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Mad Baggins, they’d heard whispered in Hobbiton, along the Shire road, in Bree.
Entirely mad, the Hobbits had said.
The Company had scoffed at the whispers; Mistress Baggins, for all her occasional fussiness, was as sane as any of them.
Then Bofur had noticed her laughing at nothing. She’d had an explanation when he asked, though not one he could enjoy similarly.
Then Glóin had been interrupted midway through a story of Gimli’s training by Mistress Baggins abruptly running off out of sight, only returning hours later, herbs for Óin dangling limply from her hands and out of her pockets.
Another unsolicited laugh had startled the ponies and nearly gotten Fíli and Kíli drowned.
In Rivendell, she’d seemed to be entirely absent, sometimes found in various gardens holding full conversations with thin air.
The Company had grumbled, then the Company had whispered, then the Company had regretted giving her the Contract at all.
But, as Gandalf had pointed out, she’d found the herbs that Óin needed most, her tales and fluent nonsense had kept the trolls entirely distracted from the Company until Gandalf returned, and she was never late for meals, nor unwilling to speak with the Company when they did find her.
But her smiles had weakened, and they’d known that she’d heard them whispering.
Mad Baggins, they never called her outright, but thought often.
Entirely mad, they didn’t want to admit, but dreaded the truth of it.
Leaving Rivendell, the distance between them and her had grown, despite Bofur, Fíli, and Kíli’s best efforts, and despite Bifur’s irate defense of her whenever he heard them whisper. It was Bifur that she went to when her smiles were especially strained. It was Bifur that pulled her attention away from nothing and back to the path.
But it was Bifur’s name she sobbed over to thin air, returning to the campsite with swollen eyes and a silence that lasted several days.
She was still silent when the mountain split, and when Thorin dove to catch her.
It was Kíli—eyes sharper and younger than anyone else’s—who half-thought for a moment that he’d seen two more Hobbits on the cliff’s edge in flashes of lightning.
It was Nori—eyes far older but nearly as sharp—who glanced back through the Goblins for a split second to see one Hobbit hiding and two more standing full in the light.
It was Thorin—eyes unfocused and barely open—who saw for a moment three Hobbits standing between him and Azog, the firelight not touching the strangers as it ought.
They spoke of it in whispers, not daring to ask her when they owed her so much. In the daylight, they ignored her oddities, forgave her lapses in attention. But in the darkness, when they were sure that she slept, they whispered. Somehow, she always seemed more troubled the mornings after they discussed it. They never knew why.
But in Mirkwood, they all saw the flickers. Passing between trees and in and out of shadows, two strange Hobbits, a man and a woman, both older than Mistress Baggins—call me Bilba—by some years. But that was easily explained— they were starving, the forest was cursed, and their minds had simply imagined what Bilba might look like as a man, what she might look like in a few decades.
In the dungeons, they worried. None spoke aloud, but all knew they shared the same thought— how could they rely on a madwoman to save them? It was no more fair to her than it was boded well for any escape.
But she brought them news of their kin, and she grew more exhausted and thin by the day, and somehow the light in her eyes never faded.
After their escape, it was Bilba who drew them from the water, who pushed them to close the distance to Lake-town, to safety. It was Bilba who was left half-dead after her more difficult journey. It was Bilba who they feared may not recover— before Durin’s Day or at all.
But she did, and they continued, and now they locked away the words. How could they call her such when they owed her everything, and when she was the only hope remaining to them?
And then the gold overpowered everything, for most. For Fíli, for Kíli, for Bombur, and for Bifur, it was a passing preoccupation, no more.
For the rest, it was the only thing in the world with any value.
And then the Men, and then the Elves, and then they were left standing on the battlements in the freezing cold, and watching as Thorin wrapped an armored hand around Bilba’s throat.
And then the king was thrown back, and a Hobbit woman with silver-streaked curls bared her teeth at Thorin, and a Hobbit man, older and frailer still than the woman, cradled Bilba to his chest as he lowered them both to the ground.
And Bilba clutched at him, still gasping for air even as she sobbed.
And the woman roared, the stone itself shaking with her terrible voice, You will not touch my daughter.
And the Company understood.
And then the two disappeared again, and Bilba was still sobbing on the frozen stone.
But the Company could see.
They saw how she moved as though reaching for a parent beside her.
They saw how her eyes lingered on faces not visible to any but her.
They saw how much they had hurt their Burglar.
And Thorin accepted Bard’s terms.
And the Orcs came.
And when Bilba flew through the battle that came, swords and arrows and bats seeming to miss her by inches, the Company understood, and accepted the knowledge she shouted to them.
The Orcs are using the flags, she said.
The Men need reinforcements, she said.
Thorin needs you, she said.
And they came, and Azog was defeated, and their Burglar took the blow meant for Kíli.
Time blurred as they rushed her to the Elves, as Thorin and Bifur and, most of all, Fíli and Kíli begged for her life. Time blurred and days passed, and the Elves announced that she would succumb to her wounds.
And the Company threw out the Elves, and the Company tried to wake her themselves.
And the Company saw as a man and a woman appeared, their hands clasped together over Bilba’s head, and smiled sadly at them all.
Tell her we love her, the woman said.
Tell her goodbye, the man said.
And a light came, and the Elves rushed in, and they found Bilba healed enough to go on healing.
And time passed, and Bilba woke, and Bilba fought, shouting for her mother and father, and Bilba sobbed when she understood.
And when spring came, Bilba left for the Shire, and the Company wept.
But time passed, and Erebor needed them, and Bofur and Bombur and, most of all, Bifur would not allow them to waste what she had given them. Time passed and their families returned in caravans, one by another. Time passed and the mountain was made livable, though not yet restored to its proper state.
Time passed, and the last caravan before winter brought a single Hobbit, her wagon filled with books and potted plants and a single armchair, her eyes sparkling.
Too many ghosts in Bag-End, she laughed, and the Company laughed with her.