All rights remain with J.R.R Tolkein and whoever made the movies.

Okay, um, I saw everyone making these Bagginshield stories, so I thought I'd give it a go. Tell me what you think. Cover picture done by ssilcat on tumblr...I found the pic on google.

This Was Ours

By iamCAMBRIA

Chapter 1: The News of a King

The sun was setting, its rays gently kissing the hills of the Shire. The many hobbit holes that were scattered about felt the pleasant caress of the warm rays. One hobbit hole in particular felt all of the setting sun's affection. This quaint little home was safely tucked underneath a larger hill than the others. It was adorned in a brightly painted teal door, several circular windows, and a healthy splotching of flowers and vines.

This was Bag End.

Inside this comfy little home is the unlikely hero of our story. She is about as heroic as a daisy. But she proved her true value in many a skirmish, nonetheless.

This Bellissima Baggins was indeed the very same burglar of the once-was company led by Thorin Oakenshield over a year ago. The luck wearer, barrel rider, and, of course, thief of the expedition to regain the Dwarf kingdom of Erebor. The very-same hobbit-girl who had been betrothed to the would-be king under the Mountain. All this, however, had been before the tragedy that had shaken Belissima's life.

Thorin had died in the Battle of the Five Armies, thus their plans of marriage were put to an abrupt end. With a broken heart, and a grief-filled soul, Bellissima had taken her share of treasure and said good-bye to her familiar Dwarf companions. They had offered her a safe haven in the Mountain—that cursed Mountain—but she had refused. How could she live in the Mountain that mercilessly claimed the life of the one she loved? With a heavy heart, she traveled back home carrying the burden of her lament and treasure.

Which brings us back to the current time in the hobbit home of Bag End.

Bellissima Baggins was curled up in her favorite arm chair, a book on her lap. Gentle tawny curls cascaded down the side of her face, peacefully falling onto her shoulders. Thin wispy bangs were pulled to the side, hanging over soft hazel eyes that were trained on the manuscript in front of her. A small fist propped up her rounded chin, leaving the other hand free to turn the page. She wore an olive waistcoat and a simple white blouse—which was tucked into a dark brown skirt that ended around her mid-calves. She was not a petite hobbit, but neither was she fat as some of the others.

Her free hand reached up and began to twirl a small piece of her hair that wasn't curled. It was a braided tight chain that hung next to her ear, framing that side of her face. The bottom of the plait where it had been tied off was decorated with three simple beads of bronze. Each one bore a symbol. One for the name of her betrothed, one for her own title, and one with the name of Thorin's kingdom. It was a Dwarvish Marriage braid that she sported; instead of rings, Dwarves braided the hair of their beloveds'. To the Dwarves, it made the proposal far more intimate and personal. And Bellissima still wore hers to remind any annoyingly persistent suitor that she was taken until the day she died.

Her hand fell from the plait to the page of the book. She turned it, enjoying the crinkling sound of the parchment. With a close to melancholy sigh, Bellissima scanned the words.

The young lady was not ordinary, oh no. She did not want to be a lady-in-waiting; that was not the life for her. She knew that a girl could truly be a warrior if she wanted it hard enough. Her friends all laughed at her silly notion, but she did not give up. Instead, she trained in secret. She was preparing to slay the kingdom's long-hated bane: the dragon. So, with the bravery of a hundred men, she rode out to slay the demon reptile.

Bellissima turned her away, screwing her eyes shut and brow creasing. She hadn't realized reading this story would reopen old wounds she had buried a year ago. With a pained sigh, she closed the book, opened her eyes and got up. How naïve the human girl in the story was—killing a dragon is easier said than done. She couldn't help a certain memory worm its way to the forefront of her mind.

"She looks more like a grocer than a burglar." A Dwarf prince had quipped, before their journey had begun.

When they began to talk about the actual journey, she began to panic.

"That would be Smaug the Terrible." One of the Dwarves had jeered playfully. "Think furnace with wings."

And for a time, that had scared her so much that she had fainted—only to be caught by the same raven haired prince who had made some biting remarks earlier.

Bellissima grunted, moving towards the kitchen.

"Dragons are no joke," she muttered to herself, for the story had put her in an ill mood.

Going to her cupboards, she found a small plate and cup. She decided she was not going to bed any time soon, so she settled for a nice little snack and a cup of tea to calm her nerves. Next she found a small copper kettle and filled it up with water. She placed it on the stove top to boil. Once that was done, she went to her spices and pulled out a few mint leaves. With a grin on her face, she plopped the leaves into the slowly boiling water.

Now was the hard part: waiting. Exhaling, Bellissima walked over to her table and sat down. Using her arm, she propped her head with it; her cheek rested on the palm. With her other hand, her fingers drummed on the wood impatiently. She hated having to wait for her food to cook.

All the other Dwarves had gone off to the river to wash, so she stayed behind to keep an eye on their cooking supper. She constantly lifted the lid on the cast iron pot to see if the stew had been ready. But she would set it back down with a frustrated huff.

She squeaked out as a pair of strong arms snaked their way around her waist. A hard, chiseled chin rested on the crown of her head.

"The food will not cook any faster, Miss Baggins, if you keep lifting the lid," Thorin had chuckled in his deep melodic voice.

"I know, but you know us hobbits—we love our food," she had replied.

Thorin hummed in agreement. "Indeed, they do."

A few strands of his wet black hair fell, sticking to the skin of her cheek.

"Thorin!" she yelped indignantly. "You're getting me wet!" The Dwarf prince laughed.

A sharp rap at the door snatched her from her roiling thoughts. Bellissima's head perked up waiting to see who was there. The hobbit-girl got up when the knocking noise repeated itself.

"Now, who could that be?" She mused, "Who would visit at this hour?"

She pulled the door open with a strong heave. The person on the other side gave her such shock and delight that she squeaked.

"Balin!" she greeted, arms outstretched.

The old Dwarf grinned, and his dark eyes twinkled. The wrinkly Dwarf wore a tattered maroon trench coat and a beige tunic, which hung over brown trousers and fur boots that came up to his knees. He also showed hints of a few choice pieces of armor here and there, peeking out from the folds of his robes. He seemed weather-worn. But, nonetheless, he reached forward and embraced the hobbit. Laughter reverberated in his chest.

"Bell! Good to see you, too, lassie."

Bellissima disengaged and beckoned him in.

"Come inside Balin, please! It must've been an awfully long journey for you, travelling all the way from Erebor!"

"Yes, well," Balin mumbled, stepping through the threshold, "A long journey, yes, but a short visit."

Bellissima tilted her head. "Why is that?"

"It's a bit of a long story."

"We can talk about it over tea. I've got the kettle going—I just put it on."

Balin pondered this, a thoughtful expression on his face, before he nodded.

"I suppose I can say what I need to over a cup of tea."

Bellissima nodded, and closed the door. The two walked into the kitchen and sat down at her table. Balin let out an uncomfortable exhale as he sat.

"Long journey then?" she asked.

"You can imagine," he responded, eyes darkening.

Bellissia caught on to his black mood. "Balin, what's wrong?" she inquired.

"The journey—the Quest—is actually why I am here." he said, his voice quiet and grim.

The hobbit let out an "oh".

"Yes, it is grave indeed," the old one said. "What I have to say…well, I am unsure of how to say it without hurting you."

A stone of fear dropped in her stomach. "What is it?"

"T-T-Thorin…" Balin began shakily.

Bellissima nodded, the pit in her stomach deepening.

"Thorin is alive."

The hobbit girl, who had been leaning forward in her seat, fell out of her unbalanced chair and onto the hard dirt ground of her home.

"What? Alive? How?" She spluttered a tad ungracefully.

"After the battle, we went to bury him. As it turned out, he was in a deep coma, not dead."

She didn't answer.

"So we've healed him," he continued, "and—"

"How long have you known?" Bellissima interrupted.

Balin looked ashamed. "We've known since the day you left."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" she yelled.

Balin flinched, then sighed. "The situation is…delicate."

"How so?"

"Thorin doesn't remember anything. He has a case of amnesia."

The world stopped spinning for a second as her heart took precious time to shatter all over again.

"What?" she asked, her voice fragile.

"Thorin does not remember much of the events of the quest," Balin explained softly. "And—"

"He doesn't remember me," Bellissima guessed bitterly. The old Dwarf nodded. Bellissima harrumphed angrily. It wasn't that she was particularly mad at Balin, it wasn't his fault—or maybe it was—but she was certainly mad in general. Thorin had been alive for over a year, and she hadn't been alerted. She felt incredibly misled.

"That was not the only reason I came, lass."

She looked up at him incredulously. "Why else?"

"I have recently taken up the job of master scribe in Erebor," he said proudly.

"Congratulations," she snapped. Her voice frothed with malice.

Balin glowered at her, and Bellissima quieted.

"I have taken up the job of master scribe," he continued, "and I am in need of an apprentice."

Bellissima looked around her house, just in case he was talking to someone else. Dwarves were so secretive in their culture that they hardly shared it with outsiders. She was almost sure he wasn't talking to her. She then looked back at him and pointed at herself, a shocked expression written on her face.

"Me?"

Balin nodded. "It would get you closer to Thorin."

Part of her was furious at the Dwarf for not telling her sooner. The other part of her, however, was overjoyed. Her Thorin was alive! And even though he might not remember her now, he might if he saw her again. Her left hand went up slowly, and humbly brushed up against the braid and bronze beads in her hair.

She might be able to see her beloved again.

And yet…

Yea or nay? Please let me know in the reviews. Also, helpful criticism would be lovely.