A/N So it's basically canon, save for the fact that Bilbo is female and her name is Hawthorn. Naturally, Gandalf introduces her as 'Bilbo' and the dwarrow all believe her to be a him. Obviously, sometime during their journey, her gender is discovered and there's a brief thing about that (in which Gandalf is blamed and yelled at). There will be details farther into the story.

Basically flashbacks because time travel. This is a quick note about the changes so you can understand roughly what this fiction's canon is. The same relationships play out and all of that, only with a side of attraction for Thorin and Hawthorn, as this is a Thorin/fem!Bilbo pairing. Also THIS IS CO-WRITTEN WITH WOLFSRAINRULES.

Present Day - After the Battle of Five Armies

It had taken the Company of Thorin Oakenshield seven months to journey from Hobbiton to Erebor.

For a grief-stricken Hawthorn Baggins, sometimes called Bilbo thanks to many games of 'adventure' as a wee lass, loaded down with things she found she couldn't bear to part with, it took an entire year.

She had lingered with Beron, the skinchanger delighting in her company and taking the opportunity to fill her stomach with food. He was sad to see her go, but Hawthorn couldn't help but promise to visit one day. A promise she wasn't entirely sure she could keep, but perhaps she would be able to journey to Erebor once more before her death.

She took the journey over the Misty Mountains slowly as to avoid Thunder Battles and in the end, she spent an entire month in Rivendell as an honored guest. Of course, the last half of her journey saw her taking even more souvenirs from the old troll hoard she had received Sting from.

(Where Thorin took up Orcrist for the first time…)

Considering that Nori and Gloin currently have the entire treasury of Erebor and their new status as Lords to distract them for the foreseeable future, Hawthorn didn't think the thief would mind if she was the one to take their...deposit. Not that she would do anything with her earned riches, save put them somewhere to remember the story behind her acquisition of coins and the gold.

(To remember not all heroes are true and good until the end. To remember that not all stories end in happiness.)

They'll have a place in a chest in her study, on her mantle or hanging from the wall, along with all the other memories she's collected from her journey.

(she doesn't think about the bead braided in her hair. She keeps the sudden knowing that she'll never be able to cut her hair short again.)

(Never be a 'respectable' hobbit of the Shire again. Not in a conventional sense, when she had traveled with her dwarrows and seen so much, when she had changed so much. When her version of 'respectable' was no longer the same as it had once been.)

She's got an old, rusted Dwarven shield, an elven bow with a quiver full of arrows that Tauriel gifted to her, along with a rather crude Orc blade, all on bound on her back. Of course, her traveling pack is now filled with good, expensive gear, including a rain slick and provisions. Balin and Dwalin both outfitting her with the appropriate things for long travels.

Especially considering she had lost most of her things in the escape from Thranduil's dungeons.

The hurt and sorrow are still heavy on her heart when she finally reaches Bree. She ditches on staying for the night as a part of her is wearied from the long journey, even as another part dreads returning to the life she once knew.

In the end, she allows herself the chance to rest before she has to deal with her relations and the gossiping that will surely begin as soon as she is sighted. She knows it will be especially horrid because she was an unwed female that had left with thirteen male dwarrow. (She doesn't care. She would choose them again, would always choose them. They had earned her loyalty more than she could put into words.)

(They had taught her of honor, and love, of heartbreak, and joy, of loss and family.)

She lays in a comfortable bed, nothing like Rivendale, but enough that she drifts to sleep quickly.

Her dreams are filled with memories, both cherished and heartbreaking. There is warmth in there, Kili and Fili's laughter, the stern scolding of Thorin, even as his eyes shone with amusement at their games. They're all there, healthy and whole, alive in the vivid haze of a dream.

There's movement, a flash of something, a sound- otherworldly and ethereal- something that she cannot put a name to, and she wakes with wet lashes and tear stained cheeks.

She lays there for a moment and breathes.

It hurts and quite frankly, there is nothing to distract her from her grief. she gets up, because if she spends a minute longer in the quiet, her mind is going to wander to places she's trying to ignore. Her bill is already settled and she's quite used to only three meals a day by now so she sets off.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon when Bag End comes into view. Hawthorn's heart eases at the familiar, comforting sight of her smial. There's no one in view as she walks up to her front door. No neighbors out to see her arrival since her rather abrupt and memorable departure.

She grasps the knob and turns it open, quietly stepping inside, pulling the freshly painted door closed behind her with a small click.

She doesn't notice the absence of a certain mark that, perhaps, began her quest that has now come to an end. It had been so long after all.

What she does notice is how her home is perfectly cleaned up, with no signs of the mess her dwarrows made on the night of their introduction. There's no mud on the floor, her things are perfectly arranged, exactly where they should be and it's as if nothing has happened.

The tears are not unexpected, but Hawthorn ignores them with now practiced ease- she has cried much in the last weeks of her journey with The Company- and turns her attention to unpacking her traveling pack.

She is gentle and careful with her belongings as she pulls them free, uncaring for the clothing that has become so tarnished with dirt and time, but ever so cautious with the items of sentimental value. The gifts she had been given before she left the great Halls of Erebor where she had seen her friend go mad, faced a dragon and braved an army-

Bilbo- Hawthorn breathes.

She is home.

In the place that has only known her as Hawthorn Baggins, confirmed spinster, the Baggins of Bag End, not as Bilbo, expert burglar and a member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.

No, to them 'Bilbo' if they had heard the name at all was simply the wild imaginings of a fauntling lass who played with her Took cousins. Cousins that had told her 'girls could not go on adventures' and so she had tossed her curls and declared 'Then I will be Bilbo, and he can go on any adventure he likes!'.

Her eyes close as she focuses on the leather in she hands. It had been a gift from Ori, the leather bound journal, blank pages inside waiting for Hawthorn to fill them with her thoughts and memories. She thought she might just use it to record her story- all that had happened to her and her Company.

Perhaps sharing her story- even if it was only in words and never spoken- would help.

(And if hers was the only story that would remember those brave dwarrows who answered the call of their King when they had nothing, written in a language that could be read by all, she would ensure history remembered them well.)

A drop of water landed on the bound leather and Hawthorn startled. She was crying again, she realized as she pressed a hand to her cheek. She allowed herself a moment to indulge before she set her face and straightened up.

She was not going to break out in random weeping fits, not while she had work to do. She should start by cooking a meal, by cleaning her nicknacks before deciding where to put them. There was plenty of things for her to be busy with and she was going to get right on it!

With a firm nod to herself, Hawthorn put away the book, rose to her feet and set off towards the pantry.

First, she needed to see what was left, and from there, a list would be made.

Only, that didn't work out quite as well as it was supposed to. To her astonishment, her pantry was filled to the brim with food! Meats and pies, cheeses and vegetables! As if it had never been emptied at all!

In fact, Hawthorn was almost absolutely sure that the bottle of wine she had served to Gandalf was now completely full instead of halfway drained!

The hobbit lass stood there, gaping at this completely unexpected situation.

"I don't understand," she whispers to herself, her eyes wide at the sight in front of her.

For a crazy moment, Hawthorn wonders who had been inside her home. There is no other explanation she can come to that makes sense. Why else would her home be free of dust and the ware of time, her pantry full as if she had just gone to the market, and everything so fresh and aired out?

And yet, she must dismiss that notion, for she can see that there is nothing in her home that had been shifted from where she had placed them last. There are no signs of others inhabiting her smial in a long-term way. No clothes, no dishes, no dirt or signs that were not her own. It's as if she never left.

Her smial was spotless and clean, just as she always liked to keep it. Just as it had been before a troop of dwarrows had crashed into her life.

Hawthorn knows, as sure as the sky is blue, if no one else had touched her home in her absence, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would have tried her hand. Especially in the face of an absence so long as her own had been. And yet, as she darts over to her cupboards, all her silver spoons and her mother's china are exactly where they should be.

Her stomach grumbles, reminding her that she still hasn't eaten, so Hawthorn quietly puts the impossibilities in the back of her mind and goes to make her breakfast. She needs a nice, hot cup of chamomile tea.

She can handle putting the rest of her things away after she has fed and watered herself.

The sun continues to rise in the sky and when she finishes her breakfast, Hawthorn can hear as the birds launch into song and as her neighbors begin to start their day.

She puts her dishes up, her mind still stumbling over the oddities of her smial, before she shoves that away because for a moment she could have sworn Sting was glowing blue. It's in the living room, propped again her pack and she stares at it from her kitchen.

It's not glowing.

Her heart slows down from its rapid beat and Hawthorn takes a shaky breath. She reaches down for her stiff wire brush and puts this incident out of her mind, just like all the others and heads for her collections of weapons.

She starts with the shield, the one she picked up in the ruins of Dale almost half a year ago now. She sits on her floor and pulls the rusty angular shield into her lap and...pauses.

How does one go about cleaning a shield? Especially one that suffered such ware as this one? It had served her well in the half-year she had carried it, and she would not like to ruin it beyond repair in an attempt to save it.

(She cannot forget the open delight on Kili's face and the gruff approval from Dwalin at the sight she made when she proudly showed them what she found. Thorin-)

She stops, refuses to continue down that moment and hesitates for a moment, staring at the shield as the memories swell from the back of her mind. She breathes.

She sets the shield to the side, and instead picks up the orc blade. She has no idea what the blade had been made of, but just from her time spent with her dwarrows she knows it is not of any quality metal. Still, it had served her well enough, and she had earned the blade from a battle she fought in and won.

She would care for it well enough, starting with cleaning and sharpening it. Dwalin and Nori both would have her head if she let a weapon in her care dull from disuse.

(A sharp blade is important, lad- er, lass! It can be the difference between life and death for you and those in your care! Come here, give me your letter opener and let me show you how to care for it.)

She tucked the memories of nights spent learning from the dwarrows around her away, instead setting her mind on putting those lessons to use. She vaguely wishes someone thought to mention how to take care of a shield, but so much had happened, and they had insisted on teaching her things like weapon care and how to handle the weapon properly thornbush, before you cut off someone's nose.

Her time passes mostly pleasantly in a mindless haze of repeated motions, but eventually, she stops her task of sharpening the blade and stands. Her shoulders ache and her hands are cramping. She dithers about the house, fixing herself a small snack before she decides to clean up.

She's still wearing her travel-stained clothes and she smells terrible.

Her hair is longer, with two braids half-hidden in it's curly mass, but she manages to keep them intact through her scrubbing. (The bead glimmers in the sunlight and her heart aches.)

When she's clean and smelling of her shampoos and mostly dry apart from her hair, she goes to her closet. She's thinner than she was. Her arms are sporting a visible line of muscle, although small, it's more than she's ever had in her life. Her stomach isn't softly padded with curves, rather it's flat and Hawthorn finds herself a mirror to stare at her body.

Her eyes prickle with tears because all of her lovely softness that she had once boasted of on her frame is mostly gone. There's a stranger standing in her mirror. One who fought for her life and for the lives of people she loves and Hawthorn…

She's not sure about the person she is now. The woman who holds herself high with squared shoulders and braced legs. The one who has terrible scars and a thin body which barely has any softness to it. The one who thought she saw her blade glowing blue to remind her of orcs nearby.

(The woman Thorin had looked at with soft eyes and upturned lips-)

She's proud, really, truly, deeply proud in all she's done, but it's left marks on her that will linger and remind her of those who didn't survive as she did.

A sob tears its way through her lips with surprising force. She bends forward at the stabbing pain because she had forgotten how badly grief hurts. It's been decades since her parents died and most of the following month was just a haze and this somehow feels so much worse.

Thorin.

Thorin is dead. Kili is dead, Fili is dead.

Her knees hit her wooden floors and her towel is draped around her shoulders and her hair drips water and she can't bring herself to care.

She once held dreams of marrying, like any other Hobbit lass. Only she was too bright, too bold and she never found a man like her father. A man like Bungo Baggins who took one look at the wild Took daughter, Belladonna and fell hopelessly in love.

And then there was Thorin. No time was ever right and while they had their moments, their relationship could barely be called a friendship. After the discovery that she was a woman, rather than a man, Thorin grew equally harsh and protective over her. There were times, such as when Hawthorn broke them out of Thranduil's dungeon in which she knew that she held Thorin's absolute trust.

There were other times when he was angry at her, furious for something she did or didn't do and she didn't understand. He would throw her failings and shortcomings in her face and then turn to stalk off somewhere away from everyone, as if he couldn't stand the sight of her.

She saw the way he looked at her! The way the tips of his ears had been red when he gifted her the mithril shirt. Was it all a dream on her part? A fantasy for the one man who had shown a sliver of interest in her in years?

A quiet wail replaced her sobs as she tried to get her emotions under control. There was too many things, there was too much.

How was she supposed to function when she was like this? When she had lost so much? She had found family with her drarrows, but then it had been taken from her. They were gone and she was all that was left. Some of her dwarrows lived, but how could she face them when she had held their King as he died, had found their heirs twisted together in death as if they had tried to protect the other?

(-and failed)

How could she have stayed in Erebor when memories of war and loss hovered around every corner? Where Dain the Ironfoot was to be crowned King Under the Mountain?

She tried to breathe. It was difficult, her lungs and heart closing and clenching in a vice. She ignored the shudders that traveled through her body. Ignored the chill of her damp hair against her back, the hard press of wood against her knees.

She just tried to breathe past the gaping hole in her chest where the line of Durin had once resided. Where the laughter and play of its heirs had echoed, where Thorin had once resided with all the confusing feelings she carried for him and would never be able to explore now.

When the ache of her body finally broke through her sobs, when she had no more tears to shed in that moment, her eyes aching and her chest tight, she stood.

She stood and stared at her clothes in the closet, her heart squeezing. Dresses in every shade of color, lined with lace stared back, reminding her of days long past where she was a 'respectable hobbit' and so wore the clothes expected of her.

The day Gandalf had come to her, she had been in pants and a loose shirt only because she had been planning to do garden work. No lass wanted their skirts stained with dirt and grass, not to mention that garden work was so much easier when she wasn't impaired by skirts and a corset.

Now?

Now she looked at these dresses and ached. She was so innocent then. Innocent and young and naive. And she did not want to wear them now. Not when her mind kept thinking how the folds and frills would get in her way if and when she needed to fight.

These Hobbit dresses were not like the ones she had worn gifted to her by Elves or Dwarves. It was proper to wear layers of fabric for a Hobbit. Elves had thin, breathable material with pockets secreted away in the folds of the material. Proper Hobbit dresses did not have hidden places for weapons of varying shape and length, nor did they have the proper cut along the waist and legs for long strides and an easy range of motion should a fight break out.

She near broke out into hives just thinking about restricting herself in that way, ever again.

She dug past the dresses, aiming for the garden clothes she kept in the back of her closet. She pulled on her binder, and trousers followed by a tunic that had once been her father's. She would need to change her wardrobe entirely.

She wouldn't be able to wear constricting dresses not meant for warriors like she had once done without having a panic attack, She supposed it was good that she taken that deposit with her after all. Perhaps she would get some use out of it, if her own not insignificant funds proved to not be enough.

Granted, with her two year absence, regardless of who had taken care of her smial, there was bound to be expenses that needed to be paid. Her tennents' buildings might repair requires or the like. She owed someone payment for the food in her pantry and for the upkeep of her properties and really, why was she still dithering over the past when there were already things piling up that she had to take care of.

Hawthorn kept her head high, confused by the confusion surrounding herself in the Shire. They knew she had left on an 'adventure' - horror, shock, disbelief and someone declaring how they knew it was only a matter of time! Yet...there was nothing? They were aware she had gone storming after a troop of dwarrows, so why did they all act as if she had changed overnight?

As if she had finally broke? She was broken yes, had been cracked and scared by her ventures, but she was not entirely shattered. Not yet.

She ignored the whispers surrounding her, ignored the demands of her neighbors, the scoffs and ridicule that followed in her footsteps. She was proud of her scars, of her survival and so what if in the process if gaining them, of living, she had gained a few habits and likes the Shire saw as nonsense and insanity,

She would live, and it would help her be comfortable in her skin.

Her path was set to a small building near the marketplace and when she walked through the door, she couldn't help the bright smile that stretched her face at the sight of her favorite cousin on her father's side. He accepted her hug with equal delight.

"What have you come to see me for, Hawthorn?" He asked even as a bit of worry pinched his expression as he held her at arm's length.

A part of her warmed at the concern and affection she saw in his gaze and she quickly explained.

Drogo Baggins was an excellent tailor, just as she remembered, and he easily agreed to make her part of a new, less proper wardrobe. It was not the entire wardrobe she would need, but she would not put all the work on her beloved cousin who seemed the only Hobbit besides Primula to treat her normally despite the odd look he had given her upon her arrival at his door.

She wondered absently when the lad would actually marry Primula Brandybuck. As Primula's best friend and cousin, Hawthorn was absolutely sure Drogo would be perfect for her. They were an adorable couple.

Drogo chose that moment to interrupt her visions of marital bliss between her two favorite cousins.

"I know I saw you last week, Hawthorn, but you appear to have- what I mean is- are you okay?"

Hawthorn looked at Drogo in surprise. Perhaps she misheard? Bright blue eyes were focused on her face and there was a frown pulling at his lips.

"I'm okay, Drogo," Hawthorn said, unable to fully hide the weariness in her voice even as she turned over the beginning of his question.

The frown deepened and her cousin did not looked convinced.

"You've lost weight in the short period of time since I've seen you last, you look exhausted and I know very well your hands had at least half of those scars on them."

Hawthorn starred in mute shock. She had been gone two years, how could Drogo consider that 'a short period of time'? Her anger abruptly flared and she could feel her lips peeling back before a sudden thought struck her with all the force of troll.

"Drogo," Hawthorn asked slowly, her gaze fixated on her cousin, "What is the date today? The exact day, month and year?"

Bless his heart, he only hesitated a second before he told her.

She laughed, made an excuse over how her head was in the clouds, mentioned other errands she had to run and swiftly made her exit. He called after her, his concern for her evident, but she brushed him off with a laugh. She kept a steady pace all the way back to her smial, until her door, still smelling of fresh paint and without the sign she remembered putting in place how had she not seen that, was between her and the outside world.

Thirteen days before she called 'good morning' to an old man dressed in gray.

Her back hit the door, her legs gave out and she slid down to the floor. Her breath came in stutters and her hands were shaking against her mouth and a hysterical laugh escaped from her throat.

Two years of her life.

Two years of the best and the worst moments of her entire life. Gone. Erased as if they never were.

Erased part from her.

Could she believe that? Had she a choice? Drogo did not play undeserved pranks, and it explained so much of the Shire's reaction. If they had no context to her sudden change, no wonder they had acted as they did, staring and gossiping as she walked past.

To them she had suddenly changed practically overnight.

And if this was so...if she had somehow traveled back in time then…

She sucked in a breath, sharp like glass shards.

If she had gone back to before than the Line of Durin lived.

Fili, Kili...Thorin.

They would visit her soon, would come to her door lead by a wizard to ask her to rob a dragon.

An absent part of her, in the very back of her mind realized she was hyperventilating. It did nothing to help with the sudden world shaking realization she had come to, but it did have her shifting, Dwalin's voice in the back of her head echoing, "It'll pass lass, just put your head between your knees and match my breathing. There's a good lass, in...hold….out….Come now. Breathe with me."

She forced her head down, folding easily in half, and made her breathing slow, trying to match it with the remembered rhythm of Dwalin's.

When she felt she could breathe without strain and struggle, she managed to lean back against the frame of her door- which was unmarked now that she was paying attention by Yavanna- and breathe.

She gathered her legs underneath her, wiping her tears with the palm of her hands and lightly slapped her cheeks. She firmed her mouth and set her teeth and took a confident step forward.

There was work to be done.