There, Not Back Again by eris_of_imladris

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Chapter 3

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Primula was twenty-one when a rather respectable hobbit from a rather respectable family suddenly threw all caution to the wind and left his comfortable hobbit-hole for a great adventure.

Everyone spoke of it in town, no one quite sure what to make of it. The Bagginses were well-respected, of course – they didn’t have a great hall like Brandy Hall, but Bag End was nothing to scoff at, and there were many who found themselves in open-mouthed shock at the audacity of Bilbo Baggins.

For Primula, it started as awe. Leaving was something that had never occurred to her, at least not in practicality – her oldest sister Amaranth was married, Asphodel was dating a respectable Burrows boy who never dreamed of leaving home, and she was surely not far behind, twenty-one and in what her mother said was the prime of her looks. But it took forever to get her hair into neat curls that would fall over her shoulders just right, and for what? She wondered it often as she collected the eggs, musing aloud to the chickens of the adventures she dreamed Bilbo was having.

Why would she want to impress some hobbit lad here when she could dream of him, going off with a sword and a shield like all the warriors in her tales and doing things hobbits only dreamed of? The hero of her family was the Old Took, after all, and all he did was get old, something that seemed to happen to Primula all the time whether she liked it or not. Somehow she had grown too old for her childish games, and instead of humoring her dreams as the whims of a child, there were plenty who said that her mother’s Tookishness had come out in her. Not in the way of Asphodel’s dark hair and buxom figure, but of her family’s strange penchant for otherness.

Well, Primula couldn’t help her hair, but the figure was her own fault, she supposed. Her parents were always so confused when she missed a meal or even two thanks to her wanderings, and even if she returned with a basket full of eggs and the chickens happy in their coop, she still faced the looks. They never seemed to cease, even when she did her best to do what everyone expected of her. Even if she always seemed to get [i]something[/i] wrong. One time in a rage she told her mother that she might be strange, but not as strange as Bilbo Baggins who had left and not come back.

She had apologized to the Bilbo of her dreams the next morning, feeling guilty as the chickens pecked at their food around her, oblivious.

But then the next day, the coop was not the quiet haven she had come to expect. People’s words flew ahead of them as they traveled the roads, not speaking the local gossip that bored her so, but instead, there was one thing everyone needed to say.

He was back.

She didn’t believe it at first. No one left, and if they did, they certainly didn’t come back. What sort of life would he be able to have here, among hobbits who would expect him to live by their rules rather than the thrilling rules of the road she spent the past – how was it a year already? – imagining? It was inconceivable that he was coming back because he wanted to be normal, because normal hobbits never left in the first place. She just needed to listen to what they said, find out exactly what it meant.

Everyone was so torn, it seemed, between disgust and admiration (mostly for the gold he seemingly brought back in such amounts that no one had ever seen before). Apparently he had even interrupted the auction at Bag End that some of her family members were attending, buying back everything that was his and still having enough to be the wealthiest hobbit in living memory.

“You know, he would actually be a good catch for you now,” Asphodel said when she returned empty-handed from the auction, her mouth running as fast as the yolks of her eggs across her plate as she described everything about his dramatic return, and something small inside of Primula began to hope.

She was a little too young to be married, true, and Bilbo was a good deal older than her, but she might be able to convince him that she was the one not because of her father’s wealth, but because she would live on tales of his adventures, breathing them in every day until they were the very air she needed to survive. And she would learn to be a good wife for him, cooking just like her mother did, always being there and being agreeable to anything he could possibly want….

The idea ran wild through her mind even though it was Asphodel who was courting now, or rather, being courted by a certain Rufus Burrows who was quite the proper gentleman, even if he sometimes had a little trouble with planning things in advance. His arrival would set the household into a tizzy, and Primula would have plenty of time to escape to the coop. She would run fast at first, of course, but then she would take it slow, imagining each footfall was a step down the aisle with [i]him[/i] at the end.

When she returned from one of these expeditions on a sunny day in late spring, basket laden with fresh eggs, she was faced by a frantic Mirabella and furious Asphodel, both telling her that didn’t she know they were having the estimable Mr. Baggins over for supper as his travels brought him this way?

Primula froze, nearly dropping the basket but managing to clutch onto it tightly with both hands. Asphodel noticed, of course, wiping her hands on her apron and walking back into the house as Primula scurried behind, trying to explain. It was admiration, she tried to say, and she wanted to hear about his adventures.

“It’s okay to like him, but don’t lie, Primula,” Asphodel said. “Who would want to hear about all that time with those strange dwarves, off in lands where they haven’t even heard of second breakfast?”

[i]Well maybe if they haven’t heard of it, they wouldn’t mind if I was late for it,[/i] Primula thought before hurrying back to her room, trying to find the most beautiful dress she made and frantically tugging her fingers through her curls. If the other girls were like that, not interested in him for his adventures, then perhaps she really did have a chance to catch his eye.

Bilbo Baggins arrived shortly before supper, looking entirely like an ordinary hobbit with brown hair on his head and feet. Somehow Primula hadn’t expected him to look like a normal hobbit, although she did notice with pleasure that he did not have a large belly like her father or even like some of her brothers. Even Dinodas was starting to look like her father in size and he was only four years older than Primula herself.

“It’s so lovely to meet you,” chirped Asphodel, who was clearly not showing the feelings she had talked about before in the kitchens about why they were allowing strange hobbits into their home. “And this is my sister Primula,” she said next, bringing him over and Primula could only hope he didn’t notice the wiggling in her fingers and toes.

“Good afternoon,” she said in what she hoped was a prim and proper way, but she supposed there was no changing the smile on her face into a more ladylike one.

“I’ll go check on supper,” she said, leaving Primula with a pat on her shoulder. She smiled even wider, wondering about her sister’s sudden kindness until it occurred to her that maybe Asphodel was pushing Bilbo at her to draw his attention away from herself.

Even so, she would take any opportunity she got, and rather than hanging on his arm and simpering at him like she was sure Asphodel would have done if she was interested, Primula asked him about the dwarves.

He looked a little taken aback, but when he answered there was a smile on his face, and she wondered if she had made a good impression after all.

He talked to her most during dinner, a pleasant surprise from the chaos that generally reigned at Broadbelt’s table. Primula asked him what felt like a thousand questions, loving the looks on her family’s faces when they didn’t seem to know whether to be impressed or aghast at how he answered every single one.

“I will ask him for you,” said her father as he caught her on the way to the door, where she was to escort Bilbo out after his meal. He still had some old friend to meet, apparently, someone traveling near enough to Buckland to justify leaving Bag End. She left him with a smile, hoping he would kiss her, but instead he behaved like quite the gentlehobbit, bowing pleasantly over her hand before setting off on the road and leaving her with quite a good deal more hope than she had felt in such a very long time.

It was a shock, then, when her father called her into his study, getting her hopes up before dashing them entirely. Bilbo Baggins was apparently not interested in a courtship with her after all.

She stomped off to the chickens that day in a rage, but she was crying before she even reached the coop. She sank to her knees in the straw, wondering if it had been her ugliness or if she had asked too many questions or what she could have possibly done wrong to drive him away. Even though she was quite bored picking the good eggs that day, she decided then and there that she would imagine no more adventures. This life would have to be enough.

She tried to force it to be enough until she received a strange letter postmarked from Bag End. She nearly tore it up without even opening it, but her pride had to move aside in the face of her curiosity. What could Bilbo Baggins still have to say to her?

The letter surprised her in both its tone and intention. It was an apology, followed by something about if he had met her first… well, he spoke candidly enough (albeit hoping she would share the letter with no one) that there was someone else, someone he found on his journey, and even though they could not be together for whatever reason (Primula only got more curious, but how was she supposed to ask such a thing?), he was still working on his feelings for that great jewel of his life. It was a romantic notion, but one that must have been rather sad for him. Her anger began to dissipate as she read his words, kind and apologetic, and when he said she could have been the one for him, if only he was normal enough to marry who his family thought he should.

At the bottom there was an invitation for a reply, and by the time she returned from the coop that day, Primula already knew what to say when she reached for her quill. There was no harm in making a new friend, after all.

 

“Did he tell you more of his adventures?” the elf asked when Primula handed him what was left of the egg. She wished she had more; she could probably even whip up something halfway decent on the fire the elf had built.

“He certainly did,” Primula said. “It’s so fascinating to hear all about the dwarves and the elves and the wizard, although even he must seem commonplace to you.” She blushed slightly.

“More common where I am from,” the elf said wistfully, “but it has been many centuries since I last set eyes upon a wizard, as you called him, or even my own people.”

“You live alone? Are you on an adventure?” Primula asked, then blurted out a quick apology once she saw the look on his face.

“Not exactly,” he said, “but I do roam the wilds, and I have traveled more than most on this earth.”

From the way the elf had arranged himself next to the fire, his limbs jackknifed to save warmth, and the despondent look on his face, Primula knew she had to resist asking many questions at all. “I hope it’s not too hard being alone out here,” she eventually mused.

“I am used to it, and after all, it is not like I could go back.”

“Why?” This, she had to ask. Had he committed some kind of crime? If she was sharing a fire with a criminal, she might need to get out of there very quickly. Then again, he seemed so quiet and calm… plus, with his hands, what sort of crimes could he even do?

“I suppose it is because I am a special case,” said the elf after some thought, but he didn’t seem eager to say anything more at all. His might not be a fun adventure at all. Maybe it was more like a burden, like how she felt before she finally started to get her life together in the manner of most hobbits.

“Still, though, it’s nice to meet you…” said Primula, who began to feel guilty that she had prompted this. It occurred to her when she spoke that she didn’t even know the elf’s name. “What’s your name?”

The elf muttered to himself in a language Primula didn’t understand before eventually spitting out a name: “Maglor.”

“Well I’ve never heard of you,” Primula said, but then realized how that might make him feel. She was completely unprepared for a little smile to work its way across his face.

“And I have never heard of you, Primula Brandybuck, but I am very impressed by the kindness of hobbits.”

“Primula Brandybuck Baggins, thank you very much,” Primula said with a smile.

“Baggins? So you married him in the end?”

“Not quite,” Primula said as she began to sift through the remnants of the lunchbox again, smiling wistfully when her fingers came away wet with butter.