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“You’d think a nice respectable hobbit lass such as yourself might make more time for those as want to speak to her.” Billa turns around at the voice and is met with laughing blue eyes and a toothy grin. Primula Brandybuck Baggins is in fact a good few years younger than Billa, but that has never stopped her from speaking to her cousin (both by marriage and by birth, since Prim is half a Took herself) as though it were the opposite way round.
“Respectable? Me? Wherever did you hear that, Prim?” Billa moves to one side to make room for Prim to sidle next to her. Both hobbits lean front first against the fence, arms tucked round themselves as they watch the children running riot around the sizeable garden at Brandy Hall.
Billa only left Buckland a few months ago, but after running into who she did on the road, she hasn’t felt quite comfortable at Bag End, and when Drogo (through Prim, because Prim is one of the only people in the Baggins family who didn’t give a fig for other people’s opinions despite being quite a gossip herself) asked if she wanted to come back for some distant Brandybuck relation’s birthday party, Billa had seized the chance.
Freya likes it here, Billa reminds herself, and no small wonder. Her daughter may be only two and a half and slower to grow than most hobbit children, but already she understands that she is different. There are stares, whispers, the reflection in the mirror, all of it telling of dirty secrets best kept tight under lock and key. Here, though is a place where if people stare they do so at their own risk, because for Tooks and for Brandybucks family comes first, as Prim is fond of saying.
No matter what shame Billa has brought on the once respectable names of her relations, here she is not judged as much as she was in Hobbiton, and (selfishly) Billa is grateful for it. She is selfish, she knows that, if she wasn’t she would go home and raise her daughter and give not a whit for the sideways looks of her neighbours. And most of the time she does, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.
She never expected to be a mother- mainly because marriage was the only way to motherhood in the Shire and Billa had never seen herself as the marrying kind. Until everything that happened before the sorry mess of her departure from the Lonely Mountain, that was.
Until Thorin Oakenshield.
“Oh, don’t make that face. You look like you’ve choked on a manglewurzle.” Prim gives Billa a poke in the cheek and it strikes Billa suddenly how young her cousin is- barely thirty five, seven years younger than Drogo.
“Are you happy, Primula?” Billa suddenly asks, turning to her cousin. She feels a thousand years old suddenly, and very grim.
Prim frowns at her- as much as Prim ever frowns, which is really just a quirk of the eyebrow and a dimple appearing in her cheek than anything. “First of all, don’t call me Primula, it makes me sound like somebodies great aunt-”
“You are several people’s great aunt.” Billa points out, and she’s right- Prim’s nephews and nieces are over the fence playing with her Freya, shrieking merrily and splashing each other with frogspawn from the pond.
Prim gives her a haughty glance. “Only on account of my being the youngest, miss pernickety, and anyhow, of course I’m happy. Why on earth wouldn’t I be?” Billa knows she’s made Prim uncomfortable with her questions, but she makes most people uncomfortable nowadays, even herself sometimes.
“Oh, I don’t know…” Billa shrugs, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I do. You’re touched in the head, Billa Baggins.” Prim informs her, but there’s no malice in her words. Instead, she reaches out and touches the end of the single braid that Billa is apt to keep her hair in nowadays, which is tossed over her shoulder and done up in a soft leather coil. “It’s this thing, makes your brain go funny no doubt.”
Oh yes, Billa thinks to herself. It certainly does, if that’s the way you want to see it.
*
“What kind of a braid is that?” Kili seemed almost offended as he took her thick plait in one hand and gave it a gentle (by dwarf standards) yank that nevertheless almost sent Billa toppling back into the water from her perch on a tree branch that hung over the bank.
“More of a one than you have, little brother!” Fili pointed out loudly, standing several feet away and knee deep in the clear, cold water of the- well, it was rather more than a stream and rather less than a river, Billa supposed.
Either way, she called it heavenly after however many days riding without so much as a bath. She tucked one leg up under the other and watched as Kili, scowling at the slight on his unbraided tresses, jumped back into the water and batted an arc of it in the direction of his smiling brother.
Soon the two were mock wrestling, splashing in and out of the shallows where the company had stopped for a much needed break in their journey. Most of them had taken the opportunity to strip off their outer layers and bathe, and whilst it wasn’t as if Billa had never seen a shirtless male before, dwarves were…different from hobbits.
Bigger, mainly. Not that she was looking at them especially- it almost seemed wrong somehow, perhaps because they had done her the courtesy of letting her go upstream to wash and hadn’t commented (much) when she came back in her shift with wet hair and skin scrubbed pink.
She had decided to braid her hair out of a want of something to do more than anything, and had made herself comfortable on the thick branch, hanging her dress and coat up next to her- it was a mild evening and, if Mr. Balin was telling the truth about them going up mountains and under chasms and other uncomfortable sounding things, there wouldn’t be much of that in the days to come.
Another reason for the braid- whilst her hair was shorter than that of most of the dwarves in the company, it was really becoming unmanageable, especially after rain, when her curls would fall into her face and get stuck in the straps of her pack. Not two days ago she’d been in such a fix that she’d fallen off of Myrtle, and would’ve rolled down the hill if Fili and Kili hadn’t yanked her back up- laughing all the way of course.
Now in addition to being generally saddle-sore and bruised all over, she’d had to endure the grumpy glaring of Thorin Oakenshield, who had made his views on her inclusion in the company clear, and continued to do so with almost predictable frequency. But although she was growing used to his disapproval, it stung to hear his steady rebukes and, yes, made Billa think that perhaps he was right.
Obviously she didn’t belong here. She didn’t remotely fit, it wasn’t necessary for him to tell her so. But she had begun to learn something of the stubbornness of dwarves, and she expected to know much and more before this quest was done.
“So what kind of braid is it, then?” And as if to prove her right, here came Kili again, flushed and panting from his romp with his brother, dark eyes twinkling and fingers reaching out once again to pull good-naturedly on the furled end of Billa’s messy plait.
Billa leaned away from his attempt, struggling not to smile. Anticipating a fall from the branch if Kili did not cease his efforts, she was surprised to find Bofur moving up behind her and settling her back onto her wooden perch a safe distance from any mischief.
“Best tell him, lass, or our young princeling won’t be giving you a moment’s peace.” The moustachioed dwarf told her, smiling in a mixture of resignation and amusement.
“It’s just something my mother taught me.” she shrugged, frowning a little, for her memories of Belladonna make her melancholy and more than a little frustrated. “She used to do it all the time when I was little, but then the neighbours started talking, thought it was odd.”
The confusion on the dwarves’ faces at that idiom made Billa feel odd- embarrassed because dwarves weren’t like to bother themselves with the gossips of the neighbours (if they even had neighbours at all), and guilty, too. Her concerns seemed so petty in the face of what the other members of the company had suffered- and what they were undergoing now in an attempt to get back what was theirs.
This uncomfortable silence was thankfully broken by Ori, who fixed her with a wide eyed look that reminded her strangely of one of her innumerable nephews, and asked “What was she like?” He looked down almost guiltily. “Your mother, I mean.”
“Gandalf knew her.” Fili pointed out, and Billa wanted to protest, because no, no he didn’t, he knew Belladonna Took, the wild girl running off to have adventures with elves, and Belladonna Baggins was someone else entirely, and yet almost the same.
She couldn’t say all this to the dwarves though, no matter how much she might like them, so Billa scrunched up her more complicated feelings and told them: “Well, she was tall- for a hobbit- and she had straight hair and high cheekbones. She was a Took, and her father was Thain of the Shire for years. She was brilliant and beautiful and mad, and she loved my father more than anything in the world.”
“And she had adventures?” Fili persisted.
“Yes, she had adventures.” Billa was tempted to climb higher into the tree and leave this conversation behind altogether. But judging from the expectant looks around her, she hadn’t said enough yet. “When I was little, she used to take me with her, but I got old enough to remember and talk to the other children about it, so Bungo- my father, wouldn’t hear of me going and she sometimes went off alone.”
But she always came back. Billa closed her eyes. Always.
When she opened them, Thorin Oakenshield was standing in front of her. And he was glowering, as was his habitual wont. “We’re making camp- if, that is, my nephews will allow us to without further discussion of hair braiding and peoples mothers.”
There was a collective grumble as the dwarves did as their leader commanded. Billa edged her way back to solid ground and began to pull her dress on, huffing as her head failed to articulate where the sleeve ended and the neck began. In a way she was grateful for being allowed to hide her blush at the thought of Thorin listening to her rambling and forming an even more negative opinion of her.
“When you are quite ready, burglar.” Thorin’s gaze was rough and assessing, turning her skin tight; and the habitual title he addressed her with was fringed with its usual slightly disbelieving edge, as though he couldn’t fathom why he was bothering to put up with her. “And I would appreciate it if you could keep your preoccupations with vanity to a minimum in future. We’ve precious little time for skirts and hairdressing.”
Billa thought that was rather unfair, since Thorin’s own hair was in a much more elaborate braid- nay, collection of braids- than her own, but then again that was the dwarvish custom. Instead, stung but unable to let the insult pass, she tipped her head back to glare at him.
“Well, sir, I’m supposed to wear skirts, what’s your excuse?” The company, hearing her words, fell silent around them.
Billa regretted her outburst almost instantly when Thorin’s expression darkened, his eyebrows taking a dip closer together and his mouth setting in a hard line as he took an almost unwilling step forward. His hands flew up then down, and then clenching into fists, as though he would grab her braid as his nephew had done, but for the purpose of shaking her like a cat would an unruly kitten.
“What did you say to me, Halfling?” He growled the words and Billa found any witty retort she could come up with died a swift death on its way to her mouth, so she just moved slightly backwards and nodded her head in the direction of Thorin’s surcoat and cloak, which in all honesty were both longer than any dress Billa Baggins had ever owned (which was not many).
She could hear the others mumbling in the background (and Fili and Kili stuffing their fists into their mouths in an attempt to muffle their guffaws) but found herself unable to look away from Thorin’s furious gaze. His eyes were deep set and shadowed by thick brows, but it struck her then just how blue they were, like chips of bright cold ice, and how eyes so pale a blue could possibly look that dark.
She realised that, whilst she might not have liked Thorin Oakenshield, she did like his eyes because they were fascinating, and they had seen things she could never have hoped to see before a wizard came to her door, and things so awful she couldn’t possibly begin to imagine them.
Billa finished thinking this, and Thorin still seemed to be on the brink of well and truly murdering her when she was saved from the dwarven king’s wrath by Dwalin, who seemed not to have heard her remark and touched his king on the shoulder, saying something about scouting a fresh route to some pass or other. Thorin shot Billa one last angry glance before following the warrior back to the road.
Realising that her legs had decided to become gelatin, Billa leaned back against the tree trunk she had retreated towards and tried to fight off the bubble of hysteria which was rising steadily in her chest. Honestly, it was beyond reprehensible of Thorin to look at her that way, as if she was his to do with as she wanted, a mouse to crush under his boot.
“That was a brave thing to do, girl.” Bofur was the first one to hazard speaking to her. The rest of the company began clearing their throats awkwardly.
“Foolish, maybe.” I am half a Took, after all. Billa let a deep breath out before shrugging into her coat- they would camp here tonight, but it was bound to get colder as dusk gathered and anyway, it was comforting to have that small piece of home with her.
“Did you see Uncle Thorin’s face?” Kili seemed a mixture of awed and astounded. “I thought he was about to explode.”
“Or take her over his knee in front of the entire company.” Fili said, smirking at the horrified look on Billa’s face. Her cheeks flamed at the thought and oh that wasn’t proper, not at all.
“Alright, lads, leave her be.” Balin gave a shake of his white bearded head as he moved between Billa and Thorin’s nephews. “Best you go and help Bombur with the cooking, Miss Baggins.” he told her.
Billa did as he suggested, but not before peering around at the collection of amused looking dwarves and sucking air through her teeth. “I would like to see him try.” she said waspishly, before marching off in the direction of Bombur and the cookpot.
It occurred to her then as the company broke into relaxed laughter and japing, that she sounded exactly like her mother.
And whatever that meant, it couldn’t be anything good.
*
And it hadn’t been of course, but that was all over now. Acting like a Took has gotten her nowhere but trouble. And my heart broken. Can’t ever forget that. As a rule, she doesn’t, but dwelling on it seems somewhat melodramatic. Billa rubs at a spot on the fence post, enjoying the feeling of the rough wood beneath her fingertips.
mine, dwarf king, you were mine, i saved you, claimed you and you could bruise me and break me and fill me and shatter me into a thousand pieces but it wouldn’t make a single bit of difference because the blood in your heart was mine and i could reach through your chest and hold you closer than close
She can feel him still, behind and against and surrounding her, the sharp lines of his form blurred by so little time that is already too much. There is a scar, more of a long lasting scratch really, on her hip from a hard fall in the mountains that dashed her against the rocks, and Thorin -King Beneath the Lonely Mountain- would press his hand into the mark and make her ache oh so sweetly.
and i was yours too, you would bear me down onto furs or dirt or rocks or once a featherbed in laketown, when you painted me with the hollow reminders of your touch, your mouth on my neck and anywhere else you cared to put it, tasting me as if you could consume my essence and break into my soul to take what was yours
And she had taken what was his. His love, his jewel, his child. For a few days she was afraid she had taken his life as he lay wounded after thatbloody battle and she hid in the woods with a ghost grey wizard and the sickening certainty that she would never see her love again.
That was true at least, because even though he survived, out of courage or cowardice she had fled. Erebor to Mirkwood to Imladris all the way back to Bag End with a golden ring and something far more precious and secret and beautiful than that.
Freya. Her baby who is boisterous and wild and sweet, with all the stubborn wilfulness of the line of Durin and the foolhardy determination of a Took and something else that is all her own- a free and open heart.
Billa knows not where it came from, but her daughter wears her feelings on her sleeve as neither of her parents could- not just from a childish excess of emotion but a deep and guileless capacity for adoration. Freya will claim things as hers- a flower, a kitten, Prim’s youngest nephew who she is skipping round right now and singing nonsense- without a thought or a care.
That’s why I have to protect her. Billa clenches her hand around the top of the fence, her eyes never leaving her daughter as the little girl spins and laughs and flings grass in the direction of her cousins.
She may not be a good mother or even a good person, but she knew the risk when she brought Freya here, knew how people would look at her sideways and mutter behind their hands, and she did not care. The Shire is the safest place in middle earth, and it is more than that. It is home.
It was the only place she could be sure nothing would happen to her baby. See, Thorin? I can protect her. I can. I love you and I need you but she never will. She’ll never want for anything. As long as she never knows a thing about who you are.
The trees and the hills and the water give her no answer, which is just as it should be.
“Billa!” Prim’s voice is suddenly sharp in her ears, insistent from repetition. “You’re bleeding, you silly goose.” Prim makes an attempt to take hold of Billa’s arm, but as everything comes slowly back into focus, all Billa can see is the trickle of blood, cold and sharp from where she dug her hand hard into the fence.
Oh. So I am.