He found her where he'd always known she'd be.

Dwalin dropped down heavily on the bench next to Belladonna.

It was a pleasant day, as it so often seemed to be in the Shire, with a warm breeze rustling the branches of distant trees. Laughter, and the sound of quiet chatter reached his ears, coming from hobbits and dwobbits scattered about the landscape. Some he felt he recognized. Others he did not.

The sun shone down brilliantly, and insects buzzed about flowers dotting the fields. Small, green lumps outlined Shire dragons, basking in the sunny day.

Dwalin rested his hands on his legs and clasped his hands together, absently studying the fine lines and creases, many marred by scars or cracked skin. His nails were ragged and several of the cuticles were permanently torn.

They were the hands of someone who worked.

A warrior.

A protector...except for the one time it had really mattered.

"Bella." He dragged the word from a throat firmly closed against it. "I'm-"

She gave an exaggerated sigh and closed the book she'd been reading with a sharp snap. "Dwalin, I swear, if the next word that comes out of your mouth is 'sorry' I'm going to smack you."

She turned to face him, pushing her sunhat up as she did, and there was the fierceness in her eyes she'd had even in Bilba's memories, when nothing else about her had been recognizable.

She didn't look like that now. She was Bella as she'd been, as she'd existed in his mind's eye from the last time he'd seen her, better even, younger and more alive somehow than she'd been before.

"I should have been there," he insisted, and she rolled her eyes in the way she'd always done when she believed he was being especially thick-headed.

"Whose decision was it to leave the Shire?" she challenged. The briefest hint of deep pain flashed across her face, and her voice took on the slightest waver. "It was my mistake. I deserved the consequences. She didn't."

Dwalin let out a breath as if someone had punched him in the gut. He gripped his hands together until the knuckles turned white. He wished he could say more, that he could tell her he'd never blamed her, but he'd be lying.

He'd been angry at her, for a long time. In moments when he felt like being honest with himself, which were few and far between, there was a small, deeply hidden part of himself that still was. Bilba probably knew about it, from the soul bond, but she'd never said a word. Most likely because there was a part of her that felt the same way.

Still...

"No one deserved that," he said, hoarsely. "And it was my responsibility. I was supposed to protect you."

Belladonna scowled. "And I was supposed to stay in the Shire." She ran her hands over the cover of her book, and then absently smoothed her skirt where it already lay perfectly over her legs. She was quiet for a few seconds, studying her lap with the same intensity that Dwalin was expending on his hands, before finally saying, "I was quite convinced of my own ability to take care of myself." Her hands tightened, bunching the material of her skirt under her fingers, before she added, in a near whisper, "I was rather spectacularly wrong."

She sniffed, eyes still focused on her lap, and Dwalin reached over to place a hand over hers. She gave a watery laugh, and put her free hand tightly over his, before giving him a sidelong look that was full of pride. "Speaking of people being able to take care of themselves-"

Dwalin snorted. "She certainly thinks she can. Half the time she's right, but I don't plan to tell her that."

"No," Belladonna agreed. "It'd only make her worse." She smiled. "Fili's grown into a fine young man. He's good for her."

"He spoils her," Dwalin corrected in exasperation. "And it's only going to get worse now that Frerin is back." He wouldn't deny the burst of joy that had filled him upon hearing his friend had seemingly returned from the dead, but that didn't disguise the burst of near terror at imagining him and Bilba together.

"It should be interesting,"

"It will be irritating." Dwalin muttered.

Belladonna gave a huff. "I suppose this is the time you're supposed to decide whether or not you want to stay or go back." She turned her gaze, the one that used to make grown hobbits who'd chosen to cut through her flower beds quake in fear, on him. "I'll never forgive you if you stay."

Dwalin snorted. "I'd never forgive myself. I made a promise to that girl, and I aim to keep it."

Bella tugged her hand free from his, so she could lay it on his cheek. "I knew there was a reason I married you."

Dwalin grinned and leaned into her hand. "I thought it was for my rugged good looks."

She laughed, a sound he'd never thought he'd hear again, and then sighed in resignation and reopened the book on her lap. "I'll still be here," she said, focusing down on the pages, fingers holding so tight the paper was indenting under the pressure. "The next time you return, we can sit and wait for her together."

Dwalin reached out and, as gently as was possible for him, wiped away the tear currently tracking down her face. "Don't think you're supposed to be crying here, my dear. Kind of destroys the illusion."

She gave a watery laugh and lightly smacked him with the book. "Shut up, you. I'll do as I wish."

"There's my Bella." Dwalin said, pleased. He settled back, and grabbed her hand, interlacing their fingers. "You don't mind if I sit here for a few minutes, do you? Enjoy the view?"

She shifted the book to one knee, holding it open with one hand, before giving him an exasperated look. "You're not seeing much of the view if I'm the only one you're looking at."

"You're the only part of the view I care about," he replied.

She blushed, a look that took him right back to the early days of their courtship, squeezed his hand and looked back down at her book again.

He sighed and settled back to watch her read, content to simply soak in the return of something he'd though was lost forever. Once, and not so very long ago, he'd have chosen to stay with her without hesitation.

Things had changed. His daughter needed him, and he had no intention of ever letting her down again.

But, for now, for just this single moment, he was going to relax, and relish the sight of his wife.

Bilba wasn't used to inactivity.

She was curled up on the window ledge in her father's room, idly staring out the open window. The air was cool, and from this high up, she could hardly smell the stench of death, or the sharp tang of fires from down below. She couldn't see any of it either, so long as she didn't look.

Fili was somewhere in the midst of it all, even then, helping bring Erebor back from the brink little by little. Bilba should be there as well, but Fili had bluntly informed her she'd done quite enough already. He'd also made some sort of comment about it being easier without her causing a mob scene, but she was fairly certain he was exaggerating. She'd only done what anyone in her position would have done. There was no reason to cause a fuss.

I hope you're prepared for disappointment then, his voice sounded in her mind. She rolled her eyes and sent him back a rather rude response, to which he simply laughed before returning to whatever he'd been doing.

A glance over her shoulder revealed her father, still soundly asleep in his bed. He was going to wake up, there was no doubt in her mind about that, but she'd prefer to be there when he did anyway. If their positions had been reversed, she'd have wanted to see him first thing, so it only made sense to do the same for him.

The baby ringleader dragon, whose name was apparently Varegeth, was sleeping near him on one of the extra pillows. Bilba had no idea where he'd come from or how he'd gotten into the rooms. She'd woken up from a nap to find him sitting imperiously on her chest with his face inches from hers as if trying to will her awake.

Once he'd realized his mission had been achieved he'd happily announced that, because they were now soul bonded, it was okay for him to talk to her no matter what stupid Syrath said. He'd then grandly told her his name, before promptly removing himself to the bed where he'd been lying ever since. According to Syrath, the little dragon wanted to talk to her about something but, as of yet, he seemed rather content to settle into a routine of sleeping, eating, and acting pretentious.

Syrath had been quite insulted when Bilba had commented the little dragon reminded her of him at that age.

With a yawn, she settled in a little more against the window frame, idly asking Syrath to make sure she didn't fall asleep and end up tumbling right out of the open window. That would just be embarrassing. The fact she still felt as tired as she did, and kept falling asleep at the most inopportune moments, was annoying. She was healing, and the pain was nothing she couldn't handle, but the fatigue was simply obnoxious. She knew it wouldn't last forever but, for the time it did, well...she was not enjoying it.

Inside her head, at least half a dozen souls sent waves of sympathy toward her, and she bit back a smile. The dragons had continued sorting themselves out, establishing hierarchies and doing their best to lessen the strain on her. She never would have thought that it was possible to have too many soul bonds, but was fast finding out it was quite possible indeed.

She still got headaches, and probably always would, and there was a constant low babble of voices, but they were trying to make it easier. A few of the older dragons had begun to take turns creating...bubbles almost, comprised of their shields, where she could settle in and relax for a few minutes. It couldn't be for very long as it virtually cut her off from the others, an action which hurt her and them, but without it she wasn't entirely certain her sanity would have remained intact.

There was a plus, however. At night now, she dreamed of dragons. Gone were the nightmares of darkness and pain, either lost forever or so buried beneath other minds that they no longer had the ability to threaten her. She soared now in her dreams, flying over landscapes she hadn't yet seen, frolicking with baby dragons in brilliant forests, and trying to outrace the dawn as other, dark shapes danced around her. She actually looked forward to sleeping now, and woke up feeling more refreshed than she could ever remember having done before.

A soft knock had her looking at the partly opened bedroom door. Before she could do anything, an exasperated voice said something, and the door was simply pushed open to allow Frerin to stride in.

He looked very different from the last time she'd seen him. He was still thin, but he was clean, hair neatly trimmed and braided, and sporting a short beard similar to the one his brother wore. Dressed in the clothing of his rank, he looked every bit the royal he was, even if the glint in his eye trended far more to a rogue than a prince. The scars at his wrists and neck from the shackles were easily visible if one looked for them, and she had a strong feeling he'd wear them proudly as badges of honor for all that he'd endured.

Ori came in behind him, nervous, and clutching a narrow, rectangular box in both hands. He was a sensitive soul, unused to the sorts of horrors visited on Erebor, and when Nori had asked if she could find something to occupy his time Bilba had been more than happy to oblige.

Ori settled the box on a table near the ledge carefully, as Frerin went to stand near the bed. "Still being lazy, are you?" he directed at Dwalin. He shook his head and turned to face her. "We should take that vacation we were talking about before. Bet that would wake him up."

I think Fili already forbid us from doing that, Bilba said, amused.

Frerin rolled his eyes. "Upstart. Gets officially declared Heir and suddenly has all these ideas about pulling rank." His eyes took on the distant look that suggested he was talking to someone via mind link, and he snorted, sending her a mischievous grin in the process.

Bilba shook her head at his antics, and turned her attention back to Ori. He'd opened the case he'd brought in and pulled out a few pieces of paper that he handed to her. "These are the designs I came up with," he said timidly, "based on what you said you wanted. If you don't like them, it's fine, we can always come up with something else."

He said the last in a rush, the words blurring together until she almost didn't understand what he said. She sat up straighter, crossing her legs, and putting the papers down in front of her, holding them tightly to avoid the wind catching them.

The first was a very accurate drawing of her hands and wrists. Ori had been coming in a little every day to do them, a fact she'd have thought might do away with some of his shyness but, to date, hadn't made much difference She'd sat with her arms out, allowing him to carefully sketch out her hands and arms from multiple angles, meticulously adding in each and every scar marking the skin.

She hadn't been entirely sure what his plan was when he'd done it but, looking at it now, all she could do was draw in a sharp breath and fight against the sudden blurring of her vision.

Frerin wandered over from the bed, standing with his arms crossed just behind her shoulder to see the sketches himself. On the bed, Varegeth got up and hopped down to the floor with a dainty thud. He made his way over and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, proceeded to climb Frerin's pant leg and wind up under his arm and around his back before finally settling on his shoulder, tiny claws holding onto the side of Frerin's head to steady himself. The fact Frerin didn't appear to even notice spoke to his history with dragons, as well as suggested volumes about how often he'd interacted with baby dragons.

"That's gorgeous work," Frerin murmured now. "Well done, Ori."

Ori went bright red, and looked down at his hands, stammering out a quiet thank you.

Bilba, meanwhile, was still staring at the drawing.

Ori had positively transformed her scars. Using color against the black and white sketches, he'd changed each and every scar to winding, delicate green, dotted with fragile leaves and intricately drawn, bell shaped flowers.

And not just any flowers.

"Belladonna," Frerin said softly. "A good choice. Pays homage to your mother, and reminds your enemies of how dangerous you are at the same time."

Bilba rolled her eyes. I don't need a tattoo to remind them. I have a sword.

Or at least she would soon enough. Fili had already started working on replacing the weaponry and armor she'd lost during the fight, and she'd soon be as well outfitted as she'd been before. She had a vague feeling he was dragging his heels on it all, with the misguided thought it would keep her from running out and getting in trouble. Unfortunately, for him, armor and even weapons had always been a luxury, not a requirement.

"Fair enough." Frerin leaned sideways against the wall, crossing one leg over the other. Varegeth leaned with him until he was practically flopping against Frerin's head, but the prince still didn't seem to notice, or mind.

"This is the other," Ori said shyly, handing her the second sheet. "I tried to do what you said, but with kind of a twist on the style."

Bilba took the sheet, and felt something inside her relax at the sight. She'd made the decision, early in talks with Ori, to keep the scars around her neck as they were. She didn't wear them as badges of honor, at least not yet, but she also didn't fear them or care what others thought of them and refused to cover them all up as if she did.

Her wrists were a way to honor her mother, and her back? Well, she doubted anyone would blame her for wanting to cover where Azog had branded her like she was his personal cattle.

As with her wrists, Ori had worked what seemed like a miracle. She couldn't even see the brand that he'd painstakingly sketched from her back, while Fili stood over him and glowered. Instead, she saw a circle, within which was drawn the most finely detailed map of Middle Earth she'd ever seen. Sitting on top of the circle, tail curled protectively around it, wings outstretched and fire spurting form his maw as if driving off an unseen enemy, was Syrath.

She felt a burst of pride from Syrath and mentally acknowledged his ego was probably going to get several times larger after this.

"Damn, kid," Frerin said. "I think I may need you to work on the one on my back when you're done with hers."

Ori looked like he might pass out, but simply nodded in silent affirmation.

I love them, Bilba said, reaching out to touch his hand gently. Can we get started right away?

"Of course," Ori stammered. "I brought my tools."

He opened the case again and began laying out needles of various widths, tubs of whatever it was he used for color, and other odds and ends.

"After you get that done," Frerin said casually. "We should go find some orcs to show them off too."

Bilba grinned, and opened her mouth to answer, but never got a chance.

"Bastard. I'm asleep for five minutes," a sleep roughened voice grumbled from behind them, "and you return from the dead and try to abscond with my daughter."

Bilba was off the window ledge without consciously moving, only barely aware of Ori's squawk as he lunged to save his equipment.

Her father's eyes were open, glassy and not entirely focused, but aware. He'd raised a hand to his forehead as if in pain and Bilba sent a near panicked look over her shoulder at Frerin, who smiled in reassurance and placed a hand on her shoulder as he came up to stand beside her.

"Doctor's on the way." He turned his attention to Dwalin and added, "Fine way to greet your long-lost best friend, you arsehole. Not to mention, someone had to take charge of her while you lazed about in bed all day."

"There are plenty to look after her that aren't you," Dwalin growled without heat.

Frerin snorted. "Don't I know it." Dwalin had extended an arm shakily, and Frerin reached out to grip his forearm. "Don't worry, old friend. Pretty sure there'd be an army after me if I tried to run off with her, with Fili at the front."

"Always did like that boy," Dwalin muttered. "Don't call me old, bastard."

Frerin laughed. Bilba, shaking her head at their extremely strange relationship, climbed onto the bed and sat next to her father, tucking her legs under her and sitting on her heels.

Dwalin sighed and reached out to gently trail his fingers along her face. Bilba caught it and held it, trying to her best not to cry.

"Now, now," Dwalin murmured, moving his hand to wipe away the traitorous tears that had leaked out in spite of her best efforts. "Can't have all my womenfolk crying today, people will talk."

The words didn't entirely make sense, but they didn't stop Bilba from bursting into tears and flinging herself forward onto him, burying her face in his chest.

Dwalin lightly rubbed her back, while continue to engage in mildly threatening banter with Frerin because, apparently, it was what they did.

Did he make you cry again? Fili asked in her mind. I really may just have to kill him.

Bilba laughed in spite of herself and then curled in tighter against her father. In her mind a chorus of dragon voices joined in, all offering to aid Fili in murdering whoever upset her, Syrath's voice loudest of all as tried to over shout them all.

Varegeth landed smugly on her hip and curled up, much to the outrage of Syrath and a few other dragons.

Bilba shook her head at their antics, buried her head deeper in her father's chest, and proceeded to laugh until her sides hurt.