TA 2935
Bromor does not make swords. He does, however, make the best travel gear Billa has ever seen.
So, it is a very happy Hobbit who becomes the proud owner of new travel gear, a brand new reinforced satchel, some odds and ends for travelling and a merry band of dwarves that always seem to be hot on her very hairy heels like a band of wayward ducklings.
Not that she minds much. She was being honest when she told Bimor that it has been a long time since she needed anyone to look after her, let alone anyone to call her own. And while these dwarves are nothing like her old company, they are a very nice group of dwarves in themselves.
Billa knows she's taken a real shine to them, and especially to Bimor, who is more amused than scandalised by her continuing tenacity and independence.
Apparently, it's completely expected for female dwarves to take up weapons and fight from a young age, but completely unexpected for a wee Hobbit lass to badger you into giving her some tips on weapons training. Bromor is shocked, but Bimor takes it in his stride, taking Billa out to the fields surrounding Bree every morning to help her improve a few stances that could hopefully protect her on her travels.
Which is how she ends up on her arse, covered head to toe in mud in front of a cackling Bimor a week into her stay at Bree.
'Come on, lass,' he says as he leans heavily on his broad axe with a toothy grin. 'I know ye can dae better than that.'
She scowls up at him, mud sliding down through her curls and across her face. Her whole body aches, from the top of her mud-caked Hobbity curls to the tips of her Hobbit toes. She raises her wooden stick and hurls it at Bimor, who ducks under the pitiful throw with a loud laugh.
'Ye need to work on yer aim, lass.'
'And you need to work on your manners, Master Dwarf,' she mutters. 'Tis not polite to laugh at a lady when she has fallen over.'
Bimor's apple cheeks flush underneath his large beard and he grumbles quietly in khuzdul. She was shocked at her reaction the first few times she heard the rumbling runic language again, the solid sounds reminding her of Bifur's kind eyes and his gruff voice as he wove a tale on late nights that she never understood.
The more she hears it, the greater the pang in her chest for her dwarves grows.
She sighs, resting worn arms on trembling knees. She is growing to be an expert in quashing her longing–and she isn't yet sure if it's something she should really be proud of.
Bimor stares down at the suddenly crestfallen lass in front of him, her light dimming. He's seen it happen a few times in the space of the week he's grown to know the proud Hobbit–and it makes him profoundly uncomfortable. He wonders what she has gone through for her eyes to be so sad.
He holds out a solid hand towards the wee one, 'Here, lass.'
She looks up, her eyes brimming with moisture and a pain so sharp it shoots through his chest like a lance to the heart.
Billa reaches for his sturdy hand with her dainty one and suddenly tugs. Bimor starts from the sudden movement, losing his balance and tumbling into the wet earth beside her. He splutters, lifting a mud-streaked face to peer at the Hobbit in shock.
She takes one look at his expression and erupts into laughter. The sound echoes across the field, wiping away the strain that so often scars her face.
'Think yer funny, dae ye?'
'Aye!' She giggles.
'Bimor!' The cry comes from near the village, and the pair look up to see the young Korrin, son of Borrin, huffing and puffing towards them. Bimor moves to stand at the sight of the lad, and quickly helps Billa to her feet.
'Gie me a moment, lass.'
She leans on her wooden stick, catching her breath and carefully watching the dwarf move to meet the young dwarfling. She breathes deeply, sharp eyes following the staccato movements of Korrin and the slow gestures of Bimor as they talk. Something is wrong, the wiser part of her concludes as Bimor sends Korrin off and stalks back towards her.
'Billa–'
'Is something wrong, my friend?'
He grins, 'No, there has simply been an unexpected arrival and my kin are in need of me.'
'Oh,' she says simply, ducking her head towards the ground.
'Do not fret, lass,' Bimor says, resting a large hand on her shoulder. 'We shall continue this tomorrow. For now, continue to practise yer parrying and I shall see ye at dinner.'
She nods, waving him off absently as he departs from the field and back towards the town. She can't help but be curious at his sudden departure–since first meeting her in the Prancing Pony the dwarves have hardly left her alone. The situation must be terribly serious, she thinks as she raises her sword to continue her training, or particularly dwarfy.
The thought of Thorin rises unbidden to her mind. Certainly the arrival of the future King Under The Mountain would cause some uproar amongst the group of dwarves who named themselves her protectors. Billa falters, her arms wavering in their movements, but quickly shakes away the thought. It galls her that she would even think on it, the King Under The Mountain in Bree? It would never happen.
At least not yet.
Billa corrects her posture and lifts her stick once more. It is far too early for her dwarves to be here, no need to be getting her hopes up unnecessarily.
She practises her stances, until her muscles are jelly and all she can think of is the nice warm bed that awaits her back at The Pony. Of course, it is as she makes her departure from the training field, that the sky decides to crack open and unleash heavy rains upon Bree.
By the time Billa arrives at the inn, she is soaked through and muddy and there's a weariness weighing down her bones. The Prancing Pony is bustling with drunken and raucous crowds that spill out onto the muddied street; the inside is so warm, the air turns humid and moist around her as she steps inside. The nearest patrons to the door part for her as she heads towards the bar, a slippery trail of mud left in her wake.
'A good day of training, eh lad?' The innkeep laughs at her sudden appearance. One droll look from her is enough to halt his chortles and the man snaps his jaw shut quickly.
'The usual?' He asks quickly. Billa nods and dumps her coins onto the table. She turns her back on him without another word and ambles over to the table she has claimed as hers over the past week. She sinks into the chair with a groan, the fire at her back starting to warm her chilled bones.
A quick survey of the tavern reveals neither hair nor hide of her dwarves, although some of their companions are crowded around nearby tables, crowing drinking songs in wobbly tenors; Billa sinks deeper into her seat, content to act the part of the surly lad until one of her friends return.
Her meal arrives quickly and Billa delves into the steaming food with gusto, one ear on the neighbouring customers.
It's then that she sees him.
He's standing on one of the centre tables, his arm curled around another dwarf of a similar height, leading the nearby crowds in a raunchy singalong. His hair is shorter, adorned with fewer braids and there's barely a scruff on his chin where she remembered stubble; his eyes twinkle with drunken mischief, instead of the exhausted heavy bags she last saw. He's younger, lighter, but it is undoubtedly him.
Billa stops mid mouthful to stare at the mirthful dwarves, who are now waving their tankards around with reckless abandon. The ale slips up the sides of the cups and lashes onto the table they're perched on.
She must be going mad, the older shrewder part of her playing tricks on her tired and training-addled mind, for there is no way Kíli, nephew of Thorin and brother of Fíli, is singing drunkenly in The Prancing Pony.
She blinks, scrubbing at her eyes–and almost faints in relief when she opens them to discover the boy has disappeared. Disappointment curls in the pit of her stomach and she sighs heavily. Quite mad indeed, she thinks, as she polishes off her meal.
It reminds her of The Plan though, the promise she made before she took that first step out of Bag End in this life. She has lingered in Bree for too long, enchanted by her new found friends (also perhaps, a small part of her quietly admits, procrastinating; the longer she put off her next plans, the less likely she'd be to come face to face with her dwarves. The thought of them treating her like a stranger…well, a Hobbit lass can only take so much strife at once).
But confound it, she sighs, she has to face them some time. Putting off her scheming for any longer could only bring mayhem and mishap, and if there is one thing her Baggins side could not stand it is mayhem and mishap. While her ties to the notions of respectability, to that small shy Billa who still lingers at the back of her mind, have loosened, the thought of intentionally self-sabotaging her own (if she did say so herself) brilliance disturbs her.
Back home it is then, she decides. Tomorrow, if she can manage it.
Now, to entrap her dwarven friends in her best-laid plans.
'Mistress Baggins!'
She glances up in just enough time to see a stumbling Bimor land in the seat beside her. She grins, 'Master Bimor, how fares you?'
'Well, well indeed.'
'A lot of merriment from your kin this evening, Master Dwarf,' the dwarf follows her gaze to Bromor, singing drunkenly at a nearby table and swinging a giant ale around.
Bimor chortles, his cheeks rosy. 'Aye, a few of our kinsfolk from the Blue Mountains arrived this afternoon,' he says. 'A reunion like this always calls for food, song and cheer I find.'
'Hobbits would agree with you mightily.'
She turns her gaze briefly to the window, where the rains continue to fall. She hopes the onslaught will stop by morning, one soggy journey is quite enough.
'Something on yer mind, lass?'
'I'm to start the journey home tomorrow,' she reveals and sighs heavily. She tries not to look Bimor in the eye.
The dwarf splutters, 'Already?'
Trap laid.
'I've been away too long,' she says with a beleaguered look that once had Bombur giving her seconds behind Kíli's back. 'I quite believe I've dallied here for longer than I intended.'
The dwarf huffs and blusters and finally scowls, 'We cannae let ye set out on the roads by yerself, lass.'
Trap sprung. Dwarf ensnared.
'I thought you might say that,' she grins, smothering the satisfied wriggle rising inside. 'So, I have a proposal for you.'
He raises one impressively braided eyebrow, 'Am listening.'
'I am in need of company on my journey. You, Bimor, I do believe, are in need of further trade,' she starts. Bimor opens his mouth to protest, so she surges ahead quickly, 'And I have an entire Shire full of Hobbits in need of tradesfolk.'
Bimor hesitates, but there's a gleam in his eye that's painfully familiar to her, 'Go on.'
'If you and your company would be willing, I would like to hire you to accompany me back to my home, Bag End, in Hobbiton. In return, I will offer you and all of your kinsman rest, ample food and lodgings from which you can trade with any and all Hobbits until you are ready to move on.'
'That's a mighty fine offer, lass,' Bimor rumbles, 'but there's quite a few of my kinsfolk wi' me. There's nae chance ye'd be able to put us all up and we won't put a lass out of her house and home.'
Billa's heart twinges.
'I wasn't lying when I said I'd been looking after myself for a long time, Master Bimor. Besides,' she reaches for Bimor's hand and gives him a small smile, 'I would bet my Mother's finest skillet that I can house all of your kin quite comfortably and still have room to spare.'
Bimor looks at the wee lass in front of him, and suddenly feels quite sober. He has the distinct notion that his answer to this offer is important, although he can't quite fathom why. He should feel more suspicious of lass, who shone with a surprising amount of fierceness over the last week. Why if he hadn't seen the hair on her toes for himself, he'd be questioning if she truly is a Hobbit and not some dwarrowmaid in a clever disguise.
He almost says no.
The pain in her eyes stops him. There's something about those endlessly deep eyes that seem so much older, wiser and more aggrieved than the rest of the wee mite. He sighs, and then he releases her hand.
She flinches, no doubt seeing the hesitation in his own gaze.
Then he grasps her tightly by the forearm, 'Ye've got yerself a deal, lass.'
Her whole expression lifts and that light shines so brightly it almost takes his breath away. In that moment, she looks so much like Umor, the sister he lost all those years ago.
'I look forward to our journey together,' she says.
Bimor's smirk widens, 'And I look forward to winning your Mother's beloved skillet.'
She blinks, once, twice and then laughter bursts out of her and rises above her in a cloud of pure joy. Bimor laughs with her, and knows somewhere deep down inside of him that he's made the correct decision.