Title: Constant As The Sun
Fandom: The Hobbit
Pairing(s): Bilbo Baggins/Kili
A/N: Three kinkmeme prompts inspired this story, which can also be found at AO3. That's all, my dears.
Summary: It was a struggle to summon a smile, even a small one, so instead she reached out—again—and tucked Kili's hair behind his large (reddening) ears. Then, bracing her hands on her knees, she pushed herself up and glanced at the Prince one last time. He blinked rapidly, looking confused all of a sudden. "I'll find them. Promise."
How Bilbo the Spinster became Bilbo the Burglar. And more.
Warning(s): female!Bilbo Baggins
It was in the darkness of Mirkwood that the dwarves finally discovered that Master Baggins was, in fact, Mistress Baggins. And if Gandalf had been present, the Baggins in question thought, he would have been lighting his pipe and getting comfortable to watch the spectacle taking place.
Somewhere in front of her.
She couldn't see as well as the dwarrows could in the dark, but that didn't mean she was hard of hearing! To her left, came the soft thud-thuds that reminded Bilbo of Bofur, when the moustachioed dwarf would continuously raise and then lower his mattock onto the ground.
"That blasted wizard!"
To her right, Dwalin cracked his thick knuckles.
"How did this happen?"
About that?
It was quite simple, really.
Bilbo had been utterly vexed at their assumption of her gender, thank you very much, and had promptly (with some mischievousness) wanted them to feel properly foolish when they realised their mistake. She might not have the most ample bosom in all the Shire, but she wasn't—Bilbo brushed her hands across her midriff, then sent a hopefully discreet glance down at her chest—that flat.
She cleared her throat.
(Was she?)
Then shook her head, as if she were clearing away cobwebs of deep thought.
"Oh, leave it be," Bilbo interjected airily, then flapped hand at—well, whatever was currently standing before her. (A scandalized Dori? A fallen branch?) It was oh-so-very dark, indeed, especially from where she sat on the ground. "Lend me a hand, will you?"
There was a moment of strained silence. Then, following a sudden, somewhat strange scuffle—of elbows connecting with body parts (she assumed), of grunts and frenzied whispers (By the Green Lady! Were they dissecting her question?)—a hand finally reached out and gently clasped her wrist.
"M-Mistress Baggins."
"Thank you, Ori." And Bilbo hopped up onto her furry feet (with an assortment of groans and moans as she rose), brushed a fussy hand down her dirty trousers ("What I'd do for a proper bath"), then announced a cheerful goodnight to her companions. But now—her lips formed a small pout—she had to find her bedroll.
Where had she put it again?
Oh, dear.
Yes, she was a perfectly respectable hobbit, whatever do you mean, Master Nori? It was completely acceptable for hobbit lasses to wear trousers when romping through the woods; she had done the same, quite frequently, especially when she had helped with setting up tables and chairs around the Party Tree.
And no, hobbit lasses didn't dress like men when they left their homes, whatever do you mean? What? Oh, dwarrowdams did? And did they—yes?
Yes, Master Dori, it was completely acceptable; her bedroll could stay right there. No, no, she was, as always, perfectly happy sleeping between Fili and Ki—she was—oh, alright, Master Dori. Yes, she'll move her bedroll, thank you very much ... "please don't pout at me, Kili."
It was in the darkness of (a seemingly endless) Mirkwood that the (now dispirited but confoundingly gallant) dwarves (and one hobbit) came close to falling apart. Meandering paths that had went on, on, on; then that awful, awful river that had left them with a comatose Bombur; and a great evil none of them had expected, all pincers and eyes and all-too-large bodies. But none of that had been as terrifying as the palace of the Elvenking.
One moment she had been listening intently to Gloin (all the while smothering an amused smile at the sight of a still-pouting Kili), the next they were being attacked from all sides; she had had to free them from the cobwebs—cobwebs upon cobwebs—with a trembling hand and a blood-soaked Sting.
A disorientated walk through the woods had led them to elf-fires, and at the last second, Bofur had spun around and forced her ring back on her finger in one fell swoop, hissing at her to run. Only Bilbo hadn't, and now ... now she was alone, and she hadn't seen her dwarves in days, and she might be a burglar in title, but she didn't dare to steal even a crumb of bread or a carrot that had accidentally rolled off a plate onto the fine floor.
(What if the elves noticed?)
No, Bilbo was alone, and she missed her dwarves terribly.
Missed the ever-present cheeky glint in Bofur's eyes, the warmth in his smile. Oin's sometimes questionable deafness; kind-hearted Ori and his bickering but loving brothers; how Balin would indulge her unquenchable thirst for knowledge. She even missed their appalling table manners (which had shocked her) and their close-knit relationships (which she had envied). Most of all, she missed Kili (and his brother); missed how he (and his brother) could make her laugh, make her forget the day's difficulties (and, yes, Fili did the same), and could cheer her up by simply giving her that cheeky grin of his (and ... his brother did have a charming smile, yes, he did).
Bilbo was alone, and she had no idea how to free her friends. She was a creature of comfort, one who thrived in the light, in the rolling green hills and pastures of the Shire. The brightly lit corridors shouldn't have made her heart race a painful beat in her chest, and yet it happened, repeatedly, when she wondered time and time again when her shadow would finally be detected in the shimmering pools of torchlight.
Her thoughts were her only companions, and as the days passed fruitlessly, she started to wonder if she had been condemned to be a phantom until her dying day. Perhaps that was her fate; perhaps she would starve to death before finding a familiar, adored figure dressed in leathers and wools. Eventually, as she hid in corners and unlocked closets, trying so very hard to slumber, just for a moment, just for an hour, please, she started to believe it.
(How long has she been wondering these halls?)
Another different level to explore, another hallway to search. A mute phantom gliding past king and guard and every other denizen of the palace; searching, searching forevermore.
(Would she ever see the dwarf King returned to his throne?)
Another elf to follow, this time one of the cooks. Because perhaps, one day, one of them would lead her to the Company. Because she was so very hungry, famished, and was that meat being dried down yonder? Heedless of any danger, Bilbo followed the cook past the kitchen into the storeroom, where her mouth was abruptly flooded with drool at the sight of fruit, decanters of wine, bushels of vegetables, and there was enough meat to have sent her absent companions into raptures.
When her nigh-unbearably empty belly clenched and gurgled softly, Bilbo found herself captivated. Unthinkingly, she ducked under a table, and then under another, hiding herself in a corner (it happened more and more that she had to remind herself of her invisibility) before reaching out for a roll of bread.
Then for an apple from that basket, a thin strip of dried meat from that shelf, a sip from the flask of ale sitting in the other side of the room; again, again, again, until Bilbo finally felt—after a long time—somewhat satisfied. Hands resting on her now-silent stomach, she turned and surveyed the quiet storeroom, shuffling forward to take in the startling length of the room.
There was certainly no pantry of this size back in the Shire, she thought as she turned quietly on her heel and headed back to the door, storing rolls and other delicacies in her numerable pockets as she went. Bilbo primly licked her fingers clean, pressed her hands against the beautifully carved wood of the storeroom's door, and pushed. Then pushed again.
Bilbo swallowed nervously.
She took a step back, then another, before tilting back her head to take in the entire length of the immovable door all at once. So very tall, so very heavy. Worried, Bilbo scurried back into the bowels of the storeroom and hid under a table, in the darkest spot she could find, keeping a weary eye on the exit.
Bilbo shuddered and hugged her vibrating legs, resting her chin on her knees as she started counting the seconds, minutes, until the door would be opened and she could continue her search. Sweat gathered at her temples; when it started trickling down her neck, disappearing into her clothes, she wondered if the elves would eventually catch her because of her unpleasant scent.
Oh, dear.
She shuddered.
Bilbo glanced at her ring; all of a sudden, she began rubbing at the gleaming surface, eying it from every angle, taking in the beauty of the simple band. She was no dwarrowdam, she had no love for gold, but she couldn't deny the exquisiteness of this … this trinket. Slowly, she breathed in, then out, and calmed down. Then remembered how Gandalf had questioned her. What did you find?
My courage.
Yes.
And so, now, she calmly waited in silence.
Not daring to move an inch.
Eventually, the stillness of the storeroom became too much to bear, and Bilbo began mumbling to herself about the journey thus far. About her initial difficulties with riding her pony; the quiet of the night, which had been utterly loud with the sound of crickets and snores and the first-watch quietly patrolling the campsite; the vast size of the trolls and the smell of mucus that had remained in her clothes for days on end; how she had snuck away to bathe in relative peace, which had been somewhat of an adventure in itself but an eventual nuisance.
Thinking of the past eventually became thinking of the future. Their destination, Erebor.
Balin (and others) had weaved a delicate image of their erstwhile home, of the layers of history carved out of stone, and it all had left her utterly breathless. A kingdom, inside a mountain! And the more she thought of Erebor, the more she desired to see it in its true beauty, the less she thought of those rolling hills and pastures of the Shire.
Time became meaningless, inconsequential, to the imprisoned hobbit; she wasn't certain how long she waited—she doubted she would ever find out at a later stage—but to her there was only the door and her all-important escape. Nothing else. Thus a (hungrier, no, starving) hobbit emerged from the storeroom once the lock had been turned, and she ghosted past the unsuspecting cook to continue looking.
This time, luck was on her side.
Bilbo had placed a few mere steps between herself and her temporary cell when she heard the words dwarves and food and confinement. With her teeth biting into her lower lip, cutting off the jubilant cry that dearly desired freedom, she swiftly—albeit weakly—followed a contingent of guards into the one place she hadn't been able to find on her own.
The dungeons of the Elvenking.
After many turns, and far too many steps made for longer strides, the patrol broke off into pairs; it should have sent a huffing-puffing Bilbo into hysterics, but she only primly sniffed at this new development and promptly followed her nose. Her nose had never betrayed her before, and it wouldn't leave her in the lurch now, of all times; so, naturally, it was something else, something completely out of her control, that nearly gave her away. A simple dizzy spell, for hobbits lived on seven meals a day, and anything less than that was unheard of!
So the world lurched to the left, all of a sudden, and Bilbo had to throw out her arms to catch herself. When her breathing finally evened out, and her vision stopped spinning, she squared her shoulders before giving the elves standing before her her undivided attention.
For a moment she panicked, wondering if she had been discovered in her moment of weakness, but the guards had their heads ducked toward each other and seemed to be debating about the plate of food the taller one was holding aloft. Bilbo wasn't sure why the duo looked like they had swallowed something awfully sour, but it couldn't, just couldn't, be because of the freshly baked bread that was still making her mouth water.
It took her a few seconds to realise that the elves were actually discussing who would deliver that plate to a lonely, hunched figure sitting in a dark cell at the end of the corridor. And it took everything for her to not rush up to the ornate, green-tinged bars; to not kiss the flagstones and then call out a name because finally, finally she had been led to one of her dwarves. Bilbo tried so very hard to not weep with joy.
Patience, my sweet child, Bungo Baggins had repeatedly reminded his young, wild hobbit lass, patience, and all will be well.
And so she pressed herself against the cool wall, holding her breath as the plate was transferred from elf to dwarf. Patient, how could she be? Bilbo wondered as the guards finally turned around and drifted away, silently returning to their posts. How long has it been? How many days—?
Bilbo, instead of quietly standing out of the way, nearly leapt out her skin when the plate that had been given to the prisoner was suddenly thrown onto the floor and shattered into many jagged shards. Heart racing in her throat, she pressed a hand to her bosom and drew in quick, calming breaths. But no one, she noticed after a long, strained minute, came to investigate.
After tugging on her tattered waistcoat, then brushing a still-shaking hand across her short locks, Bilbo threw her shoulders back and negotiated her way across the floor. As quietly as she could, she leaned against the bars and peeked inside. Ori? Or was it Fili? The expectation made her tremble, and the dwarf, veiled in shadow, finally looked up.
Bilbo promptly pulled off her ring.
"Mistress Boggins?"
Oh, Kili.
The incredulous tone in his quivering voice made her feel boneless with relief. Her knees gave out, her eyes screwed tightly shut. A tremulous smile quivered across Bilbo's lips as warm fingers tentatively curled around her own. Inhaling softly, she finally opened her eyes, and again her lips curved upward of their own accord.
"Bilbo!" Kili breathed, his eyes continuously flicking to and fro, first memorizing her features, then inspecting her for any obvious injuries. He pressed himself against the bars. "You're here!"
"Where else would I be?" she asked, all aquiver with anticipation.
"Bofur told you to run—"
"We were already lost, and I'd rather be lost with company than be all alone," Bilbo said in a rush. "But I thought I would go mad before finding you!"
"Oh, Bilbo," Kili sighed, and his hold on her fingers became painful. "I don't know how we're going to get out of this. Have you found Uncle?"
"I'll find a way," Bilbo promised, drawing herself upright, forgetting all about the weariness in her bones, the hunger in her belly, the dizziness in her head. "I'll find him."
"You are our burglar." A slow smile bloomed across Kili's face, and the wildness in his eyes slowly crept away, forgotten. "Mistress Boggins?"
"Hmm?"
Kili watched her closely. "I miss your smile."
"I miss yours," was her immediate answer.
Bilbo, without once hesitating, freed her fingers and carded them through his unruly hair, brushing it this way and that until there was some semblance of neatness. Finally, she sat back, slowly lowering her hand, and studied the young dwarf as well as she could in the dim light. He no longer appeared so tired, so hungry (as they all had been before the attack), but there was a clear restlessness to him that was obviously due to his separation from his brother and beloved uncle.
"I'll be back," Bilbo whispered in a rush, again determined to find the rest of the Company, her friends. It was a struggle to summon a smile, even a small one, so instead she reached out—again—and tucked Kili's hair behind his large (reddening) ears. Then, bracing her hands on her knees, she pushed herself up and glanced at the Prince one last time. He blinked rapidly, looking confused all of a sudden. "I'll find them. Promise."
And off she went, into the dark.