31 Foreyule TA 2952

(Ten years later)

Buttercup Khajimaith Baggins, Queen under the Mountain, skated across smooth stone floors on scandalously stockinged feet. Bilbo, she supposed, would be stunned, but with many a winter under her belt, this hobbit had learned a sad truth. A hobbit who cared about her creature comforts was a hobbit who bundled up her tootsies come winter.

Erebor was not the Shire, and its halls adopted a definite chill when snow arrived. While far from dangerous, Buttercup preferred not to subject herself to more coldness than necessary, thank you very much. No clammy toes for her.

Unfortunately, the miscreant dragging her along as fast as he could run had discovered he could take advantage of her stockinged state. Though she clung to his tunic with both hands, she slowed the shorter culprit not one bit. Stockings provided no traction. (Though truly, she asked herself, would traction help? Her two eldest sons, neither of them older than nine, were both stronger than their mama.)

Case in point: the dwarfling speeding along before her. His short, muscular legs powered them past dozens of gaping, bearded witnesses despite having an adult hobbit affixed to his tunic.

Because this needed witnesses, a part of her lamented. Yet another escapade that would be the talk of the mountain for months to come. How, she wanted to know, did she always land herself in these situations?

This, she vowed, was Nori's fault. And hers, for she'd named her second child after her nadad. Norin's older brother, Westlin, was infinitely better behaved.

"Norin! I'm warning you, mister. Stop this instant," she thundered at the back of her son's blond head. The shaggy-haired imp broke into peals of laughter, the bare slaps of his feet never faltering.

She gasped in outrage. The dwarfling thought this was a game?

Norin rounded a corner, and Buttercup's eyes widened as she swung in a wide arc in his wake, forcing visiting dignitaries assembled to join them in the Yule festivities this day—including Legolas, she groaned—to leap out of the way. She tossed a weak smile back over her shoulder. "Sorry," she mouthed to the elven prince.

She doubted he saw it since the elf was too busy folding over with gut-deep laughter. Humperdink.

Truly? She'd known she was falling behind, what with children to feed and dress, and presents to wrap, never mind finding the time to get herself together… But the guests had begun to arrive?

Fabulous. And just in time for the show. (Sigh.)

Buttercup prodded her lips into a sheepish smile as her son dragged her past Bard and his family. She'd have lifted a hand to wiggle some fingers, but she was not about to let the dwarfling loose. He was not escaping her this time.

Another wide turn carried dam and son from the King's Way (and the host of amused eyes) onto a less heavily trafficked byway. By that, Buttercup assumed Mahal had decided to grant her mercy, and it was well he did. This was his fault, too. How dare he design his dwarves' offspring to be so confoundedly strong? What had he been thinking? Oh, that's right. He didn't have to raise them.

Buttercup grimaced as another change of direction sent her feet in another wild arc in her son's wake. Norin's unborn sibling gyrated nauseatingly within her belly, letting it be known that he was not terribly happy with their current predicament. Either that or the traitor was enjoying their unexpected ride—a possibility she could not dismiss with half-Durin, half-Took offspring.

A subsequent wiggling in her abdomen confirmed it: Norin's second, unwitting passenger was having the time of his life.

Another boy, Thorin, she informed her absent spouse grumpily. A daughter would not be so rude to her mama…or so Buttercup hoped, for she dearly wished for a couple girls. This hobbit was getting severely outnumbered—severely!—in a household of males.

Norin's pedaling legs carried them to Merchants' Row, one of the busiest parts of the kingdom after the King's Way and forges. Bright booths decorated for Yule and laden with a whole array of goods flew by in a blur, and Buttercup longed to hide her face in her fingers as Erebor's merchants and shoppers—and visiting men—were forced to leap out of the way or suffer a collision with the queen and prince careening towards them.

"Norin," she tried in a harder voice.

The seven year old shot her the most infuriatingly rebellious look over one shoulder before putting on a greater burst of speed.

Truly? All this over not wishing to eat his vegetables? Why, she'd even coated the greens with a cheese sauce. They were delectable! Exquisite!

But not, apparently, to one dwarfling's tastes. (Sniff. It was clear he'd inherited his palate from his father, so really, this was Thorin's fault, too.)

Her temper fired all the hotter. She was pregnant, by Yavanna. Exhausted from both the preparations for the annual Yule Festival ready to begin any confounded minute now (and by the Shire, she still had a mountain's worth of tasks to finish before all would be as she'd intended) and from lack of sleep since Norin's fretting younger brother, Dorin, had kept her up all night with his fussing.

Crabby did not do Buttercup Khajimaith Baggins justice, and her son had chosen the wrong time to push his amâd. She might be slenderer. She might be weaker. But by her dwarfling's scruffy beginnings of a beard, she was still his mama.

Norin weaved among the shoppers, many of which were likely rushing to and fro making last-minute purchases for Yule. Buttercup spotted Nori at one point as she and her son whizzed by, and his wife Signí, too. The dam covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide in a picture of sisterly sympathy. Nori, the wretch, burst into wild hoots.

She spotted Gimli, Gloin's son, too. The warrior-to-be dropped what he was doing—quite loudly and literally—and gave chase after them.

Now he, she thought, was a hero. And he had just earned himself the present she'd labored over for Nori, by the Shire. Nori would go present-less, the traitor, and that was that.

Norin must have glimpsed his kinsman closing in upon them out of one eye, for the dwarfling abruptly changed course. The little hellion abandoned the major pathways in favor of a cramped aisle between the perfume and pastry booths.

Oh. No. This…could not be good. Despite the disaster staring her in the face, Buttercup tightened her grip until her knuckles ached. She refused to let her rogue-in-the-making escape so easily.

Out swung Buttercup in Norin's wake. Her hip bumped into the baker's stall hard enough to bruise…and nudge dozens of pastries off of the shelves forming the stall's eastern edge. Splat, splat, splat. Down rained cupcakes, strudels, and donuts.

That. Was. It. Using her hold on her son's tunic for leverage, she awkwardly vaulted onto the dwarfling's back. Norin stumbled, arms flailing, but he did not go down.

Instead, this infuriatingly obstinate son of hers dared—yes, dared!—to spin in circles in an effort to dislodge her, his arms batting at her. "Off, Amâd. Off!"

Off? Oh, if that was what he wanted… Buttercup slipped from him, grabbed hold of one pointed ear…and twisted.

Norin yelped loud enough to bring down the rafters, teetered as he lost his balance, and Buttercup's moment of victory? Well, it died violently as dwarfling bounced into dam, dam lost her footing and both toppled against the back edge of the baker's shelves. Down went shelves with a deafening CRASH, down went dwarfling and dam, and down fluttered the bright blue ribbons that had gaily adorned the booth before the kingdom's royal family had arrived.

Bother.

In the end, Buttercup laid there, staring up at the arched ceiling high overhead. Her rear end was smushed in a wet, gelatinous substance and her head was pillowed on—a quick check out of the corner of one eye—a donut that had, upon impact, vomited up its filling.

Huh. So that's what was on her cheek and neck. Good to know.

Parenthood. It was the ultimate adventure.

With a vindictive grin, Buttercup scooped up the carcass of a ruined jam pie by her side and smashed it into her son's hair. With any luck, it would stain enough to make bath time all the simpler the rest of this week.

Buttercup marched home with chin lifted. Yes, her victory had been a messy one, but by the Shire, she'd emerged triumphant. One misbehaving dwarfling had been netted and trudged beside her dejectedly. (Her Took side threw one fist into the air. One point to Amâd! She'd have said, "Woo-wee and pass the pie," but she was quite sugared up enough, thank you very much.)

Elves and dragons, but she was a mess. Still, it was her tenth anniversary, so it was, in a sense, eminently fitting. Buttercup was positive sugar was to blame for the fact that she'd left Widow Proudfoot's home pregnant at the conclusion of her honeymoon.

Her lips quirked the teensiest, tiniest bit, a fact Norin failed to notice being consumed with inspecting his feet as he was. It was the only reason she permitted herself latitude to smirk. By the Shire, raising dwarfling-faunts was a challenge, but there was not a day she regretted her growing brood.

Woebegone eyes darted her way, and Buttercup hastily rearranged her features into lines of disapproval. "I'm sorry, Amâd," Norin sniffled.

Buttercup paused a moment to drive the laughter from her voice before responding in an even tone, "I appreciate that, Norin."

"I didn'tst mean to almost get you hurt."

Ah, so that's what had reached him. Not the destruction of his hair. Not her scolding words. Not the ear tweak, though she knew from experience how that smarted. It was…

"Do we gots to tell Adâd?" emerged in the most pitiful of voices.

…the wrath of his sire he feared. Her husband, she snickered privately, had his sons utterly fooled. He might be stern outwardly, but Buttercup's light-o-love was putty where his children were concerned. He hated having to discipline them. "I think we do," she told him.

Norin's footsteps dragged all the heavier. "But I'm sorry."

"I'm sure your adâd will be glad to hear that."

Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, greeted his guests warmly from within his throne room, even the elves who had come to join Erebor in its new Yule festivities at the queen's behest. Thorin's Buttercup had developed a fondness for Legolas and Thranduil, and Thorin himself had made his peace with the elven sovereign over the years.

He doubted he would ever label the elf a friend, but…ally? Aye, allies, they were.

Yule. The king's lips lifted in a smirk as his gaze touched upon the green wreaths that adorned the walls of the throne room, each laden with blue and silver ribbons. The green smell, Thorin admitted, pleased him well, as did celebrating this holiday that meant so much to his wife.

Truth be told, it meant much to Thorin, too, for it never failed to remind him of the day he wedded his wife. The day Buttercup became his in truth. A blessed day.

"I'm here!"

At the sound of his precious eldest son's voice—My son, a part of him marveled even nine years after the lad's birth—he turned to find Prince Westlin beaming up at him, his aunt Dís behind him with a gentle smile on her face. A swift glance failed to locate Buttercup, so Thorin assumed his sister had escorted Thorin's son to him to alleviate Buttercup of one child. Doubtless both Norin and Dorin were handful enough for the queen.

"So you are." Thorin set one palm on the crown of his son's curly black head of hair. "Happy Yule, my son."

Big blue eyes smiled up at him. "Happy Yule, Adâd," Westlin said with dignity. The lad's attention was quickly captured by their guests, but he remained quietly by Thorin's side, content to watch and listen.

Unlike his younger brother. Norin, Thorin knew, would be racing about, as full of energy as his amâd. Both were ever bobbing on their feet or rushing here and there on some business of their own.

To Dís, Thorin murmured, "My queen?"

An amused sideways glance came his way. "Norin did not wish to eat his greens."

Thorin muffled his chortle with a cough. "I take it there has been a clashing of wills?"

"It was in progress as Westlin and I made our exit," Dís averred.

Norin was a handful, all right, but Thorin knew his wife would gain the upper hand. Eventually.

By Mahal, little had he and his sweet wife known how correct they'd been to wonder what they'd unleash by marrying their bloodlines. Westlin, Thorin candidly admitted, had lulled them into a false sense of security. From the day he'd arrived twelve months after his conception (Thorin maintained the blessed event had occurred the morning after their wedding, for he'd awoken to find his Buttercup sitting beside him on the bed, adorably sleep-mussed with a bowl of butterscotch pudding in hand and… a dwarf could only withstand so much temptation), the lad had been well-behaved, curious about anything and everything, and more inclined to watch than pepper amâd and adâd with questions.

Norin was Westlin's complete foil, down to their appearances. Where Westlin had Thorin's black hair and his mother's curls, Norin had his mother's golden locks and father's straighter hair. Where Westlin would think before he spoke or acted, Norin had a full measure (and then some, Thorin suspected) of both Took and Durin rashness. Westlin was slender for a dwarf; Norin was bulky and muscular. Westlin's ears were more rounded than pointed; Norin's ears were pure hobbit.

"I love Yule, Adâd," Westlin said, his right hand latching onto Thorin's belt and hanging there.

"So do I, Westlin. So do I," Thorin said. He followed his son's example, scanning the room. By Durin, this new tradition had broken down so many barriers. Both nobles and those of common birth received equal welcome, as did both men and elves.

And hobbits.

Thorin's eyes gleamed. Within five years of his own marriage, no less than four other dwarves had wooed and wed hobbit lasses of their own.

Bersi, for one. Thorin's gaze quickly located the couple. The Captain of the newly formed Queen's Guard had availed himself of the first opportunity to present itself—namely, Buttercup's first return to the Shire four years after her marriage to Thorin—to introduce himself to one Maple Overhill. The blond bachelor had pursued the pie-making lass with single minded intensity.

Bersi won her, too, much to Buttercup's delight. And the rest of Erebor's once the Lonely Mountain's populace had gotten a taste of Maple's creations.

The hobbits of the Shire had been less pleased. The following year, relations between Erebor and the Shire had been strained, making the wooing of Lily Took, Beryl Goldenlocks, and Daisy Proudfoot—granddaughter to none other than the Widow Proudfoot—all the trickier, but won the lasses were, much to their husbands' delight. Thorin found two of the lasses beside their husbands, Althi and (a development that had stunned them all) Dori.

Daisy was nowhere to be seen, but that did not surprise Thorin. The lass was in her twelfth month of pregnancy and liable to deliver her first child to Bofur's friend, Jarar, any day.

Thorin's chest burned with pride, for this was his wife's doing. Friendship, he saw all around him. Peace. Yule had become a time to fellowship with his own people and those of the neighboring kingdoms and towns, for not only did the men of Dale join Erebor this day, but the peoples of Lake-town, the Iron Hills, the Woodland Realm…

…and one Shireling. "Bilbo," Thorin greeted. With Westlin silently affixed to his side, Thorin swiftly made his way to his brother-by-marriage. "You arrived." Her brother's presence was the only gift Thorin's wife had wished this year, and by Mahal, Thorin had done everything in his power to make it happen.

"A bit chapped and cold, but here I am," the hobbit agreed with a smile.

"Uncle Bilbo!" Westlin threw his arms around his uncle and squeezed him tight.

Bilbo returned the hug and patted Westlin's back. "Dear me, Westlin. You have grown! Let me get a look at you…"

It was while Bilbo and Westlin greeted one another that the Elvenking drew Thorin aside, his expression a mixture of sympathy and amusement. "I believe you wife is in need of your assistance."

Your wife is in need of your assistance.

Thorin had no notion what to expect after the Elvenking's vague words. Prince Legolas's soft laughter as Thorin strode past him along the King's Way assured that no harm had befallen his thatr, yet the too-sympathetic looks from others told him something had occurred.

His pace accelerated to a jog. Buttercup should have been with their children on their way to join the festivities. What could possibly have…?

He stopped in his tracks as his wife and Norin rounded a corner and came into view. Silence replaced the low chatter of his guests behind him. Thorin didn't know whether to groan into a palm or laugh. His beautiful wife's hair was a tangled mess down her back. What looked to be powdered sugar liberally dusted the crown of her head in white, and her neck and cheek were smeared with jam.

Strawberry, he mused, lips twitching. Or raspberry perhaps.

Norin had fared no better. Thorin's blond-haired rascal was filthy with colorful frostings and cake and cooking crumbs, and his hair—Norin's pride and joy—was saturated in a fruit filling of some sort. The dwarfling stared at his feet, the picture of dejection, utterly unaware of Thorin's presence…or the way his parents both fought back laughter as their eyes met.

*Dare I ask what happened?* Thorin signed to his wife in the dwarven sign language of Iglishmêk.

His wife's lips quirked in a wicked grin. "Norin? Why don't you give your adâd a hug?"

Much later, after presents had been gifted, the feast had concluded, and revelers had retired to their guest quarters within Erebor, Buttercup curled up on her husband's lap within the privacy of their bedchamber, her hair a mess she'd decided to tackle in the morning. It's mostly dried already, anyway, a part of her sighed.

The damage was done. She, like her son, was doomed to sport pink hair the rest of the week.

With a yawn, Buttercup set her head on her love's fruit-crusted chest. Elves and dragons, she was exhausted, but the day had been perfect.

Not perfect, her Baggins side corrected, mourning that the finishing touches to the decorations had not been finished, the yule tree had proved too small for the number of hand-crafted ornaments each guest had presented as asked, and the...

Perfect, the rest of her reaffirmed. Time surrounded by beloved friends and family was always perfect. Even when it wasn't.

"You're sticky," Thorin murmured with a soft chuckle into her hair.

"Story of my life," she agreed, leaning her head back against the crook of his shoulder so that she could see his face. "At least this time, no dwarflings will result from it." One hand idly patted her rounded belly in demonstration.

Thorin smirked. One black eyebrow winged upwards. "Then we'll revisit this moment in another handful of months."

"Handful?" she sputtered. "Look here, King under the Mountain. This is pregnancy number four. Four." She lifted four fingers to drive the point home. "If I'd known dwarrow carried their progeny for fourteen months," she half-heartedly grumbled with narrowed eyes, "I might have rethought this whole procreation business."

Her husband, well-inured to such comments after three pregnancies, smirked. "No, you wouldn't have. You, my dear wife, find me…what did you call it? Scrumptious."

Bam! There went her cheeks. "I most certainly would have," she said, smoothing hands over her distended belly. "And I'm sure I've never used such words to describe you."

Thorin laughed, the sound ripe with joy. "You, Thatrê, are a terrible liar." A pause. A smirk. "I have witnesses."

She tried to glare, truly she did, but his laughter was too infectious. She conceded, flapping one hand. Then in a wry voice, "If I had to carry Westlin to full dwarf term, he'd have been an only child. Nine months is the norm, Thorin. Nine. Thanks to you, I get three additional months of this." She gestured to her belly.

Her husband had the gall to chuckle.

The nerve. He'd change his tune if he had to carry their progeny. "Just for that, I may put my foot down," she warned. "Especially if this one is male, too." She sniffed. "You could find yourself summarily banished from my bed."

"My bed," he murmured.

She wiggled some fingers. "Semantics."

"Barred from my wife's bed, hmm?" His eyes heated and hooded. "Is that a challenge, Thatrê?" he cooed, a wide and devilish grin claiming his lips.

What? Oh, no. No, no, no. One did not challenge Durins. "Did I say that? I didn't say that. I wouldn't dream—"

He continued as if she hadn't said a word. "A good thing, then, that once our babe is born, I have a fully stocked kitchen with which to woo my bride back where she belongs."

"My kitchen is always fully stocked," she countered. "I'll simply command the Queen's Guard…" Thorin's second wedding gift to her, and a more handy one she couldn't imagine. "…to bar you from the premises."

He clucked his tongue much as Westley used to do, and she felt a pang. She missed her friend. Upon returning to Erebor, she'd discovered he'd deemed it high time to collect his own Buttercup. Whether she'd ever see him again was in doubt, for years had passed with no word.

"I have a secret weapon," Thorin assured her.

Huh. He did, did he? "What might that be?"

Her husband nibbled on her ear—so not fair—before breathing, "Brace yourself."

With his lips tugging on her earlobe like that? Buttercup fumbled for a scrap of coherent thought while delightful zings traveled from her ears to the tips of her toes.

"Are you ready?"

What? Why was he still talking?

His next words had her eyes flying open. "Bilbo shared his hot chocolate recipe with me."