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ladylouoflothlorien · 4 years ago

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One of the boys

summary: Hobbits are terribly sexist and have incredibly traditional views on gender roles. Bilba Baggins is a female Hobbit – who by normal standards should have married 10 years ago – and she’s just about done with The Shire and everyone in it. Gandalf gives her an out, and it’s an out she was never going to refuse, no matter how dangerous it may prove to be. Alternatively: my excuse to make Bilbo and Thorin lesbians.

pairing: fem!bilbo x fem!thorin

warnings: I just want to give a little warning for themes like sexism, misogyny etc. I also just want to say that there is unintentional misgendering on the part of the female dwarves. I want to clarify that in this fic, the gender-swapped dwarves are all cisgender, and the dwarves perpetuate the idea that they’re all male when they’re in the company of outsiders (but I still thought it worth mentioning just in case this could trigger someone ❤️)

word count: 3135

Bilba Baggins shifted uncomfortably on her pony. She still wasn’t used to riding Myrtle, and she certainly wasn’t used to life on the road. The Company had only been travelling for a week and a half, but the female Hobbit already found herself missing her bed and her armchair and her bookshelf and her pantry. Despite her sore behind and empty stomach, Bilba was glad to be with Thorin and his company of dwarves, and the Hobbit was proud to join them on their quest to reclaim their homeland.

When Bilba looked ahead to the horizon she noticed with some surprise that the sky was getting dark. Well, that explained the relative quiet – the dwarves were always less rowdy when they were hungry and ready to rest for the night, though she highly doubted that any of them ever felt as bone-shatteringly exhausted at the end of the day as she did. Her gaze shifted from the skyline to the two dwarves riding in front of her, and Bilba smiled to herself as she thought back to when the dwarves had first tumbled into her Smial.

Bilba collapsed against the inside of her front door as soon as she’d shut it. A sigh escaped her as she dropped the heavy basket she’d been carrying on the floor. The only thing that had given her enough strength to stay at the market long enough to complete all her shopping had been Gandalf’s promise of strange guests to her Smial that night. Gandalf. She’d hardly recognised him at first, but she knew he’d been her mother’s close friend, and it was nice to see him again after such a long time. Even if her memories of him were a little faded.

A groan left her lips as she pushed herself off the door and bent down to pick up her basket once again, and despite her best efforts to keep her mind blank she began to replay the interactions she’d had at the market that day.

“My dearest Bilba-”

“I’ve already asked you not to call me that.”

They continued, unperturbed.

“My dearest Bilba, you haven’t invited me to dinner yet, and I-”

“Please, call me Mistress Baggins.”

“- I would be most disappointed if you didn’t.”

There was a short silence, and Bilba, desperate to be left alone with her shopping, had decided to swallow her pride for the sake of peace.

“Y-yes, well… I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.”

He seemed – regrettably – highly encouraged by her lack of scathing denial, and seemed to think her reply somehow invited further conversation.

“Ah, my dear, I understand. You must have so much to do without a man about Bag End, but never you fear! I am sure the situation will be sorted soon.”

Bilba blinked owlishly at him. He apparently thought he was being charming. She clutched her basket tighter, knuckles whitening, and could not help but feel repulsed.

“Right… well, forgive me, but I must be getting on. My pantry is rather bare.”

“Of course! It is admirable that you take your womanly duties so seriously. Good day, Bilba!”

An invitation to a private meal; the first stage in Hobbit courting where the one being courted reciprocated the attentions they were being shown. Apparently, a long time ago, the courting hadn’t been gender-specific, but now the cooking of the private meal was entirely the domain of female hobbits.

“Disgraceful, is what it is.” Bilba muttered to herself as she shuffled to her pantry to put away her purchases.

Bilba had been approached by no less than three male Hobbits at the market asking when they would be invited over to Bag End of an evening. A fourth had approached in an attempt to present her with a frankly gaudy bouquet of flowers that she’d artfully dodged. As if that hadn’t been enough, she’d also received near countless comments from older, married Hobbits – both male and female alike – telling her how lucky she was at her time of life to have so many suitors, but that she’d better not wait too long to finally accept one. The biological clock was ticking, and all that.

Those were the comments that really got under her skin. Bilba was no fool. She knew that most eligible female Hobbits were married by the time they reached forty. Bilba had already reached fifty. Still, she didn’t think that gave anyone the right to comment on the apparent lack of use she was making of her womb. Just because having children was the done thing didn’t mean that she had any intention of doing it. Still, it was safer to let them think what they would, and say what they wanted with no corrections. The longer they all believed she actually wanted to mother children, the longer they’d believe she actually had any interest in marrying – which she did not. In fact, Bilba Baggins had no interest in men at all.

Bilba reached the pantry, and she scowled as she set the food out on the correct shelves. There was another reason, she knew, as to why at 50 she still had so many eager suitors – other than the love they all professed to feel. Bilba was a Baggins. The Baggins of Bag End, and that came with reputation, social status, and wealth, which no doubt all of her suitors couldn’t wait to get their grubby little hands on.

Yes, Bilba thought, hands on hips, I think I should like an adventure very much. Anything to get away from The Shire for a time.

Four hours later, her first guest arrived. A dwarf? Gandalf hadn’t mentioned anything about dwarves. Still, she welcomed this ‘Dwalin’ as politely as she could. He was eyeing her up, like he wasn’t sure what to make of her, but when she led him through to the dining room – where the table was laden with a spread fit for a Hobbit feast – his standoffish aura had completely melted away.

Eleven more showed up in quick succession, and when Gandalf greeted her she’d jokingly told him he was lucky his companions were arriving under the cover of darkness.

“I’m not sure I’d be quite able to explain away the scandal if my neighbours caught sight of twelve male dwarves turning up on my doorstep.”

Some of the dwarves exchanged looks at that, which she caught but didn’t understand. Perhaps dwarven culture was so different that they didn’t understand why there would possibly be a scandal.

Bilba hung back a little as the dwarves in her home ate, drank, and talked rather boisterously. She didn’t begrudge them their merriment, in fact she enjoyed watching so many people so happy all together, but it was a little too much for her to take when she’d essentially been living in self-imposed isolation since her parents had passed.

Rather lost in her thoughts, Bilba didn’t immediately register that there had been yet another knock on her door. The sudden, startling silence of her present company dragged her back to reality, and when Gandalf helpfully – albeit rather dramatically – announced ‘he is here’ she was able to infer that there was someone at the door and she went to open it.

The door swung open and oh, but if that wasn’t the most glorious mane of dark and silver hair she’d ever set eyes upon. Bilba could hardly be surprised by the more than slightly disappointed twist in her stomach when one of the younger-looking dwarves yelled ‘uncle’ from behind her.

So this is also a male dwarf. She was disappointed, but made sure to keep her expression clear. It wouldn’t do to accidentally offend her guest just because she’d hoped he might actually be a female dwarf.

As Bilba stepped aside to allow her newest guest to enter, she remembered what she’d been told about female dwarves - that for other races they were sometimes considered indistinguishable from men, as both men and women grew facial hair. It occurred to the Hobbit that she should not have assumed all her guests were male, but then again none of them had corrected her, and she had also overheard them all calling each other ‘he’ and ‘brother’. It seemed she’d been spared the embarrassment of mistaking their gender, for which she silently sent a prayer of thanks to her Lady Yavanna.

This new dwarf ignored the call of what must be his nephew and passed through the doorway into Bag End, addressing Gandalf first before anyone – which Bilba found rather rude, as she was the host, and therefore was owed an introduction.

“Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. Wouldn’t’ve found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”

Bilba was struck by his words, and instantly rose to the defence of her home as any self-respecting Hobbit would.

“Ma- There’s no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!”

“There is a mark, I put it there myself.”

She turned to look at Gandalf, mouth hanging open for a moment. In her stunned silence, Gandalf snatched the opportunity to introduce her to her guest, the sneak, for he knew she would not risk being impolite to a stranger. Still, she would definitely be having words with Gandalf when she got the chance, very strong words in fact, about why you should never deface the door of a Hobbit Hole… or any door for that matter! A wizard should certainly know better!

“Bilba Baggins. Allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“So, this is the Hobbit.”

Dear lord, Bilba thanked the stars this dwarf was male, for she would surely otherwise have swooned under the intensity of that gaze… and he called her ‘Hobbit’! She was used to hearing tell of outsiders only knowing to use the word ‘Halfling’, unaware of quite how rude they were being. She was rather glad she wouldn’t have to correct him.

Then, unfortunately, the dwarf had to go and ruin her first impression by thoroughly intimidating and interrogating her, even going as far as walking around her in a slow circle – the nerve – and then he and his company completely ignored her! They were in her home. She had prepared a feast for them, the least she deserved was the typical respect shown to a hostess. Honestly, if she wasn’t so desperate to leave The Shire, and if they didn’t come with Gandalf’s personal recommendation, she would’ve been seriously reconsidering accompanying them on whatever little adventure they were going on.

Bilba avoided them for a little while, allowing their apparent leader to settle in and eat his fill. She finally re-joined them when they started talking about their quest, although she stayed hovering behind Gandalf and not actually sitting down with them at the table. Not that there were any free seats left for her, had she decided she wanted to.

It was all very dramatic, especially when Gandalf somehow pulled an old key from who knows where. She knew she should’ve been paying more attention to what exactly was being said, but it was a little difficult when she felt so thoroughly excluded from the conversation. Still, one sentence stuck out to her more than most, and she found herself answering it without thinking.

“That’s why we need a burglar.”

“Hmm. A good one, too. An expert, I’d imagine.”

“And are you?”

Bilba physically turned to look behind her at that, because this dwarf couldn’t possibly be implying that she, Bilba Baggins, was a burglar.

“Am I what?” She asked, giving this ungrateful guest a chance to explain himself, for she was nothing but civil and she was determined to remain so.

Unfortunately, another dwarf who – bless him – had an ear trumpet and therefore could not be blamed for his confusion, cried out in gladness.

“She said she’s an expert!”

Bilba had to set things straight.

“Me? N-no, no no no no, I’m not a burglar. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”

Unless you counted the conkers she’d taken from someone else’s garden at age 18 and never been blamed for, or the last cookie from her mother’s plate when she was 20 – which her father had been blamed for, at least initially – or the poor flowers that Lobelia had planted in her front garden in entirely the wrong place. The sweet things were never going to survive like that, Bilba was merely rescuing them…. well, perhaps she had stolen a few things, but never anything substantial, and she certainly wanted these strangers to know it. What fantastical lies had Gandalf been feeding them about her?

Balin – she remembered his name because he had been one of the more polite members of the party - seemed disappointed.

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Miss Baggins, she’s hardly burglar material.”

Well now, that should have been a compliment… so why did it sound like the reverse?

Another dwarf, Dwalin, spoke next. She remembered his name only because he had been the first to show up at her door.

“Ay, the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.”

Bilba felt suddenly cold. Was her place on their adventure only secure if she was to be their burglar? Would they leave her behind now they knew she wasn’t? The dwarves around the table started bickering amongst themselves, and Bilba could not catch a word any of them were saying. She had no idea what to do, but it seemed that Gandalf did. The room darkened suddenly and Gandalf – already so much taller than everyone present – seemed to grow taller still.

“Enough! If I say Bilba Baggins is a Burglar, then a Burglar she is!”

Whatever strange power he had called upon melted away once he had everyone’s attention, but still he continued, and Bilba had to admit his reasoning did make sense as to why a Hobbit would be a good choice, which meant his reasoning for choosing her was also sensible, as she very much doubted that Gandalf would easily find another Hobbit who would even consider going on an adventure.

“Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most, if they choose. And while the Dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of Hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage. You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Miss Baggins. There is a lot more to her than appearances suggest.”

Once again that evening what should have been a compliment felt like an insult, and Bilba was rather beginning to dislike the manners of her present company, Gandalf included. She was still seething about the mark on her freshly painted door.

“And she’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know!”

Well, that was more like a true compliment. Perhaps Bilba could endeavour to forgive the wizard. In time.

“Including herself.”

No, he had once again disgraced himself. How dare he? He had no idea the strength she had to possess to get through even a single day in The Shire whilst trying to be true to who she was. Bilba Baggins knew her own worth, thank you very much.

“You must trust me on this.”

Bilba looked from Gandalf to Thorin, who seemed to be weighing the wizard’s words carefully. After a pause, he leant back in his chair and shook his head once.

“No Gandalf. I will not be responsible for Miss Baggins in the wild. She has no experience, no skill with a blade or with burglary. I do not want her death on my hands, for die she surely will. She will be of no use to us, we must find some other burglar for our quest.”

Bilba’s mouth hung open, and she stared at the back of Thorin’s head in stunned silence for just long enough that he had settled his position in his chair again and seemed to be preparing to move on to another topic when she finally found her voice.

“How dare you?”

Her first words were barely louder than a whisper, but the outrage they bore carried across the room. Every dwarf turned to look at her.

“Did you not hear everything Gandalf has said? You need a Hobbit, and you won’t find another willing to go with you, that I can guarantee.”

Bilba’s eyes glanced to Gandalf, who was looking at her with an amused twinkle in his eyes, which only served to irritate her further. He shouldn’t find amusement in her distress, the nerve of it.

“I could be of great use to you, not that you’ve bothered to find out anything about me other than that I have a well-stocked pantry!”

Some of the dwarves already looked vaguely chastised as she stared them down, hands moving to her hips, but she was by no means done. Bilba finally had an outlet for all of the aggravation she’d built up over the course of the day, and by golly she was going to let them have it all.

“I have taught myself many things here with my father’s books! I can speak and read Sindarin, I can heal many different ailments, I am a very learned Hobbit! But perhaps this will make you want to take me even less! I have heard it all, had all the old quotes used against me by family members who expected me to have mothered at least 4 young Hobbits by now; ‘when a woman has scholarly inclinations there is usually something wrong with her sexual organs.’ I’ve caught aunts trying to smuggle away some of my father’s books to prevent my learning!”

(side note, that’s a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche. I’m serious.)

She paused to catch her breath, which had quickened both from her anger and from her rapidity of speech.

“I refuse to stay in The Shire to suffer more and more unwanted offers of marriage from Hobbit men I have no intention of accepting. I refuse to limit my experiences as I am expected simply because I am in possession of a womb. If you will not accept me as one of you, I shall be coming along anyway, for I’m sure Gandalf will be accompanying you, and I shall be accompanying Gandalf!”

Her eye’s met Thorin’s, and her anger threatened to crumble and give way to embarrassment at her own outburst, but she held her ground. After a moment of silence, Thorin seemed to smile very slightly, which confused her somewhat.

“Give her a contract.” Forever Tags: @sweeticedtea @cd1242 @strongandfreedc @pixierox101 @jotink78 @luna-xial @underthemoon-n Thorin Tags: @dark-angel-is-back

#Thorin Oakenshield #thorin #thorin fic #bilbo #bilbo baggins #femthorin #female thorin #fembilbo #female bilbo #thorin and bilbo are lesbians #the company #the hobbit #The Hobbit fic #bagginshield #thorin x bilbo #bilbo fic #female dwalin #female nori #female fili

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astralinax · 4 years ago

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To Be Free - The Hobbit - C1

Disclaimer - this world, characters and other stuff doesn’t belong to me. All credit goes to J. R. R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson and whoever else owns the franchise. This is a fem!Bilbo, pre-quest au where hobbits basically take in and care for the dwarves of stevie before they find Ered Luin. Just a side note. I am ignoring Canon, timelines and other things that clog up my creativity flow. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1:

Bella was the most peculiar hobbit anyone, so her neighbours said, had ever had the fortune of knowing. She was quite… odd. Unlike the proper, respectable dame that was expected of someone of her Baggins lineage, she was rather more of a, well, Took.

She reminded most who met her of her late mother Belladonna Took, with her wild nature and fiery temper.

She had scared no small number of gentle-hobbits near to death with her habit of simply appearing next to them, seemingly out of thin air. Not that anyone ever said that aloud of course.

Because, no matter how fiery, wild and un-respectable the young lass acted, no-one could ever bring themselves to dislike her. Some, a fleeting minority, made their displeasure known, the Sackville-Bagginses being the most prominent. But for all their talk and fuss, they could never bring themselves to actually do anything about it.

Now, our little adventure starts, well, the way one might expect, with a hobbit, and some dwarves.

Bella was on a trip to Bree, just flitting round the market, sweet smile on her face, when she saw it.

Them.

Slavers.

Her face twisted with horror as she took it in, five dwarrow chained together with iron shackles, looking quite worse for wear, dirty and muddy and, dear Yavanna was that blood?!

Quite understandably, she was furious. So furious, in fact, that she didn’t even hesitate before marching over there, distain and disgust shown clear on her face, and buying them. She felt disgusted, and dirty, bartering for these poor people’s lives but it had to be done.

It took some haggling and negotiation, if one could even call it that, thieving conmen, but she had finally got the slaves. It had almost torn her pride in two when she had had to compliment the disgusting man in front of her, then again when she had to actually speak as if she was going to hurt them, the poor things.

But, that was all in the past now, they had to get to the blacksmiths forge right now to get their ruddy chains removed.

And that’s how Bella Baggins-Took found herself tromping through the markets, five dwarrow chained to her like dogs.

She looked back, and they all looked like kicked puppies. Why are they looking like that? They should be happy they’re fr- oh. They don’t know that. Oh Bella Baggins you fool of a Took.

She stopped, abruptly, and whirled around facing them, scrutinising their expressions. Then she sighed, shook her head and said, “Come on you lot, we’ve got to get to the blacksmiths before nightfall if we’re going to get those chains off you.

She immediately found herself being stared at by five pairs of bewildered eyes. She shrugged. “Come on.” She said again and turned around.

/D… did she just say that she’s going to take the chains off?/ Kiki sounded so hopeful, not yet broken by the months in a cage. There was hope for him yet.

For all of them if the tiny lass was telling the truth.

/She did. She did! She’s going to take the chains off!/

All the dwarrow expressed their shock and gratitude, some felt doubt but that was soon overshadowed by the hope they felt at the mere idea of being free again.

They raced after the tiny lass, all the way to the forge and soon were amazedly rubbing their sore, chain-free necks in bliss.

An hour later and they were out of their stained, soiled rags and into newer, softer, warmer clothes. The refreshing baths they had been treated to had done more than wash away the grime and dirt. They felt like true dwarrow again.

It was more than they had ever hoped for.

But there was only one question that remained, one thing that shrill worried them. What about Dis?

Oooh, cliffhanger. Not to worry, I intend to update this very soon. It’s Easter break so I will be updating all my fics for those people who think I’ve died because I haven’t been posting for so long. Adios chicos!

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d3-iseefire · 5 years ago

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Princess of Shadow

Note: So apparently I can’t do a writing prompt without it turning into a full fledged story SO I decided to just give in and write a full fledged story! Yay! Here is Chapter One! :D

Summary: Bilba Baggins, Crown Princess of Erebor, knew the stories well. How her wandering ancestors, desiring a home, had tricked the King of Erebor and stolen his throne. It wasn’t a particularly nice story but, according to the legends, the old king had been a brute anyway so Bilba never particularly minded.

King Durin had reportedly vowed to one day return and reclaim the mountain but, as the years passed the threat became little more than legend.

Legend, until the day they weren’t.

Now declared a threat to the stability of the throne and the new king who sits upon it, BIlba is given an ultimatum. She can marry her sworn enemy and bear him heirs to strengthen the Durin line, or be executed to remove the threat she presents by simply existing.

The choice is hers.

Extra Note: For the purposes of this story hobbits and dwarves have the same lifespan, cause it’s my story and I say so. :P :D :D

Princess of Shadow Master Chapter List: https://d3-iseefire.tumblr.com/post/187613581372/princess-of-shadow-master-list

Link to my other works on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ISeeFire/works

Bilba Baggins’ life as she knew it was turned upside down on a bright, sunny morning in late fall. Usually, Bilba longed for such mornings. Winters were frigid in Erebor and often left her, and the rest of the mountain’s inhabitants snowbound for months on end. It often made her wonder just what had possessed her ancestors to target the land for their own, especially when those hobbits who’d chosen to continue wandering had sent word of the Shire’s discovery less than two years later. Deep down, she had a suspicion that the decision to stay came more from stubbornness and pride than any genuine love for the mountain’s bruising stone or its constant, biting cold. Better to suffer in a stolen mountain than admit they might have been wrong to take it in the first place. In any event, Bilba loved those rare, sunny days that arrived less and less as the year ticked on toward winter. They were a reminder of what she’d enjoyed during the summer, and a promise of what awaited her on the far side of the harsh months that lay ahead. On such days she always did her best to stay outside as long as possible, visiting her best friend in Dale or simply wandering the hills around the mountain. There was no chance of her doing either activity today.

She’d been trapped inside for weeks now, so long that the urge to leave had slowly shriveled into apathy edged with despair.

She stayed in bed for several long minutes after awakening, perfectly still and with her eyes fixed on the underside of her canopy. She had nowhere to be anymore, and nothing to do so the impetus to get up in the morning had long since fled. As the days had crawled by she’d begun to crave sleep. It allowed her to forget, if ever so briefly, the way her stomach was perpetually tied into knots, or the increasingly dead look in the eyes of those wandering the halls of the mountain.

They all knew what was coming. It was no longer a question of if, but when.

She found the will to move finally and forced herself to sit up, She pushed the blankets back, shivered at the bite in the air, and carefully stood. Her feet slid into the plush rug her bed sat on and she took a second to dig her toes in and relish the warmth under her soles.

Her thin nightgown swirled about her legs and she snagged the matching robe off a nearby chair. As she slid it on and cinched the belt she reflected on the fact that it had been intended as part of her wedding trousseau and, had things gone differently, she’d be wearing it for her husband now instead of an empty room.

A shudder not born from the cold washed over her and acid churned uncomfortably in her gut at that particular thought.

Her intended, Lord Grima, was a nobleman of some note in Gondor, and loosely related to the throne. He was also at least four decades older than her. Despite her pleas, Bilba’s grandfather had accepted his offer of marriage in return for a promise that Grima would try to bend the king of Gondor toward an alliance with Erebor.

It was an alliance her grandfather had long desired, but which had long been denied for reason Bilba didn’t entirely understand. Gerontius Took firmly believed politics and the like to be the realm of men and it was rare Bilba had any idea of what was going on with her grandfather or his councilors.

Not that any of that stopped her grandfather from attempting to sell her off like a trinket at market. Grima had visited a few times to view his purchase, and his leering gaze and wandering hands had made her physically ill.

She was supposed if there were any silver lining to be found in their current circumstances, it was that at least she no longer had to worry about him. Still, had it come down to her marrying Grima, or watching her people suffer as they now were...she’d have chosen the marriage. As awful and miserable as she knew it would have been, if her marriage could have spared her people she’d have gone to it, and gladly.

Well, maybe not gladly, but she’d have gone.

A light knock came on her door and, at her quiet word, it opened to admit her maid, one of the few women in the mountain with a smaller stature than Bilba, which was saying something. In the past, Josie had always dressed more like a Lady in Waiting than a maid, with her blonde hair curled and piled high and her gowns bright and eye-catching.

She’d had a dream, she’d confided once, of catching the eye of a nobleman willing to overlook her class and marry her. A fairy-tale come true she’d said, eyes sparkling with excitement, and hands clasped before her. Bilba had quite agreed and had done her best to steer the other women toward the kinder noblemen, while simultaneously extolling her virtues to them every chance she got.

None of that excited, hopeful girl was evident now in the quiet woman who entered the room. Josie’s hair was in a knot at the back of her head and her gown was homespun and simple. The bounce that was normally present in her step was gone, and her eyes were dull and lifeless.

As if the sight triggered something deep inside, Bilba’s feet began to move almost on their own toward the two large doors that led onto her balcony. Dawn tinted sunlight streamed through the large panes of glass set in the wood frame, casting a reddish orange hue over her room. In the past she’d loved it when it looked like this.

Now all she could think of when she saw it was blood.

“Your Highness,” Josie said, hesitant, from behind her. “Perhaps it’d be best if you didn’t go out there. It’s not safe.”

Bilba’s heart began to hammer in her chest as she curled her hand around the handle of the door and, in one smooth motion, yanked it open before she could talk herself out of it.

It was deceptively quiet, just the rush of air about the mountain and the faint, raucous sound of ravens that like to roost among the rocks. Her balcony was enormous, dug from the side of the mountain itself and sporting a rock ledge that rose from the edges to nearly her waist.

It was a masterwork of engineering, and one of the few still usable in the mountain. Hobbits were not gifted in the art of stonework, and lacked the necessary skills or knowledge to learn. There were entire sections of Erebor now that were considered unstable and were closed off to the public.

It was quite possible that, had things been allowed to progress naturally, they would have had to leave Erebor in another hundred years or so as it would have simply become to dangerous to continue living there.

Not that any of that mattered now.

Bilba shuffled out slowly onto the balcony, shivering as the cold air bit through her clothes. Now that she was out she could hear it, the faintest clamor from far below, of voices, tack and equipment as bodies awakened and readied themselves for the day.

She let out a slow breath and then, resigned, made her way to the edge. She already knew what she’d see, but held out the irrational hope that once, just once, she’d look down and be wrong.

That her eyes would look out over an empty plain, stretching back serenely toward Dale and farther still until it reached the borders of Mirkwood. That the only movement would be a light breeze dancing through the grass and rustling the branches of trees. That, in the distance, she’d catch sight of the Men of Dale ratcheting open the gates as they readied for a day of brisk trade between their merchants and those of Erebor.

It was a sight that had greeted her daily for most of her twenty years. It was a sight that she’d often considered boring, her restless soul yearning for adventure and excitement beyond the daily, repetitive grind.

It was a sight she’d given anything to see again.

The gates of Dale were shut, as they had been for over a month now, and if there was a breeze dancing in the grass she couldn’t see it.

Instead all she could see was an army. It filled the plain below, swelled against the walls of Dale and muddled the borders of Mirkwood. Row upon row of soldiers, horses, and siege weapons. From the height she was at, they looked like little more than ants milling about the landscape, but Bilba knew they were anything but.

The dwarves, as it turned out, were not willing to wait another hundred years to reclaim Erebor. They wanted it back now and, given how things had been going of late, they would soon get it.

Bilba’s eyes drifted toward the largest tents in the center of the camp, and her heart twisted at the sight of the banners proudly proclaiming their owners. She would never understand. Lady Sigrid was her best friend. She’d spent hours in their home, considered Lord Bard as a surrogate father of sorts. Mirkwood she’d spent less time in but, even so, she was still on a first name basis with Legolas, had attended dances and banquets in both their honor and her own.

She’d thought they were friends, and yet here were the banners of both fluttering alongside that of the dwarves, proudly announcing their allegiance.

The pain of the betrayal cut deep, and even now blurred her vision. Apparently, they hadn’t been as close as she’d once believed. All the while they’d laughed and smiled, invited her into their homes and lives, they’d been plotting behind her and her grandfather’s back. Planning, smiling to her face while simultaneously sneaking around to drive a blade into her back.

It hurt, and it was humiliating. She’d believed them. She’d really, honestly, thought they were her friends. She could just imagine how they must have laughed at her behind her back, mocked her...

Bilba drew in a sharp breath. Her nose burned and she scowled as tears began to track down her face. She needed to get that under control. The writing was on the wall, and the last thing she wanted was to break down in front of them later. It was bad enough that they’d hurt her. She didn’t want to let them see it, and hear their mocking laughter in return.

“Your Highness?” Josie’s voice came from right over her shoulder. “Perhaps we should go back inside. You’ll catch a cold standing out here.”

Bilba set her shoulders back, and nodded stiffly. “You’re right of course.” She pasted a shaky smile on her face, and turned to face the other girl. “Let’s go.”

Josie nodded and turned to go back in. As she did, Bilba couldn’t help a final look over her shoulder, down to what had become a battlefield far below. Her eyes caught on one tent in particular, the largest in the dead center of the camp.

There she knew she would find the source of all of Erebor’s problems. A bloodline her grandfather believed gone, died out and lost generations ago. A line descended from the evil brute her ancestors had described, and undoubtedly still just as brutish.

A pox on them, Bilba thought bitterly, as anger overcame her. If it weren’t for them none of this would be happening. She clenched her jaw and, with an angry motion, jerked around to follow Josie inside.

As she slammed the doors shut with slightly more force than necessary she found herself wishing fervently and passionately that the Valar would send a bolt of lightning and strike the entire line dead where they stood.

Damn the line of Durin, and all those who supported them.

***

Frerin shoved back the flap of his tent and strode out into the open. Brisk, cool air wrapped around him and he relaxed into it. He raised his arms over his head and stretched, nearly groaning in pleasure as his various joints and vertebrae popped and snapped themselves back into position.

There was just nothing positive about sleeping in a tent, regardless of the furs and food and whatever else put in to try and convince him otherwise. The cots were always too small and too hard, and the air quickly became stuffy and overbearing.

He always woke up stiff, sore and drenched in sweat, and with a renewed gratitude for his quarters in Ered Luin. Small and cramped they might be but, compared to a tent, they might as well have been the lap of luxury.

Giggling drew his attention to a pair of human, female archers passing by. He hadn’t thought much about seeing women when he’d chosen to walk out in nothing but his trousers. Females in dwarven society weren’t allowed to fight. They were so rare as it was that risking what few there were in battle would be idiotic.

He raised his eyebrows suggestively at the two archers, and smirked. The women immediately went beet red and scurried off, laughter ringing out behind them.

Frerin chuckled. He could get used to having women on the battlefield he decied as he ducked back inside his tent. When he emerged a few minutes later he was properly dressed and had pulled his boots on. He’d opted for a leather cuirass instead of full armor, and had simply belted on his sword rather than spend time arming himself with the various blades he liked to carry.

He made his way toward the large pavilion set up several tents away. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to see Thorin already there, pouring over a map laid out on the table before him as if it held all the answers in the world.

“Planning our next battle plan?” he asked in amusement.

Thorin paused long enough to glare at him before resuming his study of the map. They both knew there wouldn’t be another battle plan. The last fight had been over a week earlier, and it had been the last. The hobbits had barely been able to muster a force of thirty, and less than half of them had made it back inside the mountain.

The hobbits had shut and barred the gates behind them, while the forces outside had surrounded the mountain.

It was no longer a fight. It was a siege, the outcome all but guaranteed. The only thing question now was --

“How much longer?” he asked as he approached the table.

Thorin raised his head, eyes directed toward the mountain that loomed over their encampment. He’d been hesitant to use the trebuchets and, in the end, the decision had proven to be a good one. The hobbits seemed to have no siege weapons of their own and, in Thorin refusing to use the ones at his disposal, they’d avoided unnecessary damage to their future home.

The last thing anyone wanted was to destroy the very thing they’d spent blood trying to reclaim.

“There are natural springs inside the mountain,” Thorin’s voice broke into his thoughts, “so they’ll have no fear over water. The biggest question is if they’ve stored food for the winter and, if so, how much.”

If they had stored food, the hobbits could conceivably last months, assuming they were careful and rationed it.

Frerin chewed on his lower lip as he followed his brother’s gaze to the mountain. If this siege did last months, it could soon erase their advantage. The snows would come, leaving the hobbits safely ensconced inside the mountain, while they would be trapped outside in the elements.

Planning a war with winter fast approaching wasn’t what any of them had wanted, or would have chosen had it been solely up to them. If they could have, they’d have spent time carefully planning before marching in early spring with months of warm weather ahead of them within which to outlast the hobbits.

It hadn’t been up to them, however, not entirely. The previous winter in Ered Luin had been brutal. So bad that it had managed to upset the delicate line they had long walked between extreme poverty, and outright starvation.

He’d lost count of how many had died that winter. Of how many times he’d stood silently alongside his brother and sister as flames had flickered and snapped over the wood of pyres, sending yet one more soul to the Halls of Mandos to await the rebuilding of the world.

Not only had the winter itself been brutal, but it had lasted far longer than normal. The optimal time for planting was long past by the time the frost finally loosened its grip, and many crops that were planted failed to produce. Those few that did were destroyed in a series of spring storms that plagued the mountains.

They had tried reaching out to surrounding areas for help but the grip of winter had spread far and there were none who could spare the resources.

Motion caught his eye and Frerin saw Gandalf emerge from his tent. The man looked grave, as he had from the day the war started. He knew the wizard deeply regretted every life lost on both sides, an irony in some ways as he’d been the one to start this entire mess. Gandalf had arrived just as all hope had seemed lost, bearing tales of the tyranny of the false king of Erebor. Dale and Mirkwood were ripe for alliance he’d claimed, and he’d been right. And now here they were, locked in a battle they had to win. If they failed those they’d left behind would starve, might still starve if they didn’t receive word to begin their journey to Erebor soon. Bard appeared, face grave and worn in spite of the night he’d spent in Dale checking on his family and people. “Are you all right?” Frerin asked with a frown. “Your family?” “Fine,” the dark haired man said shortly. “My daughter is angry with me, but she’ll recover.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced, but Frerin knew better than to press. Lord Bard had been reluctant to ally with them. He detested war, regardless of its justification, and had only agreed in the end when it became clear war was inevitable. All that mattered was whose side he wished to be on. In the distance, Frerin could hear Thranduil barking orders and he turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Legolas vanishing around a corner in that direction. The elven prince had proven to be a peacemaker, often tempering his father’s more aggressive temperaments. Said temperament had been on display more and more of late, and not just with him. No one enjoyed the waiting game they were currently engaged in, and less so every day they grew nearer to winter. Frerin’s eyes were drawn back to the mountain and his stomach twisted uncomfortably inside him. He preferred being in control of his own fate, able to take up sword and fight for his life and that of his loved ones. Now all he could do was wait, and hope, that fate would play out in their favor. That the Hobbits’ food would run out and they would surrender before the snow hit. The bite in the air registered and Frerin raised his eyes toward the sky where heavy, dark clouds looked over them. Time would tell on whose side the Valar stood, and soon. He could only pray it was theirs.

#Fanfic #Fanfiction #Hobbit #The Hobbit #Romance #Action #Adventure #Frerin #Female Bilbo #FemBilbo #Thorin #Fili #Kili #Erebor Never Fell (to Smaug anyway)#AU #Alternate Universe #Fantasy #Writing #My Writing

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