by Rabidsamfan
Bilbo retreated into the newly positioned chair and settled down to look at the tiny hobbitling in his arms. You could never really tell what a newborn baby was going to look like when it grew older, but even in the crumpled newness of it, this one had a look that made think of the old stories
about the faery wife. “Suilad, tithen mín*,” he said softly.
The baby’s eyes opened and studied him with sleepy solemnity for a long moment before taking on the puzzled air that all babies seemed to have when studying the world. “Don’t know what to make of me, do you?” Bilbo
asked it, ignoring the delighted exclamations from the bed as Primula and Drogo discovered the bottle of Old Winyards wrapped in the center of the fine new goosefeather bed. “Well I know what you are: another twelve-mile cousin
come to plague me.” He reached into his pocket and found the silver rattle, bringing it out to shake gently before the baby’s eyes. “It won’t work you know,” he whispered. “You’ll have to bring me a present too.”
*Greetings, Little One