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Birabelle Baggins was many things; well-read, generous to those who deserved it, an excellent cook, twelve-year reigning champion of the Buckland Spring Festival Conkers Competition, and quite proficient with a needle and thread if called upon. However, she was not what others of her race would call “respectable”.
It all had started with her mother, truly. The offspring of such an adventurous lass was going to be troublesome no matter how mild-mannered and Hobbitish the father was, and truly, Bungo Baggins had been the picture of respectability up until his shocking marriage to the Shire’s most troublesome Took.
None could deny the happiness the two had in their marriage, however, nor the strength of their bond. It was all in their Songs, really. Many Songs held sweetness and admiration, but theirs held devotion and respect as well.
Never did Bungo expect his wife to cease her wandering, and Belladonna never expected him to join her on her journeys. If not for their Songs, most would have though the pair would never last. And yet, it almost seemed secondary in their eyes that their Songs harmonized and fell into each other so easily as though always meaning to resonate throughout the other.
Love had come before the Songs, something fairly rare amongst the superstitious, tradition bound race they belonged to, where complimentary Songs were necessary for marriage to even be considered.
Some spoke ill-will despite their clearly fated match, pointing out Bella’s continued indecencies and pitying the gentle-hobbit bound to such a wildling. When the first miscarriage took place, it only brought more for the gossipers to sink their talons into.
Heartbreak comes in many forms. The loss of a child is one overshadowed by very few others, especially when your worth is dictated heavily on your ability to bear young ones.
Even the strength of the fiery Took faded under the weight of disappointment and heartbreak in the years following her marriage to her beloved, and the fire he so adored flickered in a way that had made Bungo fear greater than ever before.
It had been a miracle when Birabelle was born, the woman’s pregnancy happening entirely by accident after far too long trying without success. And she had been perfect, the best mix of her eclectic heritage. Even from a young age the little one was daring, sharp as a whip and respectable without lowering her own self-worth. Truly, everything a child of a Baggins and a Took should be.
It wasn’t until here first Festival of Songs, when she finally hit the proper age to attend, that the young girl saw the coldness her mother had been made victim to once upon a time.
Songs had been explained to her throughout her youth, the idea of two voices rising together to form something that would show the other their intention and devotion in moments rather than a lifetime, although one may receive both if lucky.
Even so, she had not been prepared for the strange looks, the murmurs that followed her when she had not joined the other young ones in the dancing and singing. Instead, she watched as her peers came together, finding one another in a strange way and listened for a melody that her heart would surely know.
It was her uncle that had approached her after the Festival was nearly at its end. “What’s wrong, seedling? Worried you won’t find them?”
“That isn’t it, Uncle.” The young hobbit lass said with as much respect in her small voice as she could manage in the wake of her disappointment. “I just cannot seem to hear them.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Perhaps it was her Uncle, perhaps it was the gossip hungry crone that passed by at that moment, regardless, word spread that Birabelle Baggins was Songless.
That wasn’t quite true, something she tried to explain to any that would bother giving her the time of day. She had a Song, she did, she had just yet to hear it.
No matter how often she stated it or how many ways she tried to explain, it seemed none but her parents would listen.
After the Fell Winter, none would.
It was not until years and years later, her status as a Spinster secured from that first Festival so many season passed, that any bothered to visit for reasons other than cruelty and an attempt to rid the Songless Hobbit of the home her father had built for her mother. It was crafted for a family after all, it should belong to beings that could properly put it to use.
No, on that particular day, it was not a neighbor or relation that came to her garden gate, but rather one of the tall folk, his presence bringing more whispers, thirteen dwarves and talk of a dragon.
When she signed the contact, her only thoughts were of her father rolling in his grave and her mother positively dancing in her own.
There was very little in ways of comfort on the road, especially for one not accustomed to being beyond the borders of settled areas. However, something in the simplicity and not-quite-silence that surrounded the Hobbit woman was a comfort when weighed against the ever present whisperings that had followed her throughout her life in the Shire.
“No Heartsong, that one. Even stranger than her mother.”
“It’s not natural. Not Hobbitish.”
Still, there was not much company at first, even amongst the Company. True, several of the Dwarves had spoken kindly to her, involving her in their mischief and soft celebrations as time went on, but there was hesitancy in the rest; those that had lived through cruelty at the hands of outsiders, beings unlike them and unaffiliated with their cause.
As far as they were concerned, she had come for personal gain.
In truth, she was much like a rat fleeing a sinking ship.
Days before she had been swept into this suicidal adventure, her uncle, the Thain had approached her with sorrow in his eyes and a firm set to his lips to inform her that it had come to a majority ruling that her house be given to one more suited for the space and the lands.
She was given a week and had left not four days later with a pack containing her mother’s map and her father’s pipe and the few travel supplies she could find. She left in her best, knowing that her cousin Lobelia would curse her for stealing the rich scarlet bodice she had envied for years.
Over the course of the unexpected journey, she had learned of her companions and their way of life despite the attempts at secrecy. At first she had hoped that perhaps they would not see her as wrong for not being able to display her Song for them, and their frivolous nature regarding music seemed to support it. However, one night, when they had crossed the mountain, slain trolls, fought goblins, faced off against a beast of nightmares and cold iron, and flown across the land in the care and company of the Great Eagles, she learned of their Heartsongs.
Heartsongs, she learned, were not so different than a Hobbit’s Song. Both were intended to bring together ones that were most suited for each other. But unlike with Hobbits, where the tunes were complimentary, Dwarrow Heartsongs were one and the same. Only those with the same song were drawn together, their shared music binding in a way far more than even the superstitions of the Shire.
Birabelle hadn’t dared ask for any of them to reveal something so private, and yet, several did, those that had what she was told was “A Lead”. It seemed as though Heartsongs came in parts rather than whole pieces. When she was informed that many could not share their song simply because they had not heard it yet, she nearly felt hope at not being alone.
But she was not a Dwarf.
Putting away the false hope, she listened to several voices twining and clashing, and then to stories told of finding their Harmonies at various points in their lives. Gloin, always boisterous about his wife and child gushed over the romance of finding his bride and mourned the fact she could not be here to lead them into their Heartsong for the young Hobbitess to hear. Bombur blushed scarlet throughout his own verse despite the entire thing being in a language she could not understand. By the hoots and hollers that surrounded her however, it was clearly something far more scandalous than talk of flowers… although she had heard several lecherous verses about that very topic in her own time. It was his small smile however that showed her the love he shared was just as pure and adored as Gloin’s.
Oin had risen in song, as had Thorin, Bifur and Balin, even young Ori and Fili had taken their time to show off their Heartsongs and receive encouragements and amusement.
Even those who did not sing were smiling, including herself.
It was during this time, soaking in the bittersweet realization she was ousted yet again, that a question she should have anticipated flew to her.
“Do Hobbits have Heartsongs, Ms. Baggins?”
It was said in polite inquiry, Dori passing her a small cup of tea that he had managed to keep hold of along their journey despite the impossibility of it. Even so, it seemed the others knew of the soft question, as their attention shifted and the conversations lulled.
They had grown to accept her, after she had rescued their King, found her way back to them and shown that while from the Shire, she was no fainting flower. Even now, there was no distain in their expressions, simply curiosity and acceptance. It made her tongue swell and her throat dry up.
Something in her own face must have read as shock, as some kind of dismay, because near immediately Dori was apologizing for the overstep and rudeness. It took all of her willpower to stop him, to reach out and force a soft laugh, shaking her head. “No, no, Dori. Forgive me, I apologize. You said nothing wrong.”
None of the dwarves seemed convinced, and the steady sound of Dwalin sharpening Grasper and Keeper stopped, bringing a stifling silence to their camp. Taking in a breath, she kept the slightly strained smile on her lips as she spoke.
“Hobbits have Songs as well, but they are not quite exactly like yours.” She began, voice as steady as it could have been in the wake of what would surely be the undoing of all the progress she had made. Who wanted a being that had no soul associating with them.
For that is was it was.
“To us, our Songs are the guiding lines that bring us to the fragments of our souls. We hold grand Festivals to bring together all with Songs to share and sing and dance. Naturally we gravitate towards the other sounds that compliment our own.”
“Ye all have Songs of yer own?” Bofur asked as she paused, pulling her focus to the friendly dwarrow who watched her and had been her longest standing friend amongst the company.
Smile falling just a touch sad, her gaze dropped. There was no going back. “Yes… or all are supposed to… Hobbit Songs are not the same, they are complimentary, twining the individuals desires and affections for the other with that of their fated match… I have only ever heard of one Hobbit that did not have a Song. She lived a very lonely life.” Hands in her lap, she gripped and twisted at the fabric of her torn and muddied jacket, trying to hide the trembling in her hands. “She lived alone for years, tending to her garden, ignoring the whispers that followed her and doing her best to be as respectable as she could… and still… still she was-”
A hand entered her line of vision, the thick callouses and warm, smudged flesh gathering up her dainty hands in one of his own. Raising her betrayingly teary gaze, she met the steady gaze of the tattooed dwarf who had moved to her side during her story. Dwalin held her hands like a treasure and watched her, not with pity, but with a security and solidness that helped her steady. “It’s alright, lass. Ye dinnae have to say more.”
But she did. Birabelle knew she did. Keeping steady on that grounding gaze and pressing her hands firmer into the warm broad palms enveloping them she took in a shaky breath and continued. “My father built that home for my mother as a courting give. She was adventurous, always traveling and he told her he wanted to give her a place always worth coming back to… It was built to be filled with children, a home overflowing with love and laughter and life and-and instead, in the end, it was only me… I worked hard to keep my parents respectability in tact after their passing. I did everything to keep from giving the Thain a reason to… to force me to leave my home.” A sharp breath somewhere amongst the others shattered the silence, but still that gaze held steady, the warm hands squeezing in silent reassurance. Anytime. She could stop anytime. “But they found reason anyway… I was to be forced to leave in three days time had I not followed you that day.”
“But your belongings-” Balin spoke, remembering her protectiveness over her mother’s China, the beautiful collection of books that he had learned belonged to both her father and mother. Bungo Baggins had been a well-educated, well-rounded individual and he’d ensured his daughter was much the same. The young woman’s house had been filled with such things, the warmth of the beautiful smial filled with trinkets of a warm life… though now he knew that life had not belonged to her, but to her parents.
Bira’s sad smile returned and she turned to meet the stead gaze, interrupting him. “They go to the next tenant… there is no space for a Songless Hobbit and no need for them to take things unsuited for one not living - to a Halfling.”
“But yer nae dead!” Gloin exclaimed, and suddenly she saw the anger, the way several of the company looked positively murderous. It took a moment for her to realize it was her kin and neighbors that roused their ire and not herself. Letting out a wet laugh, she smiled at him. “When your Song is you Soul and your purpose is to marry and create more life… when you fall short in both regards, you are not considered living anymore… The day I explained I had never heard my Song was the day I signed over my life as a Hobbit.”
For once the company’s voices did not rise in protest, their anger so consuming and their horror at the blatant cruelty exhibited by the soft race so overwhelming that they were brought to silence.
Birabelle was content to sit, already relieved at that lack of hatred for her, her hands still held within the large Dwarf’s firm grasp as through they kept her from flying away from them all. Dwalin’s face was pinched in his own anger, neck flushed scarlet as he did his best to keep his own anger at bay. Affection filled her for the man, his consideration and kindness once again showing in the simplest and softest of ways.
Many times through their journey, he had taken it upon himself to silently help her, never doing it for the thanks, in fact, more often than not trying to do it without her being able to identify it as him providing the assistance. But it was not hard to see who it was that slept without a blanket on nights she magically had acquired two, nor was it difficult to notice the days her own rations seemed just the smallest bit heartier than the rest of the Company, and how Dwalin’s stews consisted of mostly broth. Helping guide her horse, steady her footing, moving her sleeping roll to an area more protected against the elements; Dwalin had been her silent protector in the sweetest of fashions throughout their journey. Perhaps it was because she was a Hobbit. Perhaps it was because she was a woman. But part of her hoped it was because the man had come to care for her as a friend… it would be selfish and foolish to wish for more.
“Ms.Baggins?” Looking over, she smiled gently at Ori as he stood between his brothers, looking for the world like he was about to drop at his audacity of breaking such a heavy silence.
“Yes, Master Ori?”
Again, the young man had to take a moment, wringing his hands before giving voice to his inquiry. “W-What does ‘Halfling’ mean?”
It was like a bucket of cold water had been poured over them, the heat of their rage snapping to a frigid stillness as the Company awaited the answer.
Bira herself couldn’t help the tension at the word. Eyes dropping she ignored the tightness surrounding her hands, a silent call for her to turn and look at him. She couldn’t. Not with this. “The Big Folk seem to think it is just the same as ‘Hobbit’, but to Hobbits… it is an insult. It implies we are half of a race, that we are lesser in some way… That we aren’t worthy of the life we carry.”
They had used it so many time through the travels, but she did not fault them. Even the Hobbits had taken to calling her one. At this point in her life it was stranger to be called a Hobbit than a Halfling.
Now the Company roared, clamoring and yelling at each other for unknown slights, for perceived transgressions. Nothing Birabelle said could break through the clamor.
It was the sudden release of the grip on her hands that had her turning in time to see Dwalin pulling a knife from it’s sheath, hate and pain in his eyes and his beard held firmly in his hand.
“STOP!” she jumped up without thinking, one hand grabbing his where it sat on the hilt of his blade and her other pressing into the surprisingly soft hair to further block the self-mutilation the fool had been about to perform. “This is completely unnecessary!”
“Is’ not, lass.” Balin said from behind her and she turned to see each of the dwarves watching her, their own hands resting on a blade of some sort. “We have offered you grave insult, knowingly or not, and that needs to be fixed.”
“Not like this! I won’t have you shamed for me.” She had learned the significance of a dwarrow’s beard two months into their journey. It was a lesson she had not forgotten. Even now, the familiarity and blatant obscenity of her touching Dwalin’s beard had her flushing, but she could see that it was all that kept him from cutting through the dark hairs. “There has to be another way than this. What would I even do with thirteen beards. I-It isn’t fair to you all to punish you for a slight you did not know you were making! I am not-”
“You are no longer a Hobbit.” Turning at the half question and meeting the sharp blue gaze of their leader, she blinked for a moment before nodding slightly, tears slipping down her cheeks as the franticness in her subsided just the slightest bit. Of anyone, Thorin could order them to stop… but he too held a blade, thumb rubbing along the edge in contemplation as he touched his own short beard. After a moment, he took a knee, watching her with a firm gaze, blade resting on his palm. “Birabella Baggins,” Again, the silence was stifling. “You refuse my beard, and so I offer you my blood.”
She wanted to object, to say something to stop this madness, but instead she watched, struck dumb by the sight of the King kneeling.
“I offer you that which makes me a dwarf in ever sense, and ask that you accept it and stand amongst us as kin.” Running the blade across his flesh and coating it in crimson, he spoke one word; “Baruf.”
Family.
“Oh.” It had not made sense to her at first, but before she could say more, the King was standing again and the knife was being passed around, each Dwarf coating the knife in his own blood and breathing a word to claim her as kin as well. Bira trembled in the wake of this great discovery as she witnessed these foolish, foolish dwarves erasing any doubt that they wanted her. As the knife reached her and Dwalin, she met his gaze and saw the conviction as he dropped his own blade, took up the other and ran it over his cheek making her cry out and reach up to pull the blade back from him. He let it go easily, steadying her as she bit her lower lip and watched him. He did not name her kin verbally, only watched her carefully and said; “There is more we have ta do ta fix this, lass. But claimin’ yerself a dwarrowdam is a start if yer willin’ to deal with us the rest of yer life.”
Teary laughter bubbled out of her, and she leaned forward, pressing against the broad form as she sobbed her relief and surprise. As arms came around her and more hands pressed against her small form she realized silently that it had been years since she was in such a warm embrace, one filled with those who cared without question and did not mind that she was odd.
By the time she pulled back, she was grinning brightly, the most lovely smile they had ever seen come from the dame. “How could I ever refuse you all?”
They traveled again, fourteen dwarrow strong when the wizard returned with word of a friend of his and shelter. Staying in the company of a Skinchanger had been an experience in the newfound possessiveness of her Company and kin, none of her dwarrow seeming the slightest bit happy when the large man plucked her from their numbers at his whim to place her on his shoulder and speak of her much like he did the odd lambs and dogs that acted far more intelligent than any she had run across before.
Dwalin she had seen once being held back alongside Bifur and Gloin during one such occurrence. Ori and Dori doing much of the restraining with their natural and surprising strength.
In this haven, Balin spoke to her of legal matters, trying to figure out Hobbit Laws and what could be done to at least acquire her belongings back from the community that was so ready to cast her out. While unlikely, she found herself thrilled at even the hypothetical of rubbing everything in those pinched faces of her cousins and neighbors.
Ori asked more questions, mainly about books and knitting, the young boy hardly ever asking about Hobbits any longer. She had asked him about it once only for the young dwarf to state simply that she was no longer a Hobbit and so he had no need to know them if she had no need to share. Still, Bira told stories of her childhood and spoke of traditions that still had held some joy for her, even if only in her childhood.
The day the company found out about a Hobbit’s eating habits and naturally high metabolisms was one she would not soon forget; the sheer horror on some of her kin’s face at the thought that they may have been starving her was both comical and highly concerning. It took far longer than she’d expected to waylay their concerns, and even so, she found herself being given foods and small things to nibble on for the duration of their stay.
If she had not told them of her shames, if they had not claimed her and shown her that they were not like her neighbors and own blood race, the Greenwood may have proven far more harrowing that it already was. But through madness, starvation, spiders and elves, Birabelle did not lose hope in her family. And they, while worried, never appeared to lose their faith in her. Although she had to admit, she truly was testing them with that ridiculous barrel idea.
Balin, Dori, Bofur, Bifur, Nori, Gloin and Dwalin had all had words for her following the dangerous stunt, especially when she let it slip that Hobbits can’t swim.
Climbing through toilets was no where close to something she found pleasant, and if she never had the experience again it would still be too soon.
They spent time recovering from travel in the floating town under the welcome of the Master that felt far too much like her greedier cousins to sit well with Birabelle. As Durin’s day grew nearer, there was a thrum of excitement and nervousness that seemed to pulse throughout her dwarves. Even she felt much like they had, having been told now for several months that she herself would be finding home with them and nothing else would do. She was Kin. Beyond bead, beyond word, beyond brain, they had bound the former Hobbit to them in blood and oath.
Still, it was nervousness that seemed all the more prominent in her presence and the young woman knew why; none were too keen on her risking life and limb any longer. Certainly when she had been little but a stranger it was fine, encouraged even. But now she was a Dwarrowdam, and while never lacking in strength, they were protected by their people more fiercely than a mithril vein.
Again, she found her peace in the silence beside the largest of her Dwarven companions as he sharpened his axes, sat watching the townsfolk or otherwise stayed to himself. It seemed the closer to the mountain they had grown, the quieter Dwalin had become. Sometimes she spoke to him for hours, about everything, about anything, just talking as she smoked her father’s pipe or tried to alter one of the children’s dresses she was given to fit her more… mature figure.
Not often did the silent male contribute, but there were days, much like this one, where he would break her mid-word to speak in that low, gruff tone. “Ye dinnae have ta do this.”
Bira stopped short and looked at him, noticing his eyes never moving from the fireplace as they sat comfortably alone, the rest of the Company enjoying the continued festivities of their gaudy host. It took a moment to find her words. “Oh course I do, Dwalin. It’s your home.”
“It’s yer life, lass.”
“I signed a contract!”
“Ta Hells with the contract!” As his voice boomed in the suddenly smaller space and he rose to his feet, body locked with tension, she froze. It had never slipped her mind that her friend was an impressive figure with a legendarily short temper. But that did not mean she was familiar with it. As his eyes cut to hers, he seemed to deflate slightly before near hesitantly taking a seat again. “Ah’m sorry. The thought of ye in there wit’-” again the tension in his muscles returned.
She needed to take his mind off it, that was clear. Nothing could be done about her obligations and she did not wish to put any of her boys in danger, not when they had parts of their souls out there searching for them, waiting for them. “Master Dwalin… may I hear your Song?” she asked, a flush rising to her cheeks at the indecency, Hobbit sensibilities still burned into her skull.
As she watched, she saw the way those eyes widened slightly before realization flickered and an almost sad smile lifted his lips. “Lass… ye dinnae wan’ ta hear tha’.”
“On the contrary.” Bira interrupted. “I have heard every Lead in our Company but your own. Balin admitted that you were not a Harmony.” Balin had also mentioned his brother’s lack of success in finding his One. Why the old dwarf found that viable information; or further, why she herself felt the faintest traces of hope at the news; was beyond her.
For a moment, as Dwalin’s gaze again returned to the fire, it looked at though he would not answer and she feared she had overstepped. Before she could apologize however, he looked to her again and shook his head. “Nae now, Birabelle.” It was the first time in her memory that he called her by her first name, and the way her name sounded on his tongue was far too pleasing for the damned being. “Soon… but nae now.”
‘Now’ came later than they would have intended, nearly a week and a half from the time of their conversation as they set up a temporary camp at the base of the Lonely Mountain, the sky growing too dark for even the Dwarves to safely traverse the secret stairwell up to the hidden door.
Many were somber in the wake of the dead lands that had once been flush with life and the bustle of foot traffic. As usual, Bofur was the first to try and raise the spirits of the camp, leading them in rounds of old songs of their people that eventually devolved into drinking songs and loosened the chokehold the mountain had on their spirits. Thorin was the first to chime in with his Heartsong; his low tones caressing every word as something soft and fond passed over his face. The knowledge of his mate being out there waiting for news and believing in his quest grounded him and pulled back to the surface the spark of faith and determination that had begun to flicker the nearer they grew to the giant tomb.
Soon, each of the Leads were singing, each verse bringing warmth and confidence their small numbers had begun to lack.
Birabelle had shared her own drinking songs, and she hummed along to tunes she picked up on, but as the Heartsongs rang out, she couldn’t help the slightest feeling of melancholy that filtered through her, even in the wake of the happiness seeing her kin happy brought her.
She had risen as Bombur’s came to a close to hoots, laughter and applause yet again, the man’s song apparently timeless; and crossed to the fire, ladling more of thin but flavorful broth into her bowl to try and assist in easing the lump in her throat, when a new familiar yet unknown tune pierced her ears and every part of her prickled.
It was low, the whistle that broke the sudden silence, and Bira did not even have to look to know that it was Dwalin, Grasper in hand on the far side of the fire who whistled so sweetly.
Oh, but look she did, and the sight that greeted her was one she found familiar; her dwarf bowed in his back, his weapons resting on his lap, his thick fingers running over the blade to test its sharpness as his whet stone lay on his thigh. When he began to sing, she set down her bowl as carefully as she could, eyes never leaving his back.
“I’d swim and sail on savage seas
With ne’er a fear o’ drowning
An’ gradly ride the waves o’ life
If you will marry me.”
Balin watched his brother silently, a quiet support to his younger brother. It had been decades since the last time he had heard these words uttered. A warm hand touched his shoulder and he looked behind him to find Dori standing, eyes across the clearing, staring at- oh. Balin felt hope rise and fall immediately in his chest. The chances of their Birabelle being his brother’s soulmate were higher than he had once believed, but that did not make it likely. And even if it was, their lass had refused renegotiations on her contract. How could he wish one way or another when both outcomes could end in ones he loved being hurt.
“No scorching sun, nor freezing cold
Will stop me on my journey
If you will offer me your heart
And love…”
Letting out a sigh, Dwalin’s hand fell from his axe, staring down at the blade with a furrowed expression. What had he truly expected, that perhaps against all odds, he would hear-
“And love me for eternity.”
Never in his life had he moved faster, rising to his feet and turning to face the lovely, familiar voice and looking into those eyes that outshone emeralds and put the spring to shame. As tears slipped from that gorgeous green, tracing over the ruby flush of full, warm cheeks, he was unable to breathe. Instead, he moved, his steps steady as his One gathered her skirt in one hand and took a breath, moving forward as well.
“My dearest love, my darling dear
Your mighty words astound me.
But I’ve no need of mighty deeds
When I feel your arms around me.”
Her smile outshone the Sun as he reached down, on broad palm curling around her side and they spun, standing side by side but facing opposite directions. Dwalin himself could not help the great smile that broke over his face as he never took his eyes from her, words he’d yet to hear pouring from his own lips as well.
“But I would bring you rings of gold
I’d even read you poetry”
“Oh, would you?”
“And I would keep you from all harm
If you would stay beside me!”
Breaking away from him, she spun, jerking her skirt to the side as she stomped and lifted her chin with a nose crinkling smile.
“I have no use for rings of gold
I care not for your poetry
I only want your hand to hold”
“I only want you near me”
Rushing in, Dwalin swept her up in one arm, spinning as they sang together, her hands cupping his face, finger tangled indescently through his beard and a flush on both their faces.
“To love and kiss to sweetly hold
For the dancing and the dreaming
Through all life's sorrows and delights
I'll keep your laugh inside me.”
It was impossible to stop the tears flooding down either face, the relief and adoration they held already clear to any who say the way Dwalin had his hand curled protectively around the back of Birabelle’s head and the way the young woman was pressing their foreheads together as if she could nor bear another inch separating them but did not dare to end the song.
“I'll swim and sail on savage seas
With never a fear of drowning
I'd gladly ride the waves so white
And you will marry me!”
It was only as Dwalin knelt, placing her firmly on his calf and letting her pull him closer that Birabelle finally registered the hoots and hollars of celebration. Even as her face flamed red and everything inside her that still believed the rigidity of Hobbit sensibility screamed against it, she leaned forward, closing the space and proving herself the thief she had been hired to be as she stole a kiss from the other part of her soul.
Nothing else mattered in this moment, nothing else could possibly shake the joy from her at the knowledge that Dwalin, sweet, lovely Dwalin whom she had already been half in love with despite fighting it, was her Songmate, the other part of her Soul, her fated one. But as she pulled back and they looked at each other, her eyes landed on the Lonely Mountain in whose shadow they stood and Fate once again showed to her how cruel it could be.
Soulsong or not, this was not yet finished.
She still had a dragon to face.