In the hour before dawn, when the birds are first beginning to sing and the darkness begins to grudgingly give way to grey, comes the sort of plain quiet that holds no illusions. Mayfair wakes, and the rush of the last few days comes back to her in waves, each full of memory and emotion.
Loving Bilbo.
Coming back to Needlehole.
Her father's death.
For a moment she lies there, aware of the weight of Bilbo's arm around her waist under the covers. Mayfair takes a slow breath, drawing in air and with it, simple recognition.
She loves Bilbo.
She regrets coming back to Needlehole.
She grieves for her father.
Simple truths; facts without adornment or complications at this point, and Mayfair accepts them as The Way Things Are. Yesterday brought all of them into focus and now she knows it's time to deal with them head-on.
But lying here against the solid warmth of her love saps her resolve for the time being, and she presses back against him, grateful for his presence. The arm around her tightens, and the tickle of Bilbo's lips against her neck makes Mayfair squeak a bit.
"Better?" he whispers in a comforting tone.
"Yes," comes the easy reply. "Thanks to you."
"I'm here," Bilbo reminds her, and lightly kisses the side of her throat, "Right here."
"Good," Mayfair murmurs, and gives a deep sigh. For a long, quiet while they lay together, watching the room grow lighter as dawn unfolds. It's peaceful, and to her way of thinking, almost sacred. This is when she would rise and go out to the boat; when the river would be a ribbon of smooth pewter, curling against the green of the land as the sun rises.
Mayfair realizes that she probably won't ever do that again, won't ever have the simple life of being Lillyroot's stubborn girl. The door on her childhood has been closing by inches these last few years but now it's truly closed, and it's time to rise, wash her face, and do what needs doing.
Whatever that is.
"Bilbo," Mayfair begins softly. "I suppose you'll be needing to get back soon . . ."
"Not all as soon as today. Maybe not for a while," comes his sleepy reply.
"Is that so?" she rolls to face him, feeling exasperated and grateful all in one.
"T'is," Bilbo assures her, his eyes still closed even as his arm around her tightens. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"
Mayfair takes stock of herself for a moment, giving his question due consideration before answering. "With you, safe. But I have no idea how matters will go once we leave this bed, Mr. Baggins and that's a fact."
"Then we'll face today together, shall we?"
These are the kindest words Mayfair has heard in ages, and she tightens her arms around him, pressing close and feeling gratitude flood her entire body. "Thank you," she tells him in a whisper made hoarse with emotion.
"Shhhh," he murmurs back, and holds her a while longer.
Breakfast is in the main room of the inn; porridge and sausage; both a bit burnt but decent enough to get down. Mayfair is aware of the innkeeper's obsequious manner towards Bilbo and it makes her want to squirm. Three decades she's lived here and she knows the only thing the old hobbit cares about is gold; who has it, and who's willing to spend it. The thought both irritates and mortifies her.
"We aren't staying here another night," she tells Bilbo under her breath. "I won't have you fawned over by someone just in it for your money."
"He's a tradesman; many are like that," Bilbo points out patiently. "And before we decide anything, we'd best see what's left of your home, dear."
Practical words. Mayfair nods grudgingly. They finish and head out; she leads the way towards the river, moving along the familiar path. Steeling herself, Mayfair rounds the bend by the big gnarled willow and looks towards the earthen dyke that housed the three Holes just under the dock.
She draws in a shuddery breath, a wash of pain rising through her. The earthworks have crumbled at the arches of each of the doorways, leaving nothing but thick mud encasing visible remains of household goods strewn through and around them. Mayfair sees bedposts rising out of the thick brown goo, along with chair backs, broken table sections and scraps of gaudy cloth waving in the faint breeze coming down from the water. The back part of the dyke has been shored up with planks and stones; desperate work by the look of it, but the structure is holding back the water now and dimly Mayfair knows there will be folk working on it today.
She wanders down, heedless of the knee-deep mud, and picks her way through the debris, stunned into silence by the sight. Absently Mayfair reaches for a small stoneware pitcher that has survived, and pulls it free of the sludge; it makes a slurping sound as it leaves the bed of wet dirt.
"I won this at the mid-summer fair," she murmurs, as much to herself as the figure behind her. "At the fish toss game. Anabell Diggins wanted it and offered to buy it off me but we needed a pitcher so I said no. It's got lovely bluebells painted on the sides, just under all this muck."
"Mayfair," comes the soft voice, but she shakes her head and hands the pitcher over her shoulder.
"No, it's all right. I need to see. I need to know what can be . . . saved."
And she does, Mayfair admits to herself. It's important. It's what her father would have urged her to do.
So she does it.
It doesn't take long to squelch through the wreckage, and yet there are little triumphs through it all. Her knickknack box, carved of soapstone; one of her father's kerchiefs, safe in a basket in the weeds, a set of wooden spoons jutting out at jaunty angles from the mire. Mayfair collects them and passes them to Bilbo, who holds all.
There are other items she leaves, the broken things and the property of her neighbors who either haven't come to collect them or have abandoned them. Mayfair isn't sure which and doesn't really care at this point. She wanders back to Bilbo, who has his arms full and for the first time Mayfair manages a smile.
"Don't you look like a peddler," she snickers, "bringing your wares to town."
He simply returns the smile and waits for her to lead the way out of the mire. Carefully they pile the salvage on the high side of the path, and Bilbo reaches for her hand. Mayfair feels the grip even as she looks back towards the three empty doorways standing forlornly in the bright morning light.
Her tears are silent as the two of them make their way back to the village green, but once there she wipes them away with her free hand, and looks to Bilbo. "They'll have to fill in that whole section now; they'll be no more Holes in the earthworks around here."
"Probably safer," he points out with gentleness.
"True, but it was wonderfully cool in the summer, and the whisper of the water was the sweetest lullaby in the night," Mayfair replies. "I'm sorry you never got to see it on the inside. Nothing compared to your own home, but nice enough for Needlehole."
"I know it was," Bilbo squeezes her fingers, "and I know you loved it very much."
Mayfair lets the warmth of his words wash over her and gives him a watery smile. "That's you, always knowing the right thing to say, sweetheart."
-oo00oo-
The sheriff of Needlehole is Tobias Bolger, a stout rain barrel of a Hobbit with gingery sideburns and a potato of a nose. Bilbo can see he's reluctant to come to the point. Having seen the remains of Mayfair's home, it's easy to guess the upcoming matters of discussion, so Bilbo makes it a point to sit at Mayfair's side, and give her his quiet support as the three of them linger around a table on the green in the noonday sun.
"Mayfair, lass," Bolger begins in a bullfrog's croak of a voice. "I'm sorry for what you've come home to and that's a fact. Your father was a damned fine soul and we're all grieving him now, along with the Hartsdale boys. You need to know that you're not alone in this hard, hard time."
Bilbo watches as the man takes Mayfair's hands into his, engulfing them in his huge grip. A prickle of annoyance rises up inside, and it takes Bilbo a moment to realize why. He grits his teeth and tries to keep his expression calm. It helps to sense that Mayfair is no happier with Bolger's grip.
"That being said though, we need to talk plainly girl. You've seen what's left and being one of us you know we need to shore up and fill in those Holes. Can't have the river pooling through Needlehole, changing our little village, now can we? Storm's done enough damage as it is, and there are bound to be more of them coming in the future."
"Yes," Mayfair tells him. "I've seen the shore-works already, Mister Bolger, and I agree. You'll get no argument from me."
Bilbo sees that this surprises the sheriff, who blinks a little at Mayfair's agreement and still has not let go of her hands. He wonders if it's because the man is afraid of angering her, of her hitting him for some reason. Bilbo leans forward, alert now.
"Ah, that's good. That's good then," Bolger murmurs. "Glad you see the sense of it, lass. But it does pose a problem for us. The Hartsdales are gone, bless their souls, so there's no need to worry about them, and Sairy Diggle's family have moved in with her cousin Hawthorne but you, child . . . well we need to find a place for you."
There's a delicate pause as all three of them consider that, and Bilbo, who's learned the hard way to see beyond just the expression of a face sees what Tobias Bolger isn't saying aloud. We need to find someone to take you, Mayfair, because you're a charity case now and an unmarried girl as well. You haven't a penny to your name, nor are you likely to, and in a little place like Needlehole you're a burden.
Now the hand-holding makes sense, and Bilbo sees Mayfair's back stiffen, sees her struggle to pull her fingers from Bolger's grip on them. He reaches over and in one quick movement pries the sheriff's clasp from Mayfair's, taking one of her hands in his own. It's done so swiftly that neither Mayfair nor Bolger has a chance to fight it, and once done, Bilbo smiles at the pair of them.
"I think Mayfair needs more time to consider her future," Bilbo interjects smoothly. "There's no need to rush, Mister Bolger now is there? You've got your hands full already with taking care of the village, and she's still in mourning, eh?"
Bolger stares at him as if seeing Bilbo for the first time and it's entirely possible that is the case. Bilbo returns the gaze with a firm smile even as his hand squeezes Mayfair's in warning. Wisely she says nothing.
"Er, yes, I suppose that's true, very true. And what was your name again, sir?"
"Baggins, from Hobbiton way," he offers quietly, watching the other man's face. Bolger's expression shifts slightly; a dim recognition of the name.
"Baggins, Baggins. One of them what's related to that mad one?" Bolger inquires. "The fool that went off to fight a dragon?"
"I know him well," Bilbo nods, squeezing Mayfair's hand again. From her little snort he knows she's trying not to laugh.
"Well you look a sensible sort anyway," Bolger sighs. "And folk 'round here say you're keeping an eye out on our Mayfair, so that's all right then. Just—keep in mind, lass that this discussion isn't quite over yet. We'll see if anyone needs a servant or maid. The inn might be able to hire you on."
Bolger rises with effort, looking from Bilbo to Mayfair and gives a shake of his head. "We laid your father under the willow at the rest; I hope you approve."
Mayfair starts; nods. "Yes. The willow is . . . perfect for him. Thank you, Mister Bolger." They sit in silence as the sheriff lumbers away, and when he is out of earshot they both begin speaking, words overlapping in haste.
"—SHAN'T be a slops-toting maid, especially for that ruffle-faced money-grubbing git of an innkeeper!"
"—your temper, Mayfair. He means well even if he's less than tactful about it. And he's right; you need to think about what comes next," Bilbo murmured. He rises and pulls her to her feet. "So what do you want to do now?"
She looks mutinous and even in that, so beautiful that he aches to kiss here, right here on the green, but Bilbo is aware of how many eyes are watching them, so he contents himself with a pat on her arm as he waits for a reply.
"I suppose . . . we should see the grave," Mayfair sighs, the anger leaking out of her. She points with her chin to a direction further up the river. "That way."
They make their way along the indicated path, leaving the village proper and winding their way through a more marshy section of land. Bilbo watches Mayfair's back as she leads the way, and he can tell by the very set of her shoulders that she's struggling. Not with the path, which is easy, but with the sheriff's words. He keeps silent, knowing that nothing he could say right now would be the right thing.
This is wisdom, gleaned through bitter, bitter experience, and Bilbo stays close, wanting to do what he can, and waiting for the time when it can be done.
The path turns and the ground levels out to reveal a glade with tall trees here and there; Needlehole's ground of final rest. Each tree will have graves ringing it, like spokes on a wheel, nurturing the land and returning to the soil all that has been brought forth from it. He bows his head and waits as Mayfair makes her way to a large, gnarled willow standing proudly in a low-lying section of the glade. There is a fresh grave there and already small blades of fresh young grass are beginning to poke up through the damp earth.
Mayfair moves to the tree and rests a hand on it. Bilbo stays where he is, giving her time to herself, but the glade is so quiet he can hear her words across it. "Hello Father."
He closes his eyes, trying not to listen.
"I'm back. I would say I'm home, but there isn't one now, not really. I suppose you'd know that. I'm . . . sorry, Father . . . so very sorry . . ."
Mayfair's words fade as her voice drops to a sob, and Bilbo squeezes his own eyes tightly, aware that he himself is crying too. He knows the pain is partially hers and partially his own; remembered hurt rising up and echoing through the many losses in the years of his own life. Bilbo's head drops and he wipes his cheeks, idly wondering why he never remembers to bring a handkerchief as he tries to stay still and let time pass.
And time does pass. How much, he can't say, but later comes, and he takes a breath, ready to move on.
Risking a look over his shoulder, Bilbo sees that by now Mayfair is on her knees, talking to the grave through her fading sniffles, her dark curls glossy in the sunlight. She's quieter now, patting the dirt gently, smoothing it like . . . well, like a blanket. When it's to her satisfaction, Bilbo sees her press a palm down and lower her head, passing a last whisper before straightening herself and rising slowly.
Now is when he knows he can help, and Bilbo moves to her, takes her arm to steady her. Mayfair blinks up at him, eyes red but calm, a small smile warming him. So much said in that, so much shared without a word as he slips his arm around her and pulls her close.
They stay that way for another while, comfortable and quiet.
Finally Mayfair looks up and gives a great shuddery sigh. "All right then, Mr. Baggins. What would you suggest I do now?"
Bilbo feels his heart hatch in his chest, the cracking of his old world falling away like the eggshell of a phoenix. He catches her face in his two hands, aware of Mayfair's damp cheeks against his palms, and the warm green scent of the river close by. He holds her gaze.
"You should marry me, Mayfair Orrins Lillyroot," Bilbo tells her steadily. "Please."