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The return to the Shire was supposed to be a quiet affair. After the fire of the dragon, the clash of five armies, and the wearying politics of a newly reclaimed kingdom, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, or what remained of the travelers who could spare the time, wanted nothing more than to see the green rolling hills their Burglar had pined for.
Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, Fili, and Kili had made the trek, much to the shock of the Bree-landers who had never seen so much royal Dwarven braid in one place. They had spent months hearing about the comforts of Bag End, the quality of the ale, and the "properness" of Hobbit society.
As they crossed the bridge into Hobbiton, the Dwarves were struck by the sheer domesticity of the place. It was soft. It was round. It was, as Dwalin noted, "practically begging for someone to come along and tidy the garden."
"Just you wait," Bilbo said, his chest puffing out with a bit of hometown pride. "We shall have a proper tea, a fireplace that doesn't smell of wet pine, and no one, I repeat, no one, will ask us to climb a mountain."
They were walking up the lane toward Bag End when a stout Hobbit woman in a vibrant yellow apron looked up from her flowerbeds. Her eyes widened as she saw the tall, armored Dwarves, but then they landed on Bilbo.
"Oh! Well, if it isn't Bilbo-lad back from the dead!" she chirped, waving a trowel. "We all thought you’d been eaten by a wolf, or worse, moved to Bree! You look a bit peaky, dear. Have you been eating enough? You’re looking rather thin in the face, Billy-bo."
Bilbo flushed a deep, rosy red. "Fine, Mrs. Rumble, thank you! Just a bit of travel, you know how it is. And I’ve eaten plenty, I assure you!"
The Dwarves stopped dead in their tracks.
"Billy-bo?" Kili whispered, his shoulders beginning to shake with suppressed laughter. "Did she just call the Slayer of Spiders 'Billy-bo'?"
"And 'Bilbo-lad'," Fili added, grinning ear to ear. "I thought your name was Bilbo. Just... Bilbo."
Bilbo ignored them, quickening his pace. "It’s just a neighborly thing. Hobbits are very... affectionate with their vowels. Don't read into it."
The real trouble started at the market square. The Company needed to pick up some fresh supplies, mostly because Bilbo refused to let them eat "trail rations" while a bakery was within walking distance.
The Mayor of Hobbiton, a pompous Hobbit with a gold chain across his belly, spotted them and hurried over. He pulled out a large, official-looking scroll.
"Ah! Master Baggins! We were just about to finalize the auction of your estate. I shall need you to sign the 'Return from the Presumed Deceased' affidavit immediately. If you could just put your full, legal name here, Bilba-lo, we can put this unpleasantness to bed."
Bilbo sighed, took the quill, and signed the paper with a quick, practiced hand.
Thorin, curiosity getting the better of him, leaned over Bilbo’s shoulder to look at the document. He expected to see Bilbo Baggins. Instead, his eyes landed on a long, elegant string of letters that looked nothing like the name he had shouted across battlefields for a year.
Bilba-lo was there, but it was preceded by something much more elaborate.
"Bilba-lo?" Thorin asked, his voice a low rumble of confusion. "What is this? Is this some Hobbit title?"
Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "It’s my name, Thorin."
"But your name is Bilbo," Dwalin stated, as if he were correcting a child on the color of the sky. "We have the contract. We have the letters. It says 'Bilbo Baggins'."
"That," Bilbo said, turning to face them with a look of profound exhaustion, "is my nickname. My 'Short Name.' Most Hobbits outside the Shire, and quite a few inside it, use nicknames. They’re easier to say, they’re less stuffy, and they don't require three breaths to finish."
The Dwarves crowded around the market table, ignoring the startled looks of the local Hobbits.
"If Bilbo is the nickname," Fili asked, his eyes dancing with delight, "then what is the real one? Come on, Bilba-lo, out with it. We’ve shared blood and battle; surely we can handle a few extra syllables."
Bilbo looked around the square. Every Hobbit within earshot was watching with interest. He realized there was no escape.
"Fine," Bilbo huffed. "My full, formal, christening name, the one written in the Great Smials and the one my mother used when I’d tracked mud onto her good rug, is Bilba-lo-manthus Baggins."
The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of a distant cow lowing.
"Bilba-lo-manthus," Thorin repeated slowly. He tasted the word, his tongue tripping over the 'manthus' part. "It sounds... floral. Like a bush."
"It is a traditional Tookish naming convention!" Bilbo defended, his hands on his hips. "My mother was a Took, and Tooks love long, grand names. It’s supposed to sound ancient and noble. But obviously, you can't go around saying 'Bilba-lo-manthus, pass the butter' every morning. You’d be late for lunch before you finished the sentence! So, everyone just says Bilbo."
"Or Billy-bo," Kili added helpfully.
"Or Bobo," Pippin’s father, Paladin, called out as he walked past with a basket of apples. "Good to have you back, Bobo! Coming for tea later?"
"Yes, Paladin, thank you!" Bilbo shouted back, his face now the color of a ripe beet.
They finally reached the sanctuary of Bag End. Once the door was shut and the kettle was on the boil, the Dwarves refused to let the subject drop. They sat in the parlor, their large frames making the Hobbit-chairs look like dollhouse furniture.
"I don't understand," Balin said, puffing on his pipe. "Dwarves take great pride in our names. They are carved in stone. They are our lineage. Why would you hide your true name under a... a 'Bobo'?"
"It’s not hiding, Balin," Bilbo explained, setting out the tea service. "It’s a matter of intimacy. In the Shire, your full name is for weddings, funerals, and legal trouble. If someone uses your full name, it means you’re either getting married or you’re about to be scolded."
He sat down, pouring the tea with a steady hand. "Nicknames are a way of showing where someone stands in your life. To the world, I am Bilbo. To my neighbors, I am Billy-bo or Bilbo-lad. To my cousins, I am Bobo. And to my mother, when she was particularly cross, I was Bilba-lo-manthus, You Troublesome Scamp."
"We called you 'The Halfling' for months," Thorin mused, looking into his teacup. "And then 'Master Baggins.' And finally 'Bilbo.' We thought we were being familiar."
"You were!" Bilbo smiled. "In Hobbit terms, calling someone by their common nickname is a sign of deep friendship. If you had called me Bilba-lo-manthus on the road, I probably would have fainted from the formality of it."
As the days went by, the Dwarves began to notice the sheer variety of "pet names" the Hobbits used for one another. It wasn't just Bilbo.
They met a young Hobbit named Peregrin, whom everyone called Pippin, or Pip, or Pipsqueak.
But the most entertaining part for the Company was how the pet names changed based on the "mood" of the Shire.
When they went to the Green Dragon Inn, Bilbo was greeted by a chorus of: "Hey, B-man!" "Good to see you, Little Master!" "Looking sharp, Baggins-boy!"
Kili leaned over to Bilbo, nudging him with an elbow. "I think 'B-man' is my favorite. It sounds like you’re a professional thief of some renown."
"It sounds ridiculous," Bilbo muttered, though he was grinning.
By the end of the week, the Company had decided to join in. If this was how Hobbits showed affection, they weren't going to be left out.
It started with Kili. "Pass the scones, Billy."
Bilbo paused, his spoon hovering over the jam. He looked at Kili, expecting a tease, but the young Dwarf’s expression was perfectly sincere.
Then came Dwalin. "Good pipe, Lad."
Finally, Thorin, who had been the most resistant to the "undignified" nature of the nicknames, stood up to head to bed. He paused at the door of the parlor and looked back at Bilbo, who was tidying the hearth.
"Goodnight... Bilba-lo."
Bilbo froze. He looked up, his eyes wide. Thorin didn't say it with a laugh. He said it with a weight of respect, as if he were acknowledging the "noble and ancient" name Bilbo had tried to hide.
"Goodnight, Thorin," Bilbo said softly.
The next morning, as they prepared for a walk through the Woods, Bilbo sat on his porch, smoking a bit of Old Toby.
"You know," Bilbo said to the gathered Dwarves, "you all have very 'stony' names. Thorin, Dwalin, Balin... they’re very grand. But they’re a bit... stiff for a Tuesday morning in the Shire."
The Dwarves looked at him suspiciously.
"I’ve decided," Bilbo continued, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Since you’re in my home, you need proper Shire names. Thorin, you shall be Thorny. Dwalin, you are Dwalie. Balin is Bal-bal. And Kili and Fili... well, you’re clearly Kiki and Fifi."
The silence was even longer than the one in the market square.
Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, Descendant of Durin, stared at the Hobbit. "Thorny?"
"It’s a pet name!" Bilbo chirped, standing up and dusting off his trousers. "It shows affection! Now, come along, Kiki, Fifi. We don't want to miss the mid-morning snack at the Gamgees'!"
As Bilbo marched down the lane, humming a jaunty tune, the Dwarves looked at each other in horror.
"I am not 'Fifi'," Fili whispered, clutching his swords.
"And I am definitely not 'Kiki'," Kili hissed.
"Well," Balin said, patting his stomach and following after the Hobbit. "When in the Shire, do as the Bilba-lo-manthuses do. Come along, Thorny. Don't be a grump."
Thorin sighed, adjusted his regal cloak, and trudged down the hill. He realized then that he had survived a dragon, but he might not survive the sheer, overwhelming "affection" of the Shire.
"Billy-bo," Thorin muttered under his breath. "You are a very, very troublesome Hobbit."
….
……..
…
Bilbo sat on his bench, puffing a smoke ring that drifted lazily toward the party tree, a very un-Baggins-like smirk playing on his lips. The Dwarves were currently trying to navigate the market, and he had spent the better part of the morning "preparing" the neighborhood for their arrival.
"Now remember," he had told Mrs. Bracegirdle and the Gamgee clan earlier that morning. "Dwarves are very formal, but they find it incredibly disrespectful if you don't use their intimate names. It’s a sign that you don't find them trustworthy. If you want them to feel at home, you must be as affectionate as possible."
He watched from his vantage point as Thorin led the group toward the bakery.
Thorin stepped up to the counter, his hand resting regally on the hilt of Orcrist, looking every bit the King Under the Mountain. He cleared his throat, expecting a stiff, professional greeting.
"Good morning, Master Baker. I require three loaves of-”
"Oh, look at you!" the baker’s wife, a plump Hobbit named Daisy, cooed. She reached across the counter and pinched Thorin’s cheek before he could react. "You must be Thorny-kins! Bilbo told us all about you. Such a big, grumpy warrior! You look like you need a nice ginger biscuit, don't you, Thorny-pie?"
Thorin froze. His eyes went wide, and his hand slipped off his sword hilt. He looked back at Dwalin, who was already turning a deep shade of purple.
"I... I am Thorin, son of Thráin," he managed to choke out.
"Of course you are, Pudding!" Daisy chirped, tossing an extra bun into his bag. "Now, don't you worry your pretty little head about the price. It’s on the house for a friend of our Billy-bo."
As they moved deeper into the market, the situation went from confusing to catastrophic.
Dwalin, the most fearsome warrior of the Company, was cornered by a group of elderly Hobbit lasses knitting by the fountain.
"Oh, look at this one!" one of them cackled, pointing her knitting needle at his tattoos. "He’s a bit of a rough-and-tumble sort, isn't he? Come here, Dwallie-Wallie! Help an old woman with her wool, there’s a good Dwallie-bear."
Dwalin looked at the woman as if she were a dragon. "I... I have fought in a hundred battles," he growled, though he was currently being draped in a bright pink scarf.
"Of course you have, Sugar-cube!" the woman said, patting his massive, scarred hand.
Further down the lane, Fíli and Kíli were being chased by a pack of Hobbit children who had been told that the Dwarves loved "chase-y names."
"Wait for us, Kiki!" "Can I see your sword, Fifi?" "Kiki-pop! Fifi-loo! Bilbo says you give the best piggyback rides!"
Kíli looked at his brother in absolute despair. "Fifi-loo? I’m going to kill him. I am going to find Bilbo and I am going to hide his favorite tea set."
By the time the Company scrambled back up the Hill to Bag End, they were exhausted, covered in unwanted ribbons, and clutching bags of free food they were too traumatized to eat.
Bilbo was sitting in his parlor, the picture of innocence, pouring a fresh pot of tea.
"Ah! There you are!" Bilbo said, his eyes twinkling. "Did you have a nice time at the market? I heard the Gaffer was looking for Bal-bal to help him with some 'gardening advice'."
Balin sat down heavily, his white beard slightly disheveled. "Bilbo... a woman called me Marshmallow. She said my beard looked like a cloud and offered me a strawberry tart."
"How lovely!" Bilbo chirped. "She must really like you."
Thorin slammed his bag of bread onto the table. "Bilbo-lad. Billy-bo. Bilba-lo-manthus."
Bilbo paused, his teapot hovering. "Yes, Thorny-poo?"
The silence that followed was heavy enough to sink a ship. Thorin stared at Bilbo, his jaw working, his eyes narrowing as he realized the sheer scale of the prank. He looked at his Company, the scarred warriors of Erebor, who were now known to the Shire as "Sugar-cube," "Dwallie-bear," and "Fifi-loo."
"You did this," Thorin whispered.
"I have no idea what you mean," Bilbo said, taking a very long, very smug sip of his tea. "I simply told them to treat you like family. And in the Shire, family has nicknames."
Kíli slumped into a chair, grabbing a scone. "I was called Honey-bun. By a dog-breeder. I’ll never be able to look at a bow and arrow the same way again."
"Well," Bilbo said, leaning back with a sigh of pure satisfaction. "At least now you know how it feels. Would anyone like another cup of tea? Dwallie-bear? Thorny-pie?"
Dwalin let out a low, defeated rumble. "Just pour the tea, Bobo. Before I start calling you 'King of the Goblins'."
Bilbo just smiled. He had survived the dragon, he had survived the war, and now, finally, he had won the battle of the Shire.
..
……
…..
The rest of the Company arrived in the Shire just as the sun was beginning to dip behind the hills, painting the sky in shades of apricot and violet. It was a formidable sight: a line of armored, travel-worn Dwarves marching through the peaceful lanes of Hobbiton, their packs heavy with gifts and their beards braided for a royal reunion.
Dori led the pack, fussing over Ori’s cloak and making sure Bombur didn't stop to eat a decorative hedge. They were expecting a grand greeting at Bag End, perhaps a herald, or at least a very respectful bow from the locals.
What they got was Mrs. Pringle.
As the group passed the mill, Mrs. Pringle leaned over her gate, her face lighting up with delighted recognition. "Oh! More of them! And look at this one with the lovely braids!" she chirped, pointing a knitting needle at Dori. "You must be Dorie-Dear. Bilbo said you were the one who made sure everyone had their woolens on! Come here, you sweet Sugar-Plum, and tell me if you’ve had your tea!"
Dori froze mid-stride. His eyes bulged as the tiny Hobbit woman reached out and gave his hand a motherly squeeze. "Sugar... Plum?"
Behind him, Thorin, Dwalin, and the others, who were already "victims" of the nickname plague, were leaning against a stone wall, watching with predatory grins.
"Don't fight it, Dorie-Dear," Dwalin rumbled, his voice dripping with mock-sympathy. "She’s only being neighborly. Isn't that right, Thorny-kins?"
Thorin didn't even flinch at his own nickname. He was too busy watching Nori’s face as a group of Hobbit children ran up to him.
"Look! It's the star-head one!" a little boy shouted, pointing at Nori's unique hair. "Bilbo said you're Nori-Noo! Can we play tag, Nori-Noo?"
Nori, a man who had successfully pickpocketed half of Middle-earth, looked genuinely terrified. "I am a master of stealth! I am not a 'Noo'!"
By the time the full Company was squeezed into the parlor of Bag End, the chaos reached its peak. Bilbo was moving through the crowd with a tray of lemon tarts, looking like the happiest Hobbit in history.
"Ah, Bombur-Womber!" Bilbo chirped, patting the large Dwarf on the shoulder. "I’ve got a special meat pie cooling for you. And Oin-Poin, there’s some medicinal tonic in the kitchen if your ears are bothering you from the wind."
Bombur didn't seem to mind the name, especially not when "Womber" was followed by "meat pie", but Oin was staring at his ear trumpet as if it had betrayed him.
"Oin-Poin?" Glóin barked, slapping his knee and laughing so hard his face turned purple. "Oh, that’s rich! I’m going to tell Gimli that his uncle is now an 'Oin-Poin'!"
"Don't you laugh, Glow-worm!" Bofur cackled, tipping his hat. "I heard a Hobbit lass call you Sparky by the well!"
"It was Sparkle-Toes," Fíli corrected helpfully from the corner. "Because of the way his boot-buckles catch the light."
The new arrivals were looking between Bilbo and the Original five in total bewilderment. They didn't understand the rules of this war.
"Bilbo," Balin (or Bal-bal, as he was now known to the local librarian) said, trying to restore some dignity. "Is there any end to this? Bifur is currently being called Biffy-Boo by your cousin, and I fear he’s about to start swinging his axe."
"Oh, nonsense," Bilbo said, handing a tart to Ori, whom he had dubbed Ori-Peach. "It’s a battle of affection, Balin! The Dwarves started it by teasing me about my full name, so the Shire is simply responding in kind. We Hobbits are very competitive when it comes to being darling."
Nori leaned toward Dwalin. "How long has this been going on? Why aren't you fighting back? You’re Dwalie-bear! You should be breaking heads, not eating seed-cake!"
Dwalin looked at Nori with the weary eyes of a man who had seen too much. "You try it, Nori-Noo. You try looking a three-foot-tall grandmother in the eye while she calls you a 'Cuddle-Bug' and see if you can pull your axe. It’s impossible. It’s a specialized form of Hobbit warfare. They kill you with kindness and lemon curd."
As the evening wore on, the "Pet Name Battle" became a riot of laughter. The Dwarves who had been in the Shire for a week were delighted to pass the mantle of embarrassment to their brothers.
Bifur was sat in a corner with a group of Hobbit youngsters who were braiding daisies into his beard and calling him Biff-Biff. To everyone's shock, he wasn't angry; he was actually sharing his toys with them, grunting softly when they called him by his new, ridiculous name.
Bilbo stood by the hearth, watching his home filled with the most dangerous Dwarves in the world, now renamed Sugar-Plum, Peach, Sparkle-Toes, and Biffy-Boo.
"Well," Bilbo said, raising his glass of cider. "I think the 'Sweet-Peas' have settled in quite nicely. Wouldn't you agree, Thorny-poo?"
Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, looked at his Company, his brothers-in-arms, now covered in ribbons and crumbs, and let out a long, defeated, and truly happy sigh.
"I hate you, Bobo," Thorin muttered, but he took a large bite of a lemon tart and didn't even try to fix his crown.