431It was a beautiful day in the Shire. It was sunny, yet not too bright, warm, yet not too hot and the hyacinths were coming in nicely this year. Yes, Bilbo Baggins contentedly thought to himself, sitting outside in his little garden smoking some of the best pipe weed from South Farthing to Brandy Hill. The day had been going splendidly… right up until the point there was some sort of brief, bright flash in the sky right above Bag End. Startled, Bilbo looked up only to see a… a something crash towards the ground below, which was, as just mentioned, Bag End itself.
More specifically, the patch of hyacinths sitting directly in front of the smoking Hobbit, who nearly fell off his wooden bench in shock as the previous something slammed into the flowerbed hard enough it sent soil outward in a towering spray of dirt, covering both Hobbit hole and Hobbit.
As Bilbo clambered to his large feet, his pipe fell to the ground as his mouth went slack with shock while he stared at his ruined flowerbed, and more specifically at the two long legs that were sticking out up from it. For a moment, Hobbit and legs stared at each other, before the legs began wriggling about, until eventually, a torso, two arms and finally a head emerged from the ruined flowerbed as well. The large figure, almost as tall as three Bilbo's teetering on each other's shoulders, worked itself to its feet as it shook the dirt off itself.
Gradually, smudged dirt was brushed away to reveal almost alabaster-white skin, that seemed to shimmer like polished marble in the bright sun of the Shire. To Bilbo's mute amazement, the dirt almost seemed to jump away from the tall figure, which was now recognizable as a Man, though a very tall and well-built one as far as the young Hobbit could tell.
When not even a blemish remained on the tall Man (though both Hobbit and Hobbit hole sadly stayed covered in a speckling of dirt), he let out a deep sigh as he shook his head, muttering under his breath to himself.
"Well, I certainly could've stuck the landing better."
Apparently, Men do not often have a habit of talking to themselves very often, as Bilbo noticed that the tall being looked surprised, one hand coming up to lightly touch his throat.
"My Voice…" the Man whispered, before holding up his other hand as well, turning both over as the gleamed in the sunlight.
"My Hands…" the stranger muttered, his shoulders sagging somewhat.
"… as expected. Goodbye, old friends. Perhaps it's for the better."
Visibly shaking off whatever melancholy had taken hold of him, the Man took another deep breath as he planted his hands on his hips, staring out past Bagshot Row, at the end of which sat Bag End (hence the name) as he stared out over Hobbiton. The elevated position of the large mound which formed the outer layer of Bag End offered a spectacular view of the winding road and the nearby patchwork of fields and farmlands. The unknown Man looked out over rolling hills, burbling brooks and blooming fields as the sun beat down merrily on the Shire, and-
"Where the hell am I?"
-and subsequently absolutely ruined the moment with his exclamation. Despite the gruff tone, the Man did not seem overly bothered about being lost. In fact, if Bilbo didn't know any better (and since he had barely had any interaction with the odd, long-legged folk, he didn't) he would say the Man was even glad to be somewhere unfamiliar. Truly, the Race of Man is a race of mystery and strangeness.
"Excuse me! But, ah… well…" Bilbo finally spoke up, having found his voice (and his pipe) again as he spoke up, faltering when the Man glanced back and down towards him over his shoulder.
Did Men have such bright, white-golden eye colours? Bilbo didn't know for certain, but it certainly sounded like something more suited for the ethereal Elves in their hidden homesteads. Though this fellow certainly didn't seem like an Elf to the young Hobbit's eyes. Tall and fair to be sure, but far too broad-shouldered and clearly muscled like a warrior (or a particularly active Took) to really fit Bilbo's idea of the more slender Elven kin. Not to mention that the being's ears were very much rounded and lacking in pointy-ness.
If he was no Elf, and no Man… Bilbo gulped as the tall stranger turned to face him fully, interest clear to see in those bright eyes of his.
"Yes?" the Man, if he was one, prompted the nervous Hobbit, who swallowed and then managed to square his shoulders.
"Regarding your question, as to where you are? Well, uhm, you… you're standing in a garden. Ah, my garden, to be exact. My flowerbed of hyacinths, to be even more exact, and those took quite some time to take to the soil I'll have you know-" Bilbo started, though falling silent as the tall being took a step forwards, his far larger size meaning that he stepped out of the flowerbed and right towards the far smaller Hobbit in a single stride.
"And where, exactly, is your garden, Little One?" the stranger asked in an amused tone, Bilbo relaxing somewhat as an aura of peace and kindness seemed to bloom out from the Man's (?) figure as he dropped to a knee before the far shorter person.
His expression was open, and curious, yet his odd eyes held a warmth to them that Bilbo thought equalled the brightness of the sun overhead. As the unknown being smiled down at the Hobbit, since young Bilbo was still shorter than him despite his kneeling position, Bilbo found his voice once more.
"Ah, well, in my home, I suppose. Bag End, on Bagshot Row. Hobbiton? We, ah, we are in the Shire."
"Bag End? Shire?" the Man mused, an expression of delight as he glanced up at the Hobbit hole, before turning back down towards it's respective Hobbit.
"You're a Hobbit." He said, almost looking delighted at that fact as he rose to his feet again, once again glancing out over the hills of Hobbiton.
He let out a loud, surprised laugh as he shook his head in disbelief.
"Middle-Earth… of all the places… all dimensions, and I find myself in Middle-Earth." He whispered to himself, before looking down at the small person at his side.
"What is your name, Little Hobbit? What year is it by the Shire Reckoning?"
"My name? Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins, and it's 1358 if you must know. Thursday, the 20th of Astron to be exact." He responded, somewhat sassily as he began attempting to pat down his clothing as he shot a suspicious and envious look towards the Man's unblemished skin and outfit, one that seemed quite odd to the Hobbit.
It only consisted of a shirt in a style he didn't recognize, with long pants of a make he didn't know and ending with shoes that seemed far smaller and better made than the boots and moccasins he had seen the people of Bree and the like wear. Despite the fact that there was no embroidery on the Man's clothes or decoration in the form of gems or jewels, Bilbo still had the distinct impression that these simple-looking cloths were of an immense quality and value.
He supposed that strange people who had a strange habit of dropping out of the sky into people's flowerbeds would dress strangely. It probably explained why dirt didn't seem willing to stick to the man like it did to everything else (such as poor Bilbo, for instance), though the Hobbit did wonder why the stranger couldn't just wear good, old-fashioned overalls.
Concerned as he was with his clothing, Bilbo missed how his name seemed to almost confirm something for the tall Man, as if he had expected that answer all along, though the date caught the being's attention.
"April, 2941? A week before they're supposed to arrive…" the man mused to himself, before looking surprised as Bilbo spoke up, still trying in vain to clean himself up with his handkerchief, yet only succeeding in dirtying that as well.
"What? No, I just said Astron, 1358-" the Hobbit began, before the Man leaned down and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, one that almost sent young Bilbo down to his knees and face-first into his poor hyacinths.
Taking a deep breath as he prepared to defend his honour (and himself), Bilbo noticed to his sudden shock that he had been completely freed from the stubborn earth that had gleefully been working its way into his nice clothes, appearing just as pristine as the stranger did. In fact… Bilbo briefly smelled the lapel of his jacket. Yes, he was in fact cleaner now and his clothes now held a fresh, breezy smell to them as if they'd been hung out to dry in the winds careening above the Misty Mountains' tallest peaks.
"What…?" he muttered.
"That is indeed what you said, young Baggins. But that is not what I understood. Clearly, what comes out of your mouth and goes into my ears need not be the same thing, no?" the Man now said with a grin, before leaning over the dumb-struck Bilbo and pushing open the door to Bag End with a single hand.
"Now then, judging by the position of my friend in the sky, it should be around time for elevenses, and I must say I have been looking forward to Hobbit hospitality for an Eternity." He said in amusement as he beckoned Bilbo to lead him inside.
While he puffed out his chest at the comment about his people's indeed magnificent hospitality, Bilbo did try to speak up, not very keen on inviting strangers into his home, especially ones that fell out of thin air when there was a perfectly sky out.
"Now, listen here, sir… ah, while I would offer you a meal, I must say that the state of my flowerbed-"
"What of it?" the Man said, his interruption rude if it weren't for the gleaming twinkling of mischief in his white-golden eyes as he glanced past the riled-up Hobbit.
"What of it? What of it! They are ruined! My precious hyacinths are-" Bilbo began as he worked himself into a state, turning around in order to point at his exploded flowerbed, only to fall completely silent in shock.
"-are… fine?" he questioned, looking at the pristine flowers that grew in lush troves in the fresh soil, seemingly completely undisturbed and certainly not appearing as if a particularly large specimen of the long-legged folk had crashed into them head-first.
"What? How… how did you do that? What are you?" Bilbo asked flabbergasted, looking unsure as he glanced up at the tall stranger, who certainly was no Man of Middle Earth the Hobbit now fully realized.
"Who I am, is none other than myself! Though there are those who call me… Michael. As for what I am? Now that is a story best told in the privacy of a Hobbit's kitchen, preferably while seated at a fully loaded table. You would not comprehend just how far I've travelled, and I haven't eaten anything for a long time now. Oh my Me, I would level a mountain for some lemon pie right now." the man said with a deep, longing sigh, and weirded out beyond all belief and recognizing that, yes, it was probably best if his neighbours saw as little of this strange Traveller as possible, Bilbo led the man inside his home.
And so it was that a Hobbit and a former God shared the roof of a nice Hobbit hole in the Shire, as adventure was on the road, coming ever closer towards their peaceful abode. Said adventure took the form of an aged man in a tattered grey cloak with a walking stick as tall as he was, who glanced out from underneath the wide brim of his pointed hat with brilliant blue eyes.
"Hmm… what winds of change have now come over this world, I wonder?" Gandalf the Grey mused to himself, as he travelled towards the Shire, his long memory remembering an adventurous young Hobbit he had met so long ago, who would be a perfect fit for a particular burglar position that had just opened up.
It was, once again, a beautiful day in the Shire. It was sunny, yet not too bright, warm, yet not too hot and the hyacinths were still (and quite impossibly) coming in nicely. Yet one Bilbo Baggins found to his frustration that he couldn't fully relax on his bench, pipe clenched between tightened jaws. He didn't quite trust his flowers anymore, shooting them suspicious glances as they kept flowering and growing far grander than they ever had before. Even the grass that covered the roof of Bag End had begun flowering to ludicrous amounts, to the point it looked more white-yellow than its proper vibrant green.
The neighbours had begun shooting him odd looks and stares.
Whenever the frustrated Hobbit wasn't carefully observing the shrubberies, he kept shooting suspicious glances up at the clear sky overhead, wary of any more bright flashes and falling Travelers that were intend on crashing down in his life, or rather more specifically into his flowerbeds, only to move into his house as they overcharged his gardens. Bilbo could barely wrap his head around the one Traveller that had already commandeered one of his spare bedrooms, after practically clearing out his pantry on the first day.
Clearly, going many Ages without food made a Man hungrier than a starving Hobbit.
Bilbo wasn't quite sure what, if anything, he should believe from the Man's tales, beginning with the fact that Michael claimed that he was, indeed, of the race of Man. Or, well, used to be anyways. Apparently back at home, he had defeated a great evil by collecting some ancient weapons, whose powers had turned him into something… greater. From how he told the tale, and especially what came after the tale, he had been much, much more powerful back home, but he as he had left those weapons behind, his might had been greatly diminished.
Which was a concept that Bilbo found difficult to comprehend, considering the Man currently still was more powerful than any being the Hobbit had ever heard about, even in the most fanciful of stories that his kin told amongst themselves. The Man's strength was greater than even the most fearsome Troll, and he claimed that no blade would even mark his skin. He could even fly, like a bird! Better than a bird even, since he didn't have to flap about so much.
Michael had offered to take Bilbo along once, and while the Hobbit had been tempted, he had ultimately declined. If Hobbits were meant to fly, they'd have wings of their own. Judging by their signature large feet, clearly a proper Hobbit was meant to stay secure on the safe ground, even underneath it (so long as the place had been properly swept and dusted, of course).
But most amazing of all was the Man's ability to do magic. Magic! Only the most powerful and ancient Elven Lords of old were capable of true Magic, and the wizards of course, though their numbers were very few indeed. Supposedly, there was still some Magic left in the old Kings of Men, though Bilbo wasn't sure about that. The Hobbits certainly had no tales about Kings summoning great images of pure light and shaping objects to their whim and will with just a glowing gesture.
Those were great powers indeed, which Michael had freely and carelessly displayed as he told Bilbo, over several nights, his story, using said images and objects as illustrative aids. The Hobbit had been amazed but wondered out loud whether it was wise to display such amazing abilities so openly.
Shouldn't they be hidden? Kept secret? Kept safe?
Michael had looked surprised, before chuckling in amusement, shaking his head as he patted the Hobbit on his small shoulder.
"My Empire stood for so long… and then my trip here… I had forgotten that there are worlds in which such powers are extraordinary and beyond belief. Very well then, young Baggins, let us keep them our secret for now then, until such a time that they are needed. Does that put your worrying mind at ease?"
It had, but only a little. While he had been relieved that Hobbiton wouldn't be turned into a Sorcerer's playground (imagine what the neighbours would say!), the fact that said Sorcerer was living under his roof still caused the nervous Bilbo quite some distress.
Though, in fairness, Michael wasn't often actually inside Bag End once he had explored every (properly cleaned, of course) nook and cranny of the prestigious smial, as these larger Hobbit holes were called. He was much more interested in exploring all of the Shire, starting outwards from Hobbiton to all of Westfarthing (to which Michael had, somewhat incredulously, asked of a blushing Bilbo if Hobbits were always so succinct with their naming sense) and then saying he wanted to explore outside of the Shire as well, passing through Buckland all the way up and even into the Old Forest.
Bilbo had panicked somewhat at the idea of the marble-skinned Man stalking freely throughout the Shire, but then Michael had transformed into an unassuming Hobbit-youth right in front of his disbelieving eyes with a dramatic gesture and a flash of light. The only reason Bilbo could even still recognize the Traveller was when his eyes briefly glowed a white-gold. At first, the two of them had gone on long walks throughout Westfarthing as Bilbo steadily got more and more enthusiastic, proudly showing off his home to the god-king. Despite the wealth and prestige of his previous power and empire, Michael still seemed utterly fascinated with every mundane field and little stream that Bilbo pointed out to him, responding with genuine glee and appreciation as they explored Bywater and Waymoot as they travelled up the Great East Road.
Eventually Bilbo couldn't contain his curiosity any longer and had asked the former god-king why he was so excited all the time about things that were quite normal to the Hobbit. Yes, he was quite proud of the Shire and how his people had kept the place, but still, even Bilbo would admit it hardly compared to thrones as large as mountains and palaces travelling amongst the stars. Michael's answer was as maddening as the Man himself
"I have only ever imagined this place! Of course, a god's imagination is a powerful thing. Stamped out several parts of Middle-Earth clear out of the ground, in the first century of my godhood. It was meant as a playground for my kids. Then they got older of course and became more interested in ruling empires and fighting armies and the stuff, you know, as children are wont to do when they grow up. Ho boy, Helios puberty-phase was… well. Fiery. Once they left the house and stopped playing with their toys, I turned it into a sort of theme-park instead: the LARP-parties were amazing. Millions of people! Though of course it doesn't compare to the real thing."
Bilbo's head had been spinning while the (seemingly) young Hobbit at his side tried to explain his fascination with, well, everything, so he had merely pointed out the distant Tookborough with a brittle chuckle as they kept travelling westward.
They even spent the night in an inn in Michel Delving as Bilbo had become too tired to make the trip back to Hobbiton again, though the two of them had had plenty of energy to sing and dance along with the other Hobbits in the Bird and Baby Inn. As it turned out, another benefit of immortality is the amount of songs you can learn from memory as Michael quickly jumped on the small stage with the band playing there, introducing them to several of his people's folk tunes.
When Bilbo had asked Michael just how many songs of his home he remembered, the bright-eyed Hobbit had merely grinned at him with a mischievous look and responded with an infuriatingly simple and smug "yes".
Apparently, the songs he taught them that night were called 'shanties' back from where he came from and they proved popular with the merry Hobbits indeed, who easily picked up the catchy tunes before quickly adding their own variations to them.
This had delighted Michael, who had hugged Bilbo (who had been trying to hind behind a large mug of ale) to his side.
"This wasn't in the books! Your people are amazing!" he had exclaimed happily, shouting in Bilbo's ears.
"Books? What books, Michael? Michael! Mi-, oh forget it." The proper Hobbit had tried, his outstretched hand falling limply to his side as the former god jumped back in the fray again, moving perfectly in sync with the other Hobbits as more and more of them moved towards the dancefloor of the tavern.
The atmosphere had been unusually lively and rowdy, though Bilbo wasn't entirely certain if that should be attributed to his strange companion or to the group of Dwarves they had encountered upon the Great East Road as they travelled towards their mines in the Blue Mountains and who had ended up joining Michael and Bilbo on their little journey.
While naturally a guarded folk, Michael's genuine interest and easy conversational skills had quickly made the surly Dwarves loosen up to the point none had objected when Michael had offered to pay for their stay in Michel Delving's largest tavern. Though, them being Dwarves, Bilbo suspected that they would've taken pretty much anyone with such a generous (and seemingly bottomless) purse up on such an offer.
Much like the Hobbits, the Dwarves had eagerly taken to Michael's 'shanties', though instead of dancing upon tables, they seemingly much preferred to slam their gauntleted fists upon them instead, forming the rhythm-section of the music all by themselves.
At some point, when Michael had finally dropped down in the seat next to Bilbo (who was deep into his fourth mug after failing a couple of times to engage the Dwarves at his table in conversation) the young Hobbit had desperately clamped onto the former god-king, desperate to talk to something that actually responded back with words instead of muttered grunts and baleful glares.
"Michael. Michael, lishen to meh. Ahem. Listen to me. This… Weller Man. You know him?" Bilbo attempted, getting it right after a few tries.
"More importantly laddie!" one Dwarf rudely butted in, the visible part of his cheeks already a warm rosy colour as he and his compagnie were steadily building a tower of empty mugs as large as a Hobbit.
"What's this 'rum' he's supposed ta bring?!" he continued, and Bilbo felt a worrying coil of ice settle in the pit of his stomach as he began to recognize the massive grin now on Michael's Hobbit-face.
Privately, Bilbo thought that Emperors should carry themselves with poise and grace. Evidently, if Michael was any example, an Emperor was powerful enough to decide for themselves how to carry themselves however they damned well pleased. Which in Michael's case seemed to be in the guise of a mischievous trickster god.
"Rum? Why, rum, my vertically challenged friend, rum is the lifeblood for those who live at sea! It is the fire that is caught in water, that warms belly and bones! Rum!" Michael began roaring loudly as he clambered on top of the table and then to the amazement of all those present, leapt on top of the teetering tower of mugs in a single jump, as effortlessly as a cloud settling above a mountaintop.
"Rum! Is this!" he finished, pulling a large bottle filled with a dark liquor from underneath a coat that Bilbo knew for a fact had been empty only moments before.
Somehow, the bottle had gone across near every table and filled near every cup at least once, yet none ever saw it go empty, nor see Michael magically produce a new one. Not that the unlimited flow of alcohol was actually questioned at any point, due to it being… well, an unlimited flow of alcohol. Bilbo couldn't be certain, but he was fairly sure that he had seen several bottles in the same make as the one that Michael had pulled out of nowhere peek out of the Dwarves' packs as they beat a quick getaway the following morning towards the Blue Mountains.
To Bilbo's bafflement, all of them had embraced Michael as a brother, kissing him on the cheeks and telling him with tears in their eyes that of course he would always be welcome in their underground halls.
What in good graces had the mad god managed in a single night?
All that Bilbo really knew for certain was that at some point, the Dwarves had begun singing some of their own songs, after which the Hobbits had tried to show that their songs were obviously better, after which the Dwarves had taken offence to the point that the Shirrifs had shown up to see what all the ruckus was about, after which one of the biggest brawls in Michel Delving's history had broken out.
Bilbo still turned red in the face when he remembered tackling the earlier mentioned rude dwarf to the ground and wrestling the bottle of rum away from him with a determined vigor his Tookish ancestors would be proud of. Michael certainly had been, slapping Bilbo's back in congratulations with great roars of laughter as he filled the young Hobbit's mug back up again. Even the Dwarf had looked suitably impressed and he and Bilbo had spent the rest of the long evening locked in a battle of wills and drinking games.
Yet, despite the scale and the enthusiasm of the participants, all awoke the following morning to find that they had suffered no worse injury than some bruises and scratches as a memento to an unforgettable, yet barely remembered evening. The inn keeper, a young stout Hobbit fellow named Carlo Blagrove, especially had been both utterly delighted and desperately confused when he came down to the tavern hall only to find the whole place pristine and swept and showing no mark whatsoever of the legendary brawl.
Not even a mug or plate had been so much as chipped, which he discovered when he found all the inn's dishes already done.
Well, Bilbo knew all that, and he knew that early the following morning, he was left with the biggest hangover of his life to the point that Michael, roaring with laughter, had easily hoisted his fellow Hobbit onto his back and effortlessly carried him back home all the way to Bag End.
He seemed to do that often, Bilbo noticed. Not carry Hobbits on his back (well, at this point Bilbo couldn't be entirely sure), but roar with laughter. His smiles were always large and uninhibited. There was seemingly a merriment about him, solely for the sake of being jolly, and despite being a proper young Hobbit of standing, Bilbo found that the Man's energy had put a spring in his step that hadn't been there for a long time, if ever.
Even so, after their return from Michel Delving ended with Michael dumping a still bleary-eyed Bilbo back into his bed, the young Baggins had put his large foot down. From then on, Bilbo had gently, yet firmly declined when the god-king had offered to take him exploring again in the other Farthings, deciding for himself that, once the impossible Man had crossed his doorstep, he was quite certainly no longer his responsibility and therefore no longer his problem as well.
Since the Shire hadn't gone up in flames, clearly Bilbo had made the proper choice for a young Hobbit of standing.
The tales that Michael brought back were interesting though, as gossiping is a natural state of being for many Hobbits, and Bilbo was no exception, unable to resist the tantalizing view into his fellow Hobbits' lives as Michael moved through their homesteads unseen on his seemingly endless quest to learn more about the world he had (literally) fallen into.
The story of Michael going into the Old Forest was certainly chilling however, as the god-king described encountering large beasts as well as trees that were awakening and in a foul mood. The large wolf-pelt Michael had brought back and which he had thrown at his unassuming roommate as a practical joke had caused more than a few grey hairs to spontaneously appear on the Hobbit's head, of that Bilbo was certain.
Though it did end up making quite an impressive throw rug, he had to admit.
All in all though, despite the fright the grisly trophy had given him, he was thankful nonetheless that such a creature no longer skulked around the vulnerable edges of Buckland, where some of Bilbo's family lived. Apparently though, beasts such as the wolf hadn't been the only threat to his fellow Bagginses as the trees of the Old Forest themselves had been leering towards the Hobbit enclave with spiteful feelings as well.
Bilbo wasn't entirely sure how a tree even could have spiteful feelings, or what the Hobbits had done to deserve them (maybe one too many drunken Brandybucks had used a particularly popular beech as a restroom once too often?) but in any case, he was glad Michael had dealt with the issue before it could grow into a problem.
He had no way of knowing if the Man was even telling the truth, but if he said that he had made the Shire and Buckland a little safer for the peaceful Hobbits, then Bilbo found to his own surprise that he trusted the ex-god implicitly on his word alone.
Despite only having known the former Emperor for less than a week, the constant warm aura of contentment and hope that surrounded the Man (as befitting a Lord of Light, he now understood) had done much to take away young Bilbo's reservations, despite the man squatting in one of his spare bedrooms and regularly raiding his pantry.
Well, it helped that somehow his room always remained kept and cleaned and that every time Bilbo glanced in his pantry, the room had seemingly filled itself bursting to the brim once again, despite the Hobbit not having gone out for groceries.
In many regards, having a former god as a house mate made for the perfect living partner. If only he weren't so utterly… bizarre.
So no, fully stocked pantries and blooming flowerbed or not, Bilbo much preferred not to have any more visitors of great magical powers and destinies come knocking at his door, thank you very much.
Which is, of course, exactly when one did.
At first, all that the suspicious Bilbo saw that morning was an old man with a staff. He had a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, a silver scarf over which his long white beard hung down below his waist, and immense black boots. He didn't recognize him, but he very clearly was no Hobbit, and therefore no business of Bilbo he firmly decided, chewing away on his pipe with such determination he didn't even realize it wasn't lit.
However, the old man clearly didn't agree with Bilbo's choice, slowing to a halt in front of his wooden gate as he leaned on his staff. For a long moment, Hobbit and wizard remained quiet, as said wizard kept staring towards the quiet Bilbo and said Hobbit kept staring towards his woolly toes (neatly brushed of course). Finally though, Tookish stubbornness gave way for Baggins upbringing and despite himself, Bilbo looked up at the expectant visitor.
"Good Morning!" he called out, nervously chewing away on his pipe as the old man gained a disturbingly familiar mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he looked at him from under long bushy eyebrows that stuck out further than the brim of his shady hat.
"What do you mean?" he said, "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"
"Oh… oh, no now there's two of them." Bilbo said in abject horror as his unlit pipe fell from his slack lips.
The answer took the aged man aback somewhat as he raised a bushy brow in question.
"You didn't fall from the sky, did you?" Bilbo asked somewhat desperately, the visitor's eyes now widening fully in surprise.
"Well… I certainly wasn't expecting that. Why do you ask?"
"Seems like there's been a habit of strange people falling out of clear skies these days. Falling into people's gardens no less!" Bilbo said in a huff, shooting a suspicious look towards his innocently blooming hyacinths.
"Well yes, I suppose if one were to fall out of the sky, they would be strange to begin with." The man said with a twinkle in his eyes as he studied the young Hobbit, who stammered in response.
It didn't pass Bilbo's notice however that the old man's keen eyes slid past the fumbling Hobbit as he took in his smial with a critical gaze, clearly looking for something. Between his strangeness, and the strangeness of Bilbo's unexpected new housemate, Bilbo had a pretty good idea what (or rather, who) the old man was looking for and he felt a sudden surge of protectiveness towards Michael.
It was probably for the best if the two didn't interact too much. Not at all even, preferably. Not just for Michael's sake, but rather for Bilbo's. He didn't think his heart could take it if a wizard and a former god shared a roof, much less if it was his roof being shared!
"In answer to your question, no, no I did not." The aged man continued with a wry smile, tabbing his large boots with the thin end of his large staff.
"I came here on these. From quite far away, I might add." He said in a suggestive tone, but Bilbo wasn't having any of it.
"Well, then it's probably for the best you be on your way once more. Clearly, your journey is very long, and undoubtedly you have places to be and things to stir up, and I don't want to keep you from all your… strangeness. Quite pressing business, I'm sure, so, again, good morning and-" Bilbo tried, retrieving his pipe as he swiftly tried to enter his smial.
"Indeed! The journey was long, and remains yet longer still. Some rest would do me good, I think. Surely, there is nothing strange to a proper Hobbit to invite a weary traveller to some tea and cake? Why it would be truly strange to turn away such a personage, a well-known friend even, from the hospitality of their home!" the aged man called out, halting Bilbo in his tracks.
"Damn our reputation. And our good manners." The Hobbit whispered under his breath, before looking back towards the visitor with a suspicious look.
"A well-known friend? Sorry, but I don't recall meeting you before, which I think I would if I had." He said to the clear disappointment of the old man, whose shoulders seemed to sag under a great weight.
"Ah… I had forgotten it's been that long… call me an old friend then! I visited these parts, and befriended its people, when even your elders were but small Hobbit-boys and Hobbit-girls." The man continued, the smile on his wrinkled face genuine, but marred by an unknowable melancholy.
Though Bilbo recognized it. The look of an immortal, who saw the world change around their unchanging form as time and loved ones slipped through everlasting fingers like falling sand. Michael had that look. Not often, he much preferred to be inquisitive and jolly and a right problem for Bilbo's sterling reputation. But on some nights, when Bilbo had carefully asked about the man that remained beneath the god-king, he gained exactly such a long, troubled look as the old man in front of his gaze.
The weight of many ages, the heaviness of actions taken and withheld. The burden of immense age and duty.
"Long journey, you say?" Bilbo eventually spoke up after a heavy sigh, the aged man's face lighting up.
"Indeed. You see, I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and sadly it's proven very difficult to find anyone."
"I should think so in these parts! We are plain, quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can't think what anybody sees in them." Bilbo brusquely said, feeling only slightly hypocritical, given how he had hung onto every word of the wondrous, fantastical tales Michael had told him this past week.
But that was all well and proper, wasn't it, Bilbo had decided. After all, listening to a story about an adventure is still only listening, as you do to any story or song, and that was a proper and popular pastime for Hobbits indeed. It was a far cry from actually going on an adventure and being forced to slog through murk and mud, beset at danger at all times and often going without bed or second breakfast!
"We don't want any adventures here, thank you! You might try over The Hill or across The Water. Good Morning to you!" Bilbo continued, strengthened in his resolve now, and clearly indicating that the conversation was at an end.
"What an interesting use of Good Morning you have!" said his new visitor. "Now you mean that you want to get rid of me, and that it won't be good till I move off."
"Not at all, not at all, my dear sir! Let me see, I don't think I know your name?"
"Yes, yes, my dear sir-and I do know your name, Mr. Bilbo Baggins. And you do know my name, though you don't remember that I belong to it. I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me! To think that I should have lived to be good-morninged by Belladonna Took's son, as if I was selling buttons at the door!"
'Do ALL ridiculously powerful, long-lived creatures introduce themselves that way?' Bilbo thought privately to himself, though outwardly he put on a big, abashed smile as he hooked his thumbs behind his waistband.
"Gandalf, Gandalf! Good gracious me! Not the wandering wizard that gave Old Took a pair of magic diamond studs that fastened themselves and never came undone till ordered? Not the fellow who used to tell such wonderful tales at parties, about dragons and goblins and giants and the rescue of princesses and the unexpected luck of widows' sons? Not the man that used to make such particularly excellent fireworks! I remember those! Old Took used to have them on Midsummer's Eve. Splendid! They used to go up like great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire and hang in the twilight all evening!"
The more he spoke, the more he recalled from his younger days, when his mother Belladonna had still been alive, and the sense of adventure that he held then and which had only been recently awakened by the odd traveller from impossibly far away. Though as he recalled the fireworks, and the flowery shapes they took, he couldn't help himself from shooting his own shrubberies a suspicious look.
Maybe all Magic-wielding immortals were secretly part of some large horticultural group?
"Dear me!" he went on. "Not the Gandalf who was responsible for so many quiet lads and lasses going off into the Blue for mad adventures? Anything from climbing trees to visiting elves or sailing in ships, sailing to other shores! Bless me, life used to be quite inter-I mean, you used to upset things badly in these parts once upon a time. I beg your pardon, but I had no idea you were still in business."
"Where else should I be?" said the wizard. "All the same I am pleased to find you remember something about me. You seem to remember my fireworks kindly, at any rate, and that is not without hope. Indeed, for your old grandfather Took's sake, and for the sake of poor Belladonna, I will give you what you asked for."
"I beg your pardon, I haven't asked for anything!"
"Yes, you have! Twice now. My pardon. I give it you. In fact I will go so far as to send you on this adventure. Very amusing for me, very good for you-and profitable too, very likely, if you ever get over it."
"Sorry! I don't want any adventures, thank you. Not today. Good morning! But please come to tea-any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Good bye!" With that the hobbit turned and scuttled inside his round green door, and shut it as quickly as he dared, not to seem rude.
Wizards after all are wizards, and Michael had told him (in quite enthusiastic and somewhat gruesome detail) just how inventive in their anger they could be when crossed. And Bilbo had just closed his door in one's face.
"What on earth did I ask him to tea for!" he said to himself, taking only a small comfort from the idea that Michael would protect him from the aged wizard's wrath.
Said comfort died an immediate and ignoble death when he realized that Michael was (once again) not actually here in Bag End to protect poor Bilbo, out on an adventure in the easternmost tip of Southfarthing. Still, when Bilbo's door didn't fly through his house as his chandeliers came alive with a will of their own, the young Hobbit let out a sigh as he relaxed, steadily moving towards his ever-stocked pantry.
An adventure? Him, go on an adventure? Goodness gracious, he had all the adventure he hadn't bargained for already living underneath his roof, thank you very much! No, no best to keep a steadfast (and relaxed) watch on his homestead as he made sure his unexpected roommate didn't turn the place into a magical floating castle when his back was turned.
… although the view would be quite spectacular, he supposed.
No, no, best not to think about it. This place had been built by strong Took hands (and plenty of Baggins money) and in this place young Bilbo would happily remain in peace, quiet and a contentment derived from a full belly and stuffed pipe.
Or was that the other way around?
Bah, no matter. Plenty of time to figure it out, Bilbo thought to himself as he clapped his hands together in participation of the many cakes and pies that Michael kept magicking onto his sagging shelfs. He had just placed three of such cakes on a saucer when said god-king spoke up from behind the humming little Hobbit.
"Who was that?"
Bilbo, of course, let out a shriek as he jumped a Hobbit-foot in the air, the cakes leaping from his hands and splattering across his ceiling, to the great amusement of the immortal behind him. Amusement turned into roaring laughter when Bilbo whirled around to chastise him, only for a piece of the cakes to let go of his now splattered ceiling to slam onto his head instead, dripping down in rivulets of lemony goodness down his face.
"Why do I have the feeling you already know the answer to your own question?" Bilbo muttered as he began attempting to clean up his hair and face from the sticky dessert remains with a grimace, before giving up entirely as he sent the former god a pleading look.
Michael grinned down at him in his human(ish) form, before snapping his fingers, the sound oddly loud and there was a spark of light between the tips of his marble-white digits, like the striking of a match. Immediately, the cake disappeared from Bilbo's face, hair and ceiling as if it had never even existed.
"That's because I do."
"Then why ask?" Bilbo asked in a somewhat sour tone, though genuine curiosity bled through nonetheless as he stacked a few new cakes onto a new saucer (the shards of the former one having disappeared as well).
"If I wasn't allowed to converse about things I already knew, I would be forced into unending silence indeed." Michael boasted with a smug grin as he followed the little Hobbit to his kitchen table, as always managing to avoid bumping any part of his body into any part of Bilbo's home, despite the fact that his head was located higher than Bilbo's ceiling.
"You might want to try that. Who knows, perhaps you'll like it. It would do wonders for my peace of mind at least." Bilbo groused good-naturedly as he sat down and began digging in with gusto as Michael led out a loud laugh.
"I'm sorry, young Bilbo. But I don't think you'll have much quiet in your future."
"What are you talking about? I sent away the wizard, as you undoubtedly well know. Told him right and clear: no adventure for me, thank you!" Bilbo replied.
"Well, that's actually the thing about any good adventure. They're much like opportunities, or lucky coins, or, I suppose, like a debt collector." Michael said airily, leaning over the table and plucking Bilbo right out of his seat in one hand with that impossible strength of his, taking a hold of the shocked Hobbit by the scruff of his jacket.
Despite Bilbo's (many) protestations, Michael ignored them as he walked back towards the hallway, carrying Bilbo in his iron grip, the Hobbit's large struggling feet a good deal off his freshly scrubbed floors.
"You do not seek them out:" he continued, his voice easily cutting through Bilbo's cries as he threw open the round green door, placing the Hobbit back on his large feet and pointing his head down towards the lower left corner of the green slab of wood.
Carved there was a strange symbol Bilbo had never seen before, though the odd, rough edges reminded him somewhat of the signs which several of the Dwarves they had partied with in Michel Delving had inscribed upon their packs and armour.
"They have a habit of showing up at your doorstep." The former Emperor of Mankind said to a stunned Bilbo Baggins.
The Hobbit thought that he sounded altogether far too cheerful and excited about that.
Fun Fact: Nazi's wanted to know Tolkien's race. Before releasing The Hobbit in Nazi Germany, the German publisher asked Tolkien if he was of Aryan origin. Tolkien had many Jewish friends and was considering "letting a German translation go hang." Tolkien provided two letters to his publishers and told them to send whichever one they preferred as a reply to the Nazis. The first one simply stated that he was of Aryan origin. In the second one Tolkien wrote, "If I am to understand that you are enquiring whether I am of Jewish origin, I can only reply that I regret that I appear to have no ancestors of that gifted people". The first letter was sent as the reply.
AN: At first, I was hoping to do the entire Hobbit book (trilogy? What trilogy, there's only one book?) in a single chapter. Clearly, that's not happening, though since I'm pretty much going to ignore the movies for the most part, getting the rest done in about 5 chapters should still be feasible I hope.