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Chapter Text

It was no secret that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins loved her son, though it might be argued she perhaps loved him a great deal too much. Lobelia ruled over Lotho in the same way she ruled over her husband and household, and indeed the entire Hardbottle settlement: with such ferocity that an iron fist would have quavered in fear. Bilbo Baggins was one of the very few hobbits in all the Shire with the fortitude to oppose his cousin — though even he was not exempt from Lobelia’s cunning wiles, and she had the silver spoons to prove it.

But Lotho Sackville-Baggins was not so lucky; the poor child was a single, wispy stalk of pipe-weed, easily bent before the gale-force wind that was Lobelia’s determination. She had plans for Lotho, and nothing so insignificant as the young hobbit’s own dreams and desires would interfere with her resolve to seat him in a position of influence.

It was only by sheer serendipity that her intentions happened to align with what made Lotho perfectly happy: music.

From his youngest days, Lobelia had sat him down before a strange, bulky instrument — made to order by her cousin, Odo, with whom she would otherwise not condescend to speak a word (being, as he was, from her husband’s side of the family), but who nevertheless found himself under the crushing pressure of Lobelia’s thumb when she was in need of a favour. A ‘harp’ Odo called the instrument, which was perfectly incomprehensible to Lotho; he was no older than two summers at the time, and had little understanding of the differences between this new instrument and the common lyre his grandmother and many others in the Shire were fond of.

‘No other hobbit has ever played the harp,’ Lobelia would insist to her son as he drew its triangular shape towards his shoulder, ‘and none other shall play so well as you.’

And so she brought in a parade of Hardbottle residents: fiddlers and pipers and flautists alike, or anyone with a modicum of reputable talent who played during the town’s renowned harvest festival, or jolly evenings down at Star Tavern. Each musician in turn (and sometimes in conjunction) played all the songs they knew — every popular jig, reel, hornpipe, and strathspey they had ever heard, and some they hadn’t. Lobelia would then demand Lotho try to recreate the tunes by ear.

At this he was perfectly adept — inspired, even — and Lotho felt as though it were the most natural thing. The music would seemingly go in one large, hairy ear and flow through childish fingers to the strings of his harp without conscious thought — the reproduction perfect not only in its notes, but also in rhythm and interpretation. There was not a single melody Lotho could hear but one time and not be able to reproduce, often vastly improved, or forget once played.

Truth be told, Lotho did not enjoy these exercises overly much. They were dreadfully long and rather uninteresting. But they pleased Lobelia, and when his mother was pleased, Lotho was given permission to play about in improvisations, which he very much did enjoy. On more than one winter afternoon, he waddled home to the stony Sackville-Baggins smial and, without so much as unswaddling himself from the many layers of jackets and trousers and scarves and hats, proceeded to strip off his mittens and perch on his harp stool, allowing the streams of music to surge from his heart unchecked and unconstrained — that is, until Lobelia stormed into the room with a heavy frown upon her face to begin lessons for the day.

Her son’s proficiency fanned Lobelia’s greed into a conflagration. The greater aptitude Lotho demonstrated, the longer and more arduous his practice sessions became. Yet this relentless sowing of seeds bore a bountiful yield. For several years, it seemed as though Lotho’s talents knew no bounds; each new day his fingertips brought into this world beauty unknown, sentiments never before expressed.

But shortly after his sixth birthday, Lotho’s progress slowed, then ceased entirely. After a series of particularly frustrating setbacks, Lobelia was forced to acknowledge her own capabilities were limited, and their current methodology was insufficient to actualise her son’s full potential. The decision she most dreaded, the choice she was most uneager to make, hovered before her:

She sought out her mother-in-law.

Lobelia and Camellia Sackville had loathed the sight of each other from the outset. Every preconception surrounding mothers and daughters bound merely by marriage was fulfilled by the utter bitterness and spite slung between these two obstinate women. Visits were rare and only the length of barest formality, and often resulted in longstanding grudges. Yuletide and Lithedays were celebrated in separate households; even once Old Longo passed, still Camellia elected to spend her holidays solitarily.

It was with full knowledge of such animosity that Lobelia stood before the round Sackville smial door. It was painted a very modest pale yellow, though the brass knob was an ornate moulding of a flower in full blossom. (Camellia had insisted, and Longo was equally as liable to bend to his wife’s desires as his son was to his.)

Lobelia inhaled a deep breath, reached out, and knocked.

There was no answer.

After several additional moments of fruitless waiting, Lobelia turned to leave with a sigh of relief. But then the image of her son’s face materialised in her mind: sweet, bulbous cheeks and sharp chin, with brown locks curling about his long-lashed eyes… For Lotho, Lobelia would do anything.

She steeled herself and knocked again.

The door jerked open.

‘Stop that infernal racket right this minute!’ exclaimed its opener.

Lobelia first saw the cane waving threateningly in front of her nose, then the silver hair, parted sharply and drawn back into a bun to frame peaked, severe features. Deep wrinkles were carved across the ancient face — particularly betwixt the brows, for having frowned so often throughout life.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Camellia said, a myriad of unpleasant emotions mixed within her tone.

‘Hello, mother,’ said Lobelia. She only called Camellia ‘mother’ when she wanted something, and the old hobbit was perfectly aware of that fact. But she merely harrumphed and stood aside to imply Lobelia could enter, if she was so determined.

‘Tea?’ she offered.

‘No, thank you,’ Lobelia answered, but then reconsidered. Perhaps a cuppa would afford her sufficient time to plead her case before being shooed back out the door. ‘On second thought, do you perhaps have any of that flowery kind you gave Otho for his birthday?’

Camellia grimaced. She had a tremendous stockpile of jasmine tea, but as it was her favourite variety (which was the only reason she had gifted a parcel to her son in the first place), she was loath to share it with her daughter-in-law. But Camellia had manners, and a cuppa meant she could revel in watching Lobelia agonise for as long as it took to drink it.

‘This way,’ she said, guiding Lobelia into the drawing room as though they hadn’t bickered within its four walls countless times. A butler ushered in the tea things, which Camellia immediately set upon as etiquette dictated, scrutinising her daughter-in-law all the while. Lobelia steeled herself to speak, but was cut off before she could even start.

‘What is it you want?’ Camellia demanded.

Lobelia sat with her mouth open for several seconds before she recovered her wits.

‘You know my son,’ she proffered, smoothing her skirts. This was the best route of attack; as greatly as Camellia detested her daughter-in-law, she adored her grandson wholeheartedly — to the degree she would make equal sacrifices as Lobelia herself.

Camellia did not answer; there was no need.

Lobelia continued: ‘And I am certain you are aware of the hopes I have for Lotho.’

‘Of what relevance is that to me?’ said Camellia, a smirk pulling at the right corner of her lips when Lobelia sighed and closed her eyes momentarily. But Lobelia had not earned her obdurate reputation by yielding so easily. She regrouped her thoughts and made a second attempt:

‘You are, after all, the most renowned lutist in all of North Farthing, if not the Shire in its entirety.’ Flattery — yes, perhaps that would do the trick. The old codger’s ego was so laughably inflated that even the slightest appeal ought to prove effective.

‘You hope for me to teach Lotho, as you have failed,’ Camellia concluded.

It was Lobelia’s turn to grimace. ‘That is the long and short of it,’ she said, ignoring the flagrant implication regarding her competency.

Camellia inhaled and feigned to seriously consider her daughter-in-law’s proposition. ‘I shall have to assess the boy’s skills,’ she remarked, as though she hadn’t already come to a decision.

‘At your earliest convenience,’ Lobelia replied. She glanced at her tea cup; the conversation was clearly concluded, and yet she had scarcely taken a sip. Swallowing her pride, she downed the still-scalding beverage and choked back tears of pain. ‘I regret to inform you I must be going; I’ve not the time to sit about all day as some do.’

‘Terrible shame,’ said Camellia, maintaining the charade of pleasantries. ‘The butler shall see you out.’

With such an antagonistic meeting behind them, Lobelia might have been surprised when Camellia appeared at the Sackville-Baggins front door without warning two days later — in the very middle of Lotho’s afternoon lesson — had she not known from the outset that the appeal of helping her grandson would far outweigh the elderly hobbit’s acute distaste for her daughter-in-law.

‘Where is the boy?’ Camellia demanded immediately upon entering, as though the strains of music could not clearly be heard throughout the house. ‘And why is the hall in such disarray?’

‘Just to your right, mother,’ Lobelia directed. As Camellia bustled down the hall, she lingered behind to tidy the entryway (though there were scarcely a few tracks of mud from the morning’s rain, and only a single umbrella askew) and compose herself with a few fortifying breaths. When she hovered outside the drawing room door momentarily to observe before entering, already Camellia had run Lotho through his scales.

‘And what pieces do you know, child?’

‘I don’t remember the names, grandmama,’ said Lotho, his eyes hovering halfway between the harp strings and Camellia, for as dearly as he loved his grandmother (and she him), the young hobbit was terrifically shy.

‘Then play them for me.’

And so Lotho played for her, song after song, rarely getting more than a few phrases through each before Camellia insisted he move on to the next.

‘Common folk tunes!’ she harrumphed, interrupting yet another reel. ‘I ought to have known. That simply won’t do — won’t do at all! Can you improvise, child?’ Lotho nodded, silent and wide-eyed. ‘Play what the bright sun feels like to you.’

Lotho did not even hesitate to strike a chord. At once, joyous, cheerful notes morphed into a melody, then into fully-fledged song. Lotho’s fingers flitted as birds do in spring, pattering out raindrops that part for gleaming rays of light, coaxing seedlings from their coats into the warmth of midafternoon.

This time, Camellia did not stop him. When Lotho concluded with a crescendo of runs, she fixed him with a keen gaze, though her face remained expressionless. ‘What of the dark forest, then?’

Lotho paused, silently sweeping his fingertips across the strings several times before placing them with purpose. He did not seem to move; a lament simply emerged from the instrument, as if drawn out by the spirit of its listeners, not Lotho himself. With each deep sigh, mournful notes swelled in the air — at first slow and lethargic, then brash and frenzied, bringing to life a woodland fire which aimed to consume the entire world.

When the final notes petered out, silence ebbed back in — a poor substitute for the music’s inimitable fervour. Camellia’s eyes still rested upon the boy, but she no longer seemed to perceive him. Neither Lotho nor Lobelia dared interrupt her thoughts.

‘Play it again,’ Camellia suddenly demanded.

Lotho shifted on his stool uncomfortably. ‘I can’t, grandmama,’ he admitted.

‘What do you mean, you can’t?’ Camellia questioned, her words sharp. ‘Surely you have learned this music before; surely this is not mere improvisation!’

‘It’s true, I just made it up,’ said Lotho. Tears welled in his eyes and threatened to spill down his round cheeks.

‘It’s his way, mother,’ Lobelia asserted. ‘Any minute I am not supervising him, he indulges in all manner of musical fancies.’

Without a word further, Camellia strode towards the drawing room door. ‘I must think on things,’ was the only explanation she gave before the tail of her green skirts disappeared around the corner.

She did not devote a great amount of time to thinking, however, for she reappeared the very next morning, before the Sackville-Bagginses had even begun their breakfast. Otho stared in polite confusion between his wife and mother as the latter stormed into the dining room and stood in the doorway, her cane clutched in long, gnarl-knuckled fingers, saying only:

‘The child will learn — properly.’

And so Lotho learned, and properly. Whilst his cousins ran about in the flush of youth, attending school or playing golf or blithely lilting on horns and fiddles, Lotho spent nearly each waking moment in devotion to furthering his mastery of the harp. Immediately after breakfast would come scales and exercises, the dull building blocks of all that was necessary; then no more than the briefest of breaks for a noontide meal would be followed by musical notation or interpretation or (ever Lotho’s favourite) improvisation.

Young as he was, Lotho was aware there was some ineffable quality in his grandmother’s musicality, some nuance that could not be explained by hobbitish tradition. Though she refused to play for him (for fear of influencing his own tendencies) it was apparent she, too, had in her mind melodies not known to the Shire, could hear in his improvisations things beyond the ordinary, could sense an echo of emotions felt throughout the ages — could gently tease out the chaff of weaknesses from the wheat of the inexplicable.

And as these curtains were drawn back from before Lotho’s youthful eyes, so too did Camellia recognise there was a similar — yet entirely unique — aspect reflected in him, as well. ‘You have innate skill,’ she would often tell him, though she was quick to temper her praise: ‘but it is useless if you do not perfect it.’

Hour upon hour, day upon day, month upon month passed under Camellia’s stern tutelage, and when he was not being run through his paces, he fell under Lobelia’s stringent watch. For years, Lotho did little save eat, sleep, and practice — though he harboured no desire to complain, for he had learned to relish even the most banal of musical tasks for the value it provided. His talents, once stalled, now surged.

On the rare occasions he did venture outside, Lotho’s cavortings did not bring him nearly so much joy as music did. He had not many friends; there were few residents of Hardbottle Lotho’s age, as it was — even his youngest cousin Hilda preceded him by a decade — and he did not fit in with any of them. They would tease him, for his words did not come quickly or naturally, and his face rarely reflected the emotions he wished to express, his smile was one of discomfort. He blinked too hard and too often, they said, and his eyes would dart this way and that when they tried to speak with him. And his hair was too… voluminous. Or so they said.

The eldest two of his cousins, Odovacar and Vigo, were the ringleaders in this misconduct. It was Lotho whom Vigo blamed each time a window was broken playing kick-the-ball, or when the much-abused pig bladder wound up once again in the waters of the Norbourn. When scones freshly removed from the oven were pinched from cooling-racks, it was always Lotho who found himself at the end of Odovacar’s pointed finger, and who bore the brunt of the baker’s scolding (though he rarely enjoyed the fruits of such thievery himself).

On other occasions, the flock of young hobbits would disrupt Lotho’s weekly turns about the neighbourhood — with Lobelia and Camellia upon each side, keeping a tight guard upon him — as they swooped or darted about, lobbing snowballs or haybombs towards him, only to be chased off by his keepers.

And then there were the chill, misty mornings of early spring, or languid afternoons of humid summers, when Lotho sat deep in focus at his harp, and Odovacar would lead the cousins in a headlong dash along the path which passed a short distance from his drawing room window, blaring on horns and banging on drums to disrupt his practice.

Yet such things did not matter greatly to Lotho when he performed for the series of guests his mother ushered through the Sackville-Baggins dining room, or when a secondary harp (which Lobelia had insisted Odo also construct, with wheels upon its feet) was pulled from its corner at Star Tavern, and Lotho was bade to play — not only by his mother or grandmother, but by the other townspeople, as well; for Lobelia’s shrewd calculations proved accurate, and by the age of twelve, Lotho’s talents had earned him great favour in Hardbottle — though not to all.

For in truth, many of his cousins had become musicians in their own right. Odovacar developed a splendid baritone, and would often take to the stage immediately after Lotho’s own performance, accompanied by Vigo’s flute. Hilda, too, had acquired some competency at the lyre, and her brother Hugo could play the fiddle as well as any hobbit. They were all fine musicians, to be sure, but were only ever met with tepid enthusiasm in comparison to Lotho’s rousing success.

Thus they resented his popularity, and that he was always ushered away as soon as they struck up their own music, and never deigned to play with them. Feeling snubbed, Lotho’s cousins did not let their discontent go unexpressed amongst their fellow residents. On more than one occasion, Lobelia voiced her opinion that it was Vigo who convinced his father, as head of the Boffin clan, to exclude Lotho from performing at the annual harvest festival.

But their envy only spurred Lobelia’s aspirations, which were not so modest as the confines of Hardbottle. With Lotho’s reputation firmly established at home, she sought acclaim elsewhere. All rivalry between Camellia and herself long since set aside (indeed, they had become as thick as thieves), the trio began making day-long excursions to Oatbarton, Long Cleeve, and other Northfarthing settlements, where Lotho performed at any venue that would host him.

But as his renown spread, so did the family’s travels. They proceeded to make a tour of the Shire’s more reputable inns, playing at Green Dragon in Bywater, or upon The Water at Floating Log in Frogmorton. At the Ivy Bush, Lotho heard the tales of Gaffer and Daddy Twofoot (before being ushered away by a very concerned Camellia), and knocked elbows with fishermen at the Golden Perch (where he was also denied by Lobelia what was touted as the finest beer in Eastfarthing).

Over the years, Lotho was seen less and less in Northfarthing (and almost not at all in Hardbottle), for when he was not sequestered within the Sackville-Baggins smial for practice, he was out performing. His wheeled harp was toted to each and every corner of the Shire — even to Greenholm in the Far Downs, and south to his father’s pipe-weed fields in Longbottom. He was invited by the Master of Buckland to play at Brandy Hall’s famous library, as well as that of the Great Smials of Tuckborough, and by the Mayor of Michel Delving at Town Hole. So impressed was Mayor Whitfoot that he subsequently requested Lotho perform as a guest of honour at the Free Fair the following Lithe.

Perhaps most magnificent of all was Lotho’s own coming of age party, for which he was invited by Ferumbras III to celebrate at the Thain’s own modest bachelor pad. It was a wondrous night of musical improvisations — albeit little else, for each time a flute of champagne or smoking pipe was placed in Lotho’s hands, it was swiftly removed by either Lobelia or Camellia; and the company’s departure came swiftly after his performance, as neither woman could bear to associate with the Took family matriarch, Laila, whose cantankerous nature rivalled their own. Still, Lotho wanted for nothing, and there was scarcely a higher honour to be paid in all the Shire.

But no event was more anticipated than that of Bilbo Baggins’ one hundred and eleventh birthday. It was on the tongue of each and every hobbit throughout the hot, muggy summer of 1401. As July turned to August, rumours of a cake larger even than Mayor Whitfoot, and of dwarven crafts, and of fireworks spread far and wide — even to Hardbottle.

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.

Chapter Text

When Otho Sackville-Baggins passed in S.R. 1412, he bequeathed the entirety of his estate unto his son. The Hardbottle smial, as well as the prosperous Southfarthing pipe-weed plantation and all its holdings, fell into the unprepared and rather unenthusiastic hands of Lotho Sackville-Baggins. Preferring to maintain his musical tendencies, Lotho transferred all practical responsibilities to his mother, who ruled the company — imaginatively titled ‘Sackville-Baggins Pipe-Weed’, or ‘SBPW’ — with the same tenacity that she had once applied to his career.

Under Lobelia’s shrewd acumen (and the undiminished influence of Lotho’s popularity), SBPW flourished to even greater heights, though it soon outstretched its own bounds. There were simply not enough workers in all of Southfarthing to keep apace with demand, and as many Shirelings had heard rumour of Lobelia’s exacting business practices, she found it difficult to fill the company’s need, though she advertised throughout the Four Farthings.

And so Lobelia looked beyond the borders of the Shire for those who would lend a hand: booted and thick-bearded Stoors that were rumoured to have wandered from Rhovanion, and even Bree-folk — hobbits from Staddle and Big Folk from Archet alike. Lobelia was so desperate for labour she set aside her usual misgivings and asked no questions.

Yet an expanding business requires also an expanding market. To all corners of the Shire were barrels of SBPW shipped, and to Buckland; then further east to Bree, and to small settlements in the southern reaches of Arthedain and even Cardolan. Many industries became inextricably tied to the Sackville-Baggins empire — and not just labourers to plant and tend and harvest and pack and export the crop. Cunning and artistic advertisers were employed, as were workers to construct a new dam across the Shirebourn to provide water for the vast plantations, and a committee established to research new strains of pipe-weed.

Then rumblings burgeoned in the Four Farthings, for with each new development came a swell in the outsiders’ ranks — among them, a great many men. These Big Folk sowed unease amongst the residents of town and country alike, and were generally perceived to act with impunity; and so both Mayor Whitfoot and the newly-instated Thain Paladin Took II sought out Lobelia to voice their concerns. She assured them most emphatically that their distress was unfounded.

It was ultimately Lobelia, and not the Shire leaders, who was mistaken. The situation came to a head when a contingent of Big Folk proposed trade with the Far South, beyond even the Enedwaith, with promises of fortunes unseen in the Shire. Lobelia, in spite of the acuity of her greed, baulked at this idea; unfamiliar hobbits and Bree-landers were one thing — men from beyond the Misty Mountains entirely another.

But with their ever increasing numbers and physically imposing stature, these Big Folk wielded more influence than Lobelia could contend with, and so she was forced to work by schemes and trickery to stave off their advances. Yet not three months after their proposal, she examined the company books, only to discover the ruffians had been conducting their own deceit: the purchase of foodstuffs and other supplies in excess, and the subsequent smuggling of said items south under the cover of legitimate SBPW shipments.

No sooner did Lobelia go to confront these Big Folk, the full brunt of her fury on display, than her tenacity proved insufficient at last. In having interacted so closely with a wide network of Shire industries over the years, the ruffians had garnered abundant leverage to defend their position — and where their social manoeuvring proved insufficient, their bribes did not. Lobelia was incarcerated in the Lockholes of Michael Delving.

Unwilling to leave the legal head of SBPW free to assert any form of authority, the Big Folk ensured Lotho soon followed. When he was arrested, each and every precious harp he possessed — lovingly crafted over the years by Odo (now more than ten winters deceased) — was smashed to splinters before his very eyes.

Mayor Whitfoot, himself present at the confrontation between Lotho and his captors, and having spoken too vehemently in favour of the harpist for the Big Folks’ liking, found himself under lock and key alongside his friend, as did young Fredegar Bolger.

And now, dear reader, I leave the rest to your imagination; for though I have my own notions regarding the conclusion of this tale, and to each man and hobbit alike comes his natural end, I do not wish to write the death — whether it is old age or otherwise — of a character intended to reflect a living, breathing entity.