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Bella pressed her lips together, hiding the quiver that would belie her state. Somewhere in the halls of Erebor she could hear Thorin screaming. The rest of her Company were shouting as well. The world felt so strange with her pretty little ring on. Like a flimsy curtain pulled loose over an open window, while a storm flashed and raged outside. It made the center of her chest feel off and strange. There was a buzzing in her ears.
Movement caught her eye. The dragon was crawling over the piles of treasure, head swinging back and forth. Her Company had thought Smaug had run off. Fled the mountain. Been bested by the men, or the elves, or whomever else was outside and defenseless against it. Bella had known better. Bella had begged them to help her end the wurm's life. Thorin had not cared. He had taken her by the shoulders and shaken her, so hard her head snapped backward and then forwards and she'd felt dizzy for hours after.
Then there was the bleeding.
It wasn't time for her monthlies. They always started on the dark of the moon. Not now. Not after...well. Thorin had thrown her and she'd fallen belly first into a trunk of gold and gems and other mathoms she could not name.
It could only mean one thing.
Hobbits were Proper Creatures. Supposedly. To all the races of Arda that only visited the Shire in passing, or knew them from Bree or other Big Folk towns, hobbits were fussy, prim, proper, stuffy, boring, homebodies. Even Gandalf believed this to be true. Perhaps, once, he had known that hobbits were different. Perhaps he'd thought that time and the turn of the world had changed them too.
Bella could have told him different. But that was a Secret they weren't to tell.
If Gandalf had paid attention over the long turn of the Ages, he would have known that hobbits are far more wild than they once had been. Blessed with a home and a protection that meant their long walks were over, and that they could finally be safe , hobbits, she had long ago learned, had gone wild. After all, had not Lobelia pounced on Otho one midsummer's night, and by the time her first monthlies had been missed, had him tied to a home and a marriage he could not leave? It was the ladies who did the trapping, thank you. It was the ladies who went on the Marriage Hunts. And all the while none were the wiser. Not even Gandalf, their old friend.
Bella had once had a Plan. Thorin had not been subtle in his interest, especially after the Carrock. Bella had looked right back, intrigued by the notion of a King, but more intrigued by Thorin , who would sing sad songs and yet toss his shrieking nephews into a river if they acted up too much. And his laugh. Oh it was lovely. She dreamed of a faunt with her curls and his voice, dark eyes staring, a perfect blend of wildness and the strength of the earth.
It was a dream that would never come true. Not anymore.
Hobbits were once wild folk. But they had also once been a folk with strict laws, and even stricter punishments. Those who would cause the loss of a babe, they were Outcast. They were shunned from all of their homes. Bella had dreamed of a child with Thorin, but that dream could be no more. Not while Thorin was Outcast and gold-mad, ranting in the depths like a specter in the hills.
“I can smell you, ” said the wurm. Bella peeked out from over the ledge. She was so high up. She felt like a bird. “ Blood trails wherever you go. It reeks of those little creatures, shrieking in the dark.”
Bella pressed her lips tight together, not daring to breathe too loud. Yes, there was blood, but it was all over the room. She'd made sure of that. She thought she heard her Company's voices grow louder. Now was not the time. They needed to be away, snug in the tunnels far below the earth, where their Maker would keep them safe.
It was time for her to go Wild.
All hobbits had this choice. Most tucked that decision into their back pockets, a whisper that would touch their minds late a night, right before sleep. Hobbits were hardy folk. Built by time and forces they had purposely forgotten, all of them had this choice, they just rarely made it. Only the old, or the infirm, or those whose minds did not fit in the orderly farms and fields of their folk these days, they were the ones who went Wild. They were the ones who went in the Old Forest and never came back. Once, during the Fell Winter, whole families went Wild at once, driving the predators back to a point where the rest of their folk would survive. They had let Gandalf and the Rangers think they had been the ones to swoop in at the eleventh hour to save them all.
It was their Secret. The Wild had never left them. And they would never tell.
Bella took a slow, deep breath. The blood was slick, all the way down to her knees. She would have one chance at this. One chance to save her Company. One chance to save Thorin, who she would have brought before the green altar and wed once her belly swelled. One chance.
Her pretty little ring was cold as ice on her hand. Bella stood, toes gripping the edge of the ledge, the glittering gold spread out below her like a yellow sea. “Wurm!” Her voice echoed across the treasury. The dragon's head snapped up and to the side. His wide nose flared. “Come and get me! If you dare!”
In the distance there might have been a scream that was once her name. She could not hear it. The rush of the Wild had taken her. It was far better than the cold currents and the storm of her ring. The Wild flashed, giving her wings, claws, sharp teeth, and eyes that could see. She took her little Sting and dove, air rushing, the ring on her finger screaming, even as the dragon's fire melted it from her crisping skin.
Her blade struck home, biting deep into that empty spot on Smaug's chest. All the world went white, but to Bella they were the clouds, the air current warm and comforting, even as she was lifted up, up, up and away, where the sky was endless and there was no more pain.
Later, once the dwarves of the Iron Hills arrived and Gandalf had forced the gate open to see what had become of them, they found Thorin's Company in the treasury, kneeling around a broken, blackened figure, one Bella Baggins, the Dragonslayer of Erebor. No one could figure out how she had done it. All those of the Company had been shut away in the tunnels deep in the mountain, a trick played by Bella, when their gold sickness had taken to their heads. Gandalf stood over that husk that was once Bella Baggins and closed his eyes, mouth moving in words none could understand.
Outside, on one of the ledges high up on the mountainside, a mockingbird landed with a loud chirp. There was a gold cast to its feathers. On one long toe it looked like there was a lighter band, almost like a ring, encircling it. The little bird cocked its head, as if listening. Then in a rush of feathers, it was gone.