Billa thinks she should be less shocked when Bimor and Bromor appear at the gates of Bree the next morning with a whole gaggle of dwarves behind them.
'Still want to bet that skillet of yers?' Bimor smirks.
By this point, she's been dealing with dwarves for much longer than she can care to admit, and refuses to take the bait. Instead, she simply rolls her eyes, adjusts her pack and sets off for the Shire. The dwarves fall eagerly into step behind her.
The journey back home is much more agreeable than the journey there, even with a pack of dwarves hot on her heels. Every night they camp, she helps the lone cook, Boid, by scrounging and foraging for treats to improve their meals; she jokes and laughs and imbibes and weaves a tale or two around the campfire with Bimor and Bromor and their brethren, watching as every day their shoulders lose a bit more tension and the wrinkles in their face even out.
She doesn't talk to the rest of the group much, although she does share some small smiles with some of the more friendly looking dwarves, as secretive and quiet as they are. She spends the days teaching Bromor how to survey the land, pointing out the good mushrooms, the spots where wild garlic would grow in thick clusters in coming months, the best fruit trees and how to climb them, while learning each of their company's names and tucking them away for use later. There is Borrin and his young son Korrin–who always has a good question or two to ask about The Shire; Mot and Mog, cousins of the Iron Hills, who enjoy Hen of the Woods and are travelling with their near relatives Noid and Boid of the Blue Mountains (Noid loves a good apple, but Boid cannot stand them). Then there's Magnus, the quietest but fiercest looking of the lot of them.
Billa watches him whittle by the fire at night and wonders if, like Bifur and Bofur, he was also once a talented toymaker. She doesn't quite gather the courage to ask.
'So why a sword?' Noid asks one night as a campfire crackles between them. There's something about the smell and sound that slips between her ribs, straight towards her heart. A half-memory teases her, but evades her grasp.
You do not fear me, little Hobbit?
'Whatever do you mean, Master Noid?'
'Well, yer a Hobbit-'
'What an astute observation.'
A sardonic look crosses his face as he continues, '-yer really not known for yer, uh, fighting abilities. Why are you looking for a sword?'
'Just because I'm a Hobbit does not mean I can't fight.'
'But why do you want to fight?'
'Does anyone ever truly want to fight?'
'I do,' Bromor chips in from his side of the camp. Noid beams at her, as if to say 'look here, see!' She scowls, and briefly contemplates throwing her spoon at his head. He would avoid it obviously, but there would at least be some satisfaction in watching him duck under the flying utensil.
Instead, she says, 'I do not want to fight, Master Dwarf, but there are people I want to protect. I need to be skilled enough to do that, ergo a sword.'
Noid pulls a face, 'Why a sword though? You could wield an axe or knives or something infinitely more deadly than a sword.'
'Says the dwarf carrying twin swords.'
'I think it's an honourable intention, lass,' Bimor pipes up from beside his cousin, a large mug of tea steaming in one hand. She was lucky enough to find some patches of mint on the road today. His eyes are twinkling as he looks at her over the rim of the cracked tin mug, 'Ye know Noid could teach ye a thing or two about blades.'
Billa turns to the dwarf in question, who preens under her gaze and scrunches her nose, 'No thank you.'
Noid deflates instantly, and Bromor guffaws, walloping the lad on the back. Bimor smiles patiently, and takes a sip from his tea, 'I'd think about it, Billa. Noid's been training with those blades since he could toddle on his two feet, even trained under the same instructor as one of our crown princes.'
'Oh,' something pricks at the back of Billa's brain, knocking loose the memory of Fíli on that long-buried battlefield, his movement a near constant graceful whirl across the plains that lay before Erebor.
She exhales, eying the sagging Noid across the campfire. It couldn't hurt, she supposes, could it?
'Fine.'
Noid snaps back to attention, his eyes sparkling with so much pure unadulterated joy, Billa is forced to avert her gaze.
'Really?'
'Really.'
Suddenly, there is an armful of enthusiastic dwarf in her face and hairy braids in her mouth. She stiffens under the sudden embrace; the last time Billa was hugged, her arms were wrapped around a much smaller Frodo as he beamed up at her with a gap between his teeth. After a moment, she relaxes, inhaling the iron-tanged musk of Noid.
'Oi! Let go of my Hobbit!'
Billa turns to see the young Korrin glowering at Noid, who abruptly releases her, a flush rushing up his face.
Bromor hisses, 'Korrin.'
It's not like that, Korrin, the lass just agreed to let me teach her some fighting tips, is all.'
The smaller dwarf keeps his narrowed eyes on Noid as he tucks himself into Billa's side, his burgeoning moustache twitching with displeasure. She swallows her laughter at the tiny dwarf's possessiveness, even as Bromor shares an exasperated look with Korrin's father.
They reach the final paths that lead to Hobbiton the next morning. Excitement makes her set a hurried pace and she's almost bouncing on her toes when she finally spots the outline of Bag End in the distance.
'There it is,' she grins up at Bimor, pointing at the grassy roof of her home. She can already see the flowers in full bloom, an explosion of colour against the vibrant green grasses along Bagshot Row.
Bimor blinks once, twice and then turns to stare at the wee lassie by his side, almost choking on his next words, 'That's yer home?'
Oblivious as always, Billa simply nods, 'That's it, that's Bag End.' She surges forward, bopping along the narrow paths to her smial. It is an unseasonably warm day after the rains that pelted down on them as they left Bree; a hot breeze picks at their clothes, the tall grasses sway gently, and the heady scent of wildflowers greets the group. Billa can barely contain her excited wiggle; she sent a quick note to Hamfast to restock all her stores before she returned home, and all she can think about is nutty, crumbly cheese and the still warm loaves of bread that are no doubt waiting for them.
If the Hobbits thought Mistress Baggins was on the verge of going mad before she left on yet another walking holiday, they are sure she has finally lost it when she returns with dwarves trailing behind her. They scatter at the sight of the fierce creatures, ducking behind hedges and around corners out of sight.
Noid casts a worried glance around as yet another Hobbit vanishes, 'Mistress Baggins?'
'Yes?' She's practically bouncing down the path, and Bimor has to smother a smile.
'Are ye sure it's fine for us to be here?' He tries not to stare as an old Hobbit with a bulbous head watches them from a doorway stoop, his gaze unwavering and unblinking.
'Don't be silly, you're my guests,' she says. Then with a quick glance round, raises her voice to add, 'And if there's anything us Hobbits pride ourselves on, it's good hospitality.'
There's a shudder in the grass beside them but otherwise no response.
The dwarves follow Billa up the hill towards her home, their gaze catching on the bountiful harvests and lush vegetation, the most amount of fresh produce they've seen in years - decades even. A rich scent drifts over to them and Noid draws to an abrupt halt to sniff the air, 'Is that-?'
Billa gives a little hip wriggle as she too picks up the heavenly smell coming from one of the nearby smials, 'Hm, smells like Maisy Boffin's apple crumble.'
Noid's eyes glaze over until Boid thumps him on the head, 'Stop it.'
Billa giggles, 'If we're lucky Hamfast will have procured a few for dinner tonight.'
Bimor almost stumbles over his own two feet in complete disbelief. He couldn't remember the last time he had an apple crumble, and here is this lass offering it to them as if it is nothing.
'Here he is now. Hamfast!' The Hobbit lass skips the last few feet to her home and leans over the fence with a beaming smile. The dwarves trail slowly after her.
'Are ye sure this is the same wee lass we met in Bree?' Bromor rumbles in khuzdul. 'We've no picked up a Changeling somewhere?' All Bimor can do is shrug helplessly as Billa Baggins of the Shire unleashes a torrent of chatter upon the poor Hobbit behind her fence.
The change in her is mind-boggling. From the second she stepped onto the familiar paths of Hobbiton, the wee mite became lighter and this fearsome grin spread across her face. For folk who spent their life deep in the dark, cavernous mountains, her smile is like seeing sunlight for the first time. Not even Magnus, notoriously taciturn, has been able to resist. This wee Hobbit is a gift, how could her people allow her to travel so far from them and alone?
'...look at it, Hamfast, can you believe the quality? I couldn't believe my eyes, and the weight of it, it almost feels as if I'm wearing nothing at all!'
The dwarves approach the Hobbit, who's dangling precariously across the fence. Another Hobbit, a male this time (or at least Bimor hopes it's a male, he hasn't quite lived down not realising Mistress Baggins was a lass), stares wide-eyed at Billa, a straw hat pulled tightly over his own mop of curls, face smeared with dirt. A farmer, Bimor guesses, judging by the equal amounts of dirt smudged across his patchwork tunic and scuffed trousers.
'It looks like an elf's made his trousers,' Bromor sniffs, no doubt taking in the loose threads and holey fabric Bimor himself noticed.
'Do you make trousers, Master Bromor?'
The dwarves startle as Billa sets her gaze on them. Bromor huffs and puffs and then shrugs, 'Aye, I can do.'
'See, Hamfast, all you need to do is ask!'
'Hang on a minute, I'm no following,' Bromor scratches his head, gaze flickering between the two Hobbits.
Billa beams at him, 'Well, Master Gamgee here was asking about my travel gear, and I said you made it and now he wants some trousers. He's a gardener you see and he needs something that will stand up to the wear of his work.'
'How…how much?' The Hobbit, Hamfast, squeaks boldly, although his body quivers as the dwarves turn a united look upon him. Bimor lowers his estimation of the Hobbit's age.
Bromor hesitates, 'A half pouch of coin for trousers.'
The Hobbit blinks, 'Only a half pouch?'
Bromor chokes on his own spit and despite his own shock, Bimor has to swallow a gruff laugh at the sight of his brethren's slack jaw.
Billa glances between them and sidles up to whisper, 'Hamfast grows the best squashes in the Shire, you know.'
Bimor raises an eyebrow at her, and she nods and holds out her hands until the space between them is twice as wide as the Hobbit male by her side.
'A half pouch and one of your prize squashes.'
Hamfast's face lights up and he nods vigorously, holding out a grubby hand, 'You have yourself a deal, my good sir.'
Bromor pauses before cautiously reaching out to shake his hand. Billa's grin widens and Bimor gets the distinct notion that he and his kin have just been played.
Hamfast hies himself home shortly after that, reminding Billa that he's restocked her pantry as she requested. She leads the dwarves through her garden and towards the round green door, requesting they leave their boots at the entrance. A rush of warmth greets them as they enter her smial and she turns and beams at them.
'Welcome to Bag End, my good friends. Make yourselves at home.'