It had happened again. Just like it always did. Demelza would try to please her step-mother, Lobelia. At first, Lobelia would allow her to grovel, she might even be gratuitous, but eventually she would disappoint her in one way or another, and today she had disappointed her spectacularly. Demelza had the bruises to prove it.
As soon as Bilbo opened the door Demelza smiled the most brilliant smile she could muster. Perhaps, she hoped, the smile would distract him from the vivid fresh bruise which had enveloped half her face. For a brief moment it did, till his eyes drifted down and his own smile dropped off his face.
"Not again!"
"It's not that bad." Demelza muttered as she walked past him into the house.
"Elza, you look like you're been kicked by a horse."
"My dear mama, a horse, what's the difference?" Demelza smiled, laughed, and then winced. It had already started to hurt to smile. She wondered if, once the bruising had gone down, there would be a dent on the side of her face from where her mother had hit her.
"Come in."
Demelza sat down in front of the open fireplace and quickly turned the bruised side of her face away from the fireplace. The heat from the fire too much to bear combined with the warmth radiating from her bruises. A few minutes later Bilbo re-appeared with a damp cloth. Demelza winced as he pressed it against her cheek and took it from him. The cold cloth like ice against her hot skin.
"Thank you."
"What happened?" Bilbo demanded as he pulled a chair up next to her. "Why did that witch hit you this time?"
"I refused to marry Largo Halfast, you can imagine my dear mother's reaction."
"Old man Halfast? He's older than me!"
"He's richer than you too. Maybe I should marry him, at least it would get me away from her." Demelza laughed dryly.
"Don't even joke about it. You want to be free, not just move over to another cage."
"Well then, do you mind if I stay with you in this cage tonight?"
"Bag End is not a cadge!" Bilbo replied defensively. "But yes, of course you can stay. You should sleep, get some rest?"
Demelza nodded and stood up. Before she could walk away Bilbo pulled her into a hug, Demelza winced as his arms pressed down on the welts on her back, but she did not say a word.
"It'll be alright Demelza. You can stay here as long as you want."
Demelza smiled at him and shuffled away, down the hall, to the room at the end of it. As soon as the door was closed she knelt on a crumbled heap on the floor, one hand on the handle and the other on her back. Her spine felt like it was on fire. It wasn't just the pain, it was the humiliation. Less than six months ago she had escaped to this very room and promised herself that enough was enough. It would never happen again. She was of age now, Bilbo had offered her a home with him more than once, she could escape. But each time a desperate need to be loved by the woman her long-dead father had promised would be her mother brought her back to the hobbit hole in Hardbottle. When Tom, her father, had died Lobelia already had her sight set on her newest victim. Otho Sackville-Baggins. Within three months they were married, and Demelza had found herself with a new father. A hollow pale imitation of the great man she loved. But for all his faults he had never struck her, in fact, he seemed entirely indifferent to her. He would never raise his hand to her, but he would never intervene either, and tonight had been the worst beating for years.
Lobelia had managed to resist venting her fury till they had reached their home in Hardbottle, but as soon as the door had closed Lobelia grabbed the willow switch which hung on the kitchen wall and began to his her furiously. Demelza looked down and winced as a tear fell on the red welts on her forearms. Part of her was relieved it had not been her shoulders, as seemed to be the custom, which had born the brunt of her step-mother's rage last time. The pain of just wearing clothes over the lashes had been excruciating, but at least the marks had been easier to hide. The only thing worse than the bruises were the looks people gave her when they saw them. The pity and confusion. She knew the thoughts that passed through their minds, they passed through her's too. Why would she say with Lobelia? Why did she never fight back?
"Elza?" Bilbo called down the hall. "I'm just going to go down the Green Dragon. I've run out of Ale."
Demelza shook her head. He had not run out of ale, she was sure of that. But it was as good a ruse as any to go find Lydia Maybury for the usual concoction of herbs for her bruises.
"Will you be alright?"
"I'll be fine, thank you, Bilbo."
The door closed and there was complete silence for several minutes.
She stood up and walked over to the chest at the end of the ready-made bed, a handful of old clothes tucked away in it. After a few minutes she found a pair of long old woolen gloves which reached up to her elbows. Demelza slowly pulled them on. The corse old gloves like small thorns against her sore, red, skin. It hurt, but she did not pull the gloves off. The pain hellped, it distracted her from the voice in her mind which chided her over and over again for being so utterly weak.
As she curled up on the bed and pulled the blanket over her head she tried to resist the wave of tears behind her eyes, but one by one they spilled out.
"Papa! Papa! Come home!" Demelza whispered to herself and curled up a little tighter. The blanket wrapped over her like a cocoon. She remembered the day her father had come home and told her that he had married Lobelia. She had been so excited. Never having known her own mother, the thought of finally having a mother had been exciting. Somehow she had, and in some way still did, expected her to fill the emptiness in her heart.
"This time you're staying here!" Demelza whispered to herself through a muffled sob. "You're not going back!"
It was a lie of course. She would go back, eventually. She always did.
"You've got to get out of here."
There was a loud knock on the front door. Loud enough to make her jump and sit up. Whoever that was, it wasn't Bilbo. Lobelia, maybe? No, her knocks were different. Sharp and quick. Again, there was a loud knock and Demelza stood up, her blanket still held around her. She walked over to the door and stood with her hand hovering over the handle as another loud, impatient, knock rattled it.
Her heart in her chest she opened the door and peered through the crack in the door. A pair of piercingly blue eyes looked back at her.
"Bilbo?"
Demelza stood spellbound. She had never met a dwarf before, but she had no doubt that the man in front of her was, in fact, a dwarf. He was nothing like what she had imagined a dwarf would look like. Yes, he did have the distinctive long hair and beard so commonly associated with them, but the way he stood, the way he looked at her was nothing like the bumbling, foolish image she had painted in her mind. This dwarf stood tall, proud, his head held high with an air around him that made her feel small, without feeling insignificant. A small soul in the presence of a great one.
"Um, no, no, Bilbo, he'll be back soon."
The dwarf looked at her expectantly as an awkward silence ensued.
"Has Gandalf arrived?"
"Gandalf? No."
"Would you mind if I waited for him inside?"
"Um, um, yes, sorry! Please do come in."
Demelza stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the scent of pine and stone wafting in with him.
"I-I don't know what Bilbo has in the kitchen, he just left to find some ale." Demelza blurted out as she walked to the kitchen, the dwarf behind her. His heavy, slow footsteps on the tiles much louder than the small patter of her bare feet. Demelza ran up to the pantry and rummaged around until she could find some ale. "Ah! Here it is, would you like some?"
"Yes, that would be nice. Thank you."
Demelza smiled and then winced, her face even more swollen than before. The dwarf watched her as she fumpled around the kitchen, trying desperately to find a cup. Her blanket trailing on the ground behing her. There was something about the dwarf that made her feel that to serve him ale in a plain terracotta cup would not be fitting, and she had no idea where Bilbo kept the glasses. Finally, she found them, stuffed away at the back of one of the cupboards. Thankfully they were clean, not so much as a single spec of dust on them. Not that she expected anything less from Bilbo. He was even more meticulous than her when it came to organisation.
"Sorry, here's your ale."
"No need to apologize." The dwarf took a long sip of the ale, and glanced back at her, his eyes on the now purple bruise on her face. Demelza felt her face turn red and she quickly pulled free the hair tucked behind her ears to try and hide the bruise.
"My name is Demelza. Demelza Baggins."
"Thorin. Thorin Oakensheild."
