Chapter Text
Lotho naturally dreamed of being asked to play on such a momentous occasion as Bilbo’s one hundred and eleventh birthday, but considering the contentious relationship between his mother and Mr Baggins, he dared not to hope. Yet this assumption was challenged one afternoon, as Lotho sat practising a particularly complicated melody again and again, until he could no longer tell whether he was making any improvement or simply exacerbating his weaknesses. A deep baritone could be heard belting all the way up the path to the Sackville-Baggins residence, and a knock soon sounded at the door.
It was Odovacar, now the unofficial postman of Hardbottle. With age had come perspective for the eldest of Lotho’s cousins, and the acrimony of youth replaced with passing — albeit distant — pleasantries, though he and Lotho still did not exchange anything more than the requisite greetings. But what occasion prompted him to sing with such gaiety? He was typically quite businesslike in his deliveries. For once, Lotho truly listened; it was not often he was afforded the opportunity to enjoy music other than his own.
But no sooner had Odovacar come than he turned to leave, singing all the while. Some whim struck Lotho — perhaps without even thinking; his fingers moved of their own volition, part of his spirit reached out. He plucked an accompaniment to Odovacar’s melody.
All at once, the singing stopped.
Then came a short phrase. Lotho repeated it. A longer melody followed. This, too, Lotho repeated. Then Odovacar sang a familiar tune, one of the many folk songs Lotho had learned by ear when he was very young. He joined in once more.
The signing grew louder, and there was a thrashing of bushes outside before Odovacar’s head popped through the open drawing room window. He was exceptionally short, even for a hobbit of age, though that did not prevent him from leaning casually upon the sill. As the lively jig came to an end, he peered at Lotho with a peculiar expression.
‘I thought our folk tunes to be beneath you,’ he remarked. His voice was rich and sonorous, as though he were singing even as he spoke; and of all the hobbits in Hardbottle, he was undeniably the most eloquent. Vigo may have ascended to head of the Boffin family following his father’s death, but Odovacar radiated poise and authority in a way his cousin did not.
Lotho glanced at his unexpected visitor, then swiftly looked away, training his eyes instead on the crown of his harp.
‘My mother scolds me when I play folk songs,’ he mumbled. Even in that very moment, there could be heard the banging of Lobelia’s cane somewhere within the smial, followed by indiscernible yelling. Odovacar’s eyebrows shot upwards.
‘I see,’ he said, straightening. ‘Well, perhaps she will reconsider her decision — though I believe it’s entirely against her nature.’
As he strode off, Lotho leapt up from his stool. ‘Reconsider?’ he called after his cousin. ‘What decision?’
But Odovacar merely flashed a dashing smile and disappeared behind a hedge, picking up his song where he had left off. His baritone was audible clear to the next house down the way. Lotho returned to his practice, confusion clouding his mind and interrupting his focus.
He did not have long to wait before discovering the meaning behind Odovacar’s cryptic remarks. Come evening, his mother and father were already seated before the supper table (at opposite ends, as always) by the time Lotho washed up and crept into the dining room. His grandmother had already taken her leave, which was a tremendous relief — for otherwise, the wildfire flaming between Otho and Lobelia would have ignited the entire settlement of Hardbottle, stone as it was.
‘I think we ought to let him go,’ Otho was saying, the greying hair at his temples seeming to visibly increase even as he spoke. He entirely ignored Lotho, who settled into a chair perfectly halfway between his parents and unobtrusively drew the basket of bread towards himself. Lobelia pulled it away and passed him a plate of boiled cabbage instead.
‘Let him go?’ she squawked. ‘To play jester to that pompous, small-handed rakefire cousin of mine? I think not!’
‘Is this not what you wanted for our son?’ said Otho. ‘To elevate our family within the upper echelons of society, to carve out a sphere of influence which you might wield to your own ends? It has certainly driven new investors to the Sackville-Baggins plantation business well enough.’
‘Our son has played for the Master of Buckland, and the Mayor of Michel Delving — and for the very Thain himself! What need has he to play for a mere birthday party of some distant relation?’
Otho sighed. ‘It is far more significant than that, as you are fully aware, my dear. Regardless of our feelings concerning the old shabbaroon, Bilbo’s birthday is rumoured to be an elite event — an exclusive one — and if anything, Lotho’s deigning to perform could endear your cousin to our plight. Perhaps we might convince him to finally relinquish Bag End to us, rather than that prat of an orphan he’s grown fond of.’
‘I should very much like to snub the cad, instead,’ Lobelia huffed, and the way in which she stabbed her potatoes indicated the conversation was very much concluded.
She continued to huff for the next several weeks. The invitation’s glimmering gold lettering was mildly appeasing, and the fact that she had been first of all the Shire to receive one even more so (though it had been with no other intention on Bilbo’s part than to offer Lotho sufficient time to prepare), but the inferno of Lobelia’s scorn was not so easily quenched.
It was ultimately rumours — conveyed by ‘Our Hugo’ (who now worked in the Hobbiton clerk’s office) to Vigo (who had long since established his own business in Overhill) and subsequently back to Hardbottle — of paperwork regarding Bag End having been drawn up that spurred Lobelia into action. Unwilling to capitulate until the very end, she sought out Camellia at once, and preparations for Bilbo’s birthday party commenced in earnest. New compositions were crafted and practised to perfection, finest suits were refitted to the most trim of fashions, and especial care was paid to the harp’s final tuning — for Bilbo had hired labourers to transport Lotho’s own instrument, and not its paltry mobile counterpart.
Never had Lotho more acutely experienced the strain of anticipation; not since his earliest days had he spent so many long hours before the unamenable strings, felt the burden of others’ expectations weigh so heavily upon his slumped shoulders. He rarely emerged from the drawing room in the remaining days before the party, and spent the entire journey to Hobbiton in silence.
When the fateful afternoon at long last arrived, Lotho shuffled miserably along the main road of Hobbiton, guarded by his three domineering family members and maintaining a respectable distance behind those guests Lobelia didn’t consider worthy of association. All of a sudden, the first glimpse of the party field came into view around a corner, unleashing a wave of nausea within him.
But this was swiftly replaced by awe: for even the previous year’s Free Fair — particularly splendid for having marked a new century in the Shire Reckoning — paled in comparison to the spectacle that sprawled across the party field. Brightly-coloured pavilions pinwheeled about and over an immense, towering willow, which was itself strewn with ribbons and lanterns. Tent upon tent and table upon table were strewn across the lawn, and the tantalising scent of roasts and pies and breads wafted from an open kitchen situated upon the north side of the hill. Already the cheery tunes of Vigo’s flute mingled with the laughter of cavorting children and gossiping adults.
‘You are our last chance,’ Lobelia hissed to her son, hand clutched constrictively around his elbow as the river of party guests neared the newly-constructed gate to the field. ‘Don’t ruin your own future.’
‘Yes, mother,’ said Lotho. He tried not to eye too eagerly the gifts a Chubb couple ahead were accepting from Bilbo, who stood at the gate as though he were not a day over sixty-four.
‘Aunt Camellia,’ stated the elderly hobbit, perfectly pleasant — or so his words suggested. ‘Cousin Otho, Lobelia. So good of you to come.’
‘Yes, well,’ Lobelia sniffed. She accepted the gift he offered with scarcely a glance, feigning disinterest. ‘It is an unseemly arduous journey from the furthest reaches of Northfarthing, but it would not do to deprive you of the pleasures of our Lotho’s performance.’
‘And there’s the prodigy himself!’ exclaimed Bilbo, interrupting her. He reached out and drew Lotho forwards with a firm but gentle handshake and a rather enthusiastic shoulder pat.
Perhaps he imagined it, but Lotho thought he saw a glimmer in his uncle’s eye — of a sort he was unaccustomed to seeing. But he didn’t know what it meant, and couldn’t be certain he even saw it at all, for he quickly averted his gaze.
‘It is an honour to finally make your acquaintance,’ he mumbled. In spite of the numerous social events both hobbits regularly participated in throughout the Shire, Lotho had only ever seen his uncle in passing — due in no small part to Lobelia’s influence, to be sure.
‘This gift I had especially prepared for you,’ said Bilbo, slipping an oblong box into Lotho’s hands. Its paper was of most beautifully patterned silver, smooth and cool to the touch. ‘I hope it aids in your practice.’
Lobelia snatched the package from Lotho’s grasp. ‘Thank you kindly.’
‘The gift is for the child,’ Bilbo insisted, conveniently forgetting Lotho’s coming of age had been three years prior; he himself had been in attendance.
‘And we will see that he gets it,’ said Camellia. The chill with which his grandmother spoke struck Lotho to his very bones.
A strained smile tightened Bilbo’s lips, but his polite façade did not slip. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall look forward to your performance shortly, Lotho. In the meantime, please avail yourselves of the catering and merrymaking.’
‘Don’t mind if we do,’ Otho finally interjected. He ushered the small Sackville-Baggins family through the gate and onto the party field, to the great relief of those that waited impatiently behind. (‘But you have already been through once before, and received your gifts!’ Bilbo could be heard saying, and the reply, ‘You must be misremembering. Are we Goodbodies all so similar you cannot differentiate us? For shame!’)
The greensward was lush beneath Lotho’s feet, quite unlike the rocky, parched ryegrass of Northfarthing. Unlit lanterns, strung upon ribbon, fluttered in a gentle breeze which also set the towering willow a-soughing. But these small delights held little charm for the other members of Lotho’s company, who made straight for the luncheon table, piled high with an array of appetising delicacies.
As they took a seat (some distance from the nearest cluster of Brockhouses), Lotho reached for the cottage pie, but his mother slapped his hand away.
‘No!’ she commanded. ‘You mustn’t eat such fattening foods right before a performance.’ She instead passed him a small selection of crabapples and slid the tea things in his direction.
Lotho watched in envy as the others — not only his parents and grandmother, but also distant family members, strangers, and even outsiders — gorged themselves upon the generous offering spread before them. His lone distraction was the herd of young hobbitlings, who darted first this way and that, then all about, circling tables and darting under chairs and weaving about the pavilion poles, always threatening to trip over the anchoring ropes and pull the striped canvas roof down about the revellers’ heads. Each child was in possession of his own toy, many of which made vaguely musical noises, and seemed crafted by hands more skilled even than those of Odo.
As they played, Lotho imagined comical accompaniments to pass the time, and with such distraction, early afternoon dragged on into late afternoon. Odovacar appeared on a podium erected at the foot of the willow tree to grace the audience with several heartfelt songs, followed by a stream of performances by other Hardbottle cousins and musicians from throughout the Shire. Lamps were lit, luncheon was replaced by tea, and though the party was far from its zenith, Bilbo struggled through a crowd of well-wishers (and the distraction of his own storytelling) as he made his way towards where the Sackville-Bagginses eyed five-tier trays of sandwiches and teacakes.
He collapsed on the bench beside Otho (after having finally succeeded in escaping the long-winded Gerda Boffin) and turned to Lotho. ‘I think the magic of your music would be an excellent complement to tea-time, don’t you think?’ he said.
Lotho merely managed to nod his head and rise shakily.
‘Do what you must,’ Lobelia whispered at his elbow. ‘Enchant Bilbo — give him a reason to favour your father over that pernicious Frodo Baggins! Think of all the space you’ll have to practise at Bag End… think of the acoustics!’
Lotho swallowed painfully; he did not tell his mother he had composed a piece in the secret hours of his practice, in the colourful depths of his mind; a piece he was yet to perform, and had intentionally kept secret from his teacher-grandmother. For in truth, the tales he had heard in all those inns and taverns, tales of Bilbo’s adventures, intrigued him and set his imagination alight — but he feared not even the recipient of his gift would understand.
Dread shook Lotho’s legs as he strode towards the podium. Heads perked up; most of Bilbo’s guests had never had the opportunity to hear Lotho play, particularly in recent years, but each and every one had heard the rumours: a skill unheard of in the Shire, strange and incomprehensible.
Lotho mounted the steps of the podium, bowed stiffly, and took a seat at his beloved harp. With both hands he pushed back his hair — wild and untamed in a great cloud about his head — and adjusted the stool thrice before drawing the harp shoulder towards himself.
The black, red, and silver strings were ever as they were, taught and reassuring, and when Lotho took a deep breath, the anticipant atmosphere lent a strangely reassuring sense of familiarity. Yet as soon as he plucked the first note, all such recognition dissipated and the entire world seemed to implode about him. Within the music pouring forth from his fingers, there was a journey of eternity — shadows unseen and splendours witnessed, both fears and hopes actualised, brethren greeted in fraternity and unconquerable enemies vanquished.
Lotho knew not how long he played. Time swallowed him whole, and even when it regurgitated him back up, raucous applause and calls of ‘encore!’ pulled him back in. When his own pocket handkerchief became so sopped in sweat he threatened to descend from the platform, a colourful flurry of others’ fluttered down upon the stage, and he was bade to play again (along with a shouted, ‘That’s me invention, that is!’ from Odo).
It was not until Lotho stood, wavering upon his feet after yet another bow, that Bilbo intervened. ‘Let us thank our good cousin for his service,’ said he, ‘and discharge him of further duties, and demand no more of him!’
A deafening roar of displeasure rose from the audience, but it was no mere coincidence that Bilbo had the fortitude to withstand Lobelia; at his threat of poetry recitation, the guests quieted and returned to the remainder of their tea without further complaint.
Bilbo himself, however, was not finished with poor Lotho.
‘I have heard such music before — when I walked in the woods, late at night,’ he murmured to Lotho, who in his exhaustion was scarcely cognisant of events about him, let alone the implication his uncle was making. ‘Not these precise songs, per se, but their soul, their essence. How is it that you came to learn such music?’
Yet even as Bilbo spoke these words, Lobelia marched up with Camellia in tow (for Otho was back where they had previously sat, still enjoying the strawberry and elderflower bakewell tarts). Each looked alarmed beyond measure, though while there was a hint of intrigue and discernment in Camellia’s expression, Lobelia radiated nothing save fury.
‘Do not talk of woods in the night to my son!’ she screeched at Bilbo. ‘You speak of adventures and peace-disturbing and, and… and elves!’ This last bit she whispered, before regaining her spirit. ‘It’s downright unrespectable, is what it is! I do not care one whit for Bag End if you intend to corrupt my son with such absurd nonsense!’
‘Now, Lobelia,’ Camellia began, in a manner that could easily have been mistaken as conciliatory, but Lobelia was not amenable.
‘I will not hear of it!’ she shrieked. ‘You are going straight home, Lotho Sackville-Baggins!’
But in that very instant, when Lobelia reached for her son’s wrist, Vigo materialised in front of her. He seized her hand instead, shaking it enthusiastically.
‘Cousin Lobelia!’ he exclaimed. ‘Congratulations are very much in order; what a magnificent performance! It’s been so long since Lotho last performed back home, I near forgot how talented he is. Surely you can spare a moment to discuss the idea of his performing at the Hardbottle harvest festival—?’
But the object of their attention did not hear much beyond these words, for even as Vigo prattled on, Lotho’s arm was grabbed from behind. He spun round to find Odovacar’s face inches from his own.
‘Run!’ the hobbit whispered.
Confused, Lotho glanced towards his mother’s turned back, but then he felt a jerk at his shoulder. Past the long feast tables, past podium and willow tree was he dragged, until Odovacar exited from beneath the main canopy and darted in the direction of the makeshift kitchen. Lotho allowed himself to be guided through a maze of tents and pavilions, running as fast as his lanky, uncoordinated legs could carry him, until he could run no more and collapsed upon the grass. He waved his arms in surrender when Odovacar rounded on him.
‘No more,’ he gasped. ‘No further!’
‘You mustn’t stop now!’ said Odovacar. ‘We’re nearly there.’ He pointed ahead to where a conical tent stood nestled amongst a cluster of others, children cavorting about in their games of ever-evolving rules.
Sighing in resignation, Lotho accepted Odovacar’s outstretched hand.
The tent flap flew open to reveal an assemblage of cousins: all those who had tormented Lotho when they were younger, as well as many of their children, who in their own right were soon to come of age. More than a dozen hobbits stood blinking at Lotho with pipes, flutes, drums, and all manner of instruments clutched in their hands. In their midst stood Lotho’s secondary harp — that which typically sat in the corner of The Star, or was transported about for his far-ranging performances.
Hugo Bracegirdle stepped forward, a tankard of Golden Perch ale clutched in his hand, extended in offering. ‘We thought we owed you an apology,’ he said.
‘And a rescue from that witch, Lobelia!’ piped up one of the younglings, a hobbit by the name of Fredegar — Odovacar’s boy. Unsure of what to say, and wholly uncomfortable under the eyes of so many (as he ever was when not absorbed in music), Lotho merely took the tankard into his hands.
‘We were right scamps when we were younger,’ Hugo continued.
‘And severely misjudged your intentions,’ added Odovacar. ‘I realised the other day, when we played together, that it was not your own condescension, but that of your mother which came between us.’
‘We can’t play your fine tunes,’ said Seredic (who was, in fact, of no relation whatsoever to Lotho, but whose involvement was more than likely due to his being entirely smitten with Hilda), ‘but will you drink a pint and play a jig or two with us?’
Before Lotho could answer, the tent flap flew open again. His heart seized. Surely his mother had discovered the ruse! She came to collect him back into her control; back to unbending rigours, to exacting standards — to boiled cabbage and crabapples, and a distinct lack of folk music.
But the figure at the entrance was only Vigo, who slipped in and accepted his flute from Fredegar. ‘Hilda’s on the lookout,’ he informed them, then glanced from face to face with eyebrows raised in anticipation, only for his eyes to finally land upon Lotho. ‘We are terribly sorry, lad…’
Lotho looked at the ale in his hand (half of which he had spilled down his neatly tailored suit in surprise). Never before had he tasted liquor — only ever teas and juices and such. He took a deep breath, raised the tankard to his lips… and drank.
Rousing cheers went up from the small gathering, even as Lotho nearly spat out the foul liquid. All at once, a lighthearted mood swelled to fill the tent. Vigo struck up a cheery hornpipe, followed swiftly by the others. Lotho took a seat at the harp to join in.
The time that passed now was equally inestimable as his earlier performance — but this music was not all-consuming in the way his own compositions were; rather than drawing within, Lotho felt his spirit coaxed outwards to mingle with the community around him. Several young hobbitlings who had been frolicking outside ducked within the tent to dance about before disappearing in a fit of giggles.
As the light outside faded, the musicians’ songs were accompanied by the crackle and bang of fireworks, which appeared as bursts of light on the canvas over their heads. Had they not been so preoccupied, the young hobbits might have witnessed a truly miraculous event, which would be recounted before firesides for many generations to come; but as it was, they were far more concerned with creating magic of their own.
This spell was quite suddenly shattered when Hilda stumbled through the tent entrance in a panic.
‘Bilbo’s gone and disappeared!’ she exclaimed.
All music and revelry ceased at once, transforming into confusion. The gathering of young cousins spilled from the tent into the chill September evening, only to be confronted with the stormy countenance of Lobelia.
‘Lotho Sackville-Baggins!’ she shrieked. ‘Is this where you have been all this time, while your grandmother, father, and I worried ourselves sick? Is this how you repay our kindness — all our years of dedication and hard work — by playing folk music in the company of rapscallions? What an absolute disgrace! Not only have you failed to secure Bag End, but that doddypoll cousin of mine has had the poor manners to go and leave it to Frodo Baggins, then completely vanish! Our plans are ruined!’
But even as she ranted, Vigo stepped forwards and stood in front of Lotho. ‘Lay no harm at his hairy feet, Auntie,’ said he. ‘’Twas my doing — all our doing, truly — and you mustn’t hold it against him.’
‘Oh, mustn’t I?’ exclaimed Lobelia, incredulous. ‘We shall see about that!’
She shoved Vigo aside, snatched Lotho by the ear, and began to haul him away. But she had not gotten three steps before she stopped abruptly.
‘Have you been drinking?’ she demanded, pulling his mouth towards her nose and sniffing. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘Yes, mother,’ said Lotho without hesitation, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.
Lobelia gave a tremendous huff. ‘Just wait until your father hears of this!’ she threatened (as though she weren’t infinitely more tyrannical than her husband), and continued to drag Lotho through the milling crowds of befuddled party guests, who were now in search of more ale to ease their startled wits.
Thus the Sackville-Bagginses disappeared from Bilbo’s birthday party just as thoroughly as Bilbo himself had. But the festivities’ influence would forever remain — and not just in the form of fireside tales; for from that day onward, Lotho did not so easily bend before the will of his mother or grandmother.
When they returned home, he first demanded his present from Bilbo, which to his delight turned out to be a handsome metronome of dwarven make, and harp strings of mithril and gold (as well as a small note in a spidery hand that read, ‘Mind you don’t rush’). He no longer took to heart his family’s criticisms or commands; he played what events he liked, and only when he liked; he ate what foods he thought most delicious, and enjoyed a pint of ale on occasion. But most importantly, he set aside time to visit amongst his cousins and other residents of Hardbottle, and play with them all manner of music.
And he performed at each and every Hardbottle harvest festival, until his death.