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“Your hair…” Fili sounds in some kind of physical pain, eying the knot she has wound her single braid into. He wants to braid it properly, Billa knows, and find her some nicer clothes, give her beads and other pretties, dress her up as one worthy of the notice of the line of Durin- if only to keep her safe from the bunch of admittedly rough looking Ironfist dwarrows Thorin is greeting.
Fili has told her that these northern dwarrows will not look upon her well, would think her a money grubbing harlot at best and some kind of earth-witch at worst. Billa, for one, could not give a fig for their thoughts. She is close now, closer than close, to her daughter, her little girl.
And to her king.
Oh he is right there, across the entrance hall in furs and velvets with his beard all nice and properly braided, shoulders thrown back in nonchalance but not enough to conceal the furrows of his brow and the gaunt look in his blue, blue eyes.
She cannot rightly decide whether she wants to leap on him and smother him in kisses or go up behind and brain him with a rock. They have been waiting, hidden in the audience chamber for several minutes now and for the life of her Billa cannot see why.
This is nothing to do with Thorin, really, and once she’s fetched back her daughter and had a few stern words with certain people, she will be quite happy to leave. She gives a little laugh to herself at how sensible that sounds, and how unlikely.
Next to her, Paladin notices how close she is to hysteria and gives her a small pat on the shoulder. Her cousin has been so brave, she cannot help but feel a little guilty at dragging him all the way here. Him and Hamfast, who is much too young to even leave Hobbiton and is her gardener, for Yavanna’s sake.
It is, she grants, a little ridiculous to suppose she can simply walk into Erebor, collect her daughter, kiss Kili on the cheek cause she’s missed him, slap Nori on his for this business with her handkerchief and walk out again. But when Fili decides it is time for them to reveal themselves and Thorin takes it into his head to sweep her up off her feet, Billa cannot help but think that things would be a lot simpler if she did just that.
It is too late now though, for Thorin is holding her and does not seem of a mind to let go, in spite of Balin’s aghast face and the khuzdul mutterings coming from the guests whose audience she has so unceremoniously interrupted.
Bother the lot of them, Billa decides, when Thorin breathes that damnable word she doesn’t know the meaning of, and she lets herself have a moment, a single stinging moment in which she presses her face to Thorin’s neck and doesn’t struggle, doesn’t even move, just lets him hold her.
Because it is so good, just this being held, and she hadn’t been held like this in so long.
Soon she will speak. She will rage and accuse and recriminate and later, if she has to, she will beg, beg for her baby, but now she lets him hold her and she tries not to tremble.
He is acting as if she has been away, and she has, she supposes, but it would then follow that she belongs right here in the circle of his strong corded arms, the right one thicker than the left from years at hammer and anvil, at sword and axe and stone. Her head still fits on his shoulder, just so and isn’t that funny, that she can-
“Put! My Cousin! Down! Now.” Paladin Took raises his voice in indignation, as one would to a disobedient dog, and with an authority Billa Baggins has never even considered. She twists in Thorin’s arms enough for him to drop her. Her cousin reaches forward, pulls her back, and she goes willingly enough for it is the only way she can.
And oh, his eyes are terrible, her mighty stone carved king. Chips of paler than pale blue bore into her and her words flee as they used to when she was no more than burglar.
She is about to go to her knees, if that is what it will take for him to take her to her child, when it seems Kili can stand it no longer and with a cry of Nadad, brother and so much more, jumps the ring and collides with Fili, winding them together in a joyous stream of russet and gold.
He is on her next, crying her name in delight and cuddling her to him as though she was Freya’s scrappy toy bear. Paladin rolls his eyes and Hamfast clenches his fists as Fili looks to Thorin. “Uncle.” the heir under the mountain says, inclining his head to Thorin in a respectful half bow. Billa nudges Kili a little, but he only hugs her harder.
“Missed you, mistress Boggins.” he murmurs, and if she weren’t so overwrought she would laugh.
“Missed you too, my prince.” she says, feeling shy all of a sudden. She is in a hall of princes and kings, and by the green lady she had not expected such an audience when she came to reclaim Freya.
She can feel some distinctly frosty glares coming at her from the Ironfists (not an overly friendly or understanding clan from what Fili has told her), and one of them speaks up, saying something in Khuzdul that makes Fili go for his sword, Kili growl and vibrate with fury, and Thorin freeze.
Billa looks towards the speaker- not the leader, but a similarly bejewelled dwarf with a moustache to rival Bofur’s, only blond. His eyes are on Billa, or more on where Kili is gripping her hand, and there is a supposition there she is not sure she likes. Paladin, though, takes advantage of the silence that has fallen to unfold the document he has carried from the Shire to Erebor in the pocket of his waistcoat.
“Might I be addressing Thorin Oakenshield, King under the…well, wherever this is.” Paladin looks sceptically around the hall, before fixing his gaze back on Thorin.
Billa can feel her cheeks beginning to flame and half wishes she had left her cousin and Hamfast and that ridiculous piece of paper at home, for this is mortifying, and the ache in her bones will not go.
“You are indeed. And who might you be?” Thorin asks, eyes flickering over to her cousin, and Paladin fair bristles with indignation.
“Paladin son of Adalgrim, of clan Took of Great Smials. Only don’t say that to ma or she’ll throw a scone at you. Erm…” Paladin looks up, then back at the paper. “Oh, yes. As official representative of all four farthings of the Shire, authorised by the mayor, and the Thain, and the Master of Buckland, I hereby demand that you return my cousin’s Billa’s daughter to her forthwith.”
Thorin crosses his arms at that, and Billa wants to bury her face in her hands because she knew this was the wrong way to go about things, and now there will be arguments and anger and everything she doesn’t want.
She is tired, so tired, of being angry. Of being afraid. She wants her daughter and she wants to go home, and she knows where neither are and that is a problem, thank you very much Thorin II Oakenshield.
“Go on.” Thorin orders Paladin, sounding distinctly unimpressed.
Her cousin manages to give a haughty look back and ruffles the paper. “If any harm has come to Freya, or if you refuse to give her back to us- right now, mind- I am bound to tell you that a state of war will exist between the Shire and your…mountain, and that we will not rest until Billa’s daughter is returned. It’s not right, what you’ve done, and we’ll not stand for it.” He adds, straightening his shoulders.
The Ironfists laugh. It is a raucous sound, and though they are silenced by a word from their lord, Billa gets the distinct impression that the threat the paper carries has been received as more of a joke. She has known that all along of course, but it makes her grit her teeth all the same.
Her lover- no, not that, not anymore, not now not ever and not again- Thorin clenches his jaw and looks her and Paladin up and down. “Thorin.” Billa says softly, hardly knowing what to say. Eventually, she just asks him, feeling soft and scared and utterly, utterly useless. “Thorin, where is she? My daughter, where is she?”
She has not said those words since that last night in bag end, has not let herself think of anything other than let her be safe, please goddess let her be safe and sound and not harmed, please.
“Billa, it’s okay, she’s okay. Everything’s fine.” Kili takes her by the shoulders and tries to smile for her, but all Billa can see is the tension in Thorin’s limbs and the rough set of his lean, expressive mouth that she used to kiss simply because it hurt not to.
She forces herself to focus- for near on a month she has been fraught with terror and sorrow and guilt, and now she is torn between the desire to go to her child and never let her go, and the needy thread through her heart that pulls her in Thorin’s direction.
And how much of each is startlingly caught up in the other.
She refocuses on Kili, pushing that unsettling thought away in favour of his bright brown eyes. “C’mon, I’ll take you to go find her.”
Billa practically crumples with relief, and avoids looking at Thorin. There will be a time later, with decidedly less witnesses, for them to talk. If that is how it must be, though she would rather curl up somewhere with her daughter and wait until she knows what to do than look Thorin Oakenshield in the face for a good long while.
By all the Shire she does not want these feelings that are pushing with more insistence than usual at the inside of her breast. Rage and frustration, as useless as they are, and love and longing even more so.
It is not fair. She cannot help but think, gnawing helplessly at her lip as Kili manoeuvres her from the room, bowing quickly to the still grumbling guests, and sidestepping his still seething uncle. Fili follows, not bothering with formalities and sweeping Paladin and Hamfast along ahead of him.
Hamfast catches up with her as they leave the hall on a rising tide of whispers, laying a nervous hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you worry now, miss Billa. We’ll soon be on our way home.”
If Billa had chanced to look behind her, she would have seen Thorin clench his fists as his eyes narrowed in on the innocent touch, a rumbling growl creeping out from under his breath.
*
For all he now has a position, a technical kind of title and more gold than he rightly knows what to do with, Bofur still considers himself a simple sort of dwarf. Give him a flagon of beer, a nice tune and maybe a thief with some truly ridiculous hair and he’ll consider himself content.
However, he also considers himself a loyal friend, even if said friend was Mahal knows how many miles away and he hadn’t exactly done a wonderful job of looking after her when she was here. So, in any event, punching Thorin might not have been the best move, but he feels more than justified in having done the thing.
Well, no one’s turned up to haul him off to cells yet, so p’raps the mighty king under the mountain has been eating his share of humble pie of late. Been a long time in coming, that’s for certain.
Looking at Billa’s faunt though as she plays ring ‘round the rubies (which little Freya insists should be roses) with his youngest niece, Bria... The two lasses have instinctively taken to one another, and Bofur expects he’ll rue the day he ever kitted them out in solid footwear, for they’ll run wild before too long.
But they’ve a family of a dozen more-or-less uncles to keep them in check, and that’s not even counting Bria’s brothers and both their overprotective parents. Well, that would be so if Billa were here- and he misses her.
She was his friend, one of the best he’d ever had, and in spite of how he’d enjoyed teasing her to start with, he’d soon come to love her as much as a dwarrow of his particular persuasion could love a lass- like a sister, almost, but he’d leave those particular claims to Fili and Kili.
Bofur shakes his head at these thoughts, which are deeper than most he tends to entertain. But this is a mighty serious thing, as much as he tries to hide it from Freya and her playmates, and from Bombur and Bifur even. Billa daughter should not be here, not without her mother’s consent, no matter how lyrical the line of Durin can wax about their blood and its bonds.
Longbeards… Bofur gives a slow puff of his pipe at the thought. He may live among them, heck, Bombur’s wife Ysilla has more than a drop of Durin’s blood, but he will never in all his long years even attempt to understand them.
The sooner Billa gets here and knocks some (better) sense into Thorin the better, and he, for one, has the utmost faith in the little hobbit who once spent three whole days extolling the company on why it was of the utmost importance they turn around and pick up her bonnet and handkerchief.
She had only stopped complaining about the lack of handkerchiefs when Bofur had pulled out the scrap of his pocket and tossed it to her, and that had left the issue of the bonnet. Ori had offered to knit her one when they stopped to camp, but Thorin had been in one of his surlier moods and had forbidden the entire company, Billa included, from mentioning head coverings of any kind, knitted or otherwise.
Thorin’s moods, Bofur finds, can be divided into three pretty clear sections- surly, surlier, and not quite so surly but definitely getting there quick. Failing that, he settles into a sort of grim-
“Don’t you have visitors to be seeing to, your royal highness?” A high, clear voice suddenly reverberates off the outer corridor leading to the Ur Family’s quarters. His ears prick up as a much deeper reply comes from the father of the dark haired child still engrossed in her play.
“Balin will see to them well enough. I will not have it said that I allowed you to-”
“Allow?” Says another voice, a hobbit from the sounds of it, but a male one, and not a voice Bofur’s heard before. “I hardly think you’re in a position to allow anything, Mr Dwarf…king...kidnapper…Sir.” the voice continues.
The children are still distracted, but Bofur can feel himself tensing as Thorin replies. “This happens to be my kingdom and my mountain, and I do not appreciate how you have gone about this- Billa, wait.”
The footsteps jerk to a halt, and unless Bofur’s ears are mistaken Thorin has taken hold of her arm to still her.
“No.” It is her voice then, brittle and huffy and heartbroken, and Freya’s little ears seem to prick up. “No I'll not wait. I want my daughter.”
“Our daughter.” Thorin replies indignantly, and Bofur fights the temptation to roll his eyes.
“Don’t.” Billa says, her voice getting closer. “Don’t even. Not that.”
“Maybe you should go back to the Ironfists, Uncle.” says a deceptively calm voice, Fili. No one else can sound as rational and as quietly sarcastic in the same sentence, in Bofur’s humble opinion.
“They can do without me at present, Fili, and we will have words regarding your actions and conduct later. Billa, I will bring Freya to you if you wish, but first-”
“S’not for you to say whats what, Mr Oakenshield.” Another male hobbit voice, and Mahal's flaming tits has Billa brought a harem with her? Bofur can only guess, but Thorin’s tone of voice is definitely not happy.
“I dare say it is not your responsibility either.” Thorin answers icily, an unmistakeable note of angry jealousy in his voice. “I do not know why you assume to speak for and in events concerning my halfing-”
“Your halfling?!”
“Uncle, I don’t think-”
“Oh would all of you just, please…”
“Mama!” Freya shouts out suddenly, leaping to her feet. Bofur only just manages to snag her by the back of her frock and swing her behind him as the voices cut off and a small, grey swathed form slams itself through the gate to the family Ur’s dwelling.
Bria runs to her uncle as he releases Freya so that Billa Baggins, hair askew, cheeks flushed, and several others on her tail, can drop to her knees in front of him and open her arms to her daughter, who sobs a refrain of “Mama, mama, mama.” over and over again.
Bofur fair feels his heart break a little as Billa gathers Freya against her chest and rocks her, tears falling down her own cheeks as she hugs her daughter tight.
“’Lo there lass.” He manages to croak, and then immediately regrets it as Billa gives a choking sob in response, maybe his name, more likely a helpless kind of hello.
With much grumbling from the dwarrows and hobbits gathered by the door, a majestic and seething Thorin Oakenshield done up in full court regalia manages to shove his way through to stand in front of their erstwhile burglar and the child they secretly made, (though how Billa managed to keep the fact that she was carrying a secret, Bofur can’t begin to guess.)
“Billa, my…ghivashel, you must believe me when I say I never ordered them to take her. Those who did so will be punished, I swear it- you may see it yourself if you so wish…” Thorin’s words, however well and nobly they are meant, do not seem to have the effect he is aiming for as Billa leans forwards, bending her body around her daughter. Her sobs increase.
Thorin looks a mixture of angry, guilty and horrified, and as though he wants to hold her, and Bofur wonders if he should go fetch Ysilla so that there is at least one person here who could adequately comfort a distraught crying hobbit woman. That thought proves uneccsary though, when the littlest among them decides to take matters into her own small hands.
Reaching up to swipe a short finger through the tears on Billa’s cheeks, Freya Baggins snuggles closer to her mother’s chest and pipes up in her high, insistent voice. “Mama not cry.”
It takes a few harsh, shuddering breaths and the painful, awkward silence of everyone else not knowing what to say, but Billa eventually gains control of her hitched sobs and runs a narrow, trembling hand through her daughter’s braided hair. “Very well then, my love. Mama won’t cry anymore.”