The Shire smelled of turned earth and honey.

It was early autumn, and the roads into Hobbiton were lined with woven garlands of vine and fruit. Gilded pears hung in bunches on the fences, little sun-blessed garden items nestled beside plump squashes and trailing ivy. The leaves had begun their turning, amber and russet glowing beneath a warm, sleepy sky. The fields were heavy with harvest, and the laughter of children could be heard between rows of barley.

The Festival of Yavanna came but once a year, a time of feasting, song, and blessing. Babies born in early spring were lifted toward the sun in her honor, and couples old and new danced barefoot in the orchard groves until stars dusted the sky.

The dwarves arrived by pony, five in total, road-weary but bright-eyed. Their boots thudded against the familiar grass of the Hill, and the green door of Bag End loomed before them, cheerful and round and etched with ivy.

Bilbo was waiting, pipe in hand, leaning against the doorframe like he’d never left.

“Well,” he said with a smile, “took you long enough.”

Fíli was first to dismount, beard braided neatly with gold thread. He swept Bilbo into a hug without waiting for permission, lifting him half off his feet.

“You look well, burglar,” Fíli grinned. “Hobbit life agrees with you.”

“Better than mountain halls and dragon fire,” Bilbo said dryly.

Kíli was next, throwing an apple up and catching it mid-air. “You didn’t tell us your people worship nature gods and throw feasts for dirt.”

“It’s not for dirt,” Bilbo scolded, swatting his arm. “It’s for Yavanna—Giver of Fruits, Keeper of Roots. Honestly, do they teach you nothing about reverence in Erebor?”

Balin chuckled, stroking his beard. “Sounds like a festival worth attending.”

“Oh, it is,” Bilbo said. “It’s our most sacred. And our most spirited. Come inside. You’re just in time to be drafted into decorating.”

Inside, Bag End was transformed.

Dried herbs and flowers hung from the beams, their fragrance warm and heady—lavender, sage, and sweet marjoram. Loaves of seedcake lined the kitchen windowsill, cooling in the breeze. A wreath of red-gold leaves adorned the hearth, and small wooden carvings of hares, foxes, and owls stood watch at the mantel, offerings to the wild places of the world.

“That’s the fertility corner,” Bilbo explained as Kíli picked up a carved rabbit. “Be gentle with it.”

Fíli raised a brow. “You all take this seriously.”

“Of course we do,” Bilbo said. “Yavanna blessed us with land that never goes barren, and children born healthy and strong. We honor her with feast and song, with planting and firelight. And pies, of course.”

“Of course,” Bofur added with a grin, already sneaking a slice of something spiced and still warm.

That night, under a sky strung with lanterns and stars, the dwarves watched as the hobbits danced barefoot in the fields, garlands of ivy and wheat wound through their curls. Lasses sang as they twisted ribbons around the maypole, and little ones chased fireflies with shrieks of laughter.

Bilbo stood beside Fíli, watching it all with something soft in his eyes.

“We sing of gold and stone,” Fíli said quietly. “But you sing of green and growing things.”

“They’re not so different,” Bilbo murmured. “Both are precious. Both are worth protecting.”

Fíli glanced down at him, thoughtful.

And in the firelight, surrounded by a people who honored the earth as much as the sky, the dwarves began to understand something deeper about the hobbit they once called burglar.