A New Beginning
Billa is trying not to panic. Thorin is here. Her dwarf, alive and whole, he's here. Her heart practically jumps out of her chest at his sudden appearance, the tired ache in her bones from rolling around in the mud with the others easing.
His eyes are smouldering, and he's every bit the broad, stoic male dwarf he was the last she saw him. She hopes it's not too obvious that her knees have turned to jelly.
The way he's looking at her, like she hung the sun in the sky just for him, it steals her breath away. How many times did she spend that Eru damned quest wishing he would look at her like that? Too many to count.
Then Kíli says her name, and that look flickers and dies.
"Mistress," Thorin says. "Are you sure?"
Thwack. That would be the sound of Thorin's words hitting the centre of her heart. Her panic quickly melts into annoyance.
"I beg your pardon?" She squeaks. Fíli's face is a picture of horror (and how glad she is to see it, full of colour and life) and Kíli snorts quickly into the crook of his elbow. Fortinbras sighs, and even Balin and Dwalin behind the King Under The Mountain are baffled by his abrupt response. She wonders briefly if her elbows are sharp enough to kill a dwarf as she narrows her eyes; here lies Thorin Oakenshield, his stone would read, incapable of making good first impressions.
Shock flickers across his face, "I mean…I…you are wearing trousers."
Kíli takes a step back, and pulls his brother quickly with him. Fíli shoots him a confused look while Noid exhales noisily.
"And female dwarrow have beards," Billa says, "does that make them any less female?"
"No-"
"So should trousers make me any less female?"
Thorin's gaze darkens, two blue forges lit in his gaze, "You are covered a half inch thick in mud, Halfing. I cannot tell where you end and the fields of Hobbiton begin, let alone tell whether you be lad or lass underneath it all."
They are drawing attention as his voice rises, but she cannot find a care. This is not how this was supposed to go.
Billa's fist trembles. She never had the opportunity to knock any sense into the stubborn dwarf in her previous life, but Great Yavanna she has never been more tempted. What has happened to her softly spoken dwarf king who bid her to return to her books and to plant her trees, who smiled so brightly under the stars in the Elven King's caves?
He is hidden under Grumpy Thorin, one of her least favourite Thorins.
"That is no excuse for such bad manners. There shall be no bramble tarts for you, good sir," Billa sniffs.
The king blinks. Fiddlesticks, she thinks, she is not supposed to know about his fondness for those tarts.
"Billa, my uncle did not mean any offence-"
"I am leaving," she says shortly. Before she can stuff her big foot any further into her mouth, "Fort, will you please ensure my guests are settled at Bag End this evening? I find myself in no mood to keep company."
"Billa," Fort says quietly. She settles her narrowed eyes on him and he sighs, nodding. "Fine."
"Good evening to you all," she huffs. She steps forward, but the damned dwarf is still standing in her way, blocking her exit. She settles a sharp look on him and snaps, "Would you kindly move?"
Life stutters back into the dwarf's face and he takes a step to the side, allowing her just enough room to pass. She tries not to focus on the heat that blasts from his body and warms the mere inches between them. His heady scent envelopes her, the tang of dwarven steel, dust from the road, fresh rain and oak, so heavy in the air she can taste it on her tongue. She darts quickly past him and - did he just sniff her?
Oh by the dwarves' Maker. They decided to forego cleaning in favour of a well-earned pint after Prim was safely escorted home and she is now regretting that decision.
She forces her feet onward, even as a heavy flush creeps up her cheeks, and through the packed crowd of nosey Hobbits, all trying not to pay attention to the ongoing conversation. She pushes past the last patron or two and then - there. Fresh air.
She heaves in great lungfuls of it, her feet propelling her across the bridge and down the paths that would lead her back to Bag End. Once she's sure she's far enough from The Green Dragon, disappointment settles on her shoulders. Well, that went as well as it did in the last life. At least this time she didn't faint.
Still, what was she expecting exactly? That Thorin Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain To Be, would take one look at her and fall madly in love? What is she, some hopeless lovestruck Hobbit?
Yes, a distant part of her mind whispers, that is exactly what you are.
Billa kicks some pebbles down the road with a sigh. These romantic notions of hers may have once propelled her to follow that dwarf to the Lonely Mountain, but there is no way she would allow them to make any more of a fool of herself.
This is not your Thorin, she tells herself firmly. He died.
The night air is quiet, the sky clearing as the rain clouds drift lazily past. She can see some stars twinkling merrily at her, it makes her feel worse. She finally reaches her front door, the freshly painted green door glimmering in the slight moonlight.
Bag End is cold and silent as she steps inside. Long shadows stretch across the hallway, and in a flash, she's taken back to the day she returned from Erebor - after her furniture had been returned from the scheming Sackville-Bagginses. Grief riddled her small body then, and in that growing silence, she unleashed it, wailing and sobbing in her deserted hallway as if it would bring back those she had lost.
Billa fumbles for the lanterns, illuminating the hallway and banishing those anguished memories to the recesses of her mind. She made a promise when she first woke up in Bag End that she would save Frodo and her dwarves. While the echoes of her love for Thorin are still nestled in the corners of her heart, it has no place here in this time. She still needs to befriend him, and the company, in accordance with her careful scheming.
Billa sighs, letting her head fall back to the wood under her head. The sudden sight of him in The Green Dragon knocked some of her grief loose, and she allowed it to cloud her judgement. She should have at least been a bit nicer - even though he was rude.
But tomorrow is a new day. She would just have to try harder to at least be civil with the King To Be Under The Mountain, or all her plans would be for naught.
But first, she needs to get this mud cleaned. Billa hies herself to the bathroom, determined to start the new day clean and decidedly female.
...
A/N: WE MADE IT! Seems like Thorin is cursed to always make a poor impression on his Hobbit. Fear not, dear readers, there is more mishap and mayhem to come yet!
Next week:
This is not the Thorin she was expecting. The irritable confused dwarf that was in The Green Dragon, an echo of the brooding leader who led the Company under hills and over hills to the Lonely Mountain; that was who she expected. Not this mischievous-eyed, hovering specimen with flickers of worry and concern in every glance.
