Bilba Baggins storms through the Great Smial in Tuckborough, emerald green skirts swirling about her calves and lifting to show the pristine white lace of her petticoats as she strides past faunts and tweens. A crumpled sheet of paper is held tightly in one fist and that is the hand that she uses to announce her arrival at the door of her grandfather's study before she slams it open without waiting for an invitation. Behind her follows her Aunt Rosa. The older hobbit is wringing her hands and her face is pinched with concern.
"What is the meaning of this, Grandfather?" Bilba demands of the elderly hobbit behind an ornately carved desk of dark wood.
Gerontious Took looks at his dark-haired granddaughter from over the top of a delicately made pair of gold rimmed spectacles, the light of the mid-afternoon sun glints off them as he moves to lean back in his chair. Age spotted hands, the joints of every finger swollen with arthritis, come together over a stomach that would be considered over large on a Man but that is perfect by hobbit standards. He regards her calmly, however, with no hint at all of his thoughts beyond the twitching of his lips.
"It's quite alright, Rosa," he dismisses her aunt. "Close the door behind you, my dear, and perhaps see if Donnamira has any of her excellent bara brith left to go with the tea." Rosa bobs and obeys, casting a withering glare at her niece. Bilba raises her chin, Rosa may be just as much a Baggins as she is, but Bilba's mother was a Took and it will take more than that to intimidate her. "Delightful girl," Gerontious says with a chuckle. "Pear drop?" He asks abruptly, offering her the ever-present dish.
"Thank you, Grandfather, no," Bilba replies, not even her anger with her family can completely erase years of lessons on comportment and manners.
"Your loss, my dear," he smiles and pops one of the brightly coloured sweets into his mouth with a delighted hum. "Now," he says after taking a moment to savour the taste, "I suspect I know why you've come rampaging in here, dear child, but why don't you tell me anyway? It'll do you good to get it off your chest." Bilba's fists clench more tightly for a moment but losing her temper with her grandfather won't help her case.
"This," she says tightly as she slams the scrunched-up paper onto the desk. Her grandfather takes it with nothing more than the raise of an eyebrow, smoothing the paper with fingers that are as gentle as they can be, bent and stiff as they are.
"Sit, child," he orders softly, and she flops into a chair obediently. "Ah," he breathes after a further moment. "Exquisite, not entirely to our own fashion tastes, I grant, but allowances must be made. I'm sure Mirabella would be happy to make what adjustments she can, however, should you ask her."
There is a picture on the paper, quite a good one really for all the creases that now mar it, a rendering of Bilba in a gown of blue and silver. The fabric has been drawn to show ornate embroidery, flowers of love and unity and fidelity, but the dress is cut in the boxy lines that dwarves favour. It is, quite obviously, a wedding dress.
"You can't expect me to go through with this farce!" She exclaims.
"Your mother, your Aunt Donnamira and Aunt Mirabella all went to Moria, child," he replies mildly. "My sisters all went there, and my aunts went to Erebor before the dragon came and drove the dwarves back to their old home."
"But I'm a Baggins," Bilba insists.
"And you are also a Took," Gerontious replies firmly. "You live in the Great Smial and you will go. There are not enough daughters in this generation, and we must be seen to hold up our end of things."
"They're savages!" Bilba cries desperately. "They ink their skin and run to war at the slightest provocation. They dedicate themselves to shiny mathoms with no deeper tender feelings at all!"
"You've been listening to far too many of your Baggins relations and reading too many Elvish books," Gerontious frowns disapprovingly. "And if you think for one second, young miss, that I think you truly believe all of that rubbish you must take me for a fool."
Bilba's argument deflates rapidly, replaced with the uncomfortable, vague, feeling of guilt. She does not, in fact, subscribe to the idea that dwarves are vicious savages who care only for gold and jewels. How can she when her mother would tell her such marvellous stories of her time in Moria and the great halls of Dwarrowdelf? Her mother's tales of the wondrous music, the echoes of their songs and the lightness of their harps, of the indescribable works of art to be found in mosaics of gems and precious metals on the walls, frescos and friezes of their history and legends. Belladonna's joy at the gentle care with which they treated her were some of Bilba's favourite stories to hear as a child and teen.
"Their manners are not hobbit manners, to be sure," her mother would say, "but they are all that is good and kind to those who deserve it."
Bilba's preferred hair slides were, in fact, once her mother's and a souvenir from her long months in Moria. Belladonna would sit and gaze upon them sometimes, looking back on that year with a fondness that Bilba could never understand and, she sometimes thought, a measure of regret as well. Donnamira and Mirabella, too, have told her similar tales and Bilba will readily admit that she is simply clutching at straws in an effort to try and avoid the journey and the resulting months away from home and Torluc Proudfoot.
"Tea, Father," Aunt Donnamira bustles in with a tray. "I toasted the bara brith," she continues, "this was the last of it, I'll make a fresh batch tomorrow, of course, but this was a little stale. Oh, well, would you look at that," she picks up the dress design. "Our Mirabella certainly has an eye for it, doesn't she?" Gerontious chuckles, everyone in the Great Smial is accustomed to the way Donnamira's mind seems to flutter from one thought to the next without a break. "Why, I do believe this might be the most hobbit-like dress we've had so far. Have you shown her the previous ones? Mine was really very dwarf-like, but it got me more than one proposal, even if the heir to Durin's throne didn't appear."
"Bilba doesn't want to go," Gerontious comments.
"Just like her mother," Donnamira sighs. "So like Belladonna, I remember the fit she pitched when her turn came to go to Moria, the corridors rang with her screams for days . And you look so like her, dear, you'll enjoy it when you get there. Just like she did. A little adventure is just the thing to set a girl up before she goes looking for a husband, you know."
"But it's so pointless!" Bilba snaps. "The elder line of Durin died out centuries ago, he's never going to appear to take a hobbit wife! They should just crown someone from the younger line and let it go."
"Your mother made the same argument," her grandfather nods sagely. "But their laws say that only a child of the elder line, or Durin himself, can take the throne and wield Durin's jewel, whatever that is, and so I will tell you the same thing I told her: you are going, end of discussion."
"Grandfather!"
"Enough, Bilba!" Gerontious shouts. "Lord Frerin has already assured me that an escort has been prepared for you and will arrive in time for mid-summer. You will depart with them the day after, spend the winter months leading to your coming of age learning the ritual and the customs you will be expected to adhere to, and they will return you as soon as it is safe to travel once the ceremony is completed. This is an opportunity, child, to see what lies beyond our borders without the cruel censure and gossip of ignorant old hobbit wives who have no idea what it takes to keep our home and people safe. Torluc Proudfoot is unlikely to ever take you any further from home than Bywater. You are a Took, this is in your blood. Accept it."
Bilba stiffens and bites her tongue to prevent herself from retorting in a way that is sure to arouse her grandfather's suspicions. Then she gets to her feet and marches out, tea and food abandoned which is slight and statement enough in its own way.
"Just like her mother," she hears Aunt Donnamira say fondly as she slams the door.
Bilba's room is deep inside the Great Smial, which can easily house upwards of sixty hobbits at any given time. Young cousins, aunts and uncles, even a couple of great uncles, move through the halls at one of two speeds; the heedless meander of someone with no true destination in mind, it being between meal times, or the frantic activity of the young. It's spring and it has been raining for roughly a week, so nearly everyone is inside. For the most part everything and everyone smells damp. Bilba has long suspected that there is a leak somewhere, but the structure is so extensive that it could be years until the damage is actually found. It works to her benefit, however, because Bilba's room, and many of the store rooms, are near to where the damp smell is strongest. This isn't out of any malicious intent from her family. In fact, when Bilba was brought to live here after the Fell Winter the rooms were fine, and this was the first one available. She had welcomed the solitude, and still does. Now the smell keeps many of the others away and so her quiet preparations have gone unnoticed.
She closes the door to her room carefully behind her and considers her options. She could go to Moria, it would certainly be the most sensible route to take and it will only be a year of her life. If Torluc Proudfoot can't wait a year for her he isn't worth having anyway. It's the principal of the thing, however, and the humiliation of it. The dwarves and hobbits have always been allies, to offer herself as a hostage bride to symbolise that alliance seems somehow barbaric. To offer herself and be rejected due to the simple fact that the one she is being given to doesn't exist is, on some level, worse. She has nightmares about it, honestly, about the dwarves watching the hobbit arrive in her ridiculous dress and offering her body, heart and soul (insincerely) to thin air. She hears them snigger at her foolishness in the back of her mind and even her own imaginings cause a blush to stain her cheeks. Bilba may be a Took, but she is also a Baggins , and Bagginses do not allow themselves to be humiliated.
Eyes the colour of cornflowers turn to her bed, to the shirts and trousers and coats she has gathered. They are all well worn, and likely several years (if not decades) out of fashion, but where she's going fashion won't much matter. Perhaps, if she can make it to Rivendell, Lord Elrond might be convinced to give her shelter until after the harvest, and thus make it too late by the time she has returned to the Shire for her to reach Moria before her birthday, they won't be able to depart once the bad weather sets in. If he does she might avoid the spectacle in Moria altogether. To that end she sheds her clothes, the emerald green bodice and skirts, the pristine white petticoats and blouse, her shift and stays, and exchanges it all for tight bindings around her breasts, coarse linen shirts and odd feeling canvas trousers. A glance in the mirror confirms that she looks ridiculous in her masculine clothes with her mass of curls that fall to her lower back. No amount of twisting and pinning can make them lie flat enough to match her rough disguise and she regretfully reaches for the shears on her dresser. She gathers her hair in a loose tail, reaches behind her and hacks once, twice, three times, until she is left holding a mass of severed curls in her hand and the remainder falls in uneven waves about her head and shoulders. That is far easier to pin into something that looks more like the messy curls of a male hobbit. It is far from the best disguise, but it should get her from Tuckborough to Bree without being instantly recognised.
The hair and sheers are placed in the drawer of her dresser and her eyes fall on her mother's silver hair clasps. She cannot leave them here, she thinks, more than one of her cousins has taken a shine to them and with Bilba having run away they may decide to simply help themselves. The little bits of shine, mathoms as they are, will not take up much space and so Bilba wraps them in a pocket handkerchief before tucking them deep into her pack. This she has packed meticulously, having made list after list, checked and double checked against that which she had been told to pack for the trip to Moria. Two changes of clothes, a tin bowl and cup, water skins, handkerchiefs, soap and a bedroll. Whatever preserved foods suitable for travelling that she has been able to pilfer, though she will have to get cured meat in Bree, and she knows she won't be able to carry enough food to keep to a proper eating schedule. Her pack is almost as big as she is anyway. She checks her list one last time, adds flint and a small sewing kit to the bag, then takes a deep breath. Grandfather will be unhappy with this development, and she hates that she will make him so, but unlike her mother Bilba has no intention of allowing the nature of her adventure to be dictated to her.
She takes one last bracing breath before she sneaks out of the back door.
