Chapter Text
Bungo heard the front door open and close. He hardly had time to look up from his book before Belladonna swept into the sitting room with a large basket and a disturbingly Tookish smile.
Bungo smiled back, disturbingly Tookish or not. It had been a few weeks since he’d seen Belladonna quite so delighted.
“I come bearing mushrooms,” she announced.
Bungo’s eyes locked on the basket she was flourishing. They’d be for supper of course, but perhaps just a small one now …
She knew him too well. She tossed him one even as she took a small one for herself. Her smile turned even more brilliant and just a touch wheedling. “Also, a guest.”
Bungo swallowed quickly. “A guest?” It couldn’t be a simple hobbit caller; Belladonna wouldn’t have hesitated to usher them in to either sitting room or kitchen. Unless - “Has Gandalf come back already? Why, he’s hardly been gone a month! Though he’s welcome, of course,” he tacked on hastily.
“Not Gandalf … “ she hedged.
At this point, their visitor must have grown impatient in the hall. A head poked through the door. The rest of the body followed swiftly.
Bungo gaped.
Their visitor was taller even than Gandalf, which made him quite the biggest person Bungo had ever seen. He could straighten within the room, but the top of his head brushed the ceiling.
And his height was just the easiest oddity to quantify. There was a light in his eyes such as Bungo had never seen before, a light that seemed destined for things far different than their sitting room, no matter how curiously those eyes surveyed it. There was a fire - a power - a, a something. Bungo couldn’t name it. The best he could say was that it reminded him of the one time he had seen Gandalf angry.
He also had pointed ears, which Bungo assumed meant he was an elf.
This was not at all what he had pictured when Belladonna had described her adventures.
“I found him in the woods,” Belladonna explained. “He seemed rather lost, so I tried to talk to him, only he doesn’t speak much Sindarin and doesn’t at all speak Westron, so I tried a bit of Quenya, only my pronunciation is terrible and I couldn’t remember much, so we both had to muddle through quite a lot. I think he said that something went wrong on his journey and he ended up in the wrong place, but I couldn’t quite catch what the trouble was.”
Bungo realized he was still gaping. He shut his mouth with a snap.
The movement drew the elf’s attention to him. “Hello,” he said carefully, in strangely accented Westron.
“I taught him that,” Belladonna said, looking proud of herself. “He learns very fast.”
“Hello,” Bungo said in a rather strangled voice. That would never do. This was a guest, no matter how strange, and he must be made welcome. He stood up, brushed the wrinkles from his clothes, and crossed the room to offer his hand. “Bungo Baggins, at your service.”
The elf’s eyebrows furrowed. Bungo looked helplessly at his wife.
Belladonna, thank heavens, caught on instantly. “Belladonna,” she said, patting her own chest. She held out her own hand and shook Bungo’s. “Belladonna, at your service.”
“Bungo, at yours,” Bungo said gamely, trying to ignore the absurdity of reintroducing himself to his wife.
But the elf’s brow cleared. He held out his own hand, “Feanor,” he said before echoing the rest of the words. “At your service.”
“Bungo, at yours,” he said in considerably relief, shaking Feanor’s hand vigorously.
“I thought that might do the trick,” Belladonna said in satisfaction. “I introduced myself earlier in a much cruder fashion, but now he knows both your name and the proper greeting. That should help if the neighbors show up.”
Bungo reclaimed his hand. “The neighbors,” he repeated. “Er … How long does he intend to stay?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Belladonna admitted, perching on the arm of her favorite chair. “He says he’s looking for his son, I’m sure of that much. I’m not quite sure what happened there - I think his son might have come to some mischief on an adventure and gotten rather turned about.”
This was commonplace enough for a Took and not at all in the normal way for a Baggins. Bungo had certainly never thought of elves as being at all akin to the Baggins clan, but it was still rather startling to think them similar to Tooks.
“So he’ll be wanting to be getting on with that then?” He shot a look at the elf and wondered what he was making of all this. But Feanor didn’t look at all frustrated, just intensely interested, like he was puzzling out the language even as they spoke.
“I’m sure he does,” Belladonna agreed. “Only - he didn’t have any supplies when I found him, and as I said, he barely has any Westron. And I don’t know quite how long it’s been since his son set out, I’m sure I must have misunderstood that part, but I don’t think a week here or there will matter much at this point. I thought maybe he could stay here for a bit to take a look at my maps and learn the language a bit better.”
He couldn’t even begin to imagine what the neighbors would think. “And what does he want? Er, you? What do you think?”
Belladonna relayed the question in cobbled together words and gestures.
Feanor nodded decisively and said something in the flowing tongue Bungo had heard his wife singing in sometimes.
“He’s very eager to see his son,” Belladonna reported, “but he has little idea where to look and thinks some preparation would be wise this time.” She frowned. “I suppose that implies there was a last time. I wonder what happened then.” She shrugged this off and smiled at him winningly.
Bungo floundered for an objection, and then caught himself firmly when he realized what he was doing. Feanor was a guest and was owed hospitality. His staying here would make his wife very happy. The neighbors would just have to mind their own business for once.
“I shall start up supper if you’ll prepare the guest room for him,” he offered, shooting a glance at the almost forgotten mushrooms. “Although I don’t suppose he’ll fit on the bed.”
Belladonna’s smile was brilliant. She hopped off her chair and flung her arms around him. “Oh, Bungo! I knew you’d be alright with it. And I’m sure the bed will do well enough; it always does for Gandalf.” She hurried away to prepare the room.
Bungo sighed and picked up the basket. “Mushroom?” He held one out to Feanor reluctantly.
Feanor shook his head decisively.
It appeared they wouldn’t have to split the mushrooms three ways after all. Bungo’s spirits lifted considerably.
(A week later, Feanor was the talk of the Shire and had already learned enough Westron to realize it. Consequently, when the door was knocked on yet again, he thought he might as well be the one to answer it. Perhaps if whoever it was got a good look at him from the start, they wouldn’t insist on coming in.
He pulled the door open with perhaps slightly more than necessary force. A harried old man in grey, considerably taller than Feanor had expected, stood outside of it.
Then Feanor saw beneath the shell.
He was comforted by the fact that the Maia’s shock was at least the equal of his own.)