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Knowing, Not Remembering

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Bilbo Baggins doesn’t remember his Seed.

He was born with a single one, just like both of his parents were. And he lost his when he was a youngling, just like his father did.

(A lot of Seeds were lost during the Fell Winter. It’s just how things go sometimes.)

Bilbo Baggins doesn’t remember his Seed.

It’s alright, because his mother doesn’t mind telling the story of his birth again and again - - of a small hobbit, grown from a dandelion seed, crying his first cries in the garden behind Bag End.

Of a tiny hand clutching an acorn.


Meeting a dwarf called Thorin Oakenshield feels like a joke.

A stupid, non-funny one, possibly made by an infuriating wizard - but a joke nonetheless.


Bilbo signs the contract and follows the dwarf.

He might not remember his Seed, but he remembers his mother’s stories.

Maybe Yavanna likes to give signs through medling wizards. Who Bilbo Baggins is to judge a literal goddess?


The hug on the carrock. Nights at Beorn’s garden.

Whispered conversations in the Elvenking’s dungeons. A shared bedroll in Lake-town.

Those don’t feel like a joke.

Somewhere along the journey it starts to feel like a sign.

Like a promise.


The gold sickness. Almost getting thrown off a god damned wall.

Those do feel like a joke again.


Thorin Oakenshield dies and Bilbo Baggins holds him.

One of the last things he ever said was to Bilbo ‘to plant his trees’.

There is a lonely acorn in Bilbo’s left breast pocket, picked up from Beorn’s garden after a particularly nice night walk.


Bilbo Baggins doesn’t remember his Seed, but he knows.

He knows he knows he knows he knows he knows.

It’s the sickest joke of them all.




Years and years after, when there is a young oak tree growing behind Bag End, a small, sad hobbit boy is brought to Bilbo’s door.

He has dark hair and blue eyes, and no Seed and no family - not anymore.

A sign. A promise.

Bilbo Baggins doesn’t remember his Seed.

But he knows.