Flowers, flowers grow where I'm laid to rest
Billa was not joking when she said Hobbit weddings were extravagant affairs. It takes the Hobbits several hours just to be seated beneath the Party Tree, each family laying out a special meal for the soon to be wedded couple on a table that stretches all the way through the Hobbiton marketplace. Thorin has to tell Kíli to sit still five times, before the lad finally settles and it makes for a long few hours.
By the time Maisy has walked the length of the Great Table, a sign of good fortunate Widow Boffin croaks from her seat beside Thorin, sunset is fast approaching. Her and Noid trade vows in the glow of a rich red winter sun and the pure joy on their faces is like a shot of warmth in Thorin's blood stream.
He doesn't listen to the words, or pay much attention to the actions of the newly wed couple after the exchange of their vows, his attention remains solely on Billa.
She is a vision in pale yellow with amber leaves threaded through her riotous curls. How he wishes to run his fingers through those tresses, relieve them from their tight constraints. He imagines it would feel like melted gold - no, like liquid sunshine.
Her gaze flits to his occasionally, and to the flower proudly pinned to his tunic. It had been Prim's idea, the carnation, and a devious one at that.
Thorin has tried to be patient.
He started attempting to woo his Hobbit with food, tarts he spent nights slaving over under the watchful eyes of Dwalin and Prim, and then the coffee and breakfast rolls until he corralled her into a morning routine that started with him. The meaning was lost on her.
He tried long walks, escorting her from one destination to another and locking her in hours long debates that would frustrate her to the point of her ears flushing brightly. He thought it adorable, even when she attempted to storm off in irritation.
Flowers are his last attempt, and the final nail in the fencing according to Prim. He thinks it must be successful, if her eyes cannot be drawn from the wee bloom attached to his chest.
Then as the happy couple finish their sampling and the party truly begins, Billa disappears in a flash of yellow and amber. He tries not to let frustration overwhelm him, he knows Billa, he knows she is a runner, and that sometimes his little Hobbit would prefer to bury her head in the sand rather than face her fears head on. She is wary, there is no doubt about that.
He also knows she was once fierce enough to face down a live dragon with nought but a couple of riddles. She will come to him, eventually.
So he hovers on the edge of the makeshift dance floor, accepting morsels of food as they are passed to him by his kin, his sharp eyes never once leaving the nooks and crannies and dark corners of the party. The Hobbits whirl and jig in a whirligig of colour, although he catches the odd sight of Noid, Magnus and Fíli out amongst the masses. Even Dwalin joins the dancers, wee Prim pulling him by the front of his tunic, even though his gaze does not leave the flushing bartender from The Green Dragon.
A sharp whack to his shin draws his attention to a spindly old Hobbit, glaring up at him, "What are you doing lingering on the outskirts like a great big galoot, eh?"
He blinks, "I-"
"No excuses!" Widow Boffin cries, thrusting a wrinkled finger into his face abruptly. The other hand reaches forward and grasps his forearm in a freakishly strong hold. Thorin casts a pleading look at Kíli, but the traitor just muffles his laughter and reaches for another slice of cake.
"Now, here! Dance!" The old Hobbit grasps at him and starts to move, surprisingly gracefully for her age. He tries to follow what she's saying, but his gaze keeps lifting with every glimpse of nearby Hobbit lass until - "Pay attention!"
He turns resolutely to the older Hobbit, his attention returning to the moves she's rattling off amidst the rising noise of the other dancers around them and the increasing tempo of the music. Thorin twirls her twice, thrice, before spinning around her himself.
"Good! Good!" The widow praises with a gnarled smile, "Now we switch partners!"
"Wait-" The words are barely out of his mouth when the old Hobbit cackles and spins away into the arms of another dancer. He turns, just in time for a bolt of sunshine to land firmly in his hold. Wide golden eyes stare up at him, a perfect mouth dropping open in surprise.
His chest warms at the sudden sight of her.
"Hello."
"Hi," she squeaks. A hard body bangs into the side of him, and he lifts a fierce glare at the interloper but they're already gone.
"We should…" Billa fidgets with the edges of her dress. "We should probably dance."
"Hm," he nods.
"Unless you don't want to!" She exclaims, those hands waving frantically, "That's also alright - oh!"
Thorin bows as the other Hobbits do, and when he stands, he holds the red carnation out between them, "For you, my lady."
Her face is flushed, and her eyes rove over his face anxiously. He thinks, for a moment, that she's not going to accept it, that he is reaching for what he can never have.
Then suddenly, her warm hand is wrapping around his and plucking the flower from his grasp gently. She smiles softly, tucking the bloom into her hair safely, before she curtsies, a beat behind the other hobbits in the line.
He steps forward then, reaching gently for her, eyes never leaving her face, waiting for the first sign of discomfort or disapproval. It never comes.
Thorin twirls her, twice, thrice, just as Widow Boffin showed him. A stream of yellow fabric twists gracefully around her legs as she moves. When she is returned to his arms, he slips nimbly into the next step, his grasp on her waist solid but not too tight. They say nothing and allow the music to direct them around the other dancers as if it is the most natural thing to do, like the push and pull of the tide.
Her eyes glitter in the warm light, a hundred different shades of autumn staring directly into the heart of him.
The music starts to slow, and so do they. The inches between them vanish, as Thorin's hold tightens on her waist to lift her into the air along with a sea of Hobbits and dwarves. She laughs as her feet touch the ground, him already spinning her messily into the next turn. A smile spreads across his face at her evident joy, and hope starts to rise in his chest.
Thorin is a hair's breadth from Billa, his head practically resting against hers. He reaches up and softly tilts her chin.
"Billa," he breathes.
A cry cracks through the crowd and the moment shatters.
They both look up. The crowd is shifting and parting before them, whispers washing through the crowd in a wave of chatter; the music grinds to a sudden halt, the musicians standing to catch a glance of the disturbance.
Billa steps out of the circle of his arms. A rush of cold air fills the space she just vacated and he shivers.
He wants to reach for her again, pull her back into his arms.
"What is going on?" Kíli appears at his shoulder.
"I'm not sure."
No sooner have the words left his mouth than does the crowd finally finish parting, revealing Dwalin, Balin and one limping dwarf. Their clothing is ripped, and blood trickles down their arm in a steady stream. Behind them a few other weary dwarves are scattered amongst the crowd, some following behind his guard, others being supported by nearby Hobbits, all of them looking worse for wear. Thorin can feel himself slowly hardening at the approach of one of his kin, the hair on his arms standing at attention.
Something is wrong.
As the trio cross the last distance, the injured dwarf raises his face, revealing -
"Bimor!" Billa cries, and rushes forward to the dwarf's side. He flashes her an exhausted but brave smile, as if the blood dripping freely from his body is nothing.
"Am sorry to ruin the party, my King-"
"Don't you dare apologise," Billa interrupts. Her hands are fluttering over his injuries, a critical eye roaming over his body. Thorin feels his throat close tightly at the familiarity between his Hobbit and this dwarf and his eyes narrow before he can stop it.
"What happened?" Thorin barks. A sharp elbow to his side pulls his attention to Kíli, who juts his head at Billa. His Hobbit is frowning at him, and it's enough to kill the green eyed monster looming over his shoulder.
"We were ambushed, my King," Bimor's words are garbled under his swollen cheek, and he winces as Billa pokes and prods at him.
"In the Blue Mountains?"
Bimor shakes his head with a pained gasp, "No, just outside The Shire. We were on our way back, when they caught us unawares."
"What would attack a group of armed dwarves?"
Bimor looks up with a grimace to meet Thorin's gaze - and he has his answer.
"Orcs," he spits.
"Orcs?" Fíli asks in disbelief. "This close to The Shire?"
"They heard dwarves were travelling through here on the way to Bree," Bimor gasps. He trembles and falls to one knee in front of Thorin, "I'm sorry, my King, but they were looking for you."
"For Thorin?" Kíli's brow furrows, "Why him?"
Bimor's clear gaze meets Thorin's, and his stomach drops down to his feet in realisation.
"It was under the orders of the one they called The White Orc."
...
A/N: Ooooooo. Do people read Author Notes anymore? It amuses me to think I'm babbling into the void here with my bad jokes.
God, I love writing old folk. Widow Boffin is an absolute gem, and I adore writing her, so here's an outtake I removed in editing earlier:
"What in Great Yavanna's name are you doing, lad?" There's a sharp prod at his side, and he turns to see a surly Widow Boffin glaring up at him. "Chase after her, you dolt!"
He glances at the crowd into which Billa fled - and his feet are moving before his mind has even caught up.
"Thank you!" He shouts over his shoulder at the old Hobbit as he plunges into the crowd in hot pursuit of Billa.
Widow Boffin waits until the dwarf has vanished into the crowd before she lets out a satisfied little sigh. Then she glances up at the sky with a cross little brow, "There. You happy now?"
There's no response, but a soft breeze does pick up her skirts, making the fabric rustle softly together in a sound that could almost be a husky laugh.
"Idiots," Widow Boffin scoffs, then turns back to the party. "Alright, which of you Hobbits stole my sherry?"
