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There’s a terrace garden in Erebor that once served foreign dignitaries suffering from too many hours spent indoors. It’s a bit off the beaten path and few dwarves –save the old gardeners responsible for its care- knew of it before Smaug arrived.
It’s late winter, well into Solmath by the Shire Reckoning, when Thorin Oakenshield shows his consort out onto the windswept landing. Bilbo’s been wrapped up in layers of fur and heavy quilting to compensate for the cold he’s been fighting all during the wintry season, but his eyes are bright as he takes in the raised beds and cunning irrigation system installed by Thorin’s ancestors.
“It needs some work.” Thorin says with one arm around Bilbo’s shoulders. “However, my masons assure me that the terrace is structurally sound and that the garden beds can even be deepened if need be.”
“Maybe.” Bilbo says and hunkers down next to the central bed, which is currently home to a dead willow tree and a thick carpet of dried-out weeds that have choked out whatever once grew there. “…but I doubt that will be necessary. This willow had enough room to thrive until the pipes broke and the water stopped. I think we may need to put in some tall hedges as a wind-break. Even so, the seed will need to be started under a cloche.” He turns to the gate that he and Thorin entered through. “Boys, come tell me what you think of this bed as a nursery for your future siblings.”
Grim and Bobbin come peeking around the corner with Frodo bringing up the rear. It’s been about a year since they all came to Erebor to stay. Both Frodo and Grim have has their first growth –and didn’t that come as a surprise to the entire Royal Family (save Bilbo) when young Frodo went to bed early one night complaining of aches and a fever only to emerge the next morning for Family Breakfast nearly as tall as his uncle without any lingering evidence of his baby lisp.
Fili and Kili still haven’t gotten over it. Frodo was (and still is) their favorite of the little ones, mostly because he would allow them to cuddle him in their laps to their hearts’ content whereas Bobbin and Grim inevitably start to squirm five minutes in. After his first growth Frodo was too big for cuddles even if he was finally old enough to talk about more interesting subjects like sword fighting and adventures.
“Will they all do that?” Thorin asked as Dis left the breakfast table to summon a tailor to take in some of Kili’s old things for Frodo and take all his new measurements. Thorin has Grim on one knee and Bobbin on the other with his arms around both as if to ward off unwanted growth spurts.
“I don’t know.” Bilbo confessed. “It’s hard to tell when the fauntlings have mixed heritage. Frodo’s growth came on late, but he and I have Took blood in us. Old Took, my maternal grandfather, was an elven mix and lived to be the oldest Hobbit in Shire history. All his children had late growths, but normal lifespans …including my mother. Bagginses, by comparison, have normal growths that come along every ten years like clockwork. There’s tell of a human hybrid in Breeland who never had first growth at all. He aged constantly, but slowly as men and dwarves do. I think it varies by faunt. The boys will grow as they grow, Thorin.”
…and so they did. Grim had his first growth within three nights of his tenth birthday and emerged from his bed taller than Bilbo and nearly as tall as Thorin with the scruffy beginnings of a little beard and a lion’s mane of thick curly Hobbit hair that reached his shoulders.
“My, my.” Bilbo chuckled as he helped his youngest son comb and braid his hair for the first time. “You’re favoring your cousin Fili.”
“I still look like you, Da. Fili was never so curly.” Grim snorted and pulled Bobbin into his lap so his brother could investigate his new whiskers. “It’s your turn next, runt.”
…but Bobbin just shook his head looking a little sad and true to his prediction First Growth never came for him. So when he emerges from the corridor leading out onto the terrace, he’s only half as tall as either of his brothers and Frodo is holding his hand to keep the wind from bowling him over. However he’s had a small growth in the fashion of dwarves and has a bit of dark fuzz clinging to his cheeks.
“We’ll need to cart in new soil.” Grim says thoughtfully as he scoops his fingers into the dry crumbling earth underneath the weeds. It breaks apart like ash between his finger and thumb. “Or spend a great deal of time renewing what’s already here. Dale has good black earth enriched by dragon ash. Do you think they’d spare us some?”
“Surely they would. If not, I’m positive a farmer will part with some for coin.” Frodo says. “I worry about the wind too, Uncle Bilbo. A full grown vine could weather it, but a seedling will need shelter without being cast into shadow.”
“Come over here, Bobbin.” Thorin advises the dwarfliest of his children and lifts Bobbin up onto his hip. “Keep your dwarrow father company in his ignorance. Have you any idea what they’re on about?”
“S’the ground.” Bobbin says softly. “It doesn’t get nourished up here like the soil in Dale. Too high up. No bees, no wandering seeds, only what was sleeping in the earth when they brought it here and whatever the birds bring in their droppings. Sun’s good too and we’re facing easterly. Won’t get too hot in the afternoons and burn the roots.” He tugs on one of Thorin’s braids. “Da, Da. Can we put in bees? Master Beorn had bees as big as a fist.”
“Ah, well. At least I have you to explain things.” Thorin sighs, resigning himself to languishing alone in the darkness of not understanding the first thing about plants. “Bees will need flowers, little one. Even I know that. Do you also want flowers? If I recall, Beorn kept entire pastures full of clover and wildflowers to feed his bees.”
“I want orange trees and lemons.” Bobbin says with a deathly serious face. “Da showed me a picture of an orangar …orangaria…”
“Orangarium, dearest. It’s a greenhouse meant specifically for citrus trees, Thorin. Master Hamfast started one in Hobbiton and Samwise sent sketches of it in his latest letter.” Bilbo supplies. “You would need other plants as well, Bobbin. The trees would not produce for several years and it would take more than this terrace can support to feed them so they last through the winter months. However, if your brothers agree, I think we can put the other beds to use as well. Assuming the vine produces a fauntling, it would be good to bring them into a thriving garden.”
“I want a vegetable patch.” Grim declares every bit as serious as Bobbin. “And mushrooms.”
“You can start mushrooms better inside. They like the dry dark.” Frodo snorts. “Carrots though with beans poles, squash, and melon would be better. Can we start a melon vine, Uncle? Kili swears he’s never seen one and Fili’s got him convinced they grow on trees like apples!”
“Perhaps.” Bilbo says, quelling the herd with a glance. “It will depend on what seeds we find in Dale and if any cuttings can survive a trip from the Shire. In the meantime, you will all go to the library and research what sorts of plants serve an apiary best. I expect two pages from Frodo and Grim. Bobbin may write just one since it was his idea.”
Thorin hands Bobbin off to Frodo, who gives him a piggyback ride out of the garden. Thorin watches them go and turns to Bilbo.
“I have no idea how you do that. I set them all to research a metal and the whining I heard!” He puts an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and stands between him and the cutting wind.
“The key is to make it relevant to their interests and hope for the best.” Bilbo sighs. “I expect exactly two pages on melons from Frodo, three pages from Bobbin about how to transport a colony of giant bees through Mirkwood, and five from Grim about mushrooms and why too many flowers in a garden only produces encourages a vine to produce girls.”
Thorin perks up a bit at that. “Does it now?” He eyes the sleeping garden beds with new interest. Flowers held little interest for him. Perhaps he could have another terrace built for the boys’ vegetable garden. “How many flowers would that take? Should we start them now?” Perhaps Bard can be convinced to sell one of his wife’s rose bushes on the sly.
Bilbo laughs and shakes his head. “That’s an old wives’ tale propagated by young Hobbit boys who have too many sisters and are hoping for some brothers to even out the odds. Girl Hobbits are born the same way they live as women; arriving when and where ever they please as it pleases them.” He pauses. “Still, Grim and Bobbin’s vine was right next to my prize tomatoes…”
Thorin puts out a bounty that very evening on whole and thriving specimens of flowering plants native the slopes of Erebor. Kili and Frodo are the first to cash it in with a whole bush carefully excised from the common grounds around Dale of something Frodo calls ‘Amarantha’s Delight’, which seems to be popular among Men as a night-blooming flower whose fragrance contributes to Dale’s peaceful evening air.
“Technically it was in open pasturage, but I paid the farmer whose house it was closest to.” Frodo confides to Thorin after supper that evening. “Don’t tell Kili! He thinks we stole it.”
Grim takes the news that the garden will be given over to mostly flowers about as well as can be expected, but his disappointment is cushioned by the gift of an empty storeroom all his own and a small budget for the materials he needs to cultivate his own private store of mushrooms.
“Why is your kind so obsessed with mushrooms?” Thorin asks one evening as he watches his son pore through yet another farmer’s almanac, looking for reference material.
“Well, they’re a delicacy among Hobbits.” Bilbo says. “A bit like how you dwarves feel about truffles –only they’re easier to find and you don’t need a dog to sniff them out. They don’t make it to market often though. Whoever grows them in the Shire tends to keep their crops for private use. Of course, I wouldn’t recommend that you or Bobbin try eating anything he grows. Grim has a Hobbit’s stomach and what he can eat might be harmful to you.”
“Hrmph. Indeed.” Thorin shifts uncomfortably in his seat and thinks back to the one time he thought to try some of Bilbo’s devilish homebrew. He’d gotten dead drunk off a mere half-pint and was stuck in bed for a day and a half afterwards with feverish sweats and hallucinations. Kili, who’d drunk more than Thorin had, was forced to purge his stomach. It hadn’t been a good experience and Thorin ordered a powerful lock for Bilbo’s half of the cellar after to deter any curious dwarflings.
It takes nearly seven nights of solid work to clear the center bed and dig out the old, disused soil. Thorin isn’t sure how well he’s taking to the work, but Bilbo refuses to allow anyone to help. Not even blood relatives.
“It’s easier with two of us.” Bilbo says as he shows Thorin how to cut into the imported soil from Dale with a bronze spade that Balin brought back with him from the Shire after escorting Samwise home to his family. Together they correct the soil with substances Thorin never even knew existed (and almost wishes he still didn’t) and when it is all done Bilbo cuts a lock of his hair with a silver sickle blade that he then holds out to Thorin. “Just this much and take it from somewhere close to the skin where it’s been warmed by your body.”
Bilbo makes Thorin hold the ends tight as he braids the strands together in a complex braided knot that makes Dori’s best feast-day pattern look like a child’s first attempt.
“I’m seeing why you never complained out helping me with my braids.” Thorin chuckles as he watches Bilbo’s deft fingers weave the seed that would become their next child. “A barrel plait would be easy after learning this.”
“Something like that.” Bilbo agrees with a soft smile as he tucks the ends in together. The seed is about the same size as the pad of Thorin’s thumb and comprised of a herringbone pattern of gold and ebony. Bilbo pricks his thumb with the little sickle and uses his blood to wet the seed. “Now you.” He says, offering the blade handle-first to Thorin.
Watching the seed vanish beneath the dark loamy soil is unexpectedly difficult. The terrace suddenly seems exposed under the open sky with no guards except a few ravens to keep off other foraging birds. Bilbo gently covers the black earth with a thick layer of peat moss before sitting back on his heels with a sigh. “Now comes the hard part.” He sighs. “Waiting.”
…and what waiting it is.
Weeks pass before Bilbo even disturbs the mulch covering the seedbed and then only for a brief check. “Nothing yet.” He says. “We’ll check again in another week.”
More flowers appear in the gardens as the week passes and then another. There has been no announcements made, but gossip is a precious commodity in every dwarrow community and no secret stays one for long. The first charm to appear at the garden gates is a plain rectangle of copper beaten thin and inscribed all over with ancient dwarven runes for safe childbirth, security in the home, and the traditional plea for a girlchild.
Thorin sees the boy who brings it and stands in the shadows as the child carefully nails it up in an out of the way corner. The child looks around furtively before he scuttles down the hall. Thorin takes note of the charm and runs his fingers over the mottled surface with a soft secret smile.
There are three more charms the next evening with blessings of every stripe. Thorin doesn’t see who left them, but one of them is made of pure gold.
It’s good to know they have the blessing of his people.
Their seed sprouts in the wake of one of the worst storms Thorin has ever had the misfortune of weathering. It’s just a tiny green smudge against a field of dark soil, but more precious than all the gold in his vaults.
“Well, now we know that the seed can take in foreign soil.” Bilbo lists into Thorin’s side. “I was worried.”
“Your kind thrived in Gladden Fields long before they ever settled the Shire. It’s not so far from here.” Thorin points out as he puts an arm around his consort’s shoulders. He can’t quite tear his eyes away from the tiny green point poking up out of the seedbed.
“I know that up here.” Bilbo replies, tapping his head. “Knowing it down here?” He taps his heart. “I’m a worrier.”
Each of the boys is accepting the situation in his own way. Grim complains loudly about girls and hides with his mushrooms when his mood is sour. Frodo seems eager for the idea of a girl cousin and keeps a positive attitude. It’s harder to tell with Bobbin. He’s quiet for the most part, but contributes his own offering of foxgloves that he started from seed to the field of flowers surrounding the little vine. On the rare occasions when the boys are allowed to visit, Bobbin hunkers down by the seed bed and stares at the finger-sized coil of vine until it’s time to go.
Weeks pass and the vine grows ever thicker. It grows broad shiny green leaves that Bilbo wipes down every day with soft damp cloths, but it doesn’t seem real until the day when Bilbo takes Thorin by the hand and lays his palm flat against the loose soil underneath the vine’s shelter. At first he doesn’t understand …and then the earth rises under his palm.
Bilbo’s finger clench around his wrist when Thorin reflexively goes to brush the soil away. “Not yet.” He says. “Soon though. We’ll need to start keeping watch at night. At least one of us has to be here as soon as the sun sets.”
…and that marks the beginning of a solid fortnight of miserable cold nights sleeping in turns in the chill night air. Thorin has fire pits, carpets, and a chaise hauled out but even that only provides so much comfort when you can only sleep a few hours at a time.
Still, it’s worth it when Thorin is the one on watch when the vine finally starts to shake.
“Bilbo.” He nudges the Hobbit sleeping tucked under his arm once and then again, only harder. “Bilbo.”
“… so help me, Oakenshield, if this is the wind shaking the plants again I will put you over my knee and you won’t like it.” Bilbo groans and sits up blinking the sleep from his eyes. He focuses blearily on the object of their nightwatch and goes still. “It’s happening.”
“Yes. I noticed.” Thorin sighs as they struggle free of their blankets. He throws another log onto the fire and starts lighting torches. His hands feel empty and restless. “Do we… should I call someone to boil water?”
“To do what with?” Bilbo cocks an eyebrow at him, but seems to reconsider. “Maybe someone should start the boiler in the bathing room. We… someone is going to need a bath. Only hurry. It’ll be soon.”
There is a runner sleeping on a pallet out in the corridor out of Bilbo’s sight and Thorin shakes the boy awake with an apology. “It’s happening. Send word to my valet to draw a bath and open the nursery. We’ll need food from the kitchens and swaddling clothes. Hurry, child.”
“Aye, majesty!” The dwarfling pops to his feet with a blinding smile. “Mahal’s blessing on the occasion!” He chirps as he races off.
“Thorin!”
The ground is buckling upwards even as Thorin races back into the garden and skids to a halt by Bilbo’s side where he’s kneeling in the dirt. The soil settles and then heaves again before the surface finally cracks over the moon-pale shoulder of their new daughter.
She sits up in the loose dirt and squints at the garden with Thorin’s pale blue eyes and the wind ruffles her soft cap of tousled sable curls so that they stand on end like tiny question marks. It takes a moment for her to register the presence of her parents.
“We’re here, sweetling.” Thorin clasps Bilbo’s hand tight. “It’s safe.”
Their little girl huffs softly and scuttles out from under her vine like a little mouse, straight into the place where Thorin and Bilbo’s bodies touch. There are no blankets at hand so Thorin shucks his coat and wraps it around her tiny, impossibly frail body. Was Grim or Bobbin so thin at birth? Was Bilbo? No. Thorin’s never met a Halfling who was anything less than rotund. This can’t possibly be right!
…did they do something wrong?
“Look at you!” Bilbo coos. “You’re gorgeous. Thorin, she’s perfect!” He turns a blinding smile on Thorin that knocks all the words right out of him. “Oh, bless me, we’ve got to get her inside before she takes a chill. Hurry, get her out of the wind. I’ll put out the torches and douse the fire. Go!”
Once he’s moving, Thorin can’t quite make himself stop. There are dwarves in the hallway, possibly his family, he can’t focus on anything that isn’t his daughter long enough to pay attention. She’s got her tiny fingers tangled in his beard and worms deeper into his arms every time there’s a new sight, a new noise, or a new face. Bilbo catches up to them at some point and starts clearing the rubberneckers out of his way. Dis joins him at some point. Thorin has no idea when, but the noise finally fades away as they reach the royal quarters.
“Peace now, love.” Bilbo catches him by the back of the neck. “We’re safe. We’re alone. Let me have our girl while you strip off.”
Thorin blinks slowly. “…strip?” He echoes stupidly.
“That’s hardly a sitz bath your valet drew.” Bilbo says, indicating the deep sunken marble tub in the center of the chamber full of fragrant steaming water… water that is easily deep enough to go over a tiny child’s head. Mahal have mercy. Thorin has only disrobed faster once before in his life and ironically Bilbo was laughing at him that time at well, but it’s worth it when his little husband hands him their equally tiny daughter and he’s able to cradle her close to his chest as she makes faces at the water.
“Yes, sweetling.” He croons. “I know it’s strange. Here, we’ll put a toe in first. See? It’s pleasant.”
She looks at him like he’s a madman, but only whines a little as he slowly lowers them both into the bath. The whining cuts off entirely when Bilbo is able to join them.
Bilbo lets Thorin do the holding as he gently wipes down their daughter’s limbs with a soft sponge and names her body parts while he does so.
“These are your arms.” He croons. “They lead to your hands. See these? These are your fingers!” Bilbo play-nibbles on her fingertips and presses a kiss to her newly clean palm to the tune of her musical laughter. “Here are your legs. They lead to yours knees and your ankles and your feet. These things here? They are your toes. All these parts belong to you, my love, and none other.”
They stay in the water until their little girl frowns at her pruning fingers and then holds them up before Thorin’s nose in a mute demand for an explanation. He kisses her fingers and says, “That happens when one takes too long of a bath. Let us get out and find you a nightgown.”
Bilbo is already climbing out and roughly drying himself. He wraps the towel around his hips and accepts their shared burden from Thorin so that he too can leave the water.
Dis has produced a warm figured cotton nightgown from somewhere (surely not storage, not when Thorin recognizes the fabric from their last shipment of textiles from Lake Town) with thick flounces of snowy white lace and blue ribbons at the throat. It fits their daughter perfectly and she burrows down into its soft folds until one of her fathers is dressed and ready to hold her once more. Bilbo keeps up a steady stream of babble, exposing her to as many words as he can and it seems to be having an effect.
There’s a light in the child’s eyes that grows brighter and brighter the more she sees, the more she hears, and with every new experience she comes a little further out of her shell. Thorin’s words are stuck in his throat for the most part so instead he strives to reassure her through touch and whatever unspoken love he can offer.
She is sitting in his lap while Bilbo feeds her bites of honeyed porridge from a platinum spoon that Thorin had secretly commissioned for her first meal, when suddenly she loses interest in the meal and says “Belladonna!” in the world’s most imperious little voice.
“Eru help us.” Bilbo laughs. “I was afraid she’d say that!” He wipes something that looks suspiciously like a tear from his eye and catches her hand for another palm kiss. “Hello, Belladonna. What a fine name. Your nan would be so pleased.”
“Bella…” Thorin flounders. “That’s her name? Did she just name herself?”
“Well of course she did, Thorin.” Bilbo chuffs, barely taking his eyes off of little Bella who is preening under the attention. “Imagine being born not knowing your name!”
“I was.” Thorin shakes his head at the appalled look on his husband’s face. “Dis will be so disappointed. She was hoping for Avayya or Tis after our mother.”
“Sadly, I think my side of the family won again.” Bilbo runs a hand over Bella’s damp curls. “My mother was named Belladonna. The Shire still talks about her: Old Took’s remarkable ninth daughter, eldest of his three girls. She travelled all the way to Rivendell and no one dared gossip about her after for fear of catching the sharp side of her tongue. She did as she pleased and married my father when everyone said she wouldn’t wed at all. She was…” His voice goes suspiciously damp. “She was a beautiful voice singing in the other room and gentle hands on your collar. She grew lilacs, rosemary, and jasmine in her garden. I could smell home from miles away when the wind was right. It always guided me back when I went rambling in the woods. Hers is no bad legacy, Thorin.”
“It’s a fine name, love.” Thorin assures him and dandles Bella on his knee, earning himself a scathing look for his troubles. Perhaps Bilbo looks at their daughter and sees his mother, but Thorin thinks he may be looking at the second coming of Dis. Aüle preserve them all. “I’ll have to muster an army to fend her suitors off when the day comes.” He sighs.
“If they even catch her attention first.” Bilbo chuckles and offers her another spoonful of sweetened grain, which she deigns to accept. “Perhaps it’s safe to let the boys in. They’ve been pretending that they aren’t waiting on the other side of the door for fifteen minutes now.”
“Da!” There’s an aggrieved squawk from outside the door. It sounds like Grim.
“Come inside, children.” Thorin calls out. “Meet your sister.”
Bobbin, Frodo, and Grim come tumbling inside. If Grim is annoyed at the advent of a sister over a brother, he’s yet to let it show and is already eagerly demanding his turn to hold her. Dis follows in their wake at a more sedate pace with Fili and Kili following after her.
“Oh, well done, brother.” Dis breathes, taking in the sight of her niece all bedecked in lace and dark curls. She rests a hand on each of her sons’ shoulders as they both grin without restraint.
“My family,” Thorin intones, feeling the weight of his duty as both King and head of their household. “I present to you my daughter, Belladonna the first of the house of Baggins and the line of Durin. Greet her and welcome her to our hearth.” He coaxes Bella into lifting her face for the traditional greetings from her extended family.
Fili is first, as befits Thorin’s current heir. “Welcome, little one.” He brushes a kiss over her forehead and another over her chin for wisdom and eloquence. Kili kisses both her palms for luck, but Dis is the one who kisses both her cheeks so that she will be loved all her life without reservation.
It’s a small ceremony and an informal one, but Thorin will arrange for something more elaborate later on, something to match her brothers’ formal christening before the assembled dwarves of Thorin’s clan.
He feels someone small pressing against his side and… it’s Bobbin, who is eyeing his youngest sibling with his most cautious face. He catches Thorin looking and breaks into an expected smile.
“She’s a girl.” He breathes and Thorin has to share in the smile. Because he feels the same way. This is a blessing on his family and a sign from Mahal that his line still has their god’s favor.
Bilbo is watching them both –all of them, actually, Thorin realizes. His gaze is soft and distant somehow, but comes back to them when Bobbin tugs sharply on his sleeve. He kisses Bobbin, hands him over to Kili, and then moves closer to Thorin’s side for a lingering kiss.
“Is this everything you wanted, O King Under the Mountain?” He murmurs into Thorin’s ear.
“That and more.” Thorin agrees and pulls Bilbo into his lap so that Bella can climb on both of them like she’s conquering her own little mountain. “And you? Is this what you wanted?”
“Aye, my king.” Bilbo sighs, leaning against his shoulder. “This is all I ever wanted.”
-Fin