A Name

Billa Baggins is an idiot.

It's her own fault really, she should have known Kíli was up to something the moment he asked her politely to join him on one last sojourn to the Brandywine before it grew too cold to picnic. She was delighted obviously, it has been a while since they picnicked at the river - and she was sure her parent's blanket was growing dusty from disuse. It didn't hurt that it was a good excuse to consume the hundreds upon hundreds of baked goods she spent the last few days whipping up in a desperate bid to avoid Thorin.

Maybe if she was in the right mind she might have noticed the mischievous twinkle in his eyes or the excited tremble in his hands when she agreed. But she wasn't, her head too full of mooning over Thorin to focus on much else.

So when Kíli fails to show up at their arranged time, she is at first hurt and disappointed.

Then Thorin shows up, dressed in a simple tunic and breeches with his weapons strapped to his back, and she's fuming.

"What are you doing here?" He asks bewildered at the sight of her stretched out on the picnic rug, a full to bursting basket beside her.

"I was waiting for a friend," she shrugs, trying to tamper down her panic before it spirals out of control. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thinks. You should know better than to fall for those damned Durin eyes. "I don't think he's going to show."

Thorin's eyes narrow at her words, and a fierce expression crosses his face. She blinks, and it's gone, a sheepish Thorin left in its stead.

"Would you…" he hesitates. "Would you like some company?"

"I-" she gapes at him. "Are you not heading to sparring?"

He follows her motion to the weapons strapped to his back and then shakes his head, "I was supposed to meet with Fíli but he got called away by Dwalin at the last moment. I thought I would head over to the spot he mentioned anyway."

"Oh," Billa tries to keep her eyes from trailing down the impressive column of his throat. His tunic is open at the base of his throat again, and her gaze keeps flickering towards the black hair she can see peeking out.

He coughs, and her eyes fly back to her face and she realises he has been waiting for an answer. Her face flushes as she cries, "Sorry! Yes! Join me, please."

Thorin sheds his weapons, and how majestic he looks as he does so, Billa barely manages to contain her contented hum as the muscles she can see ripple with the action. He settles on the edge of her blanket and offers her a small smile. She smiles back and reaches to flip open the lid of her basket with shaky hands.

"Help yourself!" Her voice sounds hollow even to her own ears and she cringes, turning her gaze back to the Brandywine and praying Thorin hasn't noticed. She hears the shuffling of food behind her, and knows he is searching for bramble tarts without even having to look. She smiles.

"Mistress Baggins," she turns to see a sombre Thorin looking at her, a bramble tart indeed in his hand, "are you angry with me?"

She splutters, "What?"

"You have been avoiding me," he states. She starts to stutter, but he silences her with a sharp cut of his hand, "Do not try to deny it."

She fidgets under his stare, "I have been avoiding you."

"Why?"

Her heart skips at the hurt in his voice. She raises her gaze to his, and takes a deep breath. This is it. This is her moment.

He meets her eyes evenly, that lovely shade of Durin blue shining at her. Her knees grow weak and she opens her mouth to speak - but the words are stuck in her throat.

"Love doesn't matter anyway. Your Uncle will never be interested in a simple Hobbit lass like myself, and that's that."

For the first time in a long time, that timid shy Billa who belongs to TA 2935 pushes to the forefront. Her mouth closes and a sad smile crosses her face. Instead, she says simply, "You remind me of someone I used to know."

"Oh," he replies. His eyes shutter and it pains her. Has she hurt him with her words, she wonders. Or is it the thought that she may have cared for someone else? Is she a bad person for hoping for the latter? Would it be so bad if he cared for her the way she always hoped he would?

She's not so sure. Seeing him at first had been painful, every flash of mirth in his eyes and twitch of a smile reminded her of everything she lost at the hands of the Lonely Mountain. She felt the same about his sister-sons, a blinding smile from Kíli sometimes or a streak of mischief from Fíli reminding her of a young Frodo, but it never hurt as much with them. Just made her sad.

With Thorin though, it can be painful. Just the other day, a simple conversation about him being King catapulted her back to those damned ramparts and the rage that consumed him so wholly.

This Thorin though, the one sitting in front of her with a contrite expression, is different. She's not sure how she knows this, but she does. He is not the same dwarf she once travelled with across Middle Earth.

She jolts as a sudden realisation comes to her. If this Thorin is different, why is treating him the same way, as if she is still that lass hiding as a lad to follow him off on an adventure, worrying about her position amongst the ranks of the company.

Things are different this time, her meddling has seen to that. So what is she so scared of?

Thorin bites into his bramble tart, allowing a comfortable silence to fall between them. Billa relaxes, the tension seeping out of her shoulders as she listens to the gentle rustle of the trees and the rushing of the river beside them. The breeze nips at her face. Winter is growing closer.

"My parents loved this spot."

Thorin looks up as she speaks. He raises an eyebrow, "Really?"

"Hm," she hums contentedly. "Rumour has it they got engaged on this blanket at this very spot. A lot of lovers come here to propose, thinking it'll bring them good luck."

"I've never paid much attention to rumour."

She laughs, "Neither have I. But it is nice to think that I'm not the only one remembering them."

Thorin turns a curious gaze on her, "Have you always been an only child?"

She blinks, and then nods, "Yes, unfortunately."

He hesitates, "So you have never heard of the name Bilbo Baggins?"

Billa almost chokes on her own spit. How does he know that name? The moniker she once travelled under in another life. Panic flickers through her before she buries it quickly, turning with what she hopes is a nonchalant expression towards the dwarf beside her, "No, I don't believe so."

His eyes roam across her face, "Are you sure?"

She nods, a little stiffly, "I have never heard of a Bilbo Baggins before. Why do you ask?"

"I heard the name in Bree," his words are a little stilted, as if he is disappointed by her answer.

"You must have misheard one of the other dwarfs," she tells him.

"I suppose," his gaze is unfocused, processing the information she has imparted to him. Billa watches him carefully for a moment, chewing on her thumbnail as she tries to calm her racing heart. Bimor might have told him about it when they crossed paths, it was the name she gave him when they first met. The first and last time she ever used it since waking up in her younger body.

She glances back up to see Thorin's sharp gaze on her, his eyes locked on her nervous chewing. She pulls her hand away from her mouth with an abashed expression, "Sorry."

He says nothing, just stares at her.

Then his expression hardens, and he turns back to the tarts he procured from the basket. Billa looks at him curiously. She wonders what is going on in that hard head of his, to be acting so strangely and asking questions like that out of the blue.

"Are you well?" She asks.

"I am," he answers. He finishes his tart in two neat bites and gets to his feet, "I should be getting on. I still have some sparring to do before dinner."

"Of course," she inclines her head, sitting on her hands in a bid to resist chewing on her nails again, worried that he might have been disgusted by her nervous habit.

The dwarf offers her a stiff bow, and then ambles off towards the trail that will lead him back to Bag End. She watches him go, trying to keep her gaze from trailing down his impressive form, until he vanishes into the depths of the flora that surrounds her home.

Well, she thinks, wasn't that odd.