Much Ado About Nothing: Chapter 2
Title: Much Ado About Nothing
Rating: T (rating subject to change)
Fandom: Tolkien's Hobbit
Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins, more to come
Genre: Romance/Adventure/Humor
Summary Belladonna Baggins, child of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, hadn't much taste for Adventure. More's the pity that Adventure had a taste for Belladonna Baggins A what-if fic.
WARNINGS: Liberal application of gender-swap! As in, always-the-other-gender gender-swap! You have been warned! Eventual explicit scenes, liberal application of fibercrafting, comedy of errors
It took her quite a while to get used to the Company. She had tentatively begun to be friendly with a few.
Fíli and Kíli were bright, merry souls, who reminded her of her young Took cousins. They were brash, mischievous and cocksure, but they could also be so gently sweet and carelessly thoughtful that it tugged her somewhat dormant maternal heartstrings. ‘You boys must do your mother so very proud,’ she often thought, and she had been somehow unsurprised with the news that the boys were nephews of the King.
Ori was a gentle soul, a kindred spirit more fond of reading, of writing and drawing than of performing great and heroic deeds. He was one of the younger members of the company, though Fíli and Kíli were definitely the youngest. She could tell he was quite nervous at times, and could get quite vehement in his bravado, covering up that insecurity. She would often crochet while he knitted, once she was comfortable enough on her pony to do so.
Bofur was a tricky fellow, rife with mischief but also possessing a startling kindness. His brother Bombur was equally kind, though less inclined to share. She found herself comparing cooking tips and recipes with Bombur more often than not, as Bofur rode alongside them whittling.
Balin she treated with the care that she would give the Thain, respectful and deferential, but curious. He rewarded her shy respect with incredible tales, and all the other dwarfs would fall silent and listen too. Balin was quite assuredly a master storyteller.
Bilbo had once heard her cousins that lived close to Bree say that men said dwarfs did not have emotions, that they were cold and greedy as their mines and closefisted as their mountains. She had cause to wonder if those people had ever met dwarfs, for the longer she remained in their company, the more open they became to her.
Save for one Thorin Oakenshield. He remained as stone her her, refusing to even acknowledge her save for the odd disparaging look or comment.
She felt disheartened, and too often the others took their cue from Thorin in how to act. She knew their teasing was meant in good spirit, unlike Thorin’s disdain, but it only served to make her feel quite alone.
She tried not to hold it against the younger ones, because youth spoke its mind without thought or consideration more often than naught.
The truth was she was homesick, and really she didn’t know why they had to hold it against her, seeing as they were on this dratted quest to reclaim their home.
Hypocritical, if they asked her, but they never did.
~
“What was that?” It started as what Bilbo considered a perfectly legitimate question. The boys, however endearing she usually found them, decided it was time for another bout of teasing. It didn’t end quite so well as they expected, both of them being reprimanded by their uncle for making light of orc-raids. Bilbo supposed she should feel grateful for Thorin’s interruption, even though it was not intended to defend her from teasing, but all she could feel was sorry for the lads, shamefaced as they looked.
Balin intervened before she gave in to her increasingly ridiculous mothering urges. The story he told was akin to the great epics Bilbo had read in her books. It was a story of heroes, of valiant struggles against the forces of the Dark, hope shining bright and a new leader, all those great and inspiring things. However, like most of her epics, it had a flip side.
“Our dead were beyond the count of grief.” A shiver chased itself down her spine. The old epics on her shelf were also invariably tragedies. Fear, failing, betrayal, death. For a moment the way ahead of her was clear and a premonition rocked her mind, terrified her so much that she barely caught Balin’s next uplifting words. She turned with the others to watch Thorin, though she could hardly see, so strong her foreboding. Then something occurred to her -
“What happened to Azog?” she asked, voice surprisingly strong for how faint she felt. Thorin strode past her.
“That foul creature died of his wounds long ago,” he growled at her, but she saw with terrifying clarity the look that passed between Gandalf and Balin. Her heart leapt to her throat, and she tried to catch Gandalf’s eye, but he was lost within his own ruminations.
She slept uneasily that night.
~
She was tired the next morning, opting to ride quietly beside Ori. Her crocheting came out, as did his knitting, and she stared vaguely down at her project before realizing what it was, in fact, a muffler for Kíli. The boy had been complaining about the rain getting down the back of his collar, dripping through his hood, perhaps? She stared at it mulishly for long enough that Ori noticed her hands had stilled.
“What’s the matter? I’d ask if you dropped a stitch, but that’s crochet. Have you messed up the pattern?” He squinted over at it. It was a warm chestnut-brown wool that really would be stunning with Kíli’s coloring. It was done in a basket stitch, masculine enough that the child might actually wear it. Because there wasn’t any doubt about it, however old he told her he was, that boy wasn’t old enough for this journey. Not old enough for the lingering threat that hung over the company. Not old enough for what lay at the end of their journey. Fíli was barely any better, for all he was slightly more mature than his little brother.
“It’s to be a scarf for Kíli, the lad was complaining about the rain. I don’t know that he deserves it now, though.” She muttered back, returning to her stitching. Ori gave a sweet little chuckle, and she eyed him slightly. He wasn’t old enough either, and far too gentle. She feared for his gentleness. Would it survive the journey?
“He was whining, Bilbo. No need to soften your words.” Ori said cheerfully. She smiled ruefully at him.
“Oh, I’m just being crotchety. If you’ll pardon the terrible play on words,” She said, and he giggled. “It’ll go to him. Perhaps it’ll even wring an apology out of the lad.” She chuckled. “What are you making, Ori?” She asked, nudging Myrtle a little closer to Ori’s pony to peer at his stitchwork when he held it up.
“It’s to be a hood for you. I noticed you got thoroughly soaked last shower.” He was a little shy about it, but Bilbo was utterly charmed by the soft blue-grey wool.
“You’re a good lad, Ori. I’d be honored to wear it.” She reassured the boy, and a pleased flush spread over his face.
~
The scarf was finally done when they stopped to camp. She was standing with Balin, about to take his pony down to where they were keeping the ponies for the night when Gandalf stormed past them. She called out to him nervously, and he snapped back and left. She glanced worriedly to Balin, but he shook his head.
Wizards will be wizards, she supposed.
Rating: T (rating subject to change)
Fandom: Tolkien's Hobbit
Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins, more to come
Genre: Romance/Adventure/Humor
Summary Belladonna Baggins, child of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, hadn't much taste for Adventure. More's the pity that Adventure had a taste for Belladonna Baggins A what-if fic.
WARNINGS: Liberal application of gender-swap! As in, always-the-other-gender gender-swap! You have been warned! Eventual explicit scenes, liberal application of fibercrafting, comedy of errors
It took her quite a while to get used to the Company. She had tentatively begun to be friendly with a few.
Fíli and Kíli were bright, merry souls, who reminded her of her young Took cousins. They were brash, mischievous and cocksure, but they could also be so gently sweet and carelessly thoughtful that it tugged her somewhat dormant maternal heartstrings. ‘You boys must do your mother so very proud,’ she often thought, and she had been somehow unsurprised with the news that the boys were nephews of the King.
Ori was a gentle soul, a kindred spirit more fond of reading, of writing and drawing than of performing great and heroic deeds. He was one of the younger members of the company, though Fíli and Kíli were definitely the youngest. She could tell he was quite nervous at times, and could get quite vehement in his bravado, covering up that insecurity. She would often crochet while he knitted, once she was comfortable enough on her pony to do so.
Bofur was a tricky fellow, rife with mischief but also possessing a startling kindness. His brother Bombur was equally kind, though less inclined to share. She found herself comparing cooking tips and recipes with Bombur more often than not, as Bofur rode alongside them whittling.
Balin she treated with the care that she would give the Thain, respectful and deferential, but curious. He rewarded her shy respect with incredible tales, and all the other dwarfs would fall silent and listen too. Balin was quite assuredly a master storyteller.
Bilbo had once heard her cousins that lived close to Bree say that men said dwarfs did not have emotions, that they were cold and greedy as their mines and closefisted as their mountains. She had cause to wonder if those people had ever met dwarfs, for the longer she remained in their company, the more open they became to her.
Save for one Thorin Oakenshield. He remained as stone her her, refusing to even acknowledge her save for the odd disparaging look or comment.
She felt disheartened, and too often the others took their cue from Thorin in how to act. She knew their teasing was meant in good spirit, unlike Thorin’s disdain, but it only served to make her feel quite alone.
She tried not to hold it against the younger ones, because youth spoke its mind without thought or consideration more often than naught.
The truth was she was homesick, and really she didn’t know why they had to hold it against her, seeing as they were on this dratted quest to reclaim their home.
Hypocritical, if they asked her, but they never did.
~
“What was that?” It started as what Bilbo considered a perfectly legitimate question. The boys, however endearing she usually found them, decided it was time for another bout of teasing. It didn’t end quite so well as they expected, both of them being reprimanded by their uncle for making light of orc-raids. Bilbo supposed she should feel grateful for Thorin’s interruption, even though it was not intended to defend her from teasing, but all she could feel was sorry for the lads, shamefaced as they looked.
Balin intervened before she gave in to her increasingly ridiculous mothering urges. The story he told was akin to the great epics Bilbo had read in her books. It was a story of heroes, of valiant struggles against the forces of the Dark, hope shining bright and a new leader, all those great and inspiring things. However, like most of her epics, it had a flip side.
“Our dead were beyond the count of grief.” A shiver chased itself down her spine. The old epics on her shelf were also invariably tragedies. Fear, failing, betrayal, death. For a moment the way ahead of her was clear and a premonition rocked her mind, terrified her so much that she barely caught Balin’s next uplifting words. She turned with the others to watch Thorin, though she could hardly see, so strong her foreboding. Then something occurred to her -
“What happened to Azog?” she asked, voice surprisingly strong for how faint she felt. Thorin strode past her.
“That foul creature died of his wounds long ago,” he growled at her, but she saw with terrifying clarity the look that passed between Gandalf and Balin. Her heart leapt to her throat, and she tried to catch Gandalf’s eye, but he was lost within his own ruminations.
She slept uneasily that night.
~
She was tired the next morning, opting to ride quietly beside Ori. Her crocheting came out, as did his knitting, and she stared vaguely down at her project before realizing what it was, in fact, a muffler for Kíli. The boy had been complaining about the rain getting down the back of his collar, dripping through his hood, perhaps? She stared at it mulishly for long enough that Ori noticed her hands had stilled.
“What’s the matter? I’d ask if you dropped a stitch, but that’s crochet. Have you messed up the pattern?” He squinted over at it. It was a warm chestnut-brown wool that really would be stunning with Kíli’s coloring. It was done in a basket stitch, masculine enough that the child might actually wear it. Because there wasn’t any doubt about it, however old he told her he was, that boy wasn’t old enough for this journey. Not old enough for the lingering threat that hung over the company. Not old enough for what lay at the end of their journey. Fíli was barely any better, for all he was slightly more mature than his little brother.
“It’s to be a scarf for Kíli, the lad was complaining about the rain. I don’t know that he deserves it now, though.” She muttered back, returning to her stitching. Ori gave a sweet little chuckle, and she eyed him slightly. He wasn’t old enough either, and far too gentle. She feared for his gentleness. Would it survive the journey?
“He was whining, Bilbo. No need to soften your words.” Ori said cheerfully. She smiled ruefully at him.
“Oh, I’m just being crotchety. If you’ll pardon the terrible play on words,” She said, and he giggled. “It’ll go to him. Perhaps it’ll even wring an apology out of the lad.” She chuckled. “What are you making, Ori?” She asked, nudging Myrtle a little closer to Ori’s pony to peer at his stitchwork when he held it up.
“It’s to be a hood for you. I noticed you got thoroughly soaked last shower.” He was a little shy about it, but Bilbo was utterly charmed by the soft blue-grey wool.
“You’re a good lad, Ori. I’d be honored to wear it.” She reassured the boy, and a pleased flush spread over his face.
~
The scarf was finally done when they stopped to camp. She was standing with Balin, about to take his pony down to where they were keeping the ponies for the night when Gandalf stormed past them. She called out to him nervously, and he snapped back and left. She glanced worriedly to Balin, but he shook his head.
Wizards will be wizards, she supposed.