Mind Your Feet (August SR 1401) [TA 3001] - [One Shot]
May 7, 2018 19:00:18 GMT -5
Post by Bramble Pricklebottom on May 7, 2018 19:00:18 GMT -5
“Well, Bramble,” she had been greeted with that morning a few days past as she passed once more through the entry to the Mathom-house. The young hobbit often dillyed and dalleyed there, looking at the extensive collection stuffed into the halls and rooms of the modest stone building. “Seems Old Master Baggins’ll be needing that shirt back.” There the curator had stood, pudgy hand clutching the elegantly written letter, broken wax seal shining in the sunlight that streamed through the clean round windows. “Next week the old hobbit himself’ll be here to pick it up.”
Bramble’s heart dropped, and that day she spent a good long while looking at the gleaming white metal shirt that had sat in the Mathom-house for as long as she had been visiting. A gift from a dwarven king, there under her very nose! It seemed a strange thing to give, by her humble hobbit opinion. Though, perhaps the dwarves also practiced the giving of mathoms. There had been talk of a Durin’s Day, in the stories that had circulated through the Shire from Bilbo himself. Bramble wondered if such a day was alike to a birthday, and if those mountain folk practiced much the same traditions as the quaint folk of the Shire when it came to such matters.
There was, of course, no real answer, for Bramble herself would never speak to one of the hardy folk from beyond the borders; they would not come to the Delving, though rumor was passing that they skirted about the outside of the borders. Still, no self respecting Pricklebottom was going to head out all that way—she certainly was not a Took! Equally as much of a mystery, though, was why Master Baggins wanted his mathom back. Though, she supposed there had been whispers coming from the Bywater travelers that the old hobbit was cracking, or had cracked outright. She could not keep the chatter straight.
Day had broken, though, a week later. It was the morning of August the twelfth, the day the letter from Master Baggins had said he would arrive to claim that which he desired. Bramble shot from her bed with a haste to her day that was odd for a proud Pricklebottom, though the young hobbit was indeed in a rush. She had cleared her schedule of all other things, save the ever important meals that a respectable hobbit never let slide; the Mathom-house would open that morning, and Bramble had every intention of being at its door when it did so.
A curiosity—though, certainly not a Tookish one—had captured her over the strange Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. Whoever would not wish to catch sight of the most famous of hobbits of their own time, one said to have seen and fought a dragon with naught but a Tookish pluck? He had brought back the whole hoard of the wyrm’s treasure, and mathoms few wished to part with. The shirt Bramble had admired for many years one of them.
The curator, with his white hair and round middle, stood upon the stoop as she made her way toward the door. His eyes were bright despite the seemingly permanent scowl upon his face. “Bramble Pricklebottom,” he called to her, clapping his hand to his stomach as was often his way. “I knew you’d be here today, mark my words. Told my wife as sure as there’s berries taking to the garden, that young Pricklebottom’ll be at the Mathom-house to send off that shirt.” His words were rather blithe for the sternness of his expression; Bramble often wondered if the hobbit had forgotten how to use the muscles of his face.
“Good morning, Master Bracegirdle,” the young hobbit offered cheerily in reply. She carried upon her arm a basket of baked scones, a jar of strawberry preserve and clotted cream, and a knife for sharing. After all, she did not know when Master Baggins would arrive, and neither she nor Master Bracegirdle wished to second breakfast or elevenses.
“Come in, come in,” the curator chuffed, turning his large feet and laying hand upon the door with the jingle of keys. “Master Baggins isn’t here yet, though who knows when he’ll show. Arrives precisely when he means to, that one.” The door was opened, and out wafted the familiar scent of the Mathom-house. Wood and metal, the musty, perfect fragrance of old books; it hit Bramble’s nose nearly as well as a fine meal, and contentedly the hobbit sighed.
Inside the nice building, full to bursting with objects organized in all sorts of manners, the mathoms greeted Bramble as if old friends. There, in the far corner, was a long wooden stick that appeared to be little more than a felled tree limb: the great and large club of Bandobras Took, the stick that helped win the Battle of Greenfields and invented the Shire’s favorite sport. The Tooks of Longcleave had, for a time, kept the club as a mathom in their own home. Though, Bullroarer was so much taller than the rest of the hobbits, even his own kin, that it became troublesome to have about. After an unfortunate run-in with a fresh set of china, the Tooks had sent the mathom there to be housed for all of the halflings of the Shire to marvel at.
Another. Upon a small table was a hat with a notable hole upon its top that was said to have at one time belonged to the Tobold Hornblower himself. There was no right use for a hat with a hole in the top, though Bramble had heard that the Hornblowers had, for a time, used it as a planter for the Old Toby pipeweed itself. Ultimately, it could not take root, and had found its way here to sit amongst the other mathoms of note.
Beside that, a simple pair of boots. A strange thing to find in Michel Delving, to be certain. Yet, curiosities were what the Mathom-house was for.
Still, for all the House's many curiosities, it was the gleaming silver-white rings of the shirt from the Master of Bag End himself Bramble approached that morning. Against the sunlight peeking in through the round glass, the coat sparkled and gleamed as silver, though purer. It was not its beauty, though, that called the young hobbit to it, entranced in a way—truthfully, the chain itself was far too over the top and unnecessary for any respectable hobbit—it was, in fact, the story behind such a gift that set her mind to wandering.
Folk all over the Delving talked about Bilbo Baggins, how he had died, and come back to life, richer than any other hobbit and with tales of dragons and uncomfortable adventures. Those rings, that silver-white metal shirt, was proof the rumors were true. Dragons and mountains, hobbits vanishing off with dwarves, dying and returning…
The tales for the young Pricklebottom, like many of the other hobbits of the Shire, awakened something—certainly not Tookish—that made the heart ponder great visions. Ones that did not make her seek to adventure, by any means, but turned her cozy nook of a room into all the lifestyle she would need.
There were no need for dragons and big folk if one could simply see a wyrm's hoard from the comfort of the Michel Delving. Only hobbits looking for trouble looked beyond the borders of the Shire.
The morning was Baggins free, though many a hobbit passed through the Mathom-house for one last look at the shirt that Bilbo had donated. Bramble served her scones and jam upon the hour of eleven, as was only right and good for she and Curator Bracegirdle. It was no hard feat to clear away every crumb from the basket, the old hobbit setting his feet up upon a stool as he sighed in content. “Good work as always, Bramble,” Master Bracegirdle remarked.
All hobbits had a gift in the kitchen, yet Bramble smiled and thanked him politely nonetheless, as was proper. With lunch a few hours away, and Bilbo Baggins still not darkening the doorway, Bramble rose and made her way back to the coat of rings. Whyever dragons cared for shiny things and wealth, Bramble could not fathom. There were finer things; hot tea, freshly steeped, a well-made meal, a good armchair and a well-tended garden and hearth.
“Pretty thing, isn’t it?” A voice, chipper and bright in its lowness questioned.
With a gasp, Bramble turned, finding herself face to face with a cheery looking hobbit wearing a vest green as springtime trees with brass buttons of acorns upon its breast. The young Pricklebottom was so taken aback by the sudden appearance of the dusty-haired individual her words tumbled forth in chokes of disjointed syllables.
The hobbit, though, seemed not to mind, and clasped his hands behind his back as he paced a step around her. His keen eye settled with a glint upon the silver-white rings with familiarity, a sigh rising forth from his chest. “Light as a feather,” he offered next. “It’s come a long way to sit here.”
Bramble eyed the hobbit, wondering for a moment on the gentlehobbit’s mind. “From beyond the border,” she offered.
“Ah, yes,” the hobbit smiled, his cheeks pulling upward in fondness. “Far beyond.”
“A gift of kings,” Bramble offered next. She knew the story, in all of its iterations. Hobbits were, naturally, inclined to offer new details of a story with each retelling. The young Pricklebottom was keen enough to know which ones had a Shire-touch, though even the tales that seemed to come from those who had heard it from Master Baggins himself used words that seemed nigh unbelievable.
“Hm,” the hobbit’s face for a moment darkened, though wistful his expression remained. Memory danced before him; Bramble could nearly see the pictures passing before him. Whoever this was, his next words were strange; yet, somehow, not unexpected. “Ever wondered what it’s like out there, Miss…?”
“Pricklebottom,” Bramble answered. “Bramble Pricklebottom.”
“Pricklebottom,” the hobbit repeated, a look of incredulity for a moment passing over his face. Still, he moved on and made no remark on the oddity of the name; perhaps it was because he himself was odd in his own way. “Well, have you, Miss Pricklebottom?”
“Out there? You mean an adventure?” the young hobbit uttered hurriedly. The word itself seemed horrific, and Bramble’s pink, round cheeks drained of color. “No, Master Hobbit. I’m a good hobbit—don’t stick my nose into trouble.”
The older hobbit, though, looked at her with a small smirk, a knowing glint within his eye. Bramble felt her stomach warm and cheeks flush in a wash of embarrassment. “Ah, I see,” he offered, pulling his eyes away and looking once more to the silver-white shirt. “Well then, Miss Pricklebottom. It's a dangerous business going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.” He smirked to her. “I tell my nephew the same,” he added with a small chuckle. “Once you go, there’s no promise you’ll come back—but if you do, you won’t be the same.”
The words were odd; it was as if he did not think they were altogether negative. Bramble tilted her head, mind stirring in thought. He spoke with knowledge, she could tell—a familiarity to change, perhaps. Her heart lifted in pace, and slowly she pressed, “Who—?”
“Master Baggins!” Curator Bracegirdle bellowed jovially, finally emerging from the back of the Mathom-house where he had been speaking with some folk of the Delving come to dally about the collection for the day.
Bramble’s face went white, and she looked to the hobbit with newfound wonder. Bilbo Baggins turned, smiling at the curator with that jolly gleam once more upon his face. “Fulco Bracegirdle! Looking well, I see,” he laughed. “Particularly there in the middle.”
The curator laughed, hand clapping against his stomach as he had earlier that morning. “Not near as good as you,” Fulco countered. “We got your letter. Young Bramble here’ll be right sorry to see your coat go.”
Bilbo looked to Bramble, and she shyly dropped her eyes to the hair upon her feet, curling her toes as she clasped her hands before her. “Well, my girl, know it shall be well cared for.”
“Of course, Master Baggins,” Bramble managed to eke in reply. “Thank you, sir, for letting us see it here.”
Bilbo chuckled. “Wasn’t a problem, my girl. Wasn’t a problem at all.” Again he looked to her, a gleam to his eye that Bramble felt laid her spirit quite bare. She flushed, the whiteness being chased from her cheeks in favor of a rose-pink, like those of her father’s rose bushes.
“Excuse me, Master Baggins,” Bramble nearly gasped, the words came so quickly. “It’s getting near lunchtime, and I should like to be home.”
Bilbo smiled. “Wouldn’t want to keep you. Good morning, Miss Pricklebottom,” he offered to her brightly. Hurriedly, the young hobbit offered a nod in farewell and made for the front door of the Mathom-house. As her hand touched the knob of the circular door, though, his voice carried to her again, a smirk audible in the music of his tone. “Mind your feet.”
One last look Bramble offered over her shoulder, eyes wide. “Yes,” she answered after a moment. “…Good morning, Master Baggins.”
Quickly, the young hobbit pressed through the doorway and out into the late morning light of the Delving. “Mind your feet,” she repeated to herself, looking first to the tight curled hair upon her toes, then up and down the street. Halflings toddled and waddled up and down the way, low chatter and pleasant ‘good mornings’ being called to one another. Bramble, though, could hardly hear them. “Mind your feet.”
She hesitated, wondering what would happen if she stepped from the stoop of the Mathom-house, found her way beyond the borders. To caves of treasure, to trolls, to dragons. To see the elves, the dwarves, the world of the big folk…
The young hobbit gasped. “Absolutely not, Bramble Pricklebottom,” she told herself firmly, running her hands down the sides of her skirts. “Off home with you. No adventures today!”
Not caring for the strange eyes that fell upon her, Bramble rocked from the doorway and took off at a steady pace, back toward her armchair, her mathoms, and her welcoming kitchen—a place entirely free of anything that could resemble what happened beyond the borders. Lunch was enough for this Pricklebottom!
Truly, there was no ounce of Took in her!
Bramble’s heart dropped, and that day she spent a good long while looking at the gleaming white metal shirt that had sat in the Mathom-house for as long as she had been visiting. A gift from a dwarven king, there under her very nose! It seemed a strange thing to give, by her humble hobbit opinion. Though, perhaps the dwarves also practiced the giving of mathoms. There had been talk of a Durin’s Day, in the stories that had circulated through the Shire from Bilbo himself. Bramble wondered if such a day was alike to a birthday, and if those mountain folk practiced much the same traditions as the quaint folk of the Shire when it came to such matters.
There was, of course, no real answer, for Bramble herself would never speak to one of the hardy folk from beyond the borders; they would not come to the Delving, though rumor was passing that they skirted about the outside of the borders. Still, no self respecting Pricklebottom was going to head out all that way—she certainly was not a Took! Equally as much of a mystery, though, was why Master Baggins wanted his mathom back. Though, she supposed there had been whispers coming from the Bywater travelers that the old hobbit was cracking, or had cracked outright. She could not keep the chatter straight.
Day had broken, though, a week later. It was the morning of August the twelfth, the day the letter from Master Baggins had said he would arrive to claim that which he desired. Bramble shot from her bed with a haste to her day that was odd for a proud Pricklebottom, though the young hobbit was indeed in a rush. She had cleared her schedule of all other things, save the ever important meals that a respectable hobbit never let slide; the Mathom-house would open that morning, and Bramble had every intention of being at its door when it did so.
A curiosity—though, certainly not a Tookish one—had captured her over the strange Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. Whoever would not wish to catch sight of the most famous of hobbits of their own time, one said to have seen and fought a dragon with naught but a Tookish pluck? He had brought back the whole hoard of the wyrm’s treasure, and mathoms few wished to part with. The shirt Bramble had admired for many years one of them.
The curator, with his white hair and round middle, stood upon the stoop as she made her way toward the door. His eyes were bright despite the seemingly permanent scowl upon his face. “Bramble Pricklebottom,” he called to her, clapping his hand to his stomach as was often his way. “I knew you’d be here today, mark my words. Told my wife as sure as there’s berries taking to the garden, that young Pricklebottom’ll be at the Mathom-house to send off that shirt.” His words were rather blithe for the sternness of his expression; Bramble often wondered if the hobbit had forgotten how to use the muscles of his face.
“Good morning, Master Bracegirdle,” the young hobbit offered cheerily in reply. She carried upon her arm a basket of baked scones, a jar of strawberry preserve and clotted cream, and a knife for sharing. After all, she did not know when Master Baggins would arrive, and neither she nor Master Bracegirdle wished to second breakfast or elevenses.
“Come in, come in,” the curator chuffed, turning his large feet and laying hand upon the door with the jingle of keys. “Master Baggins isn’t here yet, though who knows when he’ll show. Arrives precisely when he means to, that one.” The door was opened, and out wafted the familiar scent of the Mathom-house. Wood and metal, the musty, perfect fragrance of old books; it hit Bramble’s nose nearly as well as a fine meal, and contentedly the hobbit sighed.
Inside the nice building, full to bursting with objects organized in all sorts of manners, the mathoms greeted Bramble as if old friends. There, in the far corner, was a long wooden stick that appeared to be little more than a felled tree limb: the great and large club of Bandobras Took, the stick that helped win the Battle of Greenfields and invented the Shire’s favorite sport. The Tooks of Longcleave had, for a time, kept the club as a mathom in their own home. Though, Bullroarer was so much taller than the rest of the hobbits, even his own kin, that it became troublesome to have about. After an unfortunate run-in with a fresh set of china, the Tooks had sent the mathom there to be housed for all of the halflings of the Shire to marvel at.
Another. Upon a small table was a hat with a notable hole upon its top that was said to have at one time belonged to the Tobold Hornblower himself. There was no right use for a hat with a hole in the top, though Bramble had heard that the Hornblowers had, for a time, used it as a planter for the Old Toby pipeweed itself. Ultimately, it could not take root, and had found its way here to sit amongst the other mathoms of note.
Beside that, a simple pair of boots. A strange thing to find in Michel Delving, to be certain. Yet, curiosities were what the Mathom-house was for.
Still, for all the House's many curiosities, it was the gleaming silver-white rings of the shirt from the Master of Bag End himself Bramble approached that morning. Against the sunlight peeking in through the round glass, the coat sparkled and gleamed as silver, though purer. It was not its beauty, though, that called the young hobbit to it, entranced in a way—truthfully, the chain itself was far too over the top and unnecessary for any respectable hobbit—it was, in fact, the story behind such a gift that set her mind to wandering.
Folk all over the Delving talked about Bilbo Baggins, how he had died, and come back to life, richer than any other hobbit and with tales of dragons and uncomfortable adventures. Those rings, that silver-white metal shirt, was proof the rumors were true. Dragons and mountains, hobbits vanishing off with dwarves, dying and returning…
The tales for the young Pricklebottom, like many of the other hobbits of the Shire, awakened something—certainly not Tookish—that made the heart ponder great visions. Ones that did not make her seek to adventure, by any means, but turned her cozy nook of a room into all the lifestyle she would need.
There were no need for dragons and big folk if one could simply see a wyrm's hoard from the comfort of the Michel Delving. Only hobbits looking for trouble looked beyond the borders of the Shire.
The morning was Baggins free, though many a hobbit passed through the Mathom-house for one last look at the shirt that Bilbo had donated. Bramble served her scones and jam upon the hour of eleven, as was only right and good for she and Curator Bracegirdle. It was no hard feat to clear away every crumb from the basket, the old hobbit setting his feet up upon a stool as he sighed in content. “Good work as always, Bramble,” Master Bracegirdle remarked.
All hobbits had a gift in the kitchen, yet Bramble smiled and thanked him politely nonetheless, as was proper. With lunch a few hours away, and Bilbo Baggins still not darkening the doorway, Bramble rose and made her way back to the coat of rings. Whyever dragons cared for shiny things and wealth, Bramble could not fathom. There were finer things; hot tea, freshly steeped, a well-made meal, a good armchair and a well-tended garden and hearth.
“Pretty thing, isn’t it?” A voice, chipper and bright in its lowness questioned.
With a gasp, Bramble turned, finding herself face to face with a cheery looking hobbit wearing a vest green as springtime trees with brass buttons of acorns upon its breast. The young Pricklebottom was so taken aback by the sudden appearance of the dusty-haired individual her words tumbled forth in chokes of disjointed syllables.
The hobbit, though, seemed not to mind, and clasped his hands behind his back as he paced a step around her. His keen eye settled with a glint upon the silver-white rings with familiarity, a sigh rising forth from his chest. “Light as a feather,” he offered next. “It’s come a long way to sit here.”
Bramble eyed the hobbit, wondering for a moment on the gentlehobbit’s mind. “From beyond the border,” she offered.
“Ah, yes,” the hobbit smiled, his cheeks pulling upward in fondness. “Far beyond.”
“A gift of kings,” Bramble offered next. She knew the story, in all of its iterations. Hobbits were, naturally, inclined to offer new details of a story with each retelling. The young Pricklebottom was keen enough to know which ones had a Shire-touch, though even the tales that seemed to come from those who had heard it from Master Baggins himself used words that seemed nigh unbelievable.
“Hm,” the hobbit’s face for a moment darkened, though wistful his expression remained. Memory danced before him; Bramble could nearly see the pictures passing before him. Whoever this was, his next words were strange; yet, somehow, not unexpected. “Ever wondered what it’s like out there, Miss…?”
“Pricklebottom,” Bramble answered. “Bramble Pricklebottom.”
“Pricklebottom,” the hobbit repeated, a look of incredulity for a moment passing over his face. Still, he moved on and made no remark on the oddity of the name; perhaps it was because he himself was odd in his own way. “Well, have you, Miss Pricklebottom?”
“Out there? You mean an adventure?” the young hobbit uttered hurriedly. The word itself seemed horrific, and Bramble’s pink, round cheeks drained of color. “No, Master Hobbit. I’m a good hobbit—don’t stick my nose into trouble.”
The older hobbit, though, looked at her with a small smirk, a knowing glint within his eye. Bramble felt her stomach warm and cheeks flush in a wash of embarrassment. “Ah, I see,” he offered, pulling his eyes away and looking once more to the silver-white shirt. “Well then, Miss Pricklebottom. It's a dangerous business going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.” He smirked to her. “I tell my nephew the same,” he added with a small chuckle. “Once you go, there’s no promise you’ll come back—but if you do, you won’t be the same.”
The words were odd; it was as if he did not think they were altogether negative. Bramble tilted her head, mind stirring in thought. He spoke with knowledge, she could tell—a familiarity to change, perhaps. Her heart lifted in pace, and slowly she pressed, “Who—?”
“Master Baggins!” Curator Bracegirdle bellowed jovially, finally emerging from the back of the Mathom-house where he had been speaking with some folk of the Delving come to dally about the collection for the day.
Bramble’s face went white, and she looked to the hobbit with newfound wonder. Bilbo Baggins turned, smiling at the curator with that jolly gleam once more upon his face. “Fulco Bracegirdle! Looking well, I see,” he laughed. “Particularly there in the middle.”
The curator laughed, hand clapping against his stomach as he had earlier that morning. “Not near as good as you,” Fulco countered. “We got your letter. Young Bramble here’ll be right sorry to see your coat go.”
Bilbo looked to Bramble, and she shyly dropped her eyes to the hair upon her feet, curling her toes as she clasped her hands before her. “Well, my girl, know it shall be well cared for.”
“Of course, Master Baggins,” Bramble managed to eke in reply. “Thank you, sir, for letting us see it here.”
Bilbo chuckled. “Wasn’t a problem, my girl. Wasn’t a problem at all.” Again he looked to her, a gleam to his eye that Bramble felt laid her spirit quite bare. She flushed, the whiteness being chased from her cheeks in favor of a rose-pink, like those of her father’s rose bushes.
“Excuse me, Master Baggins,” Bramble nearly gasped, the words came so quickly. “It’s getting near lunchtime, and I should like to be home.”
Bilbo smiled. “Wouldn’t want to keep you. Good morning, Miss Pricklebottom,” he offered to her brightly. Hurriedly, the young hobbit offered a nod in farewell and made for the front door of the Mathom-house. As her hand touched the knob of the circular door, though, his voice carried to her again, a smirk audible in the music of his tone. “Mind your feet.”
One last look Bramble offered over her shoulder, eyes wide. “Yes,” she answered after a moment. “…Good morning, Master Baggins.”
Quickly, the young hobbit pressed through the doorway and out into the late morning light of the Delving. “Mind your feet,” she repeated to herself, looking first to the tight curled hair upon her toes, then up and down the street. Halflings toddled and waddled up and down the way, low chatter and pleasant ‘good mornings’ being called to one another. Bramble, though, could hardly hear them. “Mind your feet.”
She hesitated, wondering what would happen if she stepped from the stoop of the Mathom-house, found her way beyond the borders. To caves of treasure, to trolls, to dragons. To see the elves, the dwarves, the world of the big folk…
The young hobbit gasped. “Absolutely not, Bramble Pricklebottom,” she told herself firmly, running her hands down the sides of her skirts. “Off home with you. No adventures today!”
Not caring for the strange eyes that fell upon her, Bramble rocked from the doorway and took off at a steady pace, back toward her armchair, her mathoms, and her welcoming kitchen—a place entirely free of anything that could resemble what happened beyond the borders. Lunch was enough for this Pricklebottom!
Truly, there was no ounce of Took in her!