Bimor expected The Hobbiton marketplace to be quiet but he did not anticipate how bad it would truly be.
Following a night's rest in a soft warm bed after months on the road and several hours of good eating, the group of dwarves decide to venture out to the market to scope out the possibilities.
Bimor has encountered several markets over the long decades in which he has been alive; stalls in the poorest villages, desperate dwarves trying to trade as Blacksmiths for a morsel of food, even once, when he was really wee, a market favoured by the Elves in a busy human settlement, a near constant whirl of colour and noise that made even the most stoic warrior motion sick–none compare to the sight in Hobbiton.
The market is practically overflowing with produce, the likes of which Bimor has never seen. Ripe red tomatoes bursting from their vines, squashes twice the size of wee Korrin, thick round radishes, potatoes so large he needs to use both hands to hold just one up, other vegetables he would not expect to see this late in the summer months. He's not one for leafy greens usually, but the sight is enough to make even his mouth water.
But while fresh produce they have aplenty, everything else is scarce or poorly made, or so small Bimor feels he'd need a magnifying glass to see it properly. There's a stall or two selling the kind of leathers he would expect to see in the blacksmith shops back home, but the quality is so bad it makes his kin wince.
'What,' Bromor picks up a leather apron between two fingers with an intense look of disgust, 'is this?'
'Uh, a leather apron?' The poor Hobbit behind the stall stutters. Bimor could almost feel sorry for him, if it was not for the mockery they made of Bromor's craft.
'This…'
'It's bad,' Billa nods sagely. The other Hobbit lurches away at her sudden appearance, attempting to hide in the shadows of their stall, 'Most of us are farmers and even better cooks and eaters, but as you can probably tell, we're not all that great at certain crafts. We lost a few of our best to recent harsh winters, and it's not been easy replacing those skills.'
'Aye,' Bimor exhales, eying the flushing Hobbit behind the stall. 'I can see that.'
'We don't get enough travellers through these parts after all the trade was redirected to Bree,' she shakes her head. 'Will you be able to help, Master Bimor?'
He peers down at the wee soul beside him and smiles, 'Where do we start, lass?'
A wide grin crosses her face, 'With Hamfast's trousers.'
He cocks an eyebrow, 'Trousers?'
'Hm,' she nods. 'Then ale, and lots of it.'
Bromor takes to making the Hobbit's trousers like he is creating his magnum opus. His cousin has not been this inspired by his craft since they were barely out of their first half century, and the push and pull of his deft hands stirs a familiar warmth in Bimor's chest. A day later and the trousers are delivered to the Hobbit gardener's door by a beaming dwarf and exchanged for one of the biggest squashes Bimor has ever seen.
It takes even less time for a drunken Hamfast to be singing praises for his work, and then for the line of hobbits in need of their own workwear, bags and belts to grow along Bagshot Row.
As Bromor's craft becomes in demand, Billa takes the others back to the daily market to set up their own stalls. It is slow going, but every new Market Day another Hobbit braves the distance to peruse freshly carved hunting tools, Bromor's leathers and Boid's meat pasties (the best he has ever tasted thanks to Hobbiton's abundance of wheat). Before long the dwarves, once scorned by Hobbits, are swapping recipes and hunting tips, and exchanging goods for produce and coin and even more ale.
But while the cautious and timid Hobbits start to approach the dwarven warriors, they continue to steer clear of poor Magnus, who takes to whittling in silence at the end of his stall. His agile hands carve intricately designed cooking utensils; long wooden spoons, chopping boards engraved with the lily of the valley that grows in abundance around Hobbiton, bowls and mugs line the table at first.
Until he spots the fauntlings.
They peer out from behind their parents with large mischievous eyes and rosy cheeks, watching as the blocks of wood in his hand transform into the functional items before them.
Bimor watches as Magnus falters. He eyes up the hunk of wood in his hand and then the baby Hobbits with their apple cheeks and masses of curls. A few hours later, some toys join the frontline of the stall; small figurines and tiny spinning tots that Bimor hasn't seen in an eon.
The fauntlings are still cautious, but it only takes one brave bairn to approach the stall and pick up a toy. Magnus' face eases into a gentle look and he shows the inquisitive wee lad how the spinning top works, much to his and his more wary pals' delight.
And that is how Magnus wins over an entire group of fauntlings.
The clamour over their products slowly grows.
In less than a week, the dwarves make more money in Hobbiton than they have in the last year, and slowly but surely the market starts to thrive.
For the first time since he was but a wee dwarrow, Bimor starts to have hope.
#
Billa's scheming is going extraordinarily well, if she says so herself. So well in fact that she spends the first few days in Bag End stuffing her guests with fresh fish, succulent meats and an endless supply of apple crumbles, waiting for it all to go wrong.
When it doesn't, she decides to set the next wheels of her plan in motion.
Her cousin, the soon-to-be Thain, beats her to it.
Fortinbras II appears at the door to Bag End one warm summer evening after a full day at the market with a knowing gleam in his eye. Billa moves immediately to let him in, ushering him down the hall to her small library and out of earshot of the nosey dwarves she is starting to think of as her own.
The Hobbits of the Shire might believe that wild Billa Baggins is going mad, however, Fortinbras know differently. His father was right to warn him to keep an eye on his cousin; he sees the same look on her face that he once saw on his aunt's and knows that Billa has a few tricks up her sleeve. The girl may be going mad, yes, but not without thorough thought.
So when she starts waxing lyrical about the great trades of the dwarves, well how could he say no?
'Cousin, you've never seen leather work like this before…'
'Billa.'
'...I swear, it's the lightest I've ever felt! And look! Look at this satchel…'
'Billa.'
'...isn't just beautiful. When I met them in Bree, Cousin, I couldn't just-'
'Billa!' Fortinbras finally snaps. The girl quietens, blinking those large eyes at him from underneath her shorn hair. It's been years and his father is still trying not to mourn the loss of those curls, the ones her mother had worn before her; they reminded Isumbras so much of Belladonna.
'Sorry.'
'You may think me slow, dearest Cousin, but I know exactly what you're up to.'
She winces and deflates under the weight of his stare, 'You do?'
The Hobbit sighs and thanks the Valar for whomever created Billa in the image of Belladonna Took. Eru knows their other cousins lacked that spark that landed the both of them firmly in trouble when they were fauntlings.
'Opening new lines of trade with the dwarves is a smart move,' he says firmly. 'And a shrewd one.'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Do not play coy with me, Billa Baggins,' Fortinbras says. 'There may be whispers of you going mad, but I've known you since you were but a fauntling. This was no mere accident, was it? Coming across these dwarves?'
'Well, only partially,' she admits quietly.
'I commend you for your forward thinking, Billa,' he says. 'But have you truly thought this through? To the end?'
She fidgets, 'It's not just about trade, Fort.'
He ignores the use of his childhood nickname, his gaze unwavering, 'Is it not?'
'We do need the trade, yes,' she says, 'but we also need protection.'
He blinks, 'Protection? Whatever would we need protection from? We are but simple Hobbits.'
'Winter, wolves, goblins,' she whispers. 'Mama told me stories.'
There's a flash of pain in her eyes that halts Fortinbras in his tracks. As if she knows something he does not. He falls quiet for a moment.
'You think the dwarves will help us?'
'I think a regular contingent of dwarves travelling through The Shire is in our best interests,' she says. 'But besides all that, they looked after me. How could I not offer them help when I could?'
Fortinbras steeples his fingers under his chin and scrutinises his cousin. She is right, that much is certain. He could see the endless advantages to having trade open with the dwarves–and the chances of some even settling here, well, that is too good of an opportunity to pass up.
'Continue to welcome them into the market and give them the space to practise their crafts. I'll speak to my father,' Fortinbras says finally. 'We will shelter them, and offer respite where we can and hope they spread word to their brethren.'
'To say what?' Billa breathes.
He gives a wry smile, 'The Shire is open to business with the dwarves, of course.'