Little Swan Lost Chapter One
My second most popular fanfic. You can read the rest here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743620/chapters/3723188
Bilba Baggins was in the midst of a truly beautiful dream. In it she was principal dancer in a production of "Swan Lake" and was right in the middle of the black swan pas de deux. She’d just finished her variation to thunderous applause and the danseur playing Siegfried, a mysterious man shrouded in shadow, stepped forward to join her for the coda.
They moved together in perfect harmony, their bodies in rhythm with one another and the music. Realizing they’d arrived at her strongest part Bilba took a slow, deep breath and launched into her thirty-two fouettes en tournant.
Her execution was flawless and as she ended and launched into the final part of the dance the audience erupted once more. She threw her arm back, head held high in triumph both for the successful performance and as dictated by the play. Her lungs desperately sucked in oxygen and her legs had the barest tremble to them but she pushed it aside, holding the illusion of effortless grace.
A shriek rippled through the auditorium and Bilba blinked in surprise.
With a sharp click the applause, and the audience, vanished.
A second shriek tore through the air.
Bilba’s eyes snapped open, her body already reacting. Adrenaline surged through her veins and she rolled over, falling out of bed and hitting the ground with a thud. Scrambling to her feet, she snatched the can of mace off her bedside table and bolted for the door. A feeling of cold settled over her as images of her roommate being viciously attacked ran through her mind.
Light streamed through the window in the hallway outside her room allowing her to run full tilt. As she reached the entrance to the living room she tried to swing around the corner, hoping to have the element of surprise, only to have her socks slip on the wooden floor and send her sprawling instead. She hit the ground hard, pain barking up her elbow.
Immediately she rolled, coming up into a crouch on one knee, her arm up and ready to spray whatever attacker had dared threaten her friend Rosie.
Rosie who was currently seated on the couch a few feet away, arms wrapped around a pillow, legs drawn up and her surprised gaze fixed on Bilba.
“What in the world are you doing?”
“You screamed,” Bilba said, getting painfully to her feet. “I thought you were dying!”
Rosie smirked. “And you came rushing to my rescue? How sweet.” Her eyes shifted back to the television and she suddenly shrieked again, her grip tightening on the pillow.
Bilba followed her gaze and saw the news running a story. A series of clips aired in a loop behind the reporter as she spoke, not that Bilba could hear it with the sound so low. She squinted as the clips began to replay, recognizing the Shire International Airport. A large, expensive looking jet sat on the tarmac, the door open and a long, velvet carpet stretching down a staircase and across the pavement to where a limousine waited.
“Look, Look, Look!!” Rosie squealed, her hand frantically waving at the screen, “they’re about to show him again!”
A figure appeared at the top of the ramp and slowly started down. From the distance the camera was at Bilba couldn’t make out much other than it was a man and he was dressed in some kind of uniform. What looked like an impressive array of medals and other things adorned the front catching the light and reflecting.
Bilba’s eyes dropped to the footer at the bottom of the screen. It read, in enormous letters, “Prince Thorin arrives for upcoming wedding to still unknown Princess of Shire.”
Bilba rolled her eyes and tossed the mace on a side table in disgust. “Oh, for the love of—next time I may just not come, did you ever think of that?”
Rosie ignored her, still fixated on the story.
Sometimes, Bilba had to admit, she worried a bit about Rosie’s obsession with royalty.
Speaking of which…as if on cue Rosie’s attention snapped back to her, eyes wide and pleading. “Bilba, do you think--”
“Disowned, remember? I barely know them.”
“But the Thain is your grandfather!”
“Also in name only,” Bilba muttered. Anyone with a brain knew her grandfather only took over custody of her after her parents died as a political move. The great, benevolent Thain graciously forgiving his errant daughter in death and taking on her orphaned daughter as a gesture of goodwill, even allowing her to live in the palace and providing her with the very best life had to offer.
At least until public attention died down. After that he couldn't get her shipped off to a boarding school on the other side of the country fast enough. She was still forced to visit in the summer, to keep up appearances, but over the last few years she'd been able to beg off under the pretext of traveling with the ballet company she’d joined.
Rosie had gone back to staring at her latest obsession again, idly chewing on a nail as she did. Bilba shook her head in bewilderment. Rosie was beautiful, on the shorter side, curvy with black hair that hung to her shoulders and beautiful hazel eyes. She could have any boy she wanted but chose, instead, to obsess about princes she’d never have a chance to meet.
Bilba returned to her room, grumbling about the slowly developing bruise on her elbow. Her alarm sounded just as she walked in and she slapped it off in agitation. Ten more minutes she could have slept in wasted thanks to her lovestruck roommate.
She showered quickly and threw on her jeans, shoes and a loose fitting, dark blue blouse. She ran a brush quickly through her hair before twisting it into a chignon and clipping it in place.
She headed out again, stopping in the kitchen to grab breakfast.
Rosie popped in, doing her best to give her puppy dog eyes.
“You seem to be of the mistaken belief I’m a male and those work on me.” Bilba poured herself a bowl of cereal and splashed in milk before leaning against the counter to eat.
“Come on,” Rosie pleaded, “you can at least tell me who he’s marrying! They’ve been keeping it all hushed up for over six months like it’s some kind of state secret or something!”
More like her grandfather was a paranoid bastard and didn’t want to reveal which of Bilba’s cousins was the future bride for fear of her being targeted by…whoever her grandfather was convinced was threatening him at the moment. Bilba firmly believed he had a calendar with a threat of the month written out for each page.
“Whoever it is I don’t envy them." That was saying a lot for her,considering the relationship she had with her royal relatives was…less than stellar.
“I guess,” Rosie mused. She leaned forward on the counter, dropping her chin on the cold granite. “Who wants to marry a guy who had to break his engagement to be with you?”
Bilba agreed silently. She still had no idea how her grandfather had managed that. The country of Erebor was much larger than Shire and far richer. They’d never had much contact with one another until six months earlier when, out of the blue, it had been announced the Crown Prince of Erebor would be marrying a Princess of Shire. The news had stunned the world as just two months before THAT Prince Thorin had officially announced his engagement to a childhood sweetheart.
A knock sounded on the door and Bilba put the news out of her mind as warmth rushed through her.
“Oh, lord,” Rosie grumbled, burying her face in her hands, “save me from the sappiness of lovebirds.”
“Don’t be jealous,” Bilba retorted, setting her bowl in the sink, “you’ll find your own someday, once you stop moping over Princes.”
“In that case I’ll never find anyone,” Rosie’s voice was muffled by her hands, “since I never plan to stop.”
Bilba stepped out of the kitchen and darted to the door, pulling it open with a huge grin on her face.
A second later she was grabbed around the waist, lifted and spun around. Bilba laughed and threw her arms around Bofur’s neck, kissing him soundly before he set her back on her feet.
“So,” he said with a grin, “how’s my girl? Ready for your big night?”
“I think so,” Bilba answered even as her stomach clenched with nerves. “Hopefully I don’t screw it all up.”
“You’ll do fine,” he reassured. Reaching up he pulled off the floppy, insanely ugly hat he always insisted on wearing everywhere he went, and plopped it on her head. “There, you can wear that for luck.”
Bilba grimaced and tugged it off. “I think I’d be more in line for the bubonic plague than luck if I wore that.”
Bofur scoffed. “Critic. That hat is a classic.”
“That hat is dead,” Bilba retorted, plopping it back on his head. "And should have been given a proper burial ages ago.”
Before he could respond she went back to her room to grab her bookbag. When she returned Rosie was sitting cross legged on the kitchen counter, watching the news for more updates on anything royal. Bofur was still in the doorway and she joined him, turning to wave at Rosie. The other girl waved back absently and Bofur pulled the door closed.
As they headed toward the building’s exit he took her bag and slung it over his shoulder where his already rested. He slid an arm around her waist and she snuggled into his side. “Think we’ll need to stage another intervention?”
Bilba laughed. “She’s eating so it probably won’t be as bad. We’ll see how long this coverage lasts.”
Bofur frowned. “Isn’t the wedding tonight?”
Bilba nodded. “Tragically my invitation seems to have been lost in the mail.
They reached the door and headed out, sunlight hitting Bilba in the eyes and forcing her to blink a moment or two before they adjusted.
Bofur shifted suddenly, grabbing her arms lightly and swinging around until he was in front of her. “Well,” he said agreeably, “I guess it’s a good thing you weren’t invited. You have big plans tonight as it is.”
Bilba grinned back at him, butterflies skittering about in her stomach. By a stroke of luck, at least for her, one of the girls playing a swan in her company’s production of "Swan Lake” had fallen ill and Bilba, as her understudy, had been asked to step in.
She was equal parts nerves and anticipation. She’d danced since she was three but this would be her first time on stage as part of an actual ballet company.
Bofur gave her an amused look. “You grin any harder and your face might just crack.”
Bilba laughed and kissed him before tugging out of his grip and racing toward his car. She heard him behind her and managed to get inside before he arrived, locking the door behind her. He gave her a dry look and held up the keys, shaking them at her.
Bilba grinned and leaned against the seat with a sigh as he strode around the other side to get in.
Her mind went briefly back to her grandfather and the wedding set to take place that night and she felt another pang of sympathy for whichever of her cousins had been caught in the Thain’s latest plot.
She also felt a sense of almost gratitude toward the older man. While his treatment of her had clearly been intended to harm it had, in fact, done more good for her than he would ever know. If he hadn’t done as he had, she’d have never joined her ballet company or met Bofur.
She’d never have been able to go to such a fantastic college as Bag End University, even if it was smaller and less renowned, and wouldn’t have met so many amazing people. Even Rosie, though she often wondered if the girl was her friend only because Bilba happened to be a granddaughter of the Thain, no matter how unwanted.
In any event, her life had turned out to be truly amazing.
The car roared to life and Bofur shot her a triumphant grin as he always did when the hunk of junk deigned to start.
Bilba just shook her head.
The day rushed by in a blur. Most of Bilba’s classes were shortened in a sort of unofficial holiday in celebration of the upcoming nuptials. The few professors who did insist on full classes mostly spent them talking about Erebor or Prince Thorin and the benefits Shire would gain from the new alliance.
Bilba truly didn’t care and spent most of her day daydreaming, staring out various windows and working through her routine in her mind. The performance that evening would be her moment to shine, to prove to everyone she deserved more roles and, hopefully, one day principal roles. She remembered her dream and shivered at the thought of one day holding the status of principal dancer in a production.
After class she ran out to catch the bus which seemed to move at an insanely slow pace until, finally, it arrived at the theater and she leapt down the stairs and ran inside. Thanks to the stupid wedding she was already later than she should be.
The entrance of the theater was enormous, carpeted in a lush, red and gold pattern thread. The walls were paneled mahogany and the ceiling overhead was gilded in gold leaf and inset lights that gave a soft glow to the room. Just ahead of her were the massive doors that, in only a few hours, would open to permit hundreds of guests eager to see the performance.
At the moment Bofur was waiting in front of them, dressed in the uniform identifying him as a stagehand. He’d been there most of the day already, having skipped his classes to help set up for the show. He opened the door and gave her an exaggerated bow. Bilba returned it and skipped past him, her excitement and nerves warring for dominance.
Inside the carpeting continued, plush enough she could feel it through her shoes. Here, row upon row of polished wood seats filled the room and the balcony overhead, each outfitted with a comfortable red headrest and seat cushion. The room was curved, angled around the stage at the front. The stage itself was huge and very deep, allowing for multiple sets to be set up in layers, a system of pulleys easily lifting one to reveal another behind it. Currently it was buzzing with activity as the crew set it up for the show. Bilba paused for a brief second to take it in, imagining herself on that stage, preforming before a packed house.
She breathed out, trying to calm herself, and then headed on. Steps on one side headed down into the orchestra pit and she took them swiftly, bypassing players rehearsing sheet music, and headed through a door that led to the back of the house.
Here it was pandemonium, dancers and stage crew rushing back and forth as they fought to get ready in time.
Bilba headed to the main dressing room for the dancers. When she entered the others were already there, most of them outfitted in their pure white costumes and headdresses. Several paused when she walked in, giving her confused looks and Bilba felt her face heat. Some good impression she was making, her mind scolded, showing up late opening night.
She scurried to an open mirror, planning to get dressed as quickly as possible. She headed to the racks to grab her costume and paused, her hand lifting to touch empty space.
She twisted slightly to face the other girls, was this some kind of weird initiation joke?
“Do you know where my costume is?” she asked the room at large.
Silence fell, the girls all staring at her and Bilba felt a clenching begin in her gut.
Finally, a girl she recognized as another of the understudies, Christy or something, stepped forward. She was taller than Bilba, and most of the other girls, and didn’t often get parts as she stuck out so clearly in group dances. Bilba had no idea why she was there at the moment. Had someone else fallen ill?
“Bilba,” the girl started, wringing her hands before her. “They told us you weren’t coming.”
Bilba blinked. It occurred to her suddenly that the girl’s costume was too tight, as though it had been made for someone smaller.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “what?”
“Marty called me,” Christy continued. “He said you couldn’t preform and I had to come take your place.”
“That…” Bilba stammered, “That’s not true. It’s a mistake.” Her stomach was in full cramp mode by then and her hands were clenched in fists at her side. The other girls were looking away from her and she felt her eyes burn in embarrassment. She swallowed hard, past the lump in her throat. “It’s a mistake,” she repeated, her voice a mere whisper. She held her head high and forced herself to stay calm. “I’ll handle it right now.”
She strode forward, keeping her eyes straight ahead. No one made a sound as she exited, but the second she was back in the hall a babble of voices broke out behind her.
Bilba ignored them and continued to move down toward the director’s office. The underground tunnel was large and sparse, made of concrete and currently crowded with crew, racks of costumes, set pieces and equipment. Bilba focused on breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. She would not cry in front of them, she told herself, she would not.
Bofur walked out from around a corner.
“Bilba.” His voice was barely a hushed whisper. “You’re white as a sheet. What happened?”
She shook her head at him, not trusting herself to speak without breaking down and continued past. She reached Marty’s door and rapped on it, feeling the sharp sting of pain in her knuckles.
Bilba obeyed and promptly froze at the sight that greeted her.
Marty was seated behind his desk, a plump, short, middle aged man with thinning hair and oversized glasses.
He wasn’t what gave her pause. What did were the two enormous men on either side of him, both in suits and sunglasses, hair slicked back, earpieces sticking out from their ears.
A sense of dread settled over her. “Marty? What’s going on? Why is Christy wearing my costume?’
One of the suits answered. “Your presence is requested at the palace, Miss Baggins. Immediately.”
Ice settled in her veins. Bilba stared at him without comprehension. “I can’t go,” she said with a thick swallow past the rock now lodged in her throat. “It’s a two hour flight by jet to get there. I have a show to preform in.”
Marty sighed, his shoulders drooping. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You won’t be preforming tonight.”
“But--” Bilba’s voice cracked and she took a deep breath, bringing it back under control. “But I PRACTICED.”
“I know you have,” Marty assured her. “Believe me, Bilba, I know.” He stood up and rounded the desk, coming over to grab her hands. They were sweaty and clammy and Bilba resisted the urge to jerk hers away from him. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. “It’s the THAIN, Bilba. I can’t very well refuse him now can I?”
Bilba just stared at him.
She looked toward one of the suits. “Can’t I just go tomorrow?” she asked, her voice pleading. “Or even after the show? It’s only a couple of hours.”
“I’m sorry,” the man stated, his voice flat. “Your grandfather wants you immediately.”
“Why? What does he want?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” The man stepped forward. “You will come with us now. The jet is waiting.”
Bilba’s jaw trembled and, despite her best efforts, tears started to slip of their own accord down her face. “But I practiced.” she whispered.
“I'm so sorry,” Marty replied. He patted her hand awkwardly. “There will be other productions, Bilba. I promise.”
She didn’t respond. He released her hands and stepped back. The two suits stepped up on either side of her and then she was being escorted down the corridor. The people she passed stopped and stared and whispers followed her. Shame and embarrassment burned hot within her and the tears flowed ever more freely. She dug her nails into her palms in an attempt to stop herself from crying but to no avail.
She caught another glimpse of Bofur but shook her head at him as he stepped forward. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to him, she’d break down entirely and then her humiliation would truly be complete.
She was guided out of the corridor, back through the hall and, thankfully, through a back door instead of out front where show goers were no doubt beginning to gather.
A limo was waiting there and she was bundled inside and whisked off to the airport. The entire ride Bilba sat in stunned disbelief, half expecting and half praying she’d wake up and find the entire thing had been a terrible dream.
It was only once she’d been led onto her grandfather’s private jet that reality set in and Bilba finally allowed herself to break down. As the plane rolled down the runway and lifted smoothly into the air, Bilba huddled in her seat, pressed her face into her hand and sobbed.
The suits, and whoever else was on the plane, had the decency to leave her alone as despair rolled over her. She imagined they would probably not bother her until she’d managed to recover.
They didn’t speak to her the rest of the flight.
The palace hadn’t changed from the last time she’d seen it, nearly five years ago. Bilba watched it come into view, her eyes dry and puffy from crying, her body exhausted.
Her grandfather had built the new palace, setting it high upon a hill so it would be visible for miles. He’d wanted it as ostentatious as possible and had achieved his wish. It boasted hundreds of rooms, not that many were ever used, multiple swimming pools, an indoor theater capable of holding well over a hundred people and much, much more.
The car wound up the long driveway, past giant bushes cut in the shape of the Thain and his beloved, and much spoiled, children and other relations.
All but her mother that is. Getting disowned for marrying the wrong person meant you didn’t warrant a bush.
The car stopped at the front gates and she listened with halfhearted interest as they were buzzed in. By now she imagined the production was in full swing back home, Christy was probably even then leaping and twirling about the stage wearing Bilba’s costume and dancing her part.
The car continued on, rolling slowly up the curving driveway and coming to a stop at the entrance to the palace. Bilba was out before they were fully stopped, her depression already morphing into anger.
She marched inside and found her grandfather’s steward, a greasy looking weasel of a man named Grima Wormtongue, waiting for her.
“Where is he?” she ordered before he could speak.
Grima looked startled. “In his office,” he started, “but--”
He got no further as she stormed past him. The front foyer of the castle was meant to impress, marble floors, gilt lined walls, expensive art, tapestries and statues everywhere. Bilba saw none of it as she stomped her way to her grandfather’s office.
Once there she shoved the doors open and entered, finding the man who’d ruined six months of dedicated practice seated behind an ornate, walnut desk.
“Why?” she ordered. “What was so bloody important you forced me to miss my production?”
The Thain of Shire, Gerontius Took, gave her a look one might give to a particularly bothersome insect. He was old, nearing eighty, but had lost none of his vigor and his mind was as sharp, and devious, as ever.
“You look terrible,” he stated. “It’s a good thing I decided to keep you away until the last second. He’d probably have run in fright at the first sight of you otherwise.” He stood to his full height of just under six feet and nodded behind her. Bilba had no time to look as the door slammed shut, sealing her in the office with the old goat.
Gerontius moved casually out from behind his desk. If possible he’d grown even larger since she’d seen him last. He was dressed, as always, in the richest and most ostentatious robes and garments he could find. Rings sparkled on several fingers and he wore a crown so enormous and bedecked with jewels Bilba often wondered how he didn’t suffer a broken neck just from the strain of supporting it.
“How well do you remember your history, Bilba?” His voice was oily as ever, a tone to it that somehow always made her skin crawl.
“I don’t see what relevance that has to anything,” Bilba shot but stopped herself from saying more as he held up a hand.
“I wouldn’t expect you to remember much,” he mused. "You do take after your father after all, simple minded as he was.”
Bilba bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood. Rising to his bait would do nothing but give him the pleasure of knowing he’d gotten to her.
Gerontius settled on the corner of his desk. No doubt he probably felt he presented a commanding presence but, to Bilba, he just looked like a lazy, fat peacock.
“Nearly twenty years ago,” Gerontius said calmly, “the Kingdom of Erebor was conquered by the Kingdom of Mordor. The royal family was forced to flee and a dictator, going by the name of Smaug, was placed on the throne in their stead.”
Bilba rolled her eyes. “I already know all that,” she snapped. “What does it have to do with me?”
“I’m getting to that,” her grandfather replied. He looked amused and Bilba mentally kicked herself for letting her emotions rule her. “A great portion of the population of Erebor fled under Smaug’s rule and, with the royal family in exile, there was little they could do to help them. It was at this time that Thror, the King in exile at that time, came to me desperate for help.” The man’s face twisted for a moment, as though remembering and Bilba suppressed a shiver at the glee in his eyes. “He had nothing to offer me at the time, of course, so he promised a repayment at a future date, once Erebor had been reclaimed.”
An event that had happened nearly ten years earlier, Bilba thought. Thror hadn’t lived to see it happen but his son, Thrain, had and now ruled in his father’s stead.
Realization dawned on her suddenly and she looked at her grandfather in horror. “Is that how you forced the alliance and the marriage? You called in the debt?” She had wondered, as had many analysts, why Erebor would ever agree to such a deal. The alliance, as she understood it was for them to send money and Shire to send food. The problem was that Erebor was so much larger than Shire that there was no way for them to ever send enough food to make much difference or to make an alliance worthwhile. Particularly one that, seemingly arbitrarily, forced the Crown Prince to break off an engagement and marry a woman he’d never met.
Her grandfather smiled, a truly wicked look, and Bilba felt her heart sink at the notion she was related to one so incredibly cruel. “Why?” she asked again, though this time for a different reason. “They would have given you a fortune in payment, why ask this?”
She had no doubt it was somehow money related. It was common knowledge Shire was in dire straits financially. Gerontius Took indulged himself and his family with every indulgence, it was only a matter of time before the money started to run out.
“Oh, they did,” he stated, “but I rejected it. It was not nearly enough given the amount of help we provided when Erebor was at its most dire need.”
Somehow she doubted that. “So you demanded an alliance,” she stated flatly, “and a political marriage to seal it. Why?”
Her grandfather nearly preened with pride. “The reason for the alliance should be obvious. I want money, they have it." He settled back slightly on the desk, "as for the reason for the marriage, that I'll keep to myself for the time being. As far as you need to know it is merely symbol of the alliance, a guarantee of the good will of both our kingdoms.”
Except Erebor was giving up her Crown Prince while Shire was only giving up a random Princess or, more likely, close blood relative to the throne, Bilba thought, hardly a fair trade.
“Not to mention guaranteed hatred of whatever poor girl is forced into such a situation,” Bilba responded. “Who is it?”
He looked at her, smile still firmly in place on his face.
It was a testament to how tired she was that the truth didn’t hit her immediately.
Instead it was a slow trickle. The mystery over who the woman was, grabbing her from her production on the night of the wedding, giving her no time to prepare or consider running, her grandfather’s words when she’d walked in. The very fact he’d be sending whoever he’d chosen into a hostile situation and, therefore, would most likely pick someone he disliked.
Bilba staggered and her back hit the door. “No,” she whispered. “Grandfather, no.”
“Oh, it’s Grandfather, now is it?” Gerontius stated. “You will be married in approximately a half hour’s time. I expect you to look better than you do now.”
Bilba shook her head, her entire body trembling. She continued to sag, gravity seeming to increase its hold on her. “No,” she repeated, “you can’t force me. I’ll say no.”
“Will you? You’d have a hard time refusing your guardian.”
“Only for six more months,” she said in desperation, “I’m almost twenty-one.”
“At which time I shall still be the Thain,” her grandfather said, “and, thus, still in control.”
"I don't care," Bilba insisted. "You can ruin my life. I'll leave, go to another country." Bofur would go with her, she knew he would. It would be difficult but preferable to being used as a pawn in whatever plot her grandfather was concocting.
Idly he reached over his desk and picked up a folder. “You know, just because you’re the bastard of that scum your mother married doesn’t mean I don’t keep an eye on you. Consider it watching the half that’s my blood.” He flipped the folder open and started to page through it. “You have amassed yourself quite a number of friends I see.” He held up a picture and Bilba found herself staring at a shot of Rosie, striding across the courtyard on campus, probably on her way to class. Another picture and there was Petunia, her lab partner in Chemistry, a shy, quiet girl who wanted to be a doctor. He showed another picture and another friend and another and another after that.
Then he held up a new photo and Bilba felt her breath stop in her lungs.
Bofur, his arms wrapped around her, a giant smile on his face as he said…something. She couldn’t even place what day that shot would have been taken.
“Promising career this one had.” Her grandfather turned the picture toward himself, studying it. “Oh, I’m sorry, has. It would be such a shame if anything was to happen to derail it, wouldn’t it. I doubt he'd even be able to find work in another country if it was found out he'd derailed the alliance, angering both Shire and Erebor.”
“You wouldn’t,” Bilba whispered, but he would, oh, she knew he would. He’d made her mother’s life a living hell, made it nearly impossible for her or Bilba’s father to find work. They’d been left in poverty until the day they died, driving a car with bald tires on ice. They’d spun out and right into a lake that wasn’t nearly frozen enough to support the weight of a car.
"Please," she begged. "Please don't do this."
Gerontius set the photo down. "You are a tool," he said, his voice cold. "Did you genuinely believe you would never be used?"
Bilba heard a loud roaring in her ears.
She sat hard on the ground. Her body no longer responded to her commands. She swayed, dizziness overcoming her and, vaguely, felt her body slump to one side.
Bofur, she thought, and her heart clenched at the realization she’d most likely never see him again. That, in all likelihood, her grandfather would announce her marriage in a half’s hour time and Bofur would think she’d betrayed him, that this had been her plan all along.
Rosie as well. She could imagine the hurt her friend would feel thinking Bilba had planned to marry a Prince all along and had deliberately cut her out.
A nearly hysterical laugh bubbled out of her throat.
And, then, Bilba proceeded to faint dead away.
If life held any fairness in it Bilba would have remained unconscious and Prince Thorin would have been forced to return to Erebor without her. Thorin could elope with his ex-fiancee, the alliance could be re-negotiated and Bilba could go back to her own life.
She already knew life wasn’t the least bit fair. Her parents death had taught her that much.
She ended up being out less than ten minutes.
When she woke up her grandfather was no longer in the room. Instead a group of people were clustered around her. They immediately dragged her up and proceeded to manhandle her. Before she could try to argue she found herself stripped naked and hustled through a door into her grandfather’s private bathroom. There she was ordered to bathe and, when she didn’t do a good enough job, they took over and scrubbed her until she was sure her skin would actually come off.
Once that was done she was hauled back out, shoved into undergarments and a corset and pushed into a chair. The primping started after that, makeup and hair and fake eyelashes and nails. Through it all Bilba sat in a numb sort of trance, watching the proceedings as though they were happening to someone else.
She was stood up unexpectedly and handed a pair of sheer nylons to put on. She obeyed dumbly and then dutifully stepped into spiked, gold high heels.
The dress was a sight to behold and, under any other circumstance, Bilba would have been in awe. Now, however, she stood like a mannequin as they strapped her into it. It was long sleeved, going over the backs of her hands and ending in small loops around each middle finger. The bodice was tight against her body and the skirt was comprised of so much fabric it felt like she was wearing bricks. The overlay for it was gold lace, culminating in a train over ten feet long. A veil completed the look, draping over her head and going to her waist. It was so heavy that, when shown a mirror, she couldn’t see her face and, for that, she was grateful. Given the beauty of the dress she had no doubt her grandfather planned to record and broadcast the entire thing. No doubt he would show himself as the loving grandfather doing right by the granddaughter of an unapproved marriage, ensuring she made a good match and was taken care of.
She was guided from the office. Outside one of her cousins, Beatrice, was leaning against the wall. She was closest in age to Bilba, with blond hair and green eyes. She was gorgeous with a fit, athletic body she was now showing off in a sparkling gold sheath dress.
She pushed off the wall and came forward to grab Bilba’s arms. “Lucky you,” she almost purred. “If he weren’t so pissed about having to break up with that little mouse of his I’d have married him myself. He’s hot.”
Bilba gave her a blank look. Beatrice pulled her down the hall and Bilba went with her, wordlessly allowing the other woman to take her to the doors of the grand ballroom.
“Grandfather wanted a big wedding,” Beatrice said, “but Thorin refused. So we’re faking it instead. We’ll let the media use clips, you know? Make it seem like it was this big long thing.”
Bilba didn’t care, wasn’t listening, was barely aware of her surroundings.
Footsteps sounded and then Gerontius was there, taking her arm in his.
He was going to walk her down the aisle, Bilba realized. The thought made her physically ill but she couldn’t do anything without risking the futures of her friends. Of Bofur.
As music began to play and the doors were thrown open she tried to imagine it was him waiting at the end of the long aisle as they began to walk down.
It would have been him, eventually, of that she was sure.
As they entered the room Bilba could see what Beatrice had meant. A few rows of seats had been set up at the front of the room, filled with people. No doubt that would be one of the clips shown over and over with no one ever questioning why no wide shots were ever shown.
At the head of the aisle a large altar had been set up, upon which she would shortly be sacrificed. It was draped in greens and blue, the colors of Shire, and overlaid with blue and silver, the colors of Erebor. A man she didn’t recognize stood waiting to officiate and, to her surprise, many of her female cousins, dressed in the same dress as Beatrice, stood lined up to one side. As she watched Beatrice joined them near the front, taking the place of Maid of Honor. The other side held a number of men that Bilba vaguely thought she recognized from the security force, including the two who’d dragged her away from her life. She wondered if the clips of them would be photoshopped to make them appear even more different.
They reached the front of the aisle and Bilba was finally forced to look at the man waiting there.
Thorin Durin was tall, much taller than he had appeared descending from the plane. Bilba was sure her heels added several inches to her normal height of 5’3” but he still towered over her, probably easily topping six feet. His shoulders were broad, his face chiseled and sporting a short cropped beard. His hair, dark and with a slight wave, was worn long and currently tied back in a low ponytail. Two braids, she vaguely remembered something culturally significant about them, draped over his shoulders, silver beads capping them. He wore the uniform he’d had on when she’d see him departing the plane, had it just been that morning? The uniform of royalty, marking every inch of him as the Crown Prince he was.
She risked a look at his eyes, and instantly quailed, wishing she hadn’t. They were a blue that couldn’t possibly be found in nature, and stared at her with a blank coldness that she thought might just match what she currently felt inside herself at the moment.
The minister began. The service was short, not at all what she’d imagined or dreamed of when she was younger.
When Thorin spoke, his deep, slightly accented voice offering a curt, “I do” she started in surprise.
A moment later the question was asked of her. Feeling as though bars were closing around her, Bilba focused on Thorin’s shoes, polished to a shine so intense she could see her veiled reflection in them, and offered a quiet “I do.”
The bars clanged shut, the sound so loud in her mind it was a wonder they weren’t audibly heard.
Thorin’s hand took hers and a ring was slid onto the ring finger of her left hand. She didn’t look at it. It felt like a manacle, dragging at her hand.
The minister spoke a few more words and Thorin stepped up to a small table she hadn't noticed before. He bent, wrote something, then straightened, spun on one heel and marched out, leaving her at the altar. Bilba felt a brief moment of hope. Had he changed his mind? Decided he couldn't go through with it?
Then the minister said something to her, gesturing toward the table and she stepped forward to see a marriage license laying there. Thorin's signature was scrawled on it, the lines harsh and jagged.
Someone handed her a pen. For several seconds Bilba stared at it until her grandfather cleared his throat loudly next to her. Choking back a sob, Bilba bent and signed her name.
And, just like that, her life as she knew it was over.
Her cousins surrounded her, talking excitedly and lifting her hand to stare at her ring.
All Bilba could do was stare at her signature.
It felt like she'd signed her own death warrant.
