She dreams of Golden Hope

Book Two: Hope and Feathers

"Hope" is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all"- Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson

She was making her way up from the market to Bag End on this late summer morning, whilst the sun shone on her hair and warmed her pale features. The summer season was coming to an end and soon autumn would arrive. Autumn, which would bring the harvest season with it, where the fields and its fruits would be ripe for plucking. Autumn, when the almost oppresively hot temperatures would gradually drop and the vibrantly green leaves would slowly turn to warm shades of brown, yellow and red and would drop from the trees to lie on the floor, where they would slowly disintegrate to dust and earth. When they would meet their end.

She had become a creature of routine, encouraged by her cousin Bilbo, who had become more of a Baggins and had almost completely forsaken his Tookish Streak as his age had progressed. She had become more complacent, especially after her aunt Belladonna Took had died and due to his mother's death, Bilbo had become even more homey, as if he wished to erase any memory of his mother, as if he wished to subdue any resemblance he bore to her. It had been done unconsciously no doubt, but Laurel had recognized it, especially as she had done the same thing, when her mother Elauriel had abandoned her and gone to fade. She had tried to dispell any similarity, any characteristic inherited from her mother, that she had possessed. Yet, differently from Bilbo she had failed miserably, because despite the fact that she had resented her mother and had dreaded becoming like her, treacherously she had longed for it all the same, because it had been a way to hold onto the memory of the woman, that despite her indifference toward her daughter, she had loved all the same. Bilbo had managed to dispell any Tookish streak he had possessed and, eventhough she had made no mention of it, it had pained Laurel, as she recalled the hours they had spent in the wood searching for any of her and her mother's kin, searching for the courageous and fierce warriors, that had sprung from the race of dwarves or men. How they had spent hours reenacting the tales that had been in Bilbo's storybook and how they had envisioned themselves, as the glorious heroes they had been in awe of, how they too had longed to make an impact on Middle Earth through their own self-crafted tales of bravery. But she had recognized Bilbo's pain and had made no mention of how he had become so much like his father. She had never had the fortune of meeting Bungo, though she resented that, because Bilbo would always talk with such fondness of his late father and would paint him in the most agreeable light. But he was a Baggins of Bag End and though he had accepted the Tookish Streak that had coursed through both Belladonna and Bilbo, Laurel was already acquainted with enough Bagginses to know that they were responsible and almost intolerant of any exceptionality in others. She had to bitterly think of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who she would treat with begruding courtesy, as a favour to Bilbo, eventhough she was quite disliking toward the snooty woman, who made no secret of her distaste for Laurel and her unique heritage, eventhough Laurel had long since adapted to the domestic and homey ways of the hobbits in Hobbiton, having grown up in this bucolic environment.

So she had become homely and a creature of habit, especially when Belladonna's encouragement to be daring and adventurous was no longer existant. She had become quite content to spend out her days in Bag End and live out her comfortable routine day in day out. Yet, there was still a nagging, an urge for something more, for something else. She could not truly envision spending her days looking out at the same landscape. She could not truly believe that this is what her life would be. That her life would be similar to that of Bell Goodchild or any of the daughters of the Brandybuck clan. She could not believe that she would spend out the rest of her days, confined to Bag End doing the same things daily. And these doubts gave origin to a wish to do something more, to be somewhere else, with someone else, though she did not know where or who, because all she knew was Bilbo Baggins, Bag End and Hobbiton. She had no friends or kins outside of Bilbo and he, with his unwavering loyalty, was quite enough for her. She had no skill in combat and did not know how to defend herself, a necessety if she were to go explore Middle Earth, because she was not as naive and mundane to believe that the whole of Middle Earth was as pacifistic as the Shire. Having read the tales of adventure, that had bewitched her as an imp, she was quite aware of Orcs, who were fearsome with their cruelty and distorted visages, of goblins and their foulness and crude cruelty. Yet she still had a longing within her that did cause her guilt, because she felt ungrateful and disloyal toward Bilbo, who would have never left her, of that she was sure and she felt as if she was betraying the promise, the last wish the woman, who had selflessly cared for her and loved her, had had. So she had subdued her Tookish Streak and the call of the wild she felt within her and she had become homely.