Chapter Text
Looking back on her life, Bilbo could easily say that she had inherited many of her characteristics from her mother. Belladonna had been as brave as she was able and – during her younger days - quite the adventurer, as it could be gathered from her many tales. Still, eventually even she had settled down and became Mrs. Bungo Baggins, marrying the most decent hobbit there was.
Conveniently, many women from the Took family married late in their life, as even Belladonna had, giving Bilbo socially approved excuse for her single living. Still, she was nearly forty now, and try as she might, no excuse, no matter how related to family customs it happened to be, could change the fact that she was well past her prime when it came to husband-hunting. Neighbors and matrons alike were always asking if she “ever felt alone in that giant house of hers” or spend her nights “longing to hear the soft padding of little feet across the halls”.
The truth was, that Bilbo quite enjoyed having the space all to herself, and the only sort of tiptoeing that kept her awake at night came from mice. But when she had tried to explain this to those she considered her closest friends, even they had looked at her with something akin to pity in their eyes. She soon learned to keep her thoughts to herself.
Had she been born a man, the quality of her life would most likely be a topic of concern for a much lesser group. The Shire had a couple of well-known bachelors, but as far as Bilbo knew, they could spend their days of singlehood unbothered; it seemed that the freedom to enjoy solitude was a luxury reserved only for the men.
Maybe it was her annoyance over the matter that had slowly transformed into mild rebellion. No one in their right mind would have dared to speak ill of her, but some went as far as saying that she did have some rather peculiar habits. That is, peculiar - for a woman.
Firstly, there was her appearance to consider. She wore skirts that were too short - knee-length was, after all, deemed suitable for small children only – and sometimes, when she was doing something messy like puttering around in her garden, put on her father’s old trousers and braces. Like her late parents, she wasn’t all that immune to vanity, as she kept her hair nice and short, liking the way it suited her features that were – at least by hobbit standards – a little on the delicate side, and how it made her stand out from the group of her long-curled friends.
Secondly, she took a keen interest in literature. Your average hobbit could read and write just well enough to handle a grocery list, but in their elderly days some familiarized themselves in the letters and books, educating those from the younger generation who had the patience for it (as it happens, not very many did). She could hardly call herself a scholar, but she knew for a fact that her handwriting was superior to many. Again, this quality in character that would have brought pride to any man was an oddity for a woman to possess. “When you’re a mother, you don’t have time for books,” a friend of hers told Bilbo, rocking a nearby placed cradle with one foot, while balancing another child on her other knee. “And honestly, I don’t think men care for a girl who’s smarter than them. We all are, mind you, but when you have actual evidence to prove it, it becomes a lot harder for them to pretend otherwise.”
Thirdly, she smoked. Many hobbits grew their own pipe-weed, and during gatherings they got into heated arguments about the quality of leaf and who could produce the best smoke-rings. After the noticeable event when she bested all the men by making seventeen rings with one lungful, Bilbo felt like she wasn’t all that welcome into their company anymore.
All in all, it wasn’t quite the peaceful life she might have hoped for. Nevertheless, it gave her a good excuse for the restlessness that nested in her heart, which she felt flickering like a small flame whenever she waded through the shallow streams of Eastfarthing, imagining how they turned into deep and frozen rivers someplace far-away from there.
It was the morning after the wedding of one of her many cousins. Weddings, as merry as they generally were, had the distinguish tendency to make Bilbo feel especially anxious, mainly because of the level of awareness they managed to rise about her marital status - or more like, the complete lack of it. By now, Bilbo was convinced that the reason she had so effortlessly caught the bouquet in the last four weddings was that in truth, it hadn’t been a coincidence at all.
Last night her cousin had actually made a teary-eyed confession of how guilty she felt about celebrating her own happiness, given that her favorite relative was yet to find hers. It had required every ounce of self-control Bilbo possessed not say something far less polite in return. Instead, she had merely gone and drank some more ale, which interestingly resulted in her waking up in one of her rarely used pantries, using a bundle of spring onions as a pillow.
When she finally felt well enough to step outside for a smoke, she sat in her garden and wished for a magical solution that could save her from this wretched fate, as well as from a severe case of self-inflicted headache.
Naturally, that was the moment when Gandalf happened to walk by.
There was a bearded lady in Bilbo’s kitchen.
As if the beard itself wasn’t enough, then there was the hair to consider– or more so, the lack of it. On the woman’s crown area a wild tuft of black curls stood up at like a grizzly mane, eventually settling into a thick braid that rested between the two axes tucked against her back. Each side of her head was completely bald and tattooed in the same manner as her hands, her ears covered in collection of silvery rings.
All in all, it gave the weirdest impression of how the missing hair from her temples had somehow managed to migrate on her stern jaw. The image was so hysterical that if Bilbo hadn’t been in the state of absolute mortification, she might have laughed out loud. As it happens, she had spent the time after the dwarf’s arrival sitting quietly in the corner and watching her eat, while mentally going through the contents of her kitchen and their possible uses as weapons in case her visitor suddenly decided the dinner wasn’t to her liking after all.
Still, a small sound that could have been a hiccup, or maybe a whimper, escaped her. The dwarf – without making any attempt to actually stop eating the food at hand – merely glanced in her direction.
Thinking that it was an opening as good as any, Bilbo cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but who did you say you were again?”
“Dwalin, daughter of Fundin, at your service.” Suddenly, a loud a knock could be heard from the door. “Shouldn’t you be answering that?” she asked.
In a daze, Bilbo wandered to open the door. She had half in mind to ask the coming visitor if they, too, were able to see the lady with the beard in her kitchen, or had those older matrons been right all along saying how smoking too much pipe-weed was ill-advised for those with wild imagination.
Only when she opened the door, it wasn’t one of her neighbors who had come knocking, but yet another dwarf.
“Balin,” he squawked good-naturedly. His tunic was the same color as the poppies growing by Bilbo’s gate, and with his ruddy cheeks and nose he quite reminded her of her late uncle who had been famously fond of the local brewage. “At your service. I believe you have already met my sister?”
Naturally, one of her neighbors down the hill chose that moment to walk past. Bilbo suddenly became very aware that there she was, standing in the doorway with a strange man from even stranger race, wearing nothing but her mother’s nightgown and an old dinner jacket that had in turn belonged to her father, now worn-out nearly beyond repair.
Bilbo had no choice but to pull Balin quickly inside by his labels, while using her free hand to wave greetings in a way she hoped was cheerful and not borderline hysteric.
Unsurprisingly, the neighbor in question didn’t seem very impressed by the charade. Before she closed the door, Bilbo could see the woman picking up her pace as she no doubt made her way to the Green Dragon to inform everybody who cared to listen about the scandalous affairs that took place in Bag End at that very moment; that Bilbo Baggins, in her nighty, was entertaining strange guests of the gentlemen variety.
She let out a miserable sigh. From hermit to harlot in one blink - even by her standards, that was quite the achievement.
Half an hour later, Bilbo almost felt sorry for the town gossips, given that none of them were there to witness the arrival of the princesses.
When Bilbo opened the door for the third time, she was greeted with a pair of dazzling smiles. Like day and night they were, the other fair and the other dark, but the family resemblance was clear.
Also – more ladies with facial hair.
“Fíli,” said the blonde. Her hair was a collection of all sorts of braids with metallic clasps at each end, and her angular jaw was lined with golden sideburns, both ending in braids as well. With her furs and her sharp nose, she reminded Bilbo of a clever fox.
“Kíli,” informed the other one. To her relief, Bilbo discovered that she only had a pair of very bushy brows over almond eyes lined with thick, dark lashes, and a fountain of chestnut hair.
“In your –“
“- service. Yes, I know, although for a bunch that keeps saying that, I seem to be doing all the serving here,” Bilbo crumbled. By now, she had moved on from being intimidated to being massively infuriated. She wasn’t the most patient of hobbits on a good day, and this definitely, definitely wasn’t a good one.
Still, she had no choice but to let the dwarves in. She figured that this way, her garden would at least survive the pillage.
It wasn’t until near midnight when Thorin chose to arrive.
There was something in her appearance that the locals might have called haughty, with her sharp nose and heavy-lidded eyes, their color like the depths of those frozen rivers Bilbo had so longed to see during her wanderings. Much like Fíli, she had a pair of sideburns lining her pale face, this time dark in nature, to match her ebony hair that ran streaked with silver.
Maybe it was the general air of royalty that hung around Thorin like a cloud of expensive perfume, but suddenly Bilbo became all too aware of the mud on the floor, of the state of her raided pantry and the disarray that was her appearance at that moment; no doubt even her own current odor was mixture of betrayal and old cheese.
She was still standing there gawking, when Dwalin pushed past her, the swing of her hips sending Bilbo crashing straight into the coat rack. “You’re late,” she scoffed at Thorin.
An irked shadow flashed in Thorin’s icy eyes, but Gandalf hurried to her rescue. Opening the door wider for her, he assured, “A lady is never late, Madam Dwalin - it’s merely her company that is too eager to meet her.”
“Which you would know, if you had ever bothered to act like one,” Thorin countered back at Dwalin. Her voice could only be called as husky, yet every syllable rang as clear as steel. She threw her fur-lined cloak on Gandalf’s courteously extended hand, and locked eyes with Bilbo.
Much later, the dwarves were singing about distant mountains and treasures hiding deep within them, making Bilbo’s heart ache to see the roads untraveled; but in that moment, seeing Thorin standing there against the backdrop of the starlit sky, she first heard a small voice, whispering inside her head. It was a voice quite like her mother’s, the one she had used when Bilbo was little and had been caught red-handed in some mischief.
Oh, young missy, that traitorous voice crooned, as Thorin Oakenshield pursed her thin lips and stepped over the threshold of Bag End, all gracefulness and elegance despite the floorboards audibly straining under her steel boots, aren’t you in pickle now.