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Freya does not like people touching her feet, Thorin has discovered. Perhaps it is an oddity specific to hobbits, but then again dwarves are not overfond of it either. Nevertheless, the King Under the Mountain cannot help the flicker of pride he feels when she makes a noise of protest and sticks out her lower lip at Oin’s attempts to unwind the bandages.
“Any lasting damage?” Thorin asks, stroking Freya’s curls to soothe her as Oin peers at the soles of her feet. The medic grunts, and Thorin cannot tell whether he simply has not heard the question or is choosing to ignore Thorin. Which, really, people should at least have the courtesy to answer his questions regarding his own daughter.
He understands by some measure- his treatment of Billa has not exactly endeared him to those members of the company who adored her so- which is most of them. Dwalin of course is stalwart in his support of his King and friend, and Balin manages to confine himself to a long- suffering sigh every once in a while, usually when Freya escapes and ends up in his office.
For try as he might, Thorin cannot make his child understand that she is safe here, that her mother is coming and this is her home. Her persistence does her credit- she is a true child of Durin’s line, after all- but it cuts Thorin to the quick. He is her father, but she either will not or cannot comprehend it.
And why should she believe him? It was Hanr and his men who first told her of him, the mighty king of Erebor, and fearsome he must have seemed indeed in his rage when she saw him. So much so that she had fled on too-short legs and hidden herself.
If Ori had not found her…
No, he will not think of that. That way lies madness. He is vigilant, true, and keeps her by him when perhaps he ought to delegate her care to others, in order to banish any thoughts of further harm to her. He would have her safe, clothed in the colours of his line and her damaged feet booted if necessary, though he is sure Billa would balk at the very idea.
Clothes, though not easy to acquire, are at least available, but his daughter is tiny and Bombur’s wife has been having to provide dresses more suited for a babe of two than a child of Freya’s age. How old she truly is, Thorin is not sure- three or four he thinks, but he has no idea how long Billa carried her or when she was born.
“How long do hobbits bear for, Oin?” he chances to ask once the elderly dwarf has located his ear trumpet and grumpily shoved it on.
“Shorter than us, from what I can tell.” Oin replies, rooting around his supply shelf and producing a salve of some sort. “She’s cut up pretty bad on her soles, can’t be as tough underfoot as her mother. Get a maid to apply that tonight ‘fore she sleeps, should clear her up. Don’t let her run round without shoes on afterward- dunno what Billa was thinking of.”
Thorin nods and lifts Freya against his chest, palming the ointment into his jerkin and thanking the physician. He cannot fathom Billa’s thoughts either. Would that he could, he thinks as he sets off to find wherever his nephew has got to.
Hobbit feet are no joking matter, that much he is aware of, but the fact remains that Freya, his tiny treasure, is not a hobbit. Ori has taken to calling her a dwobbit in fact- in the records he is writing, and the other scribes take their lead from him.
Thorin is not entirely sure he approves. Still, his thoughts tend more towards Freya’s safety and happiness than academic subjects, although he is aware of course of the talk surrounding his child- product of a union that is already whispered upon, though in previous years the king had done his best to ignore said whispers.
I was selfish. Aye, that, and cruel to let them speak of her so. The gist was more than clear from the fights Kili would get into with nobler dwarrows than he should, and then refuse to say why beyond a grunted they had it coming.
Perhaps they had. But Thorin is determined that there will be no more gossip and if there is, it will be dealt with accordingly. His daughter will not hear it as she grows. He hopes, hopes, that she will come to know him as her father, even love him.
Even if her mother cannot do so again. He can try his utmost, and by Mahal he will. He is a king, but he can practice humility. The mother of his child, the jewel of his heart, will know nothing but tenderness at his hand. Never again will he hurt her, she who is precious and strong and fragile as fresh cut jewels. Nor allow her to be hurt by word or action, if it is in his power to prevent it.
“Your mother would scold me to Ered Luin and back if she saw the state of your feet, young lady.” He tells Freya as she squirms up his torso for a view over his shoulder. He knows he cannot carry her forever, but he will treasure it while he can to make up for what he has missed. She is too eager to run off even if it does leave her feet sore and bleeding.
“I want my mama.” she murmurs, and stubbornly inserts her thumb into her mouth whilst holding onto Thorin’s hair with the other hand. She likes to curl her hand around the nearest braid- the one denoting Durin’s lineage, the twin of which is worked into her hair.
Kili had done it after the adventure that had been getting her into a bathtub last night, and Thorin lets himself be privately amused that his nephew, who refuses to let anyone other than Fili touch his hair and will not put a braid in it for love nor money, had been so determined to fix his cousin’s raven locks.
Freya’s hair and eyes are a point of pride for Thorin as well as her attitude- she is so unmistakeably his child, and dwarvish in her looks, that he would be unsurprised if Durin the Deathless himself had taken a hobbitess to wife, and that is why the two races can breed so easily and so true. Wouldn’t that be rich, he thinks.
Still, those who have seen his daughter remark first on how like him she looks, and how her ears and jaw throw to Dis and to his mother the lady Nis, may Mahal give rest to her soul. A proper little dwarrowdam, they remark, should he be able to coax his daughter out from behind her cousin’s legs.
He can see it, the resemblance, but more he is struck by how her mannerisms- tilting her head, dimpling up at him when she smiles (which she does, less often than he’d like but there are still occasions), he can see Billa in her face, in the apples of her cheeks and the shape.
“I want her here too, my treasure.” Thorin sighs heavily. Freya seems surprised at that, her grip on his braid tightening as she jerks back to peer at him.
“Want…mama?” she says. Thorin brushes her thick mess of curls out of her little face and tries to smile, though Mahal knows his heart is heavy with his child’s innocence.
“Yes, little one. More than you know.” The last is not meant for her ears, but Freya, sweet wild thing that she is, reaches out and pats his cheek.
“Love mama.” the child speaks at barely more than a whisper.
“Of course.” How can he not, he suddenly realises. It has been little over a week. Surely she will come soon.
Freya huffs and burrows into his shoulder. Thorin does not attempt to shift her until they reach the royal quarters. A small cot has been set up for Freya, but more often than not she wanders in the night and ends up clambering into Kili’s bed.
Or his, once, but he is glad she goes to his nephew for comfort, for the dreams that haunt him are not of the kind he wishes his child to witness.
“Listen to me, treasure. Your Amad…your mother, she is coming to us. She would never leave us, not if she had the choice.”
And he had taken it from her- more than once. Banished her, then been fool enough to let their child be snatched whilst he sat safe in the mountain. Guilt is a powerful enemy of pride, but when both mix Thorin son of Thrain finds himself at a loss for what to do.
Freya looks at him with a hint of a smile in her deep blue eyes, and then she surprises him (a talent of hers that ranges from her speed in running off to her proclivity for piping out songs at the oddest moments) by going pink and ducking her head, picking at the corner of her dark frock.
Thorin waits until she has overcome her nervousness, since he knows prompting her will result in her words drying up like a spent mineshaft. She still has that skittishness around him, and has yet to overcome it when not bolstered by the safety she seems to associate with Kili and the sons of Ri.
“Mama…” she begins, and Thorin’s heart makes a quite embarrassing leap- he is a king, a warrior and a father, dammit, not some wet behind the ears youth. Surely he can take mention of Billla without undue excitement.
Freya’s eyes fix on his, bluer than the depths of the Arkenstone in the dark, and Thorin thinks momentarily of the dwarrows he is going to have to beat off with an axe once she comes of age. “Mama gots the heartsickness.” Freya mumbles.
“The what?” Thorin finds himself blurting out just as Kili enters the room and swings to a stop when he sees his uncles face.
“She has!” Freya jumps to her feet from where she had been curled on the rug, half afraid of his volume but mostly defiant in her pint-sized protest. “Auntie Prwim said so to Mrs Lobelia while mama was sleepin’, and Unca Drogo said Fifi-” Freya breaks off as she is apt to do when confused and presses both hands to her dark pink cheeks.
Kili, smirking a little as he is wont to do when Freya names his brother thusly, drops to his knees and pulls Freya onto his lap.
“Said Fee what, love?” he asks. Freya looks up at him and sticks out her tongue in protest as Thorin clambers to his feet from where he had been squatting in front of his daughter.
Heartickness. Heartsick. Billa is heartsick. He repeats the words over and over in his head, and it still fails to make any sense. He knows of goldsickness and how it infects the hearts of his people, himself most of all, of the fading of the elves that he cannot quite comprehend, of the thousand maladies that can be visited on mortal men to twist their minds and turn them to madness…
But never has he heard of hobbits suffering afflictions of the heart or minds. They are a sturdy folk, peaceful (at first he thought cowardly but now he knows better by anyone’s count), and strong in their own way. Certainly not the sort to suffer from pining of any kind.
Perhaps it is just a figure of speech, but it is not the kind a child would know were that true, and as Thorin tries to turn his attention to a letter from the jumped up King of Dale, he finds himself half listening to Freya telling Kili of Fili and her mother, and of the Shire. Of her family. Or those she sees as such.
He thinks of where hobbits came from- offshoots, some call them, of men. Or dwarves. Or elves, even, depending on who you listen to, though Thorin tends to dismiss those thoughts despite Billa’s gently pointed ears. Yavanna’s children, his grandfather had called them in passing, born of green earth from the twisting roots of western trees.
Could Billa be fading? Ill, dying of the hurt he caused her, his angry rejection of her love. I love you.She had implored him when the Arkenstone landed at his feet. Please Thorin, let it alone. I only meant to protect us, our…I love you. I am sorry, I love you so much I couldn’t let- what are you… Thorin please do not-
The rest of her speech had been caught up in a gasp of pain that would haunt him till his bones were grey as he took her up by the neck and snarled her betrayal for all to hear, dragged her from his chamber to throw at his feet. Something in him, some sense of entitlement brought on by the rage and gold and the smell of dragon and the broken kingdom that surrounded them, had felt sickeningly satisfied by the sight of her on the ground before him.
It is a memory that he has forced himself to keep, because it is useful. To remind him to never, never let himself be taken by the madness again. He would sooner slay himself than give in to the impulses that had caused the ruin of his line, and of the woman who sought only his safety and to protect his kin.
It is not a pleasant memory, but a necessary one. He has disciplined himself ruthlessly never again to be tempted by the sheen of gold, and though he means to cloak Billa in gems from head to toe when she returns to his arms, he thinks now that a silver setting would suit her better, to set against the cream of her skin.
He will fix the gaps between them if it takes the rest of his life. Solder the cracks with love and protection, hold her and make her safe, love her, love their daughter, give thanks to Mahal for letting him have this chance, to Billa’s green goddess for bringing her to him once again. For allowing their love to flower, to take seed inside his woman and sprout to the precious child who even now is delightedly clambering over his laughing nephew.
“She will be here soon.” he says to himself, but loud enough for Kili to hear in the midst of his tickling match with Freya. His nephew nods, dark eyes uncommonly tranquil, and Thorin inclines his head back.
A truce has been reached, it seems.
For now.
*
Would that his words were prophecy, for it seems he must wait five more days for Billa to arrive. In that time, Bofur turns up with a pair of sturdy boots for Freya, and whilst she doesn’t seem to know exactly what they are, she takes to them easily enough. It both pleases Thorin and worries him to see her skip and play with Bombur’s younger ones, who accept her as one of them as children do.
He feels moment of warmth in his chest when Freya scrambles into his bed at night, leaving flower blossoms and scraps of fabric ( he has no idea where she finds them but Billa had a talent for picking up odds and ends so there is that) in his hair and bedclothes. “Na-night, Mr Thorin.” she lisps when he holds her to his chest as he did Fili and Kili when they were scarce bigger than her, and he feels a father, fearful and adoring, though she does not claim her as such.
He sends word to the elf prince (Elrond’s, not Thranduil’s- it must be acknowledged that Elrohir is marginally less irritatingly blonde and less likely to get into brawls with Gloin’s eldest) that Freya has been found and he may return to his kin in the Golden Wood, but whether he does so, or if the raven even reaches him, is anyone’s guess.
Though he still seeks to keep Freya close for fear she will disappear and all this will prove a dream of some bewitching hope, he must work with Balin now to prepare for the visit from the Ironfist dwarves, and to do what the white-bearded dwarf calls ‘damage control’ over Dain’s men.
He does not wish to deal with Dain’s men. Not Hanr, not Toinar, and certainly not the younger ones. But neither can he let them rot without trial or justice.
Thorin lets the Ironfist affair take precedence, and is determined to present Freya as his daughter no matter what the delicate scruples of the northern dwarves. He decides to wait until the second day of the visit to do so though, and when he waits with his kin and guardsmen in the main hall to receive Lord Migan and his retinue for the first time as King Under the Mountain, Freya is safely at play with Bofur’s nieces and nephews.
Word of Thorin’s child has perhaps reached Migan though, for he looks suspiciously about him as they greet one another, bowing and offering traditional gifts and homage to Kili, his youngest heir. It is when one of Migan’s lords enquires bluntly after the crown prince that Thorin is struck dumb. Balin goes to fill the silence, but a voice from behind one of the thick stone pillars cuts in.
“No need, Lord Balin. I’ll introduce myself. Fili, son of Vili, at your service.” Fili, blonde hair and brown cloak dusty from the road and face a picture of grim determination, steps forward from the wall and bows. Thorin feels Kili vibrating with excitement beside him, but before the brothers break decorum and rush at one another, a figure steps out from behind Fili.
And then another.
And another.
But Thorin has no eyes for the others, in fact he barely notices them. For before him stands that which he has longed for in his deepest and most desperate hearts, small yet straight backed before the lords of the northern mountains and all the nobility of Erebor.
Billa Baggins’ hair is bound up in a peasant's knot, her face framed by tendrils of wispy gold. Her garb is rough from travel- a brown workdress stained with mud and grit, on top of which she is wearing what looks suspiciously like Fili’s undershirt.
She is girted at the waist by a scrap of grey cord fabic, and her hands fist reflexively in her skirts. He seeks her eyes, recrimination, and finds them swollen, rimmed by tender red, dark pits carved under them at sharp contrast with the softness of her cheek.
His Billa, his halfling, opens her mouth as if to say something. Her chest hitches once, twice, and in the silence that gathers he hears the Ironfists murmuring to one another in khuzdul, wondering how this tiny hobbit woman has rendered the great Thorin Oakenshield speechless and breathless with her mere appearance.
“Thorin-” she begins, soft and hoarse, and then perhaps remembers he is a king and squares her shoulders, preparing to start again, but he will have none of that. Uncaring for the present company, Thorin Oakenshield starts forwards and picks Billa Baggins of Bag-end up into the strength of his arms.
“Givashel.” He murmurs into the soft arch of her neck, gathering her against him and feeling the cool of mithril armour, the ripe curve of her flesh at odds with how thin she has become, and he breathes the dark, bruised lilac scent and sharp musk of her and finally, finally he has her.
She is home.