leavesonthetrees

[leavesonthetrees]

According to Plan (And When it’s Not )

CW - Mentions of death

Summary - Bilbo returns to the Shire to find more treasures than he left.

A/N - This was originally meant to be one fic but it’s gotten too big so please enjoy part 1. This is an apology for making people feel things in the last one. Have I absolutely fucked with the timeline and characters? Absolutely. Do I care? No. Also please tell me someone spots the Horrible Histories reference in there.

It has been a year since an exhausted Bilbo stumbled through his front door into the empty halls of Bag End. Who knew mithril could be so heavy? It’s been 10 months since Bilbo managed to get all of his furniture back with the help of a calm, negotiating Hamfast Gamgee and the fury of a very heavily pregnant Bell Gamgee with her cast iron skillet. It has been 9 months since Bilbo finally got around to planting that acorn in his garden with the utmost care. It has been 7 months since Bilbo finally mustered the courage to write a letter to Balin, detailing his journey home and settling back in again. It has been 6 months since Bilbo received a returning letter talking about how Thorin is settling into his role as King Under the Mountain and Dís returning to scold her brother for putting her sons in danger.

It does take about 2 weeks for Bilbo to get over his shock and then his anger as he thought both Thorin and his nephews were laid to rest within the halls of Erebor. It has been 6 ½ months since Bilbo wrote a rather disgruntled letter to Balin asking if Thorin, Fili and Kili are still alive and if so, why was he not informed. It has been 4 months since a rather sheepish letter from Balin arrived, citing a misunderstanding. This letter includes a note from Thorin expressing his wish to see Bilbo again. Sorrow and longing bleed through the pages of how they did not even get to say goodbye. Bilbo replied about a week later, declaring his intent to return to Erebor when he is more settled and the time is right.

But most importantly, it has been 2 months since a distraught Fosco Baggins, the father of Drogo Baggins, appears on his doorstep holding a wailing bundle.

“Bilbo…I-I am so sorry to have to tell you this.” The normally composed elder hobbit seems to be collapsing at the seams. There’s already a sinking feeling in Bilbo’s stomach, seemingly acting on a pulley system with the bile rising in his throat.

“Primula and Drogo they…” the words seem to catch in Fosco’s throat. Bilbo presses a shaking hand to his heart, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Fosco swallows hard and soldiers on.

“They drowned in the Brandywine, 2 days ago after dinner. The Bounders found them.” A tiny flailing arm appears out of the bundle, distraught as if to sense what’s happening.

“They listed you as Godfather in…in…” Fosco cuts himself off, holding the baby Frodo tight. Bilbo for his part, straightens his shoulders and blinks back the tears.

“I shall take him in. Needless to say, you may visit whenever you like, don’t bother knocking.” The same words he said to his dwarves nearly a year ago roll around his head and out of his mouth without thinking. Fosco nods and reluctantly passes Frodo over, the grief in his eyes overwhelming. Bilbo cradles Frodo in his arms, the weight of the infant as unfamiliar as the weight of the world that seems to settle on his shoulders.

Bilbo had watched his parents babysit relatives’ children before, helped out when he got older but there were certain things he had never done; this became evident the first time he changed Frodo’s nappy. Frodo wiggled around on the makeshift dressing table, also known as the spare room chest of drawers with a coiled-up blanket on top to prevent him from rolling off. Bilbo took the soiled cloth off and bent to retrieve another only to straighten and get a face full of urine. Once the shock had worn off he started laughing, uncontrollably guffawing until tears rolled down his cheeks and that laughter turned to sobs. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and just cries until the unhappy whines draw him from his grief. His smile is weak and quite soggy (from tears and pee but we aren’t going to mention that) but it is still a smile as he picks up a different cloth to wipe Frodo down.

“I’m sorry little pebble, let’s get you sorted out eh?”

Luckily for all involved, Hamfast and Bell come over that evening, arms laden with supplies, heads full of advice and welcoming arms full of support. From there it becomes easier, the two of them fall into a routine. Fosco and his wife Ruby come over every Sunday to have dinner and to spend time with their grandson. The residents of Hobbiton look at him differently, no longer ‘Mad Baggins’ and more like ‘Dad Baggins’. He receives invitations to parties, neighbours coming knocking with spare sweet treats and a kind word.

With the first fall of the autumn leaves comes Frodo’s first steps, right in the middle of the town square for all to see. Ruby is standing chatting to a neighbour, Frodo sits at her ankles playing with her skirts. Frodo makes a determined grunt and pulls himself up to his feet, he furrows his little eyebrows and takes an unsteady wobble towards Bilbo, his facial expression far more serious than you would expect for an 11-month-old. Ruby is the first to notice, delightedly squealing

“Bilbo, Bilbo! He’s walking!” Most hobbits turn to see, Bilbo drops the conversation he’s having with the baker as well as his basket, arms outstretched to Frodo.

“Come on little pebble, you can do it! Walk to Uncle Bilbo!” Bilbo smiles so wide his cheeks hurt as Frodo takes another step and then another and another then Bilbo is running towards him to catch him as Frodo pitches forward into the dirt. Before he can face plant the ground, Frodo is swept up into loving arms as Bilbo holds him up to the sky, laughing and grinning from ear to ear.

“You did it, my boy! You did it! You wonderful, wonderful boy!” The surrounding crowd cheers as Bilbo peppers kisses over Frodo’s head and face while little Frodo squeals with delight.

There is some awkwardness about 2 months later, not long after Frodo’s first birthday (and Bilbo’s 52nd but it’s not polite to mention that) when he calls Bilbo

“Papa!” Bilbo tries to get his son nephew to call him ‘Uncle Bilbo’ but Frodo isn’t having one single bit of it. Fosco, Ruby and Bilbo decide this battle isn’t worth fighting as long as Bilbo tells Frodo about Drogo and Primula when he’s old enough to understand. And so the years seem to fly by, just the two of them with their little close-knit family and their Sunday dinners; Bilbo forgets all about his promise to return to Erebor.

But not for long as one spring, a letter bearing Erebor’s seal arrives in Bag End’s letterbox. Frodo loves to collect the mail and as soon as he realises there’s something important in there, he’s flying back through the door, leaving it wide open in the process.

“Papa! Papa! There’s a new letter!”

Frodo skids into the kitchen, nearly knocking the pot of tea onto the floor.

“Walking feet in the house Frodo, we’ve talked about this.” Bilbo chides gently and puts his hand out for the letter.

“A new letter huh? Who do you think it’s from?” Frodo is almost vibrating with excitement.

“Is it from your dwarves?” Bilbo sighs, fondly exasperated. He’d just finished telling Frodo all about the quest as a bedtime story, obviously appropriately moderated for little ears.

“I doubt it Frodo, we haven’t written to each other in- oh.” It is in fact from his dwarves. The letter is a formal invitation for a ‘Mr Bilbo Baggins, 14th Member of the Company’ to attend the 10th anniversary of the Reclaiming of Erebor. Frodo is, of course, reading over his shoulder.

“Please can we go, Papa, pleeeeeeease?”

“I don’t know Pebble.” Bilbo frowns, skimming over the letter.

“You’re rather young for your first adventure halfway across the world. I was 50 when I went on my first proper adventure.” Frodo pulls out his secret weapon, the big blue sparkling eyes that get him everything he wants ™.

“You could see that dwarf that you really liked? Mister Thorin?” Frodo says slyly, a knowing look in his eyes which has no right to be in the eyes of a 9-year-old. Bilbo immediately caves.

“Oh alright, but you must promise to be on your best behaviour.”

“I will Papa, I will!” Frodo immediately scoots off to start packing while Bilbo begins the long process of preparing himself, Frodo and Bag End for their journey; especially hiding those silver spoons.

While Papa is busy doing all the boring grown-up stuff, Frodo is plotting. Papa always got misty-eyed whenever he talked about Mister Thorin so they must be in love. Of course, Frodo may only be 9 but he is an absolute master on the subject of love. What’s better than having 1 Papa? 2 Papas. Oh, he is so going to win the ‘my dad can beat up your dad’ competition against Otho Sackville-Baggins.

[leavesonthetrees]

Tea is at Four

Summary - Bilbo stands in the doorway of Bag End, one last time.

A/N: I’m really sorry, I feel like I need to preemptively apologise for this one. Please let me know if it made you feel anything, I did in fact cry writing this.

Today was a happy occasion for Bilbo Baggins, of course, it is not every day it is your 111th birthday! Frodo is down at the Party Tree with his best friend Samwise Gamgee, a kind young man with Frodo’s best interests at heart. Not entirely necessary of course as his dearest nephew is of age and is more than capable of taking care of himself but you can hardly blame a senile old hobbit for worrying.

Bilbo stands in the doorway of Bag End at the end of Bag Shot Row, knowing it is the last time he will walk these floorboards, warm his feet in front of the fireplace, make a scrumptious pot of tea in that kitchen, tend to his flowers in the garden. From here, while his eyesight is beginning to go, he can still see the acorn tree before the tears blur his vision. Oh Yavanna, how many years has it been? 60 whole years since he ran out that door, the ink still drying on the crinkled parchment of his contract as he flew past his stunned neighbours, past prying eyes and gossiping biddies to the most brilliant adventure of a lifetime.

Until it wasn’t. Thorin lies cold and unmoving in his trembling hands with Bilbo praying to every deity he could think of that this was all a bad dream. He notices drops of rain landing on Thorin’s cheeks, wiping the wetness away in a futile attempt, only to realise they are his tears. It is only when Dwalin places a hand on his shoulder can he tear his eyes from that pale face, raising himself on shaky, numb legs to walk back to camp. Alone.

The blows keep coming. What does Balin mean Dain shall be King Under the Mountain? Fili is Crown Prince, should he not be next in line? He would have been if his heart still beat in his chest. The grief is not earth-shattering like how he knows his dwarves are describing it. Instead, he feels as if he is walking through Hobbiton in the evening, each light in the windows turning off in preparation for bed, the quiet of the night creeping in around him until he stands back in the doorway of Bag End, all of his belongings, gone. Alone.

Once Thorin, Fili and Kili are laid to rest in the halls of their forebears, he leaves. They are barely within the stone when Bilbo packs his things and stands at the gates. He clears his throat, rocking on his feet slightly as he gives them all a watery smile.

“If any of you are ever passing Bag End, tea is at four. There’s plenty of it. You are welcome anytime.” Bilbo swallows, hard. Proper hobbit manners kick in once again and the treacherous tears remain at bay but his smile becomes a little more real at the memory.

“Don’t bother knocking.”

By the time Bilbo feels ready to look at the acorn again, he wonders if it shall ever grow, kept in the pocket of a Durin blue coat which is folded in a chest on top of a vest made of mithril. Sometimes he swears in the darker evenings that he can hear a baritone humming that same song he heard many moons ago; but every time he runs to look, the fire just crackles in the grate as if to say ‘You are seeing ghosts, Burglar.” But it does grow, a sweet little sprout into a strong sapling and from there into a magnificent oak tree; on some days he thinks he can hear Fili and Kili’s laughter whistling through the leaves on the wind.

But with the little acorn from Beorn’s house, all the way from half across the world, Bilbo too grows. The grief that used to make the world seem so grey evolves…well it doesn’t evolve but Bilbo learns to cope. By putting one foot in front of the other, Bilbo keeps going and the day that a young faunt by the name of Frodo arrives on his doorstep; suddenly that lonely walk doesn’t seem as lonely anymore. He finds the smiles aren’t as strained anymore, they reach his eyes again when little hands covered in dirt come running into the smial with an “Uncle Bilbo! Uncle Bilbo! Look! A snail!”

There is but one thing. Bilbo spends hours hovering in his kitchen, checking, double-checking and checking again for a floppy hat, an ear trumpet, a set of axes. He always keeps his pantry stocked full in case of any surprise visitors of the dwarven variety. For years he makes an extra cup or two in the pot of tea and a fruit tart on the table. He craves that knock at the door like all those years ago like the need to breathe, to have Dwalin standing there in his green cloak, to have Balin commenting on the rain. It never comes. He tells himself at first they have forgotten him but he knows deep down it is the same reason he cannot bring himself to go back to Erebor again. Over and over again he says he has responsibilities and later, a duty of care to Frodo. ‘That didn’t stop you the first time’ a voice like Gandalf’s says. Neither side visits because they cannot face each other knowing their company is incomplete.

Bilbo’s hand, gnarled and wrinkled from old age grips the door frame as the weight of the grief threatens to buckle his knees. The other goes to cover his mouth, to stifle the noise or perhaps an attempt to physically tamp the feelings down. After all, today is his 111th birthday and that only comes once you know.

[leavesonthetrees]

Lessons in ‘Don’t Piss Off Your Hobbit’

CW - Mentions of injury & death, swearing

Summary - Not only is Thorin is still injured from the battle but he’s missed elevensies, luncheon and now afternoon tea on top of having to represent Erebor in the peace negotiations; so his day isn’t wonderful anyway. Thranduil then decides to open his mouth, this is very bad.

When Thorin started courting Bilbo, it genuinely hadn’t occurred to him that he would hold a genuine title as the king’s boyfriend. So imagine his surprise when Lord Dain greets him jovially after the battle with “Bilbo Baggins! An honour to meet Erebor’s Royal Consort!” His booming brogue leaves Bilbo’s ears ringing slightly but not as much as the statement.

“Ah, Lord Dain I presume? An honour to finally meet you.”

Dain holds Bilbo’s face in his hands before tapping their foreheads together, which is more like a one-hit K.O. for the poor hobbit, who stumbles backwards while Balin rushes forward, chiding Dain and holding the slightly damaged Bilbo upright.

“He’s a hobbit my Lord, not a dwarf! We don’t need him concussed for the negotiations!”

Dain’s laughter fills the air as a solid hand drops onto Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo thinks it momentarily to be a second round of dwarven affection but Dain pats his shoulder with an amused “Sorry your highness, didn’t realise my own strength.”

In the next tent over, Fili and Kili are wounded but alive. Kili may never walk properly again but a dodgy knee is a small price to pay for living through the fight. Fili’s right eye is covered by a thick layer of bandages wrapped around his skull and so is his leg, broken in the fall. Both, however, miraculously still alive. Thorin remains unconscious. His skin hued grey, taking shallow breaths that Bilbo has spent hours counting at his bedside; each rise and fall of his beloved’s chest. Despite his present condition, Oin seems to relax with each passing day and is confident that the King under the Mountain will rule again. As Bilbo and Thorin have been courting, it has been assumed that Bilbo is the next highest authority within Erebor and as such will be the representative at the post-battle negotiations. Bilbo was not aware of this until now.

“Isn’t Fili the crown prince? He has training for this. Or-or you Balin, you’re his advisor. I’m just a simple hobbit.” Bilbo protests weakly but it’s a fruitless cause because Dain is already steering him out of the tent and towards the centre of the camps where the meeting is being held.

“Nonsense! I know my cousin, he wouldn’t court some soft-hearted fool!” Without further ado, Dain and Bilbo enter the tent to a wall of noise.

It’s packed in there, elves, dwarves, men, Gandalf; a variety of generals, advisors and of course leaders. Lord Bard of Dale as he’s now become is sitting having a close, quiet discussion with King Thranduil while Gandalf puffs on his pipe in the corner. Dain and Bilbo take their respective seats at the table, Balin slipping in to sit beside Bilbo and giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Gandalf spots them and gets what he might call mischievous but what Bilbo would call ‘This is why the Shire have labelled you a disturber of the peace’ glint in his eyes.

“I call this meeting to order!” Gandalf calls, getting to his feet, the tent quietening instantly.

“The purpose of today is to draw up treaties that protect and strengthen relationships between your kingdoms. Each kingdom has its leader to represent the people as a whole.” Thranduil interrupts here which Bilbo notes becomes a running theme.

“What about the halfling? He is not king, nor does he hold sufficient status here. Unless the Shire is involved in some way, I see no reason for his presence.” Indignation and insult bubble beneath Bilbo’s skin.

You see, to Big Folk and other races, ‘Halfling’ is just a descriptor for hobbits, merely another name for them. To hobbits, it’s a rather rude way to refer to them as they are half of nothing thank you very much and it’s the quickest way to never receive another invite to afternoon tea. So with Thranduil starting like that, it doesn’t look promising.

“King Thorin is currently indisposed due to injuries sustained during the battle. Bilbo Baggins is being courted by Thorin and as such holds the unofficial title of Royal Consort until further notice.” Gandalf shoots Thranduil a withering look while another blonde elf who looks suspiciously like Thranduil seems to melt with embarrassment behind him.

This is a precedent for the meeting to come, hours and hours of talking in circles, thinly veiled insults from all sides of the table and quite frankly a little too much rudeness for Bilbo’s liking. Travelling for months with 13 dwarves and a wizard does wonderful things for your tolerance and patience but Bilbo is finding his temper stretching thin in the face of this hoity-toity elven bitch. It must be mid-afternoon by now which means Bilbo has missed elevensies, luncheon and now afternoon tea, he’s fully aware he didn’t get 7 meals a day on the journey but he feels like being petty and regardless of the details, he’s hungry. All of this he can deal with until Thranduil opens his mouth again.

“King Thorin has still not given me what I am owed. I commissioned the White Gems of Lasgalen for my late wife and yet they remain in Erebor. Are the dwarves selfish and greedy enough to keep a grieving husband’s last memory of his wife from him?”

Bilbo takes a steady breath in.

“No my lord, you have my word that the Gems shall be returned to you in due time however I believe we have more pressing matters. Erebor is in ruin at present, the dragon did much damage to a lot of the livable space and we therefore have higher priorities such as sourcing clean water, providing shelter for our people. Not to mention that the people of Laketown have nothing but the clothes on their backs.”

“What worth does your word have to me? Thranduil raises a manicured eyebrow and lazily waves a hand in Bilbo’s direction.

“By whose decree are you Erebor’s Royal Consort? Holding hands with a dying dwarf doesn’t make you king?”

There’s immediate outrage from the other dwarves in the room, getting out of seats and calling insults at him, Bilbo vaguely recognises the Khudzul words for ‘tree shagger’ somewhere in there.

“The intricacies of Dwarven politics are not up for debate at this time, it is not appropriate nor relevant to this meeting. What concerns me King Thranduil is your focus on your wants rather than your people’s needs, our needs and theirs.” Bilbo gestures to the surrounding dwarves and men. Thranduil sits straighter in his chair, the mask of disinterest gone.

“Do not speak to me of greed halfling.” Thranduil spits, the blonde elf from earlier tries to intervene but Thranduil puts up a hand to silence him.

“Those dwarves-“ he uses the word dwarves like one would use a slur, perhaps it is to him “- holed up in their great rock and shut themselves off to the rest of the world. They took my last gift to my wife from me and all I ask is to have it back. I care not whether Oakenshield lives or dies, perhaps then you will know the loss I have endured.”

The stunned silence rings throughout the tent as if all persons present cannot believe what was said. Bilbo for his part has gone eerily pale. Balin would describe it to a very amused, slightly scandalised and a little turned on Thorin later, calling it the calm before the storm except the storm was actually a hurricane.

“You have the nerve to call dwarves, greedy? I ask you oh high and mighty king if you care to get off your massive elk and your head out of your own arse, what happened when the Great Wyrm came? Did you help the survivors flee the dragon’s fire? Did you offer medical attention to those burned or injured? Did you offer shelter or support to those dwarves who were now without a home?”

Bilbo gets to his feet, a dark red flush spreading from his cheeks to his ears.

“No. You let hundreds die because you can’t get over your dead bloody wife! She’s been dead for how many years if not centuries at this point and you have a living son! You were arguably complicit with Smaug in the desecration of their home over some shiny glass. How cruel and cold you must be, King of Mirkwood to watch children die and just turn away.”

Bilbo takes a great, deep gulping breath before carrying on, now in the swing of things.

“Thorin and I are not married, no. But I can say with a great amount of certainty that in the 300 years he may live, he will be a greater king than you could accomplish in your immortal lifespan! I am honoured to stand here in his stead, to represent the Kingdom of Erebor which is something to be proud of. Unlike Mirkwood- apologies, the Greenwood, which has become cursed with rot and disease. That is what you shall be remembered for, you will be written in our history books are the king who couldn’t give less of a fuck! About our people or your own!”

Gandalf’s eyebrows are in his hairline, Bard’s jaw is practically on the table and Dain looks like he’s going to burst something from how hard he’s trying not to laugh. Thranduil has the most undignified facial expression that Bilbo has ever seen on an elf; mouth open like a fish, face flushed and eyes bugging out of his head. Bilbo clears his throat, straightens his coat and glances around the tent before focusing on Thranduil once more.

“I believe tempers are running short, I think a lunch break may be in order.”

The entire room seems to stand to attention, eager to flee the surprisingly feisty hobbit’s ire.

“Oh, and your majesty?” Bilbo’s tone is casual but Thranduil turned like the grim reaper himself had called him.

“Halfling is a very serious insult in the Shire, we are not half of anything. If anything, I’m twice the man you could ever hope to be. Call me a Halfling again and I’ll return those Gems to you, shoving them so far up your arse that you’ll be picking bits of them out of your teeth for a week.”

Thranduil just nods stiffly and sweeps out of the tent, his elegant glide seems less like a swan and more like a goose right now. The remaining eyes swivel back to the hobbit who’s brushing the dust off his coat.

“He was walking awfully strangely, I wonder if he’s soiled his small clothes?”

Dain guffaws, tears streaming down his face, clutching the edge of the table for support.

“Aye, I think I would’ve too if you’d been talking to me like that. Mahal, dinnae know you pulled that from.” Dain is practically wheezing, thumping a fist against the table. Bilbo just smiles, rather entertained.

“Oh please, he’s not even half as uptight as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. As Bofur once said, she’s so uptight that you could shove a lump of coal up her arse and it’d be a diamond within a week.”

Funnily enough, Thranduil isn’t present for the rest of the peace talks and instead his son Legolas who had been trying to get Eru to take him there and then from the confrontation earlier, takes over. Legolas does attempt to apologise on behalf of his father but Bilbo waves it away. After all, Legolas seems like a polite young fellow who understands the joy of a crisp, cucumber sandwich and also isn’t anywhere near as much of an infuriating bastard as his father.

[leavesonthetrees]

You Could’ve Told Me…At Any Point! (Not a Bloody Clue Pt.2)

CW - Blood and Injury (Minor)

Summary - After Bilbo falls ill after their daring escape from Mirkwood, he’s told that he and Thorin have been courting for the last month! He would’ve appreciated being told.

A/N - I just want to say thank you for all the love and support I’ve received on my last post. I’m genuinely kicking my little feet and giggling. I honestly thought my writing was awful but to see some of the tags that people are reposting with and the sweetest of comments makes me feel like Bilbo getting to kiss Thorin for the first time. Thank you so so much everyone!

Surprisingly Bilbo’s braids hold steady through most of Mirkwood but the impromptu river ride in the rapids down to Laketown does leave Bilbo’s curls completely sodden and stuck to his face and neck. He drags himself out of the river, his whole body feels sluggish and uncoordinated. Behind him, the dwarves pull and push their way out of their respective barrels. Fili is gagging, bent over with his hands on his knees, moaning about how he never wants to look at an apple ever again. Poor Bifur is being helped by his cousins because his axe had gotten stuck in the side of his barrel after a particularly rough turn.

Bilbo glances around, definitely not looking for Thorin and attributes the blurriness at the edges of his vision to exhaustion and water clinging to his eyelashes. Thorin is helping Kili out of his barrel, blood flowing freely down his leg, the arrowhead still lodged in his knee. Thorin’s brow is creased with concern although he’s trying not to show it, to be the strong uncle Kili needs right now. Kili clings to him with a white knuckled grip, soft noises of pain escaping him, suddenly seeming like a small child, scared and in pain in the arms of his uncle. Bilbo takes one step towards them and nearly lands headfirst in the river.

“Blasted hobbit!” Dwalin curses loudly enough while ringing out his shirt for all to hear. Bilbo whips round and glares at Dwalin.

“And what was your plan then? None of you helped at all! You sat on your arses in that dungeon and practically got a lovely holiday out of that.” Bilbo spits. He takes a step towards Dwalin, wobbling slightly. Despite coming out of an ice-cold river, it’s awfully warm, in fact, he’s sweating.

“You had regular food and beds while you waited for me to do all the leg work and yet you have the nerve- the absolute nerve to stand there and criticise me! Not one of you, not one of you has thanked me! For anything I’ve done for the last couple of weeks! So don’t you dare stand there and curse my name when you were content to sit idle!” Bilbo’s chest is heaving when he’s finished and Dwalin’s mouth is agape. He’s trembling slightly with rage…no, no this isn’t rage, these are tremors. All of a sudden, Bilbo doesn’t feel very well. He makes a strange sort of noise before his knees buckle and he drops like a sack of potatoes face-first into the water. He deliriously notes that he can’t breathe, probably because he’s lying face down in the river. The few seconds feel like an eternity before strong hands are pulling him from the river and sweet, sweet oxygen fills his lungs in a great gasp.

Thorin’s face swims into view, his mouth is moving and there’s sound coming out but it’s beyond Bilbo whatever he’s saying. Bilbo gives him a gentle smile and reaches up to pat Thorin’s cheek. Thorin’s eyes look very blue from this angle, a piercing blue and watery like the sea. Oh he’s crying, why is he crying? Bilbo frowns, he likes Thorin a lot, something in his chest hurts at the sight and he doesn’t want Thorin to cry, why is he sad? Thorin’s hand feels lovely and cool against Bilbo’s far too warm cheek and he closes his eyes, savouring the feeling. He can almost pretend the tenderness in the gesture is love.

Bilbo’s mouth tastes like shit. It’s also uncomfortably dry, as if he’d ordered a tankard of sand instead of ale. There’s a warm weight against his hand, slightly damp too. Bilbo manages to crack his eyes open with what feels like a monumental amount of effort. Thorin, bless his heart, is asleep with his head resting on Bilbo’s hand. He looks like he’s been to a Took birthday party to put it lightly, his hair in disarray, dark circles that almost look like bruises, dried tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Thorin?” This is what Bilbo tries to say but instead what comes out is a lung-wrenching coughing fit. The dwarf in question’s head snaps up and is pushing a glass of water into Bilbo’s hand with one hand and leaning over to support Bilbo’s head with the other, his fingers splaying across his skull, trembling slightly with relief.

“Oin!” Thorin roars, his voice rough with sleep and emotion as he helps Bilbo to drink the water without choking on it. The room becomes a flurry of activity as the rest of the company comes flooding in. Oin is checking his temperature whilst Fili and Kili sit on the other side of the bed trying to get a close as they can to him, chattering at a million miles an hour.

“Thought we’d lost our new Irak'Adad,” Fili says with a relieved smile. Bilbo wants to ask what it means but he was told at the beginning of the quest not to ask the meanings of Khudzul words as it was sacred to dwarrow culture, instead he settles for a gentle smile.

“How are you Kili? How’s the knee?” Kili grins back at him.

“Be right as rain sooner than you know it.”

Oin pulls a stethoscope from his bag.

“Need ye to breathe in laddie, need to check yer breathin’.”

Bilbo inhales as deeply as he can before choking slightly as his breath catches and he winds himself with the resultant coughing fit. Thorin rubs soothing circles on his back and hands the empty glass to Fili to refill. Oin nods his head, looks satisfied.

“Much better, a few more days of bed rest and yer’ll be back on yer feet.”

“W-what? No, you can’t leave me behind. I signed a contract.” Bilbo says, absolutely horrified.

“We’re not leaving you here.” Thorin reassures him, lightly running his hand across Bilbo’s shoulders, his eyes full of sincerity.

“We have another week before Durin’s day, we will wait.” Bilbo nods and slumps back against the pillows behind him.

Bombur sets down a tray consisting of a bowl of light broth, a soft bread roll that has been buttered and some apple because of which Fili has to quickly excuse himself looking rather green around the gills. Bilbo could’ve kissed Bombur in that moment, he would sell all the gold in Erebor if it meant he could have something to eat. The soup is gone in the blink of an eye and he’s sat there devouring the bread roll like a sickly, feral hedgehog. Bilbo would’ve thought any chance of him and Thorin being together sat quite squarely with their chances of actually defeating the dragon after watching his nearly pornographic performance with his food; but strangely enough, Thorin is looking at him like he’s hung the moon and stars in the sky. Satiated, he nibbles at the apple slices and runs a hand through his hair which has fallen into his face. The sheer panic hits him like a wave when the little bead he’s become so used to doesn’t catch on his fingers.

“Oh Yavanna! The bead! I’ve lost the bead! Oh gods Thorin, I’m so sorry.” Bilbo scrambles to get out of bed to look for it even though he has no idea where it is. Thorin’s chuckle reverberates through his chest as he gently guides his hobbit back into bed.

“Peace Halwûn, I have it. I removed your braids during the time you were ill.” A bashful blush colours Thorin’s cheeks and ears.

“May I be permitted to rebraid them in again?”

“Oh yes, yes of course.” Bilbo says with no small amount of relief, scooting forward to allow Thorin to sit behind him. At some point, probably while he was downing his broth, everyone else had left the room, leaving the two of them alone together. Thorin settles behind him and starts combing Bilbo’s hair, humming a sweet little tune. It would’ve been very romantic if Bilbo could hold a tune but alas his musical skills start and end at drunken caterwauling.

“It is only because you are ill that I have managed to secure us time alone together. It would never be allowed otherwise.” Thorin murmurs into his ear, breath tickling the skin. Bilbo shivers slightly, he could blame it on still being ill and not the indecent thoughts running rampant through his mind.

“Oh? Are we not allowed to spend time together without a chaperone now?” He teases a little breathlessly. Thorin gives him an amused but fond look, clambering off the bed and settling in front of him to do the little braid at his temple.

“Well not really Amrâlimê, it would be seen as improper but considering the circumstances on the quest, we have not courted in a proper fashion to begin with.”

Bilbo nods along, listening to that lovely, smooth and rich baritone-…did he just say courting?

“Sorry, did you just say courted?” Bilbo’s voice a little high-pitched and strangled.

Thorin looks a little puzzled at that.

“Yes. In Beorn’s house I offered to braid your hair, you accepted and I gave you one of my beads.”

Bilbo feels like the bottom has fallen out of his world.

“What?”

Thorin looks heartbroken, his voice hoarse as he says barely above a whisper.

“I thought you were happy. You even said I could wash your hair. Do you wish to break off the courtship?” Bilbo is still sitting there, mouth open.

“For over a month? We have been courting for over a month? How? I-…you never said.”

“Well, I assumed you knew.”

“You assumed? I told you hair held no significant meaning to hobbits. How would I assume that?” Bilbo folds his arms, giving Thorin The Disapproving look ™, while Thorin looks a conflicting mix of sheepish and defensive.

“Well I always served you food before myself-

“Only for about a week before you all got captured.”

“Well, I use terms of endearment for you all the time!”

“In Khudzul! I don’t speak Khudzul and before you ask why I didn’t ask what you were saying, Balin told me that Khudzul was a sacred part of dwarrow culture which isn’t shared with outsiders!”

Thorin deflates slightly at that.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” Bilbo throws his hands in the air.

“Because I had no bloody clue that you were courting me for the last month! None at all! You could have said…at any point!”

The silence hangs in the air between them, Bilbo is panting slightly before coughing again and Thorin is pressing the refilled glass of water into his hands. He drinks deeply while Thorin fiddles with the ring on his hand. Thorin straightens himself, visibly building his walls up again.

“You wish to break off the courtship then?” His voice is cool and detached, preparing himself for the hurt.

“When did I say that?” Bilbo puts the glass of water down a little firmer than necessary.

“This is very new to me and don’t get me wrong, I am very cross that you didn’t have the common sense to think that hobbits and dwarves court differently and I would have no way of knowing but…”

He reaches out a tender hand and cups Thorin’s face, bringing those downcast blue eyes to meet his own. He smiles gently, full of affection and warmth.

“I accept your suit.”

The smile that Thorin gives him in return could rival the brightest dawn. Thorin leans forward to press their foreheads together, eyes fluttering shut.

“Thorin?”

“Yes, Lukhdel?”

“I swear if you ever want to get married, make sure I’m aware.”

[leavesonthetrees]

Not a Bloody Clue

Summary: Bilbo has decided it’s high time he cuts his hair, it’s far past a respectable length at this point. Unfortunately, the rest of the company have ✨thoughts✨ about that.

One thing about hobbit hair is that it grows inconveniently fast. Apart from the hair on their feet, hair in general is just seen as a nuisance as it’s just better to keep it cut short or tied back unless it’s a special occasion. Foot hair on the other hand must always be groomed carefully, rather uncouth not to.

By the time the company have reached Beorn’s rather battered and bruised, some more so than others, Bilbo’s hair was somewhere around mid-back. A rather beautiful cascade of riotous chestnut curls, or it would’ve been had it not been tangled, dirty and he was sure he heard chirping somewhere in that mess. Their gracious host had an unfortunate habit of just plucking Bilbo off the ground into his arms which while Bilbo did not appreciate, he did however appreciate the large spread of milk, cheeses, honey, bread and other assorted platters. Once their bellies were full, they filled their hearts with laughter and music. Beorn excused himself to verify their story, saying he’d be back by the time they woke and Gandalf had dozed off in the corner under his hat.

Bilbo was readying himself for bed, his body felt ready for bed about three weeks ago but his hobbit sensibilities demanded that he sort himself out. There was a small mirror in the bathroom Beorn had shown them to and Bilbo winced at the sigh of his hair; matted, one side caked in fluids he had no business thinking about and not to mention how un-respectable it was. He was well aware that the quest did not have room nor the facilities for all his particular habits nor the need to retain his reputation and manners but all the same, it was nice to have some comfort in the familiarity. Bilbo twirls a curl around his finger and sighs. Had he known what the 80’s were, he might’ve been pleased but as it was, he didn’t and wasn’t happy at all. The little wooden comb he has brought within him from the Shire almost immediately snapped in the mess of hair, not to mention how much it hurt. The prospect of using his other comb, his mother’s that she brought back from her time in Rivendell was out of the question.

“Should cut the bloody stuff off.” He huffs quietly, trying the untangle some of his with his fingers to no avail. Plan in place, Bilbo comes back out the the larger room and starts rifling through what’s left of the contents of his pack.

“What you looking for Bilbo?” Calls Bofur from where’s he sat across the room, pipe in hand.

“Scissors.” Replies a frustrated looking Bilbo. “Fiddlesticks, must’ve not brought any with me.”

“Here you are.” Dori fishes a pair of sewing scissors from a little case in his pack.

“Thank you Dori.” Bilbo walks over to take them from him. “I suppose it might take a while as they’re quite little but I’ll sharpen them and give them back to you.”

“Ye can borrow my wet stone.” Dwalin supplies from his spot next to Gloin. “What’re ye using them for anyway?”

“Oh, thank you. Well I thought I’d cut my hair.” Bilbo says inspecting the scissors. The room stills, silent and tense. Bilbo looks up at the abrupt, eerie quiet, startled when Dori lunges and pulls the scissors for him hand, clutching them to his chest with horrified expression. Kili and Ori have tears in their eyes and everyone else isn’t far behind.

“Cut your hair?” Asks Balin hoarsely. “Why lad?” Bilbo’s brow creases with confusion.

“Well it’s simply too long and getting in the way. It’s in a terrible state and I just need to cut most of it off.”

Horrified gasps ripple across the room. A very solemn Thorin crosses to Bilbo and drops to a knee in front of him.

“Master Baggins.” Thorin begins, his voice shaking a little. “I sincerely apologise for any grievous offence my behaviour or any member of my company have caused you. Please, tell us how we have wronged you so that we may fix it. I beg of you do not cut your hair.”

Thorin pulls a small blade from his boot and brings it to the braid on his right temple.

“I take sole responsibility and offer you my braid and the bead that denotes me as king until we have offered sufficient reparations and you have forgiven me.”

Before Thorin can flick his wrist to remove the braid, Bilbo is moving, catching Thorin’s hand in a tight grip.

“Stop, stop!” Bilbo’s eyes are wide with panic. “Don’t cut your hair. No one has offended me. I simply want to cut my hair, it is too long and it bothers me.”

Thorin’s hand falters.

“But why would you cut it? Why not braid it?”

“I never learnt to braid hair, it just seems easier.” But Thorin looks absolutely heartbroken, eyes glassy with tears. There is such an aura of sadness around him, around all of them that Bilbo feels he would be cruel to cut it, even if hair holds no significance to him personally.

“What do you suggest then?” Bilbo carefully guides the dagger away from Thorin’s braids.

“Braid it, obviously.” Dwalin says like Bilbo is the thickest creature in Middle Earth. Bilbo rolls his eyes and gives Dwalin a hard stare, just like his grandmother used to when he was a being rude as a faunt.

“I already said I don’t know how.” The silence hangs in the air for a few seconds before Bilbo huffs.

“Any other suggestions?” The dwarves look among each other, exchanging glances and meaningful looks.

“Right, well, hair doesn’t mean anything to hobbits, other than the hair on your feet, you can do what you like with it. So if there’s no further objection, I would like those scissors back Dori.”

“I will braid it!” Thorin blurts out in a panic. All eyes turn to him, a mixture of surprise, delight and some disappointment? Bilbo just nods slowly.

“Alright then…do you want to wash it too?” A second round of gasping, Bilbo’s honestly getting fed up of it now. Thorin is bright red and stammering, clearly taken aback.

“I-I’m flattered by I think I better leave that to you for now.”

Coin purses are being thrown across the room, Khudzul flying about, Bofur and Nori look strangely upset. Bilbo simply rolls his eyes and plonks himself down next to the fire.

“You’ll have to use your comb Thorin, mine’s broken.” Thorin’s eyes look like they’re going to bug out of his head and did Gloin just coo at them? This is getting stranger by the minute.

“Here? In front of everyone?” Thorin stammers, Bilbo briefly wonders if Thorin’s having an attack of some kind, dwarves should not be that shade of red.

“Yes? Should we not?” A shy smile that not once in a million years did Bilbo think he would ever see, creeps across Thorin’s cheeks.

“Not at all. Here is perfect.” Honestly, at this point Bilbo is a little creeped out but Thorin is rummaging through his pack, producing a comb and a small vial. He positions himself so Bilbo is sat on the ground in between his knees. The touch to his hair is almost reverent, the comb barely pulling as Thorin works methodically through the knots. At the particularly matted section, Thorin unstoppers the little vial and pours some fragrant oil into his hands, it smells of pine and bergamot. Dear Yavanna his hands are absolutely divine! Thorin works the oil into Bilbo’s hair and scalp, working it in small circles with his hands from his temples to his pressure points by his ears. Lost in the bliss, Bilbo makes a soft noise of pleasure and lets his head hang heavier in Thorin’s hands.

Unbeknownst to Bilbo, Thorin grins rather triumphantly and with no small about of smugness at Bofur and Nori, Nori makes a rather rude gesture in Iglishmêk which Dori swats at him for. All too soon in Bilbo’s opinion, Thorin’s voice is gently coaxing him back to reality.

“Hmm?” Bilbo says, blinking slowly, a soft sleepy smile on his face.

“I said you need to wash your hair before I can braid it.” Thorin returns the smile and Bilbo thinks briefly how much younger it makes him look, how sweetly the skin around his eyes crinkles.

“Oh yes. Back in a jiffy.” Bilbo has never washed his hair faster in his life, he does take a moment to scold himself for behaving like a faunt with their first crush.

“He is doing you a favour, nothing more.” Bilbo says under his breath, lathering the honey scented soap into his hair.

Smelling of far nicer and feeling much more refreshed, Bilbo retakes his position back between Thorin’s knees. There’s tension in the room but Thorin waves it away when Bilbo enquires with a “Nothing important, just minor disagreements.” And sets about braiding Bilbo’s damp curls into a tight but comfortable braid, leaving a small section at the front. He ties it off with a strap of leather before clearing his throat.

“Bur- Bilbo. I had no time to prepare a suitable bead for this occasion, when we reach Erebor I shall craft one for you out of gold and sapphires to indicate your status better. In its place, temporarily, will you accept one of my own beads?” Bilbo twists to look at Thorin, his hands fiddling with a bead, the braid at his left temple unraveled.

“That would be lovely, thank you Thorin.” Bilbo gives him a gentle smile, a little confused but he’s got the spirit.

The look that Thorin gives him as he carefully weaves the braid into his curls, makes his stomach flip. There’s a vulnerability and softness in his eyes which a whispered part of Bilbo longs for it to be romantic. Thorin clips the bead in place and secures the braid, the air between the two of them seems to crackle with an unspoken emotion.

A great cheer goes up from the rest of the dwarves which startles the both of them, he hadn’t noticed how close he had been to Thorin’s lips. He reaches up to feel the back of his head, neatly tied into an intricate braid that he could never hope to replicate, the little bead on the front braid resting cool against his burning cheeks. Bilbo’s got a very strong feeling something rather significant had just happened and he’s not got a bloody clue about it.

[leavesonthetrees]

“You…you do this every month?”

CW - Mentions of miscarriage and blood.

Summary: Periods are not discussed in polite conversation in the Shire and when Oin doesn’t have any idea what she’s on about Bilba assumes that it’s the same in dwarven culture. She is wrong. There are no periods.

A/N - I know this is a lowkey overdone prompt but I just wanted to give it a go and put my own spin on it. On a real note, respect the uterus owners in your life, periods do in fact suck ass.

Bilba and the Company has been travelling for a few weeks at this point, past Bree and onto the open road. Despite the less than ideal start, forgetting her handkerchief and being called a ‘barmaid’ by their prestigious leader (for which she’d promptly thrown him out of her smial for before Gandalf soothed hurt feelings and persuaded her to let him back in), Bilba was beginning to feel more included among the Company.

Oin and Bombur seemed impressed by her knowledge of foraging for healing or cooking herbs respectively. Gloin had already spent many hours, possibly too many, telling Bilba stories of his wife and dear son Gimli once he realised she was willing to listen; not that she had a choice mind you. Bilba had been delighted to discover Ori’s love of reading and knitting as well as his oldest brother Dori’s love of tea and wine. Balin and Ori had spent quite a few slow afternoons passing the time with Bilba discussing hobbit culture and stories, occasionally sharing the odd tidbit about Dwarven legends. Of course Bofur, Nori, Fili and Kili had made concerted efforts to get to know Bilba from the start, teasing her, generally chatting her ear off and on the rare occasion trying to rope her into mischief.

It was only Dwalin and Thorin she hadn’t quite managed to crack yet. The latter she avoided as much as possible, trying to put as much space as was polite between herself and his royal grumpiness. The kindest thing he’d said to her so far on the road had been a wordless grunt when she’d passed him his bowl of stew one evening. Bilba could tell both he and Dwalin thought of her as some weak, defenseless liability and she did begrudgingly admit that they weren’t entirely wrong but hey, she’s been trying to learn how to defend herself with the two small daggers that Fili had lent her. Both of them eyed her with skepticism and largely ignored her, which was perfectly fine with Bilba and didn’t irritate or upset her at all, definitely not.

Bilba eased herself off Myrtle with a quiet groan, massaging her bum and lower back. The weeks of riding unforgiving on her poor rear but she had discovered to her secret delight that her muscles were firm beneath her thinning layer of respectable hobbit curves. She removed Myrtles saddle and her own packs, storing them as Fili had shown her and began brushing Myrtle’s coat with a brush she’d picked up in Bree. She’d just finished when an uncomfortable pang in her lower belly made her tense, and the realisation that she hadn’t had her monthly courses for a fair few weeks set in. With a quiet curse under her breath that would’ve winded her father, she rifled through her pack for her supplies but her hands came up empty.

Looking around for Oin, she spotted him organising his healing supplies and made her way over.

“Excuse me, Oin?” She asked quietly, making sure no one else was listening. It was rather improper to discuss these things in public.

“Aye lass, how can I help?” Oin paused in his task to look at her and find his ear trumpet.

“I wondered if you might have any supplies for-“ Bilba paused and looked around again, “- for my monthlies?”

“Fer your what?” Oin looked rather confused.

“Monthlies.” Bilba repeated in a low tone.

“Monthlies?” Oin asked loudly, his eyebrows furrowing.

Bilba hurriedly shushed him, looking a little scandalised. Slightly taken aback and more than a little befuddled, Oin lowers his voice and asks again.

“What are ‘monthlies’ lass?”

“You know, monthly cycles? ‘A woman’s time’?” Bilba looks at him, a little frustrated and confused by his confusion. Oin just looks at her and shakes his head. “Never heard of them.”

Bilba sighs, “Nevermind. Thanks anyway.” She turns away and goes back to her pack to rifle through her possessions for anything that could be used as rags. With a resigned sigh she tears up the underskirt of one of the dresses she had brought with her and worn in the earliest days of their venture before she realised trousers were a far more practical choice. Bilba notices a few members of the Company giving her a mixture of curious and amused looks from the corner of her eye but she ignores them, face aflame. She briefly wondered if cycles were very personal and private to Dwarven women or perhaps it was something simply not discussed in public.

Bilba does not sleep well, evidenced by her tossing and turning in discomfort through the night and the resultant birds nest that is her hair the following morning but also by her practically biting Nori’s head off first thing.

“Morning lass! Mahal, what happened to yer hair?” Bofur greets her jovially, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Did ye have a family of birds move in overnight?” He teases, tugging gentle on a curl. The dark, nigh on murderous look on her face does nothing to dissuade him as he calls Nori over. “Nori, come look at this! Almost as good as yer hair!”

Nori saunters over and immediately starts laughing, drawing the attention of the rest of the Company.

“Blimey, I think your comb will break trying to drag it through that.” Nori reaches out to touch the knotted mess only to have Bilba smack his hand away with a little more force than necessary. Nori and Bofur’s laughter stops, a little taken aback by the unusual behaviour from their normally friendly hobbit.

“Bilba?” Bofur asks, a little concerned. “Ye alright?” Bilba lifts her head, her eyes slightly bloodshot, glaring at them.

“Why don’t you bugger off.” Bilba snaps. “I’ve had an awful night and I’d appreciate some space. The lot of you are stifling so bother some other poor soul.” With that, Bilba stalks off towards the copse of trees to relieve herself. The rest of the camp stands in a stunned silence. “What was that about?” Bofur asks a similarly shocked Nori.

“No idea.” Nori replies, feeling a little hurt.

The camp begins packs up quietly, Bilba returns without speaking and packs up her bag a little more aggressively than usual. Fili leaves Bilba’s breakfast almost like a peace offering within arms reach. Bilba looks up at him and Fili freezes, looking remarkably like a rabbit seeing a fox.

“Thank you but I’m not hungry.” Bilba says stiffly. Most of the dwarves jaws collectively drop.

“Not hungry?” Kili pipes up. “Are you unwell?” Bilba glares at him and Kili promptly shrinks back behind his brother.

The rest of the morning is spent at a careful distance from Bilba and her new found temper. Even Thorin eyes her with a different wariness, like she might explode at any moment. Bilba herself is fighting an internal war with both her guilt for snapping at them and her irritation at the way the dwarf closest to her is breathing. It certainly doesn’t help that her uterus feels like it’s trying to claw her way out of her body and it feels like Myrtle is trying to deliberately walk over every single bump on the track. Her face is getting paler by the hour, her frame tense with a white knuckle grip on the reins and her other arm a band of iron protectively covering her stomach. Eventually Dori’s mother hen nature can’t take it anymore and he slows his pony to join her at the back.

“Bilba, is everything alright?” He asks gently. “You look very pale dear, are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat?” Bilba’s stomach rolls at the mention of food so she doesn’t trust herself to open her mouth and just simply shakes her head. Dori frowns further, “Are you feeling unwell? Should I fetch Oin?” Again, Bilba shakes her head and gets out through gritted teeth. “I am well, thank you Dori.” Dori reaches out a hand but thinks better of it and just nods. “Well, let me know if you need anything.” And speeds up to ride alongside Balin.

When they stop briefly for lunch, Bilba doesn’t even look at the offered food, instead opting to sit at the edge of the group looking at the landscape. Regardless Bombur wraps one of the rolls, some cheese and jerky in some cloth and tucks it into Bilba’s bag. “Just in case.” He says with a kind smile. To which Bilba just bursts into tears, burying her face in her hands. Bombur immediately panicked, steps back with his hands up. Dori whirls round from where he’s been fussing over his brothers, takes one look at the crying hobbit and hisses “What did you do?” Bombur with wide eyes confesses “Nothing I think. Just packed some lunch into her pack for later.” Bilba lifts her head from her hands and wipes her eyes. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get weepy. That was very kind of you Bombur, thank you.” Slightly disturbed, Kili turns to Fili and quietly whispers “I think she’s been cursed.” Fili swats him gently but privately wonders the same thing.

That evening, Thorin calls camp down by a nearby stream. Citing the need to refill water supplies as well as give themselves and their clothes a good scrub down. Bilba hesitates getting off of Myrtle, the tell tale tightness in her pelvic floor telling her it would be a really *really* bad idea for her to move at all. But she knows she can’t stay up there forever, besides the cramping is getting worse and a nice dip in the river sounds lovely. She reasons she can also wash the blood out if her trousers do get stained. She steels her nerves and swings one leg over, immediately feeling the gush of blood. Now feeling quite embarrassed, Bilba hurriedly got off Myrtle, rushed through her care and practically sprinted down to the river to wash her clothing. Bilba found a quiet spot upstream where she could strip down and bathe without anyone seeing. She breathed a sigh of relief realising the staining to her trousers was fairly minimal but her small clothes were a complete loss. After washing her clothes and leaving them to dry on a nearby rock in the sun, Bilba did the awkward little ‘fuck me, it’s cold dance’ in the stream until her body acclimatised to the water and she could get on with washing her hair and bathing. Her peace was interrupted by rowdy shouting from her dwarves downstream who were probably wrestling in the water again.

Dinner is a more pleasant and relaxed affair than breakfast, full of laughter and the banter flowing freely. Noticing Bilba’s easy laughter and bright smiles, the Company do their best to keep the energy up and Bilba happy. It had seemed strange without their happy hobbit chattering away to fill the long, tiring hours of riding and the lightness of her presence had been sorely missed. Those on the night watch head to bed and Bilba elects to join them, still pale enough to cause some concern but nevertheless they all wish her goodnight and Dori gives her a knowing look.

Tonight doesn’t go any easier for Bilba either. The second day is always the worse and without pain relief to take off the edge, the cramps begin to worsen. Gloin who takes the 2nd slot begins to notice Bilba’s unconscious discomfort. His brow creases with worry watching her turn and toss in her bedroll, whimpering in her sleep. It’s soon evident he’s not the only one to notice as her distress begins to wake other members of the company.

“Whazzat?” A half-asleep Nori shoots up in bed and is quickly shooshed by Ori “It’s Bilba.” Oin is already grabbing his bag and making his way over while Bifur, seeing the sweat on her forehead pulls back her blanket. His noise of horror properly wakes up the camp at the sight of her underclothes and trousers soaked with fresh blood, seeping into her bedroll. Oin’s eyes go wide as he starts barking instructions. “Mahal’s balls! Start boiling some water. Someone find some clean cloths. Elevate her head!” Everyone scrambles to obey.

A very disorientated Bilba wakes a strangely watery eyed Thorin clutching her hand like he thinks she’s going to float away.

“Thorin?” She asks blearily. “What’s happening?” He opens his mouth to respond when a hand which she takes a moment to realise is Dori’s gently shushes her and strokes her hair from her face.

“It’s alright. Everything is going to be okay.”

Bilba blinks once, then twice. She tries to sit up, the movement causing her cramps to twinge in her back, her face contorting into a grimace. Immediately hands are on her shoulders, guiding her back to lie on the ground. The sound of scissors cutting through cloth registers, there’s a beat where Bilba realises the noise is someone cutting through her trousers.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Bilba scrambles to her feet, her trousers and small clothes now half hanging off her due to the large cut from the waist band to the middle of her thigh.

“What in Yavanna’s name do you think you’re doing?!”

Thorin put his hands out defensively, like he’s trying to placate a skittish pony, he speaks in a low soothing tone. “It’s all okay Bilba, let us help you.”

“Help me what?” Bilba practically shrieks, trying to hold her trousers together. She spots the patch of blood on her bed roll, groaning internally as she knows that’s going to be a bugger to wash out.

“There’s no shame in losing a babe Bilba, we are all here to support you.” Thorin slowly approaches her, cautiously reaching for her.

That makes Bilba pause, confusion written over her face.

“What?”

“Bilba, everything will be alright. I know the loss may take some time to sink in and it may not have fully hit you yet.”

Behind Thorin, Bofur is sobbing into his hat, Bifur rubbing his back consoling him, his own eyes looking teary. Kili is staring into the middle distance, looking lost in thought, pain clear in his expression; even Dwalin looks upset.

Bilba wants to crawl into a little hole and hide, she takes a deep breath.

“I’m not pregnant. This is just my monthly course.” A bright red blush to rival her prize winning tomatoes spreads from her cheeks up to her ears.

The entire camp goes silent, staring. “Your what now?”

This couldn’t get more embarrassing.

“My monthly.” At 13 blank facial expressions, she carries on.

“You know, a monthly cycle? A woman’s time?” No luck there either apparently.

“I don’t know, do dwarven women call it something different?”

“Call what different? I still don’t understand.” Thorin is looking at her like she’d just told him that she was going to skip to Erebor and invite Smaug to afternoon tea. Bilba just sighs.

“When women bleed for a few days once a month from her uterus if she doesn’t get pregnant? Do dwarven ladies not have this?” This was apparently the wrong thing to say as Oin asks rather horrified “You’ve got internal bleeding?” Dori proceeds to strong arm her back into lying on the ground to be inspected.

“What?! No, no, not like that! This is perfectly normal!” Bilba shouts, trying to prevent Oin from pulling off her trousers. She was wrong, it could get more embarrassing.

“Internal bleeding is normal for female hobbits?!” Thorin looks like he might be sick. “Oh Mahal.”

Bilba scrambles away, out of the ‘helpful’ hands of Oin.

“Enough! I am fine.” None of the dwarves are making eye contact with her, where are they- oh my gods her trousers are around her knees. Bilba looks skyward and wonders why Yavanna has forsaken her.

About half an hour later Bilba, now clean and in a fresh pair of trousers, is sat on a log around the fire, stitching the large cut back together in the aforementioned trousers from earlier. Her dwarven companions sit in various stages of shock, horror and disgust, having just had the twenty minute crash course in hobbit biology. The fire crackles in the otherwise quiet night, a sharp contrast to earlier. Ori breaks the silence.

“Every month? You…you do this every month?”

“Yep. For about 40 years give or take.” Bilba responds, not even looking up from her sewing.

If the company treats her a little differently after that, no one mentions it. Oin definitely doesn’t keep track of the days to find out when her next cycle is. Dori absolutely doesn’t leave stones warming by the fire to ease her cramps. Of course some of the others don’t leave little sweet treats around when Oin tells them that her courses are due. However Thorin is absolutely sworn to silence and is made to keep at a mandatory six foot distance from Bilba during those days. Probably for the best.

[leavesonthetrees]

Bravery to Face Such Struggles Alone

CW - Seizures and disability discrimination

Summary: All his life Bilbo has faced discrimination in the Shire because of his unexplained seizures. When it happens in front of the company, he is quite firmly told that it doesn’t change their opinion of him, in more ways than one.

A/N - Hello, I’ve had some training in epilepsy/seizures but I’m aware not all of my writing/language may be accurate. Constructive criticism is absolutely welcome. As someone who is also disabled, I know we all have different ways to talk about things and I’d hate to misrepresent anything. I also used the Dwarven Scholar for any Khudzul translations :). Also I’m sorry for my formatting, it might be quite shit.

The first time it happens, they’re barely out of Bree. One minute Bofur is listening to Bilbo chattering away about his wretched shrew of a cousin Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her penchant for pilfering his mother’s silver spoons the next Bilbo collapses like a puppet who’s strings have been cut. Bofur’s cry of surprise draws the attention of the rest of the camp, even Thorin looks mildly concerned.

Oin is making his way over with his bag when Bilbo starts to convulse, his small body jerking violently, his head slamming backwards into the ground over and over. Bofur backs away, horrified at what’s happening to his new friend, even Oin seems momentarily lost at what to do. Luckily Gandalf isn’t, striding over to Bilbo, shedding his outer robe and bundling it beneath Bilbo’s head. There’s nothing anyone else can do other than watch in terror. Bofur wrings his floppy hat in his hands, his usual easy smile nowhere to be found. Kili has Fili’s arm in a white knuckled death grip, eyes watery. What has happened to their burglar?

The moments stretch on for what feels like centuries but slowly, slowly, whatever it is seems to subside. A soft moan of pain signals that Bilbo is still alive. Gandalf’s body seems to release the tension he was holding with a heavy exhale as he reaches for Bilbo’s hand.

“It’s alright Bilbo, all is well. We’re about a day’s walk from Bree.” Bilbo blinks a few times and sighs, with Gandalf’s assistance, sits up gingerly. He runs a hand through his curls, focusing on breathing in and out, taking in their surroundings.

“I am fine.” He murmurs quietly, doing his best not to look at any of the gathered dwarrow. “Didn’t look it!” Cries Bofur, dropping to his knees beside Bilbo. “I thought you were dying, we all did!” Bofur’s eyes scan Bilbo, searching for answers, anything.

“It was simply a fit, they’re not uncommon for me.” Bilbo explains quietly, still more concerned with picking at a thread in his waistcoat.

“I think Bilbo may benefit from some peace and quiet.” Gandalf rumbles, his tone brooking no room for argument.

Camp is set up although Bilbo is not allowed to help, sat on a log by the fire by a still concerned Oin and told to rest for a while. Bilbo doesn’t miss the hushed whispers in Khudzul and curious glances in his direction. Ori passes Bilbo his bowl of stew and scuttles back to Dori, not a word passing between them.

Bilbo tries not to let it get to him but it stings, to be viewed as some sort of strange creature. He’s grown weary of the stares all his life, from family, neighbours and acquaintances; full of pity or wariness. There were whispers that he was cursed or something was wrong with him. His mother used to stroke his curls and press soft kisses to his forehead.

“Ignore them sweet boy, they simply do not understand.”

When Bilbo came of age, he fell for this beautiful hobbit lass from West Farthing with blonde curls that shone like the wheat in Farmer Maggot’s fields in the late afternoon sun and green eyes that the lush green hills of the Shire could never hope to compare to. Bilbo had presented her with a rather impressive courting bouquet of daisies (for new beginnings), sunflowers (for adoration, loyalty and longevity), irises (hope) and lavender (devotion) on a rather beautiful spring day. His hopes were promptly dashed at her rejection, disgusted at the thought of his ‘condition’ being passed onto any faunts they might have. Bilbo swore then to ignore what anyone had to say about him but to also to hide his seizures going forward.

Bilbo stares into his stew like it holds the secrets of the universe, stirring the meat around in the spiced broth. He startles slightly as Bifur drops down next to him, not looking at him, and begins eating his own supper. The camp goes quiet, watching. Bifur barks something in Khudzul, sounding irritated and the others immediately busy themselves with their own business. Bifur gives Bilbo a nod, a knowing look in his eyes. Bilbo’s eyes briefly drift to the axe in Bifur’s forehead, he allows a small smile to pull at his lips and returns Bifur’s nod.

Slowly things return to normal after a few days of the company treating Bilbo like he was made from spun glass. Bifur’s presence at his side makes the whispering and the looks more bearable but it’s still unpleasant. Another episode doesn’t happen until Rivendell.

“I hate green food.” Ori moans, pushing the vegetables about his plate, his face the picture of disgust and disappointment.

“Hush.” Dori chides him quietly. Bilbo chuckles, pleased to have fresh produce and the chance to bathe after weeks of travelling. A sense of foreboding strikes Bilbo followed by a sharp ringing in his ears before it all goes black.

To the others, Bilbo goes still before slumping forwards over the table convulsing. Without thinking, from across the table Bofur hurriedly shoves his hat under Bilbo’s forehead as he’d seen Gandalf do weeks ago. Bifur on Bilbo’s left listens to his breathing, a gentle hand between his shoulder blades to help support him too. This time, the convulsions don’t seem to last as long as the first time, Bifur rumbling in Khudzul to him in low, soothing tones, not at Bilbo can understand. Lord Elrond watches the scene unfold from the top table a curious expression on his face. Gandalf hovers between sitting and standing, undecided as to whether he needs to intervene or not. Bilbo lifts his head from the table, a little disoriented and surprised but well. Dori on Bilbo’s right gently guides Bilbo to lean against his shoulder before continuing his conversation with Gloin about different gems and jewellery.

Later that night, Bilbo sits with a book from the library in the room the dwarves have been given. Bofur drops down next to him, his grin slightly forced.

“How you feeling Bilbo?”

“Not too bad.” Bilbo glances at the page number before setting it aside. He clears his throat and shifts about to get a little more comfortable.

“I-uh, I wanted to thank you…for looking out for me earlier.”

“‘‘Tis no trouble, the wizard gave us a run down after the first time.” Bofur responds, patting Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo’s head snaps up at this, eyes wide and a little embarrassed.

“What?!” The room goes quiet, shifting about.

“Well none of us have ever seen anything like that before, and you gave us quite the fright. We just asked what it was and what we needed to do in case Gandalf wasn’t there.” Bofur explains looking a little sheepish.

“Did we overstep?” Bilbo’s mouth opens and closes like a fish before he shuts it and shakes his head. He intends to say ‘no not at all’ or ‘thank you, I appreciate your concern’ but what comes out is “You aren’t going to send me home?”

“Send you home lad? Who said anything about that?” Asks a puzzled Balin from near the fire. “Do you wish to go home? You did sign the contract.”

“No, no, no!” Bilbo hurriedly denies. “These, well, these fits are a burden to you all, I’m a liability, cursed.” There’s a beat of silence before there’s an eruption. Bifur is shouting angrily in Khudzul, pointing at Bilbo and gesticulating wildly. Fili and Kili are protesting

“Of course you’re not a burden!”

“Cursed? That’s just stupid?”

“Eh? What did he say?” From Oin who didn’t have his hearing trumpet in.

“ITKITÎ!” Thorin roars above the shouting, the room going quiet.

“Who told you this?” Thorin demands.

Bilbo fidgets under the weight of 13 stares.

“W-well the local healer couldn’t figure out what caused my fits or what they were beyond calling them fits. People called me a freak and unfit for polite society.”

“Do you think less of Oin for being unable to hear?” Thorin queries, expression unreadable.

Bilbo’s mouth drops open, scandalised.

“Yavanna no, of course not. He is a fine healer and a wonderful companion.” Oin preens before Gloin elbows him sharply in the ribs with a muttered “Not the time brother.”

“Do you think Bifur isn’t capable because of his injury?” Thorin asks, studying Bilbo intently.

Bilbo shakes his head. “Certainly not, Bifur is among the fiercest warriors in the company. Why are you asking me this?”

“Then why ascribe such labels to yourself? If you truly believe you are unable to handle this quest then this is where we part Burglar; but do not think we shall send you away because you perceive us to think you a liability because of your seizures. Fighting a constant, internal battle often take more courage than to go to war. What you see as a weakness, we dwarrow see a strength, the bravery to face such struggles alone. So no, Master Baggins, we do not think you cursed.” Thorin finishes with finality.

Bilbo’s eyes water, his chest tight with emotion. He opens his mouth to declare his intentions to stay and to thank them all for their faith in him, to not shun him. However Thorin then chooses that moment to take a metaphorical shit over the moment.

“You are however a liability as you are too soft for the road of travelling, unable to lift a sword to defend yourself and are yet to prove yourself a worthy member of this company.”

Balin’s hand summarily connects with the back of Thorin’s head as Thorin lets out a surprised “Oof!”

“What our illustrious leader means to say,” Balin says through gritted teeth to Thorin before turning to Bilbo with a kind smile, “is that you will always be welcome here.”

“Thank you.” Bilbo says in a choked voice before clearing his throat. “I’m very grateful to you, all of you.” His gaze sweeps across the room, the dwarves faces slightly blurred by the tears in his eyes that he refuses to let fall. They all bask in the moment, the feeling of companionship feeling warm in their hearts.

Thorin opens his mouth but Balin side eyes him hard and raises his hand subtly but the threat clear.

“No, that’s enough.”

Thorin obediently closes his mouth. Kili is the first to muffle his laughter behind his hand and it isn’t long before the rest of the company are joining in the mirth.

For the first time since his parents died, as a the laughter flows freely from him, Bilbo feels like he is among family again.