Hello, readers! Please pay attention to the warnings; this story will get seriously unpleasant. Also, all chapters are unbeta'd and my auto-correct is not yet Hobbit-friendly, so my apologies for any mistakes. If you spot some, don't hesitate to point them out to me.

Non-explicit rape/non-con and, in later chapters, suicide, abortion, and miscarriage themes

UPDATE: 6/28/18 - My apologies for the long hiatus! I have finally finished rewriting the chapters I had posted. For those of you who've read the original chapters, I hope you'll find the story more enjoyable and better written. Please reread this from the beginning for the added details and improved characterization! For those of you who are new to this story, please enjoy!

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Then:

No one married their childhood sweetheart. Parents reminded their faunts of this often enough, throughout childhood and, of course, into the tween years. Hobbits loved easily and freely, and faunts were no exception. They became infatuated at the drop of a hat, with their age-mates and with their siblings' friends. Older Hobbits always looked on fondly as the young ones crushed on each other.

"Now remember," they would warn kindly in response to enthusiastic declarations of love, "no one marries their childhood sweetheart."

Bilbo Baggins, who had developed a crush on Fredegar Proudfoot at an early age and never looked at any other Hobbit twice, always rolled her eyes when her parents said this.

Her parents, of course, had been childhood sweethearts. It was one of Bilbo's favorite stories and she asked for it to be told at bedtime at least once a week when she was younger.

Bungo Baggins had always known that there was no one else for him but Belladonna Took. Belladonna hadn't always been sure. She had spent her childhood infatuated with Bungo and then Hugo Boffin, Bungo again, Gorbadoc Brandybuck, Bungo, and Ruby Bolger. Despite this uncertainty, Bungo, after coming of age, had built Bag End for her and then waited patiently while she went off adventuring with a Wizard. And finally, when she had returned and decided that yes, Bungo was the one for her, they had settled down together.

To their only child, this story seemed to be a perfect illustration of the path that she and Fredegar would take. They would be childhood sweethearts, then she would spend a year exploring Middle Earth while Fredegar remained in the Shire (like proper Hobbits were meant to do), and then she would return and the two of them would settle down and begin a family.

It rather came as a surprise to her when her life veered dramatically off this path.

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Now:

When a Wizard finally came round the Shire again, looking to steal an unsuspecting Hobbit away for adventuring, Bilbo Baggins was no longer a young faunt with stars in her eyes, her head in the clouds, and a heart full of joyful optimism. She had been disillusioned and knew now that life never worked out the way one hoped. Life, she now understood, was only a series of disappointments, one after another.

She was far from the Hobbit she had once been, and was no longer the Hobbit that Gandalf had come in search of.

When the tall figure appeared in her garden, it took Bilbo several moments to realize who he was and why he seemed so familiar. She stared at him, taking in the casual way he leaned on his staff and raised an expectant eyebrow at her. Then suddenly it occurred to her; this was Gandalf the Gray, and Bilbo had not seen him in over a decade.

Her memories of that time were hazy, but Bilbo remembered catching a glimpse of the Gray Wizard as a cousin half carried her, sick with grief and malnutrition, away from her parents' freshly laid graves.

Her grandfather had thanked Gandalf and the leader of the Rangers for coming when the Shire had called. For driving away the white wolves and bringing food to the besieged Hobbits. For saving them.

Gandalf had looked sadly at the grove where Bungo and Belladonna Baggins had just been laid to rest and had then turned his gaze to Bilbo's tear-streaked face as her cousin gently prodded her further up the path.

"I'm sorry I did not come in time."

Now, eleven years later, Bilbo puffed thoughtfully on her pipe, feeling the gaze of the very same Wizard upon her once more. Forcing herself to stop staring, she asked, "Can I help you?"

"That remains to be seen," said the Wizard, pushing up the brim of his gray hat. "I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure."

"An adventure, you say?" mused Bilbo. She peered up at the Wizard that was towering over her and wondered if he started all conversations in such a way, with no introduction whatsoever.

"You are Gandalf, aren't you?" Bilbo asked, though she knew without a doubt that it was him. "The wandering Wizard, who made such excellent fireworks?"

Gandalf looked rather pleased with this, and said as much, though he also grumbled a bit at only being remembered for his fireworks.

Bilbo remembered him for much more than just his fireworks, of course, but such things were not discussed in the Shire. It was just not done.

"I doubt you'll find anyone west of Bree that would have much interest in adventures," Bilbo told the Wizard, back onto the subject at hand. "Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. I can't imagine all the things that could go wrong, but surely the whole thing must be unpleasant."

The pleased look quickly dropped from Gandalf's visage. "To think," he said with a disapproving air, "that I would come all this way to be refused an adventure by the daughter of Belladonna Took!"

Bilbo bristled uncomfortably. She remembered the days when she had accepted rather matter-of-factly that adventuring was something she would do at least once. When she had thought she would follow in her mother's footsteps in matters of both love and exploration. When her parents had still been alive.

What would her parents think of her now? What would they think of this Hobbit she had become? She had barely left Bag End in at least a week, had been refusing visitors, and no longer believed in love. Some days she didn't even think she believed in happiness. At least, not for herself.

"You've changed, and not entirely for the better, Bilbo Baggins."

For a moment, Bilbo wasn't entirely sure if it was Gandalf who had spoken or perhaps the ghost of her parents somehow come back to haunt her.

Shaken, she stood abruptly and bid Gandalf a sharp good morning. Ignoring his considering look, Bilbo retreated back inside her smial.

The moment she was inside with the door firmly shut and bolted behind her, Bilbo winced. Even with her respectability and reputation in shreds, she still had no reason to be quite so rude, especially to a good friend of her late mother.

But what was done was done. And no matter how often Bilbo might wish it otherwise, there was no going back.

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Then:

Fredegar Proudfoot had been Bilbo's best friend for many years, cemented into the position after the Fell Winter. Many of Bilbo's friends had stopped visiting for the most part, unsure of how to handle her grief, but Fredegar had never stopped coming.

Bilbo had lost her parents at an early age, just months after her 22nd birthday. The Fell Winter had not been kind to any in the Shire and everyone had lost a close friend or family member, or both. But Bilbo was the only faunt who had lost both parents to the cruelty of that winter.

Like so many others, her father had fallen ill. It was more than likely, Bilbo knew now, that extreme malnutrition had weakened him to the point where the common cold could have killed him. Her parents had kept a well-stocked system of pantries, but had been unable to watch the families around them go hungry. So they had shared the food they had, keeping only what they thought was necessary for themselves. When the winter had stretched on with no end in sight and their pantries grew bare, there was no turning back. Their generosity had been a saving grace for many of the families in Hobbiton who would have otherwise starved to death, but it had been a grave mistake to give away so much. Bungo Baggins had eaten less and less, giving all the food he had to his wife and daughter with neither being the wiser until it was too late.

He had died a frail and weak Hobbit but to Bilbo he had been the strongest Hobbit she would ever meet. He had refused to give in to his hunger even in the bitter and torturous end.

Belladonna had followed her beloved husband mere days later, torn apart by wolves just feet from the safety of their home.

Gandalf had finally arrived the following day, when it was already too late for Bungo and Belladonna.

At only 22, eleven years from her coming of age, there was no way Bilbo could be allowed to stay in Bag End by herself, even if she hadn't been near catatonic with grief. So Bilbo had been moved into a spare bedroom in the Great Smials of Tuckborough to be under the watchful eyes of her grandfather, the Thain, as well as her grandmother and a smattering of aunts, uncles, and cousins.

It had taken her months after winter's end to begin constructing a new normal. By the time she had learned to ignore the crater in her chest and put on a brave face to spare her friends and family unnecessary worry, only a few of her friends were still visiting on a regular basis.

Of those friends, Fredegar was the only one who didn't seem to be made uncomfortable by her grief, so she never felt the need to hide it like she did with the others. Perhaps it was the fact that they were already best friends and in love that made it so. Or perhaps it was the way Freddie seemed to see no one else but her, no matter who was in the room. Or the way he had already claimed her as his, much to her adoration.

When a knock sounded on her bedroom door in Tuckborough and later on the front door of Bag End, Bilbo could rest assured that it was almost always Fredegar. And even in the darkest moments when the loss seemed to be swallowing her whole, that sound nearly always made Bilbo smile.

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Now:

In the past week, Bilbo had gotten very good at ignoring the knocks on her door.

Now, however, she was beginning to worry that whoever had come calling this evening would punch a hole straight through her door if she didn't answer. She wasn't sure who it could possibly be, though. A Hobbit didn't have the strength to pound so viciously. Perhaps the Wizard had come back to turn her into a toad for her earlier rudeness?

Wary but determined to save her door from destruction (she had just painted it last week, for goodness sake!), Bilbo picked up the kitchen knife she had taken to keeping on the table beside the front door. Tucking this latest safety net behind her back and out of sight, Bilbo took a deep breath to steel herself, undid the lock, and cracked the door open.

A large hand shoved the door open further, causing Bilbo to stumble back out of the way.

It definitely wasn't a Hobbit that had been pounding on her door, but it wasn't a Wizard either.

It was a Dwarf.

A very large Dwarf with muscles defined in ways that Bilbo hadn't even known was possible. A Dwarf covered in tattoos and battle scars and wearing what looked to be some kind of armor and... were those weapons strapped to his back?

They were. Of course they were.

"Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service," the Dwarf rumbled out, giving a small bow.

He was looking at her expectantly now. Bilbo thought she probably ought to introduce herself, but she was too busy gaping to force her mouth or brain to work.

Because, really. It wasn't every day a warrior Dwarf showed up on her doorstep. Bilbo thought she could probably be excused her lapse of manners.

Said Dwarf gave a shrug, mumbled something under his breath about the strangeness of Hobbits, and stepped in through the door.

"Which way is it, laddie?"

And suddenly Bilbo came back to herself with a ragged breath, thoughts flying to the scene that had occurred in her entryway just ten nights ago.

The Dwarf was staring at her now, looking almost... concerned?

Before she could think better of it, she had brandished the knife and was pointing it straight at the Dwarf's heart.

"Get out," she said, voice somehow calm and steady. "Get. Out."

The Dwarf's eyes widened, and a number of emotions played across his face faster than Bilbo could identify them. He held up his hands as if to show he meant no harm. It was a sign of surrender, but he was still inside her smial.

He was still inside her home.

"Get out or I swear I will gut you." Such a threat was surely foolish when aimed at someone who was obviously a warrior, but Bilbo had done more than her fair share of cowering in the past ten days and she. Was. Done.

"Alright, lad," he was saying in a gruff voice. He was backing up toward the door, one hand groping for the door frame. "Alright, I'm leavin'. Don't mean ye no harm, but I'll leave if ye want me to."

"Out."

With a slow nod, the Dwarf stepped out of her home, hands still raised in front of him in a non-threatening manner.

As soon as he had crossed the threshold, Bilbo slammed the door shut. Her hands were shaking so badly that it took a moment before she managed to engage the lock.

But that was not enough. Still clutching the kitchen knife in a white-knuckled grip, Bilbo quickly maneuvered a large chest in front of the door. It took almost more strength than she had to move it, pushing against it with all of her weight. She doubted it would hold back the dwarf if he tried to get in again, but it might slow him down.

As quickly as she could, Bilbo ran through her smial, checking that every door and window was securely locked. By the time she finished, she was unsure whether her breathing was harsh from the exertion or from panic. Judging by how the gasping breaths hitched with increasing speed and harshness rather than dissipating, Bilbo thought it was probably the latter.

She hadn't had a panic attack since the last time she had heard a wolf howl at least two years prior.

And this was worse, worse even than her first, because it was the first time she had ever dealt with one alone.

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Then:

It was the first winter since the Fell Winter, since her parents' deaths.

In sharp contrast to the one that preceded it, this was a mild winter. It was almost as if Arda was trying to make up for the hell that she had put the Hobbits through.

Not that anything could make up for that winter, or the lives it had claimed.

Thanks to the mild weather, ice never formed on the Brandywine, much to the overwhelming relief of the Shire's inhabitants. The white wolves that had crossed the river the previous year had been the cause of only a handful of deaths but a good measure of terror. Hobbits were unaccustomed to meeting such violent ends, as nothing of the sort had really happened since the Wandering Days.

It was understandable, then, that the long echoing howl of a wolf the following winter caused a fair bit of panic. All who heard it, though certain that the river still stood between the wolves and the Shire, hurried inside and bolted their doors.

Bilbo, who was visiting Fredegar at his parents' home in Bywater, was no exception.

"Did you hear that?" asked Fredegar, frozen in place as the last echoes of a mournful howl reverberated through the valley.

Fredegar might have stopped to listen, but Bilbo was already moving.

With a harsh shove, she pushed him into action.

"Get inside," she whispered in a trembling voice, to herself as much as to Fredegar. "We have to get inside. Go!"

The sticks they had been using to practice sword fighting (Bilbo's idea, of course) were dropped to the ground, instantly forgotten. The two of them ran as fast as they could, scrambling up hill toward the safety of the smial. They made it in record time.

The two tweens slammed the door shut behind them and leaned against it, panting harshly. Fredegar's parents and a few of his siblings came rushing toward them, panicked but confused. Inside, they had not heard the howl and were not sure what could cause such terror in the faunts.

As Fredegar calmed his breathing enough to explain what had frightened them so, Bilbo's breathing only seemed to quicken. It was as though all the air in the room had vanished, leaving her gasping and unable to find relief.

The room blurred around her as Bilbo's legs gave out and she sank to the floor.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Valar above, SHE COULDN'T BREATHE.

Suddenly, there were hands cupping her face, gentle but commanding. The hands forced her to look up. It was Fredegar's mother, Mrs. Proudfoot, looking anxious and concerned. Her lips were moving but Bilbo couldn't hear anything over the buzzing in her ears.

Mrs. Proudfoot reached out and grabbed one of Bilbo's hands, bringing it up to rest against her own chest. She breathed in and out exaggeratedly, so Bilbo could feel the rhythm of the woman's chest moving beneath her hand.

Eventually, Bilbo was able to match her breathing to Mrs. Proudfoot's. The ringing in her ears abated and she became aware of the others in the room, watching the two of them anxiously. Suddenly exhausted, Bilbo collapsed forward into Mrs. Proudfoot's arms.

"You're okay," the woman murmured gently, drawing Bilbo in to cradle her against her chest. Bilbo's own mother had once held her the same way, and she knew this embrace meant safety and comfort. Oh, how she had missed being held like this. "You're okay. You're safe."

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Now:

Eventually, Bilbo was able to calm her breathing and reign in her panic. If one were to ask her how she had managed it on her own, Bilbo would be unable to give a real answer. The scratches up and down her arms told their own story, though, and it was the sharp sting of nails on skin that had grounded her enough to calm down.

Awareness came trickling back in, and Bilbo wondered if her attacker was gone now.

As much as she didn't want to move from where she was wedged between her wardrobe and her bed, Bilbo knew she wouldn't truly be able to relax until she knew for certain that the Dwarf had gone. There was only one thing for it, then. She needed to check. It took immeasurable strength for Bilbo to scoop the knife up from the floor and convince her body to uncurl.

She wiped her cheeks clear of tears and forced herself to stand tall. Then, on silent Hobbit feet, Bilbo crept back to her front room.

There were voices coming from beyond the door. Bilbo's white-knuckled grip on her knife tightened as she cocked her head and listened.

"... reason why we're all standing about in our burglar's garden?" a low voice was asking.

"Dwalin arrived first and terrified our host," a calm, steady voice replied.

"Wee thing came at 'im with a kitchen knife!" chuckled a third.

There was more laughter as numerous voices began to overlap one another. Bilbo tried her best to pick out individual voices - as far as she could tell, there were at least six or seven people in her garden.

Just as despair and no small measure of exasperation (really, this was just her luck!) began to creep in, a familiar voice boomed out, causing all the others to quiet.

"Master Dwarves!" The front gate creaked as it usually did when being opened, and footsteps drew closer. "Is there a problem here?"

"Gandalf," someone sighed exasperatedly. Inside, Bilbo echoed the sentiment under her breath. Fear loosened its grip on her enough to make way for relief.

"Are you sure you've the right burglar? Dwalin absolutely terrified the little thing."

Gandalf hummed, sounding displeased. "And what did Master Dwalin do to frighten Miss Baggins so badly?"

"Was his normal glowering self, I suspect," one voice said cheerfully, followed by a round of laughs.

Then one voice rose above the laughter, exclaiming incredulously, "Miss Baggins?! Our host is a woman?"

There was a brief silence before the cacophony of voices resumed, louder than before.

Inside the smial, Bilbo's grip on her knife loosened at the unexpected revelation. Lad. He had called her lad. The Dwarf hadn't even realized she was female. He hadn't come to attack her. He had come for some other reason, one that Gandalf seemed to have a hand in.

Summoning up all of her courage, Bilbo set about moving the chest back to its proper place. It scraped loudly across the floor, causing the invaders in her garden to quiet again.

"Miss Baggins?" Gandalf called gently.

"Gandalf," she called in the most level and put-upon tone she could manage, "you and I will be having words."

With one final shove, the chest was returned to its place and Bilbo was free to open the door. Taking a deep breath, she undid the locks and cracked the door. Gandalf's wrinkled visage stared back at her.

He smiled at her, looking a touch sheepish. "I did not intend to scare you, my dear. Perhaps I could explain?"

Bilbo considered for a minute putting down the knife, but decided against it. Mainly because she wasn't sure she could convince her fingers to uncurl from around the hilt. She tucked it behind her back like she had done earlier, and opened wide the door with her free hand. "In the name of all that is green and good, Gandalf, you damn well better explain."

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A short while later found Bilbo opening her front door once more, most of her earlier fear gone. Tension was still coiled up in her shoulders and held her spine as straight as a rod, but she wasn't afraid any longer.

The Dwarves - twelve of the thirteen she would be hosting for the evening, Gandalf had informed her - still lingered in her garden, puffing away on their pipes and speaking to each other in low tones.

Bilbo spared a moment to wonder what her neighbors would think. In the past week, she had become positively unsociable and she feared that meant the other Hobbits would see her as odd. And now, with twelve Dwarves loitering in her garden, Bilbo was beginning to suspect her reputation would never recover.

The Dwarves stilled when she opened the door, gazing up at her expectantly.

Bilbo cleared her throat, stepped forward and, heeding Gandalf's advice, bowed. "I am Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, at your service." She shifted uncomfortably, well aware of the intense gazes resting on her. "I must express my apologies for my earlier behavior. I was not expecting visitors, and certainly not Dwarves!"

Bilbo chuckled a bit at the ridiculousness of the situation. A few of the Dwarves smiled warmly at her, while others shot fierce glares at Gandalf where he was lingering in the doorway. Gandalf huffed exasperatedly and retreated back indoors. Feeling bolstered by this display, Bilbo continued, "But unexpected or no, you are most certainly not unwelcome. Please, come in. Welcome to my home."

As Bilbo stepped aside so she was no longer blocking the door, a Dwarf with white hair and a long white beard stepped forward. The rest of them stayed put, allowing this Dwarf, who Bilbo suspected was the oldest and wisest of the bunch, to speak for them.

"The company of Thorin Oakenshield, at your service and your family's, Miss Baggins."

Almost as one, the Dwarves bowed low to her.

The Dwarf who had spoken looked quite serious, but far from displeased. In fact, he looked at Bilbo with something akin to respect in his eyes, which puzzled her.

He cleared his throat and said, "We offer our most sincere apologies for our actions, especially those of my brother." Here, Bilbo noticed that the first Dwarf she'd met, the one who'd frightened her so badly, went red and glared uncomfortably at the ground. "Your kindness is more than we deserve."

It was Bilbo's turn to flush red. "Nonsense," she informed the Dwarf. "Please, come in, all of you. What kind of host leaves her guests to sit on the front stoop? My father certainly wouldn't have approved. I feel a poor host, indeed."

A young-looking pair of Dwarves were the first to move in response to Bilbo's invitation. They approached her, standing tall and regal.

"Fili," said the blond.

"And Kili," said the brunette.

"At your service," they chorused, bowing in tandem.

Bilbo just nodded voicelessly, not sure what to make of such stoic beings. For a moment, she wondered if she was mistaken in thinking them young. Then the brunette grinned and winked at her, all seriousness forgotten. The other rolled his eyes and shoved his fellow inside, offering Bilbo an apologetic grin as they passed.

And just like that, Bilbo's shoulders began to lose a bit of tension.

One by one, the rest of the Dwarves filed into her home, introducing themselves and offering their service as they passed. The one called Bofur swept his hat off his head in a rather dramatic and ridiculous gesture that had Bilbo smiling. The white-haired Dwarf who had spoken earlier introduced himself as Balin, and thanked her again for her kindness. That left only one Dwarf remaining on her front step.

He would be just as intimidating as he had been when she first saw him, if not for the contrite look on his face and the slight hunch to his shoulders.

"Dwalin, at yer service," he introduced again. "'M sorry for comin' into yer home uninvited, Mistress Hobbit."

His apology seemed sincere, and Bilbo knew now that Gandalf's deception had played a part in his actions. So she nodded, and gestured for him to enter her home.

Bilbo stood just outside her door for a long moment, gazing into the smial that now held twelve strangers and a meddling Wizard. She took a deep breath to steady herself. She was sure she had a long night ahead of her.