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"It is amazing to see the dwarves of Erebor restore their home to its' full strength," Dis proudly announced. She paused, taking another gulp from her goblet. "And what a new age of wealth we are entering! Never before have the coffers of Erebor been so overflowing."
The public dining hall was silent- or, as silent as a room with hundreds of eating dwarrow could be. Bilba warily looked up from her plate.
And it has been such a nice evening, she wistfully contemplated the vegetables on her plate. Bombur finally didn't overcook the carrots this time. Such a shame, really.
Everyone in the room waited for the other shoe to drop. Most of the unfamiliar dwarrow were desperately trying to eavesdrop on the royal table without appearing too obvious. Fili and Balin wore similar looks of discomfort, while Tauriel sitting at the table's edge sat stiffly, face betraying no emotion as she stared straight ahead at the unadorned rock wall. Kili looked like he had eaten something sour. The other members of the Company found themselves fascinated with fetching a second (or third) plate. Only Thorin remained unphased, eyes skimming over some report or other as he ate.
"So rich, in fact," Dis' smooth voice evenly filled the silence, "That the kingdom finds itself able to provide entirely not only the members of the famed Company, and not only for any honest dwarrow who wishes to work, but also for any exiled beggars who sulk through its hallways. Surely, such... charity... must be commended."
Kili's fork clattered as it fell against the stone table. To her credit, Tauriel did not even blink. Bilba sighed and a twinge of sympathy coiled in her gut.
Lady Dis has been home now for two months now, she mentally calculated. Will she ever let a meal go by without expressing her contempt for Tauriel's place in the mountain?
Bilba hated feeling useless. She had spent almost a year feeling useless against trolls, stone giants, creepy creatures in the dark, orcs, enchanted forests, Elvish prisons, dragons, gold-sickness, and more orcs.
And all those experiences had taught her something- that she, Bilba Baggins, refused to ever feel helpless again. Because she was no longer the gentle, flustered hobbit who left her smial; no, she was the Dragonriddler of Erebor, and she would give her all to defend herself and her chosen family.
"Remind me, Tauriel," Bilba's soft voice, embedded with steel, cut through the air. "Were you captain of the Elven Guard when Smaug came to Erebor?"
"No," Tauriel replied evenly, as if responding to any casual question. "I was not present on that horrible day."
"Ah," Bilbo lightly exclaimed, "How silly of me to have forgotten. Say, can you remind me of the name of the herb you used to save Kili in Laketown, and again to save all three of Durin's sons after the Battle of Five Armies? I would like to cultivate some in my garden come springtime. Rather useful sort, it seems."
"Athelas, Mistress Bilba," Tauriel replied again. "It was lucky indeed that Prince Legolas had some in his pouch on the battlefield. My meagre skills would have been worth nothing without its' aid."
"Elvish medicine," Dis' lip curled in a politely veiled sneer. "I know the stone from which my sons and brother are carved. They needed no prancing sprite's weeds to make it to the healer's tents."
"Ah, it pains me to hear you say that," Bilba frowned, "I shall have to work harder to restore my reputation as an honest hobbit. I had thought all forgiven by the King and crown, but if the Princess calls me, who was actually present at the princes' sides during that hour, a liar... Well. I must have some work still left to do."
Dis looked as if she had sucked a lemon. The dwarrow around broke into hushed whispers.
"My apologies, Mistress Baggins," she ground out, "I did not mean to doubt your account. I simply meant to acknowledge that clearly, dwarrow medicines are superior to elvish ones and would have suited the situation better."
Bilba shrugged. "And yet no dwarrow medicines were to be had."
"Indeed," Dis bit out the acknowledgement.
"Neither is Tauriel responsible for King Thranduil's abandonment during the sacking of Erebor," Bilba observed, as calmly as if she were commenting on the weather.
"Not directly," Dis practically snarled, "And yet all know that elves are nothing but flighty, faithless oathbreakers."
The insult struck more true than Dis could have predicted; Bilba knew that the dwarrow taught nothing about Elven history in their educations. But the damage had been done regardless. Tauriel flinched, and Dis grinned viciously, smelling blood in the water.
"Ah, yes, the infamous rift between elf and dwarrow," Bilba commented, letting the smallest drop of sarcasm seep into her tone as bait. Dis swiveled, redirecting her ire onto Bilba as intended.
"You are but a simple halfling from the sheltered hills of the Shire," Dis spat, "You know nothing of what you speak."
"You are, once again, correct, as always, my Princess," Bilba mildly swirled her goblet. "I am a hobbit of the peaceful Shire. What could I possibly know of broken treaties, of starvation and fear, of unfulfilled requests for aid? Surely I could not dare to compare myself to the great dwarrow of the Blue Mountains."
The room was now entirely silent, not a single dwarrow even chewing as they openly stared, eyes flicking back and forth between the two females.
Dis nodded, sensing her victory and dismissively standing from her seat.
"But then again," Bilba's voice froze Dis in her tracks. "But then again. Hmm." She let her voice trail off into silence, pausing to capture her audience's full attention.
"Do you know that the Shire still speaks of the year that the dwarrow rolled through the Shire. A great caravan, my grandfather told me, with gleaming swords and clomping boots, trampling the fields and meadows as they went. He was only a young lad, but even he spoke of their obvious plight. And not a one would accept a single coat for their smallest babe, glaring at the few hobbits brave enough to offer. They would rather starve and freeze than accept... what was it you called it earlier? Charity?"
Bilba kept her face placid, but inwardly grinned at Lady Dis' furious face. "My people were insulted beyond belief to be refused. Why, what terrible manners to refuse sincerely given gifts of friendship! What a poor show of respectability! They still speak of it in the Shire to this day. And I do believe it was my great-grandfather who came up with the obvious solution to soothe the Shire's hurt. He knew that the dwarrow did not mean to offend and proposed an alternative way to help.
"He went straight to his writing desk, calculating the needs of the travelling dwarrow as they trickled through. And when the fall settled in and the last dwarrow hurried to their new Blue Mountain halls, he set to work. He calculated crop yields against the population, allowing for any number of variables, and then set to work. He convinced many hobbits to turn from their comfortable lives and plow over new fields, unneeded fields, to plant the next spring. All winter he worked, convincing offended hobbits to reach out one more time.
"But then came the tricky part. For he couldn't simply give the food away; the dwarrow would surely sneer and turn it away as they had when passing through Hobbiton. So he worked out a draft for a treaty between the two peoples, asking for less than half of market value for the crops, pointing out that it was pure surplus and would surely rot in the ground if a consumer was not found. And to soothe any final dwarrow qualms, he put in a provision stipulating that the Blue Mountains should guard the Shire as needed.
"Hah! Can you imagine, the Shire needing guards? No. The few Rangers that patrol our borders are more than plenty to keep out any stray ne'er-do-wells. But after several letters back and forth, the treaty was signed on both sides and ratified. 'Twas the most adventurous thing a Baggins had ever done, until my following along all the way to Erebor! I do believe that the original treaty still hangs in my father's study as a family heirloom to shock and scare the young fauntlings who come to visit."
"That treaty stood for over a hundred years. Every year, we sent the crops, and every year, a small pile of coins came back. I believe we used them as a fund for any hobbits who were poorer off than the rest in times of need, but that's neither here nor there. But then. Ah. But then.
"About thirty years ago, when I was but a faunt of twenty years old, the winter frosts set in earlier than expected. The harvest was poor, with gourds rotting in the fields as the farmhands frantically gathered in what they could. My father, Bungo Baggins, was quick to assure me when I asked that we had just barely enough for ourselves and the dwarrow. 'Don't worry, my sweet pea,' he told me, 'Even in times of need, friends stick together.' And off the caravans went, while each hobbit carefully shared to ensure we would all have enough for our Yuletide feasts."
Balin started as if remembering something, and he looked wide-eyed at Bilba. She ignored him.
"But there was no Yuletide Feast that year. That winter came to be known as the Fell Winter. Perhaps you remember it, Lady Dis? It would have been especially harsh; even in Hobbiton, we had an unusually high amount of snow. Over two feet tall the drifts stood. Soon, we heard wolves howling from the forests' edge, but we were sure of our safety. The Brandywine River kept them at bay, as always. But then the river began to freeze over.
"We sent a desperate plea to our Blue Mountain allies. I remember reading the missive on the Old Took's writing desk before he sent it. 'In accordance with our treaty, we request a small bunch of dwarrow warriors at this time to assist with encroaching wolves', part of it read. To a hobbit? This almost rudely blunt, demanding help in such a way. I worried that the dwarrow king would refuse out of outrage at the Old Took's boldness! But no. For when the letter returned, our request was not refused out of outrage; it was refused out of amused dismissal. 'Surely such a noble folk can handle a few simple wolves. I will not have my men march in such weather for such a petty and simple need.' But the dwarrow king thought too highly of us. Us hobbits have no weapons, let alone any fighting skills to use them.
"So when the first wolves entered the town, we hid in our smials, safe and warm. But as the nights grew colder, our once sufficient food stores became obviously tight. The Thain ordered rationing. And still the cold and the snow deepened. Soon we were rationing firewood as well as food; some brave families fled their homes to combine households and share their dwindling supplies and body heat.
"The wolves were not kind to those who moved from house to house, supplying the elderly and weak. My mother was among those brave suppliers; my father could not talk her out of it. I remember that there was nothing of her to return to the ground, save the hood from her winter cloak. My father died of grief the next week, fading away until he was nothing but a cold body to bury with her hood. I remember shivering, starving, my stomach carving a hole through my spine, alone in my ghost-filled home. If I close my eyes, I still can hear the howls on dark nights when the cold seeps through the air.
"By the time spring drove away the wolves and summer filled our bellies with fresh fruits, every household had lost at least half its' members; a few from the cold, and many more to hunger, but most to the marauding wolves. The wolves that we were told were simple and petty concerns, not even worth our allies' time."
Thorin had looked up from his report, brow scrunched in thought as if recalling something in horror.
"Life goes on. Many hobbits wished to immediately cease contact with the Blue Mountains, who had all but laughed and turned their backs in our time of need despite us reaching out during their own. A compromise was reached; we would still assist the dwarrow, but only as business partners, as we were clearly not friends as we thought. So we sent a new treaty, requesting the normal market price and removing the unhonored protection clause."
Thorin swore loudly.
"The dwarrow responded with outrage, thinking we were trying to cheat them. 'Take your overpriced wares and sell them elsewhere, or let them rot in the fields as your forefathers predicted,' came the reply. So we shrugged, stocked our pantries high that fall against the fear of another harsh winter, and seeded over the unneeded fields with grasses. And life went on.
"But, I suppose, Lady Dis," Bilbo bowed her head, "I must know nothing of what I speak. For surely, even if I know of being abandoned by allies in time of need, and if I know of starvation and fear, that cannot be compared to this. For, as you say, I must know nothing of forgiveness."
She tilted her head. "It was rather a shock to find a whole passel of Blue Mountains dwarrow raiding my pantry one spring night. But the largest shock was when King Thorin Oakenshield himself, whose name I had seen a million times written in blocky font on a treaty framed in my father's study, strode into my smial and insulted me personally, calling me a weak, useless grocer. I was quite in a state of stunned outrage, you know, to meet the dwarrow who most the Shire gossiped was directly responsible for half our population dying. I fainted dead away and sent them on their way the next morning! Just see if I would help those ungrateful sort on their journey to reclaim their home, hah!"
Bilbo took in the state of her audience, who all looked dreadfully uncomfortable. Thorin was sat straight up in his seat, shame written on his face.
"But I took a deep breath the next morning, and remembered what my Grandpa Thain told me after my parents' funerals. He told me, 'Bilba, you must remember that you only know one side of every story, no matter how obviously black-and-white it may seem from your view.' At the time, I was too deep in grief to understand, but when I woke in my empty smial with only a pile of clean dishes to remember my dwarrow guests by? Well. I remembered. And so off I came, whether for good or for bad. And I can now say that King Thorin Oakenshield is not the dwarrow my childish mind thought him to be. He honors his vows, he welcomes all, and he is a good king."
Bilbo let the words hover in the air. As if freed from a spell, Dis unfroze and sunk back into her seat.
"But then again, what could I possibly know of grudges between races? Of true forgiveness? For my people's pain is still fresh, the empty bedrooms and table seats still unfilled by the next generations. We had no centuries to let the wound fester, as the dwarrow of Erebor and the elves of the Greenwood have had. As you said it, I could not possibly understand."
Bilbo rose from her seat, shoulders unashamedly thrown back, feeling every gaze on her. Passing Dis' seat and pausing just in the doorway out of the dining hall, she turned one last time, addressing the room as a whole.
"I could not possibly understand how to hate someone who was not even responsible for my tragedy, especially someone who had saved my family members' lives time and time again, simply because they share the same height and ears as those who truly are to blame. For I cannot even hate the one family directly responsible for my and my people's pain. As you said, I could not possibly understand, Lady Dis."