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Donnabelle “Bilbo” Baggins ducked her head as Frérin, son of Thráin, rounded on her. She knew she was in trouble as soon as she’d accidently (perhaps purposefully) made the mistake of ordering eleven orange roses for their master instead of twelve red and yellow roses. The recipient of said roses was not offended at the difference. In fact, from what the quiet servant had witnessed, the woman appreciated them much more than the other roses by the reception the master got; Donnabelle had to wonder how the two of them were able to breathe when they were busy attacking the other’s face. The woman’s reaction and the nature of what happened after were the only saving graces the hobbit lass had from their master.
But it didn’t save her from the wrath of her brother when he learnt of what she had done.
~What do you think you were doing?~ he demanded in Khuzdul. The young hobbit shifted on her feet and couldn’t bring herself to look up at the dwarf. Frérin shifted to speak in Westron, “Mim’ibin, you do realise what you did could have had you killed?”
She sniffed and rubbed her nose with her shirt sleeve. Still, she didn’t look up at Frérin. But she nodded slightly. Yes, she had realised after she placed the order that she would be punished by the master, or killed. But at the time, Donnabelle thought she was doing the master a favour after overhearing a discussion he’d had with his mother. She was a hobbit and understood the nature of flowers and their different meanings. So she’d taken the chance of ordering eleven orange roses that signified four things: the number signified that the recipient was truly, deeply loved by the giver, and the colour meant the giver had enthusiasm, desire and fascination toward the recipient. But if she’d stuck with the red and yellow roses, it wouldn’t have meant as much: all they signified was that the giver had jovial, happy feelings toward the recipient. Not exactly the most romantic notion in the world.
“Look at me,” Frérin said. He waited until the faunt looked up. She did and found the blond dwarf softly smiling at her. ~You were extremely lucky it did not backfire on you this time, little sister. Next time, you won’t be as fortunate.~
Donnabelle wiped her nose again. ~I’m sorry, brother.~
“What am I going to do with you, you little rascal?” He bent down and beckoned her into his arms. She gave him a relieved smile and rushed into his open arms. “I should still be mad at you, but you did manage to make the master happy.”
“I’m a hobbit. I know flowers. And I’m a girl. I know what a girl likes. It also helped that I heard the master talking to the mistress the day he sent me for the flowers. I thought I’d get the flowers that reflected what he truly wanted to say so we didn’t have to watch him mope.”
“You’re hopeless, aren’t you?” Frérin said with a chuckle. Lifting the faunting into his arms, he carried her into their shared quarters. It wasn’t much, but the both of them were happy. Or as happy as they could be.
~I learnt from the best,~ she shot back.
~Cheeky!~ he returned and dropped her on her small cot. ~What do you want to hear tonight?~ he asked in Iglishmek, the dwarven sign language. Frérin always used the evenings he had with Donnabelle to teach her her lessons. That included teaching her the two ways of communicating with dwarves. At eleven, she had learnt a lot of both languages, as well as Westron.
She bit her lip and then let her eyes widened. ~Tell me about Thorin and Dís!~
Frérin felt a tug at his heart at the mention of his dwarven siblings. Donnabelle never got tired of asking about his dwarven family, or of the home he had not seen in over a century. ~Would you like a story from Erebor, or from the Blue Mountains?~
~Erebor?~ she asked hesitantly.
“I don’t really remember much from the days of Erebor,” the dwarf began softly. “I was nineteen when the dragon came. But I wish I could describe the halls of emerald stone to you, mim’ibin. They were simply glorious! Grandfather ruled over the kingdom with strength. Oh, my favourite room in the lower halls was his treasure chamber. Stacks upon stacks of gold coins and chests of precious gems…”
“Did he let you play in there?”
“Most certainly not! The only real memory I have of that place was right before the dragon came. I watched the gold take hold of Grandfather’s mind. That was not something I long to remember. I wish I could remember a time before all that gold, and all those gems. You see, we dwarves are drawn to precious metals, Donnabelle, and it hit my grandfather the worst after we lost Grandmother to an assassin who tried to kill adad and Grandfather. She stepped in to protect both of them when I was eight. I don’t remember her. Just that she died to save my father and grandfather. I think that’s what drove my grandfather to delve deeper into the mountain.” The dwarf stopped, not even realising that he’d begun shedding tears over the loss of his grandparents.
“And then the dragon came.”
He nodded, “And we were forced out of our homeland. I wish I could show it to you.”
She crawled over her cot and into his lap. “Maybe we could get there one day, nadad.” Her voice was filled with such hope that he didn’t have the heart to disbelieve her.