She had the chance once, and in the final call she'd turned her back on it.

No one could believe it. Spirited, they said to her face. Too Tookish by half, they said behind it. Consorts with wizards and elves and who-knows-what; that one's sooner to run off with gipsies than be properly wived, most agreed.

And yes, all the tales were true. She'd had the chance and more: amidst her giddy Took cousins had she rollicked, sporting over the grassy hillocks, in her own solitude had she felt the stars burn her wide eyes and the moonlight her bare shoulders; with a Wizard had she shared wild tales, wilder smoke and laughter; beside Elf-kind had she merrily danced 'round blue-gold fires…

Then she'd danced an entirely different kind of fire with him, and everything had changed.

He was quiet, kind. He looked at her stars. He listened to her stories. He slicked an inferno through her veins that made even the pale fetch-light of the elves seem tame.

He gave her what cousins, wizards and elves could not.

No doubt many a copper had changed hands as they'd started the courting; wagers upon whether a Baggins could too long game, let alone tame, That Tookish Wildcat. She fumed over it; he laughed and held her close, whispered a ribald limerick that turned her growls to giggles. A fortnight later they announced the handfasting—to much chagrin, for the odds had indeed been that high. Even her closest friends had expressed disappointment at her swift surrender.

Surrender? Given up, given in? Never! She had the chance. She made her choice. And never has she looked back, or mourned, or felt the bitter bile of regret. There is only now. And joy.

What the uncertain Sight of her kin whispered to her over three seasons' time is now within her reach—she can see that she has in truth "lost" nothing. Her wanderer's heart is strong, and her wildish spirit will endure past that heart's measured beats, gifted and bequeathed to her own flesh and blood.

Any sacrifice comes not cheaply, but this price is well owed and gladly paid, more than worth what she has, here and now.

Belladonna leaned over the osier basket, breathing the sweet breath of her newborn boy-bairn's sleeping.

* * * * * *