age toward the end of the Tweens.

Yes? he'd said, when it seemed Bungo had faltered. And then Bilbo had stopped, with the sudden fear that his father was about to engage in The Talk. (No, not that as the Tooks called gossip, but another Talk that was customary in the transition from Childhood into Youth.)

Bungo had stopped, too, and as they stood there, Bilbo was almost certain that this was The Talk an older cousin had hinted at, with a mixture of dread and embarrassed glee, early in the spring during lambing time.

But no.

About the Birthday, his father had said at last, and sighed.

Yes, Dad?

I know, custom is... but your mother and I have... I mean, I've been giving it some thought, and...

After another long pause, Bilbo had said, ...giving it some thought?

Poor Isen, you know, your unfortunate uncle, well, I'm afraid that a crowd of hobbits... well, it wouldn't be good for the hobbit, not so soon, anyhow...

And Bilbo's dreams of a grand affair had dissipated, somewhat like the smoke of his breath on the frosting morn.

It would be a small affair, this special Birthday. Intimate, his father liked to say, whenever Belladonna's chin would begin to quiver at Bilbo's loss, and Bungo would wink at Bilbo as if at another adult. And Bilbo, not to add to his mother's distress, would raise his chin, almost defiantly, to say cheerily, What could be better?

And though, after that picnic on the Hill, when he'd caught a glimpse of the depth of Isen's loss, and in the days the followed, as Isen became steadily more hobbity and less like a wild creature in a trap, Bilbo had found himself less tempted to sulk, and more thoughtful about the whole affair, though still disappointed, of course... Though he'd been less tempted to sulk, still, the fact remained, that he could imagine a lot of things that could be better.

Still, for his beloved mother's sake, and the good opinion of his father, and yes, for the sake of his poor ruined uncle, whom he'd learnt to pity, he'd make the best of it all.

As he chewed over these thoughts once again, on this Day of days, he found all bitterness gone, as if leached away over time. Fondness for his uncle was growing, and tempering his pity; and his sacrifice, which had seemed as big as a mountain to him, now shrank to the size of an anthill.

He'd make the best of it all, and his finest and most thoughtful gift to his family would be his joyful celebration, embracing the circumstances that had been thrust upon him.

In his youth he did not stop to think that it would do him some good as well.

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A/N: Some ideas herein are borrowed from Dreamflower's excellent Miss Dora Baggins' Book of Manners, here on SoA.