There Are No Bad Hobbits, Only Hobbits With Bad Habits

Unfortunately, once I accidentally created a world and a few characters in it, they started clamoring for attention. I wanted to let them rot. But some thoroughly useless instinct bade otherwise. The worst part is I was going to go to bed at nine tonight. Get a full night's sleep, get up early, go to work early, have a good day. But NO! Nine went by, and ten, and eleven, and now it's twelve fucking thirty. Why? WHY?

The smart thing would be to go to bed and come back for an editing pass, maybe a rewrite. But we all know that if I play it like that, it will just sit and be forgotten. I am not disciplined. Better to do as last time: Put the words here now so that I may forget about them with a clear conscience.

Note that, without any editing, I have no clue as to the pacing, the story balance, consistency of character, any of that. Don't care. Going to bed.

This is Part Two; follow this link to Part One.

* * *

If Twig Proudfoot was ever blessed with a useful talent, surely it was for drawing out the maternal instincts of fallen hobbitesses.

“Twig, you didn’t pay me last time.”

Petal did not quite stick her lip out, but her brown eyes were moist and large, and her shift draped perilously off one shoulder. The public house's firelight danced around her soft skin. Twig spoke to her collarbone.

“Maggot owed you, not me.”

“Mag--!”

“Mirabella. Sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that, Twig! Twiggie! Little—“ She sighed in exasperation. “Call me Petal.”

“Yes, Petal, sweetheart, sure. I know, you’re on shift. But Mira, I’ve known you since—“

“You’ve known Maggot doesn’t pay for shit if he doesn’t have to. I thought you lied to me.”

Petal stood up. The blood started returning to Twig’s knee. He rubbed it absent-mindedly and said, “Never. Never would I lie to you. I’m hurt you would think—“

“I’m sorry, baby, but, you know, times are tough, and Maggot, he, and—“

She looked at the floor, her chin quivering. Twig stood up and gave her a hug.

“Come on. I’ll go talk to him.”

“And I’ll pay myself!” she said, and laughed triumphantly. She held his purse above her head.

“What--! Give me--!” Twig sputtered, reaching around his belt, which was now considerably lighter. “You little--!”

Light as an elf, Petal leapt for the pole and cantilevered herself to the ceiling where she grinned down at him like a woodland spider. She didn’t open his purse, though. Just waited.

Twig sighed and ambled over to the pantry corner. A fat hobbit in a filthy apron busied himself straightening the fireplace tools.

“Maggot!”

The proprietor of the Prancing Pony turned and stared dully at Twig with his head to one side.

“What.”

“Remember? This is how it works. I play the harp. People dance. They buy beer and ale. You make money. But you don’t pay me. You pay Petal. She makes me happy. Remember?”

“What?”

“Sorry. Going too fast?”

Maggot shook his head and glanced up into the shadows.

“She up there again?”

“Yeah, she’s quite the limber one. Listen--”

“I paid her.”

“What?”

“She’s fucking with you.”

Maggot turned his back in a manner that Twig knew from long experience signaled the end of the conversation. Twig also knew better than to push matters at the Pony. Friends were few enough.

“Dammit,” he muttered, and sat down at the nearest table.

“Why’s it called the Pony anyway? You Shire people can’t think of your own names?”

Twig turned to look at his questioner. A middle-aged hobbit regarded him with eyes that shone under a tall forehead.

“What do you mean?”

“Basil,” he said, and held out a hand. “Basil Fairbairn. Bree-side.”

Twig shook the hand. “Twig Proudfoot.”

“Proudfoot?” asked Basil. “Of the Hobbiton Proudfoots?”

“Proudfee—“

“Stop,” the visitor said, his hand up. “One time with that joke was one time too many. I just wondered. My cousin married one once. Useless fucker.”

“Mr. Fairbairn, what the hell do you want?”

“Another drink. That doxy you chased up the brass pole. A comfy retirement. No need to get bitchy. I just wondered why they call this place the Prancing Pony.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because there’s one in Bree, that’s why. Can’t you Shire people—“

A pint mug was slammed on the table half an inch from Basil’s small finger. At the end of the arm holding it, Maggot glared.

“Because my family owns both. I get this one. My cousin gets that one. Any more questions? Two beans.”

“Really? Yours is a Bree family?”

“Why not?”

Basil fished a pair of small coins out of his shirt pocket and handed them over. “Ah, well. My apologies. I thought—“

“You thought,” said Twig, “we were a bunch of stupid Shirelings that never go anywhere or do anything on our own, is what you thought. People like you make me sick.”

“Quiet down, there, Twiggie,” said Maggot. “He’s a guest.”

“Sorry.” Twig looked down at the table and then up at Basil. The visitor’s eyebrows had risen, and one corner of his mouth was just the littlest bit amused. His expression didn’t change when a couple other hobbits that had been lurking by the fireplace brought their mugs over to join in.

“Ah,” said one, “the old Bree versus Hobbiton routine.”

“But seriously,” said Twig, and a warm glow settled on him as he felt Petal drape herself over his shoulder. “Hi, baby,” he said to her. She slipped his purse onto his lap with a friendly rub. Maggot brought him his own pint and waved off payment — which he knew wasn’t forthcoming in any case.

“Seriously. Mr. Fairbairn. Name like that, you’re Shire people anyway, right?”

“My grandfather.”

“Right,” said Twig. “Ever since the King came back there’s been a good deal of trafficking back and forth.”

“To the King,” said one of the other hobbits, and raised a toast. He pretended to miss his mouth and his friend howled like an upset horse.

“But still,” Twig continued. “You can’t deny it was Shire people who saved the day, way back when. Not only Shire people, but Hobbiton people.”

“And Bucklanders!” cried an onlooker.

“Yeah, but, while you Bree folk, beg your pardon, Maggot, just treated with whomever—“

“No magic ring came to Bree, is why,” said Maggot. “It went to Hobbiton, all decided by wizards and elves and that. Totally random, in other words. Could have gone anywhere.”

“But it didn’t go anywhere. It went here. Here! Right to my fuckin’ house!”

“Hear! Hear!” said the other hobbits, and raised another toast. This one they drank.

“Your house?” Basil was incredulous. “You live at Bag End?”

“Yup! I do.”

“What’s left of it,” Petal said, and he glared at her. “Twig’s uncle divided it into apartments and he got one.”

“Okay, but I got the good part.”

“You got the kitchen.”

“That’s the good part.”

“Huh,” Basil said, and raised his mug. “Here’s to a brush with history. Wait,” he said, and knit his eyebrows. “Your uncle owned Bag End?”

“Aye. Still does.”

“You related to Gamgees?”

“Uh, distantly.”

Basil looked Twig over more carefully. Twig was suddenly self-conscious about his appearance. He hadn’t been flush enough to get any new clothes for a year or two, and this talk of his famous ancestors made him keenly aware of it.

Basil stared at him a bit longer, and then shrugged and took a drink.

“Well,” he said, “apples do roll.”

The other hobbits pursed their lips. Twig stared, and said, “What the hell you mean by that?”

“Listen,” Basil said. “One hobbit to another. I been to the ruins of Rivendell. I been to Dunland. I ain’t afraid of nothing, and I’m going to do you the respect of assuming you ain’t either. So let me give it to you straight. All right?”

“What?”

“Even in Bree we know about Bag End. The great hill of Mr. Underhill ain’t what it used to be. Not at all.” He held up a hand. “Not your fault. Not your uncle’s. But, you know, when the great Sam went off over the sea, things sorta went downhill. Of course they did. How could they not? As I heard, them Sackvilles came back, the whole works.”

“Fuck the Sackvilles.”

“Spoken like a true scion of the Bagginses. Still, I’ll wager that for all your evident prosperity,” which Basil managed to say without a hint of irony, “your little corner of Bag End is, um, let’s say not in the shippest of shapes.”

Petal giggled. “Aw, mister, you got that right—“

“It’s fine!” Twig said. The gallery exploded in laughter.

“Twiggie, you ain’t fixed that window in three years!”

“Better things to do!”

“Like sell southland weed to hobbit kinder!”

“I never sell to kids!”

“Right.” More laughter ensued. Basil waved it down.

“Wager,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m a judge of character,” Basil said. “I will wager that ... oh, you’re one of our more creative types. That your sharp business acumen and relentless work ethic have not cursed your lodgings with an imprisoning neatness.”

“What?”

“He means,” said Petal, “that he thinks you’re a slob and wants to bet on it.”

Twig stared. He stared hard. But Basil wasn’t moved.

“My wager stands. A crate of Minhiriath longleaf says the lady is correct.”

Minhiriath longleaf? Quickly Twig calculated what that might be worth on the roads and footpaths. Enough to, well, enough to justify making the bet. Twig was good at betting. He won at the ponies almost every third race.

“What’ll you put up against my merchandise?” Basil asked.

“A genuine Bag End cupboard,” Twig said without thinking. Basil spluttered with laughter.

“Hey,” said Twig. “Back in the day you couldn’t get genuine Bag End furnishings for any price. That shit is valuable.”

“No doubt,” said Basil, “but so is Minhiriath weed.”

“You still got the front door,” said Petal. Twig pinched her leg. “Ow! Sorry.”

“The round one?” Basil said, his eyes widening. “With the mark on it and everything?”

“That was painted over, but yeah, we still got it. Not for sale.”

“I don’t want to buy it,” Basil said. “I want to win it! Shall I come by in the morning?”

“Noon! I won’t be home, I have an appointment.”

“I’m sure you do. Tomorrow at noon, then, I will see you, and your undoubtedly well-appointed and carefully cared for corner of the world-famous Bag End.”

Oh, for Galadriel’s sake, Twig thought. How the hell did this happen? But he thought of that case of herb. All he had to do was clean his house up. How hard could that be?

He effected a relaxed expression, shook Basil’s hand, squeezed Petal’s bottom, and ambled out into the night.