Chapter Text
~summary~
Rinantha, a half-elf, half-hobbit raised in the elven halls of Mirkwood, has always lived as an outsider—too small, too different, and never fully accepted. After losing both her parents and enduring years of isolation, she leaves behind the only home she’s known, guided by Gandalf to the Shire in search of the family she’s never met.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It will be good for you, good food and a warm hearth,” Gandalf grumbled, walking two paces ahead of me. Old and slow as he seemed, the wizard still strolled faster than my small strides could ever carry me. I wasn’t gifted with the long limbs of elves, but instead the short, sturdy build of a hobbit, a trait I suppose I owe to my mother.
My mother was a hobbit; she was the medical aid for the adventurous soul of a rambunctious Took family. She carried both compassion and fire in equal measure, unafraid to speak her mind; her voice was both literal and figurative and impossible to ignore. My soft-spoken, gentle-hearted father fell in love with the loud and spirited short fuse of a hobbit, Elizabella Took.
My father, Folwin Yesven, was a graceful elf, his presence as calming as a quiet forest after rain. There was an ease about him, gentle, steady, and warmth that drew others in without effort. He was quietly charismatic, with a way of speaking that could soothe anger and win trust without force. It was this rare balance of kindness and influence that made him the perfect choice as the Elvenking’s trusted hand. He carried messages across Middle-earth with charm and care, shaping them so others wanted to listen, the Elvenking’s perfect personal envoy.
A certain quest of his sent him further from the elven halls than ever before. Lost and escaping a bad group of trolls, the elf found himself injured and at the feet of a stubborn hobbit. He had fallen in love with her deeply caring nature, the kind that made people feel safe in her presence, yet beneath that warmth was a strength that refused to bend easily. It was not accepted nor supported, but it was real.
From their forbidden love they were given, from what seems from the Valar themselves, a child, short and stumpy like a hobbit with the complexion and hair of an elf. My feet were flat and landed heavy and strong upon the earth. I had none of the grace of an elf, but the quiet stealth of a hobbit. My face was pale and sharp, as though carved from the wrong stone, a sculptor’s worst dream.
I was an abomination to Middle-earth, an unsightly thing. Confusion and complexion like a broken puzzle with missing pieces and too many corners.
Due to the fall of Erebor, and Mirkwood growing more sick by the years, my parents thought it would be safest to keep me within the elven halls. Locked away from danger, yet trapped beneath ever-watchful eyes, my world felt safe only for a time. My mother spent a few years within the hall, but her heart cried for freedom and an old family. She left with the promise to return and come for me, for our family.
In the meantime, she would write.
But we only ever received one letter.
Its contents were dark, filled with sickness and sorrow. The handwriting was not even my mother’s, only her words, shaky and distant. After that, silence.
My father seemed to fall into the same sickness, but only within the heart. He was gone not even a decade later.
When my father’s care and protection were gone, that fragile safety vanished with him, and I was left exposed to the Elvenking’s harsh attention. No longer amused by watching a half hobbit, half elven child struggle through his trials, King Thranduil finally offered me a choice: to stay in a place that had only ever been cold and unkind, or to leave the only home and people I had ever known. So I chose the unknown, with the faint hope of finding family beyond Mirkwood, in the distant Shire, a place I knew only from a handful of books tucked away in a vast library. A wizard curious about my story and a close friend of my mother promised safety and to take me the way.
“Gandalf,” I groaned, rolling my head dramatically, “I have no real place here.”
“Nonsense, you have every place here,” Gandalf shook his head. “You are a Took; they should celebrate the return of family.”
“I am a stranger,” I sighed. Gandalf always liked to paint the most cynical pictures of life, even if there were only dark colors. I didn’t see his view. “If they are lucky, the Shire would have forgotten my story.” There was no positivity in my tone; a small place like the Shire, peaceful and free from any adventure and fear, should not be burdened with a child of problems.
“They may not know your face, but they will know your name,” Gandalf continued, still walking toward the warmly lit hills. The quiet chatter and joyful sound grew closer. It was the scariest thing I had heard in years.
“Gandalf,” I stopped in my tracks, heavy feet sinking into loose leaf litter.
“Rina,” Gandalf sighed. He turned slowly to me with a sincere look. “Rinantha, what do you fear?”
“Wh… what if I find something worse here?” I felt heat run up my neck; I already regretted speaking. It was embarrassing after all this, now showing hesitation, it was foolish.
“Oh child, you’ll find peace in the Shire.” Gandalf turned back, moving his staff behind me, nudging me forward. I almost tripped; I scoffed at his action.
The grey wizard may be speaking sense. Mirkwood never treated me with kind eyes. I had stares that cut through me, glares that molded me; the elves were never shy to show displeasure with my company in their halls. They were disgusted, nearly. Maybe the Shire will be kinder. My name might mean something here.
We continued walking forward toward the village. We had been walking long enough for the sun to travel across the sky and meet us on the other side. Evening set in the Shire softly, like a lullaby humming by Middle-earth itself. The last light of the sun stretched low across the rolling green hills, turning the grass to gold and the round doors of hobbit-holes into warm, glowing embers. Thin trails of smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the comforting scents of baked bread and hearth fires into the cool air.
As we drew closer, the path beneath my feet changed to something gentle and worn, bordered with hedges and wildflowers. Fireflies began to flicker awake, tiny stars dancing just above the fields, while somewhere in the distance laughter drifted from an open window, soft, homely, and full of life. The world felt small here, safe in a way that asked nothing of you but to breathe it in.
As dusk deepened, the sky turned shades of violet and blue, and the first real stars appeared overhead. The sun had finally gone to sleep, but the Shire still bustled with life. It was quiet and calm. Family hobbits settled for the night, couples sat on their porches with cups and pipes, while young kids jumped across the paths, being called for bed.
I pulled my cloak close, hoping to be swallowed within it. From the corner of my eye, I could see faces and eyes darting back between me and the wizard. Chatter drowned into whispers; I felt the old shame start to grow again. Heat rose quickly up my neck to my face, I am sure I radiated crimson.
“No worries, child,” Gandalf hunkered down low so only my ears could hear. “It’s me they are staring at. You don't look strange here.”
I hadn’t thought of it, just assumed all my life that I was the weird one. Now my strange height and conspicuous feet blended with the crowd around me.
“We are almost there,” Gandalf huffed. “Just up on that hill is Bag End.” He sounded almost cheerful.
We stood at a circular old green door. The paint had a few scratches and needed some repair, but it did not shy away from being loved and glowing with warmth. It was quieter than the other hobbit hole we passed, with what only seemed to be light flickering behind the small window. The door was tucked under hanging vines and growing bushes, as if the earth itself were embracing it. Thick grass blanketed the roof, spilling over the edges, while climbing vines wove through the soft yellow brick. Wildflowers in soft purples and blues scattered across the slope, adding quiet bursts of color among the dense leaves. The entire place felt hidden, natural, and deeply rooted in the land.
“Well, child, are you going to knock, or shall we stay all night here inspecting the plants on the porch?” Gandalf gently pushed me closer to the door. I looked at him with pleading eyes. I wasn’t ready to know what was behind this door. I had never really known my family. My mother would speak of her siblings, my aunts and uncle, highly. I shouldn’t have anything to fear, but my whole body shook. I dreamed of meeting what lay behind this door, childhood wishes spent wanting to see, to feel the story my mother spoke about, but now, years later, living an elvish immortal life, I didn’t really know if my childhood dreams were even my wishes anymore.
I huffed, looking back at the door, raising my hand to knock. A shiver ran down my spine. I chased the feeling by lightly tapping the green door, barely loud enough to be considered a knock.
“Rinantha,” Gandalf grumbled. I knew what he was complaining about. Begrudgingly, I knocked with a little more strength; the sound carried to the back of the hole.
“Better,” I mumbled, not looking up at the wizard. I heard an agreeing hum. The wizard shuffled backwards slightly, pushing me front and center of the door. Before I could look back at him, a voice called from within the hobbit hole.
“Coming!" The voice had a hint of frustration layered under politeness. The door swung open just enough to reveal a hobbit man. He was young but with a face filled with worry and time; his brows were furrowed down in an unwelcoming frown. The hobbit was wrapped in a nightgown with brightly, oddly patterned quilts. He was obviously dressed for the night; he looked comfortable and neatly groomed.
“Good evening. Can I help you?” he asked, his eyes meeting mine without forcing me to tilt my head up.
It struck me immediately, we were almost the same height. Honestly, I might have even been a little taller. The feeling was strange, yet natural in a way that unsettled me. For nearly a century, I had lived among towering elves, always the smaller one, the creature beneath their gaze.
And now, here I stood face to face with someone like me, something I had only ever read about in books, something that had never quite felt real until this moment.
“Oh, er, yes, g-good evening,” I stumbled over my words, stunned and awkwardness overcame me. “My traveling partner and I wished a word with Belladonna Baggins.” I straightened myself, fixing my posture, wanting to look proper for my aunt. My mother spoke mostly of her sister and how, if anything were to happen, her sister, my aunt, would care for me no matter the time.
“Belladonna Baggins?” the hobbit questioned; he seemed confused. Fear ran through me, maybe the old wizard had brought me to the wrong door.
“Yes, is this Bag End?” I stood firmly, hoping not to make a fool of myself.
“It is, but there is no Bella here anymore,” the hobbit shook his head gently, his voice hitching near the end. The way he shortened my aunt’s name felt personal and caring, and the gloom in his face was mixed with fondness, a look I understood all too well.
“Oh,” I breathed. “I-I am sorry,” I whispered. The disappointment was heavy, like waves of rough water breaking over me. There is no Bella here anymore, the words echoed in my head, making my eyes sting. Not wanting to cry in front of a stranger, I looked back to Gandalf for a familiar face and comfort. An empty place where the wizard had slapped me in the face, he had completely gone. He had left me on the doorstep of a stranger like some poor orphan without even a note.
Defeated and tired from a long day on the road, I let out a sigh. Maybe family was never meant to find me.
“I’m sorry, sir, for bothering you,” I whispered, barely a breath. I started to turn away, leaving this childish dream behind. If I started now, I might still be able to find the wizard or at least try to remember my way back to the elven halls.
“No, please,” the hobbit reached out toward my arm. A look of pity crossed his face. “What is your name?” he continued. “Whatever you are searching for, I may be of help,” the hobbit rambled. His warm hand stayed comfortably on my arm.
“Rinantha Took,” I almost said my elvish name out of habit. “Daughter of Elizabella Took, niece of Belladonna.”
The words tripped over each other. As my words came out, the hobbit in front of me turned pale. For a second I thought I had cast black magic on him. His face shifted into shock and quickly washed into something unreadable.
“You… you’re a Took!” he exclaimed frantically. “You are a Took!” He slowed for a second, as if trying to make sense of what he was saying. His eyes searched my face, looking for something, I wasn’t sure he would find. I rocked on the balls of my feet, unsure what to say or do.
“Yes, my mother was a Took,” I confirmed. Unsure what to do, I just stood there half-turned away, ready to leave.
“Oh- oh, how rude of me,” the hobbit said, reading my confusion. He let my arm go and awkwardly rubbed his hands together. “My name is Bilbo Baggins,” he announced, as if his words would clear everything up.
“Bilbo Baggins,” I echoed slowly, speaking as if the words might make more sense.
“Y-yes, yes,” he said. “You are my cousin.”
The words hung in the air like something dangerous and delicate simultaneously. It felt like the whole Shire held its breath for a moment.
The air felt thick and difficult to breathe, as if tiny needles floated around, pricking the back of my throat and eyes. My body had suddenly turned to stone, stiff and rigid. I could not move, even if I wanted to. I very much wanted to spring out of my stone curses and flee as fast as my hobbit feet could take me away.
Bilbo was the first to break out of his frozen statue. He moved calmly, with a rhythm that felt familiar and safe. He started by straightening his nightgown, patting flat the wrinkles that had rolled up in his frantic movements. He followed by slowly opening the green door wider, allowing the warmth from inside to crawl toward me.
I could see into Bag End now. The ceiling was curved, and every wall was decorated meticulously well. My eyes darted behind the hobbit, taking in every colour and shape like a newborn babe. I had not noticed a hand had wrapped around my arm again, cradling it gently.
With a tender pull, Bilbo tried to guide me inside like some skittish critter that could bolt at any chance it got. Almost proving his point, I startled back, taking a step further away from the hobbit.
“Please, come in,” Bilbo voiced, calm, with no hint of uncertainty. “I believe it would be beneficial for both of us to have a chat over some warm food.” He nudged me forward with a little more urgency, though his voice remained calm.
I nodded slowly, not trusting my voice to hold or my tongue to find the right words. I allowed the hobbit to lead me through his home. I tried to take in everything—the paintings that hung on the walls blurred past me too fast, and my eyes lay unsteady, trying to focus on the detailing of the walls and shelves. What I did notice was a rather large chandelier in the front entrance that seemed too big for such a small home.
Swiftly, Bilbo pulled a chair out for me at a large dining table with one placemat. The hobbit started to move around me, mumbling to himself about never being ready for guests, and something about the Baggins’ way. He walked off to the side of the room, to what seemed to be a very large food pantry for presumably one hobbit. He began to muck about in there, grumbling to himself, which gave me some time to gather my thoughts.
In the space of a whisper, I had hoped to find family, then turned to lose it all, and then gained it all back. To follow it all up, I had let a stranger, who claimed to be ‘my cousin,’ drag me into his home. My emotions felt like a dandelion seed swept up in the breeze, whipped and twirled high in the sky, unsure where it would land.
The clatter of plates and cutlery ripped me from my thoughts. A steaming pile of vegetables and two chicken legs, drowned in gravy, sat in front of me. The smell was nearly enough to make me slam my face down into the food and gorge myself. My stomach growled loud enough that I was sure the entire Shire heard it like thunder.
“You should eat up,” Bilbo said firmly, sitting beside me with his own plate. “You are far too scrawny for a hobbit.” He nodded toward my food.
I huffed, amused. “Scrawny” was not a word that had ever been used to describe me. The elves were blunt, but creative; they always found new ways to name what I was in ways that suited them best. They loved to carry on about broken lineage and misshapen grace, dressing their cruelty in jagged compliments, how I might have been a beautiful, real elf, if not for the hobbit. They gossiped and pitied my hobbit half as if it were a curse.
I held close the few who were kind, the ones who truly lived up to the graceful, angelic image they claimed. In truth, not all elves were vain or conceited, but it was hard to forget the mirror-drunk ones, when every hall I grew up in was filled with high-minded fools and silver tongues.
A deep hush filled the hobbit hole, broken only by the soft scraping of cutlery against the plate. I was halfway through the last of my potatoes when a loud sigh pulled my attention. Out of the corner of my eye, Bilbo sat up straight and turned his gaze to me.
“Right, warm food down. Talk is needed now,” he said, pushing his plate toward the center of the table and turning fully to face me.
Dread washed over me. It was time. Time to open that door—if only in the hope of finding my family.
“Yes, I do believe you are right, Mr. Bilbo Baggins,” I said, sitting straighter, careful to sound proper. I pushed my plate away to match him.
“Please, just Bilbo,” he replied with a warm smile.
I nodded. “Very well, Bilbo.”
I hesitated only a moment before continuing. “My full name is Rinantha Peregrin Yesve-Took, daughter of Elizabella Took and Folwin Yesve.” I spoke clearly, lifting my chin slightly as I said their names.
“Yesve…” Bilbo repeated, the word slow with curiosity. “That is… not a hobbit name I know.” He folded his arms, his brow furrowing as he thought.
I tilted my head, watching him. I hadn’t known what to expect from this moment, but the small sting of it still surprised me.
“Well, that would be because it’s an elf name,” I said, more quietly now. I reached up and pulled the loose scarf tighter around my head, letting it fall back just enough to reveal my ears. They jutted through my murky brown hair, sharp and unmistakable.
“Well, I’ll be,” Bilbo breathed. “You are not entirely a hobbit.” He leaned closer, studying my face with open curiosity rather than judgment.
“No, I am not,” I said with a faint, awkward smile.
I drew in a breath. “My parents met on the old road to Erebor. It had grown dangerous, trolls and worse crept within the forest. My father was injured, and my mother found him with her siblings. She nursed him back to health.”
Bilbo nodded along, listening closely.
“She was welcomed into the elven halls for saving one of their own,” I continued. “But when I was born… it strained her place there. Her friendship with the Elvenking suffered.”
I swallowed, my chest tightening.
“She stayed as long as she could. As long as her heart would allow.” My voice faltered, and I forced myself to keep going. “She left with a promise, to write, to return once she had found a safe home.”
My vision blurred, and I dropped my gaze to the table.
“But she… she only wrote once,” I managed, my voice catching. “She—”
“She fell ill,” Bilbo said gently, finishing for me. “Bedridden not long after she returned home.”
I looked up at him sharply.
A quiet sorrow had settled over his face, like a memory long buried rising to the surface. “The healers could not name it. Some said it was sickness from the road. Others…” He hesitated. “Others whispered of darker things.”
He shook his head, as though trying to cast the memory away.
“You knew my mother?” I asked, my voice softer now, edged with something uncertain.
If he had known her… why had he never known of me? Had Elizabella hidden me?
“Only briefly. It was a few years ago now,” he answered carefully. “I was a young hobbit, in my thirties.”
“Thirteen years,” I said quickly. Thirteen years since I received that dreadful letter. Three years later, I lost my father. Ten years I had spent alone in the elven halls.
“Yes, she was weak, but still eager to speak with all her family after sixty-five years,” he said, smiling at memories I could only wish to experience. My mother had been home, surrounded by the people she had told stories about. A sickly feeling grew in my chest; Bilbo had lived the promise that had been given to me. “She was a spitfire of a hobbit. Even bedridden, she made sure the family ran smoothly,” he added with a quiet chuckle.
“She spoke about her family very highly,” I snapped, flinching at the sharpness of my own voice. “I wish I could have been given the chance to experience it.” My tone softened, though envy still laced my words.
“I apologise, I did not mean to bring up painful memories,” Bilbo said quickly, reaching out to place his hands over mine, squeezing them gently. “I merely meant to say your mother was an incredible woman.” His words were sincere, and it made my chest ache.
“She was your aunt too,” I said with a small smile, squeezing his hands in return. That seemed to comfort him enough to let go, and he leaned back in his chair.
“Yes, well, I am excited to learn about her daughter,” he grinned, stretching his arms above his head. He yawned, then rolled his head back to glance at a large, old clock on the wall. “Time, I’m sure, we will have tomorrow, after a good night’s rest.”
Dread crept over me. After all the talking and emotion, I had forgotten to ask about an inn. Surely, they would all be closed for the night, and I had left my bedroll on the missing wizard’s pony.
“I have a spare room, which will be yours until further notice,” Bilbo said, smiling as he caught the panic in my eyes.
“Thank you,” I sighed, overwhelmed with gratitude and exhaustion, my words falling short.
“Come,” Bilbo said, rising to his feet and stepping away from the table. “Follow me.” He beckoned with a gentle wave of his hand.
I followed him once more through his home, this time taking in everything around me. Old relics and heirlooms hung from the walls; bits and pieces from another time filled the shelves, each one telling a story. Portraits watched as I passed, their eyes lingering long enough to make me promise myself I would ask about them another time.
“This is my room, if you need anything,” Bilbo said, patting a closed wooden door. He moved a few steps further down the hall. “And this will be yours.” He opened another rustic door and stepped aside to let me enter.
The room was small, no high elven ceilings or grand, ethereal space, but it was better.
I held my breath. A small hobbit-sized bed sat in the corner beneath a round window, the duvet thick and inviting. Beside it, a desk was tucked neatly into place, as though it had always belonged there. I turned slowly, taking it all in, gratitude swelling in my chest. Barely a hobbit I knew would have offered me a place for the night.
“I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to elf places. It’s a bit dusty, I am sorry—” Bilbo began to ramble.
“No, it’s perfect,” I cut him off gently. “Thank you.” I smiled, and he nodded back.
“Very well. The bathroom is at the end of the hall. If you need anything, call out.” He straightened, stepping back awkwardly. “Breakfast is at eight, and… um, good night.” He gave a small nod before pulling the door closed.
“Good night, Bilbo,” I said softly, lowering myself onto the bed. The soft cushion nearly swallowed me whole.
From the doorway, I caught a glimpse of him smiling back at me.
“Good night, Rinantha,” he yawned.
With that, the door clicked shut, leaving me alone with only a small candle lighting the darkened room.