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Bilbo Baggins had never hoped much in life. He’d had wishes, for sure, but they were practical by nature. A full and plentiful larder, best of silks and shiniest brass for his vest coats, warm summers and fertile soil for his priced garden. Nothing whimsical, he was a respectable gentlehobbit, after all.
Of course some of his wishes were a tad more personal. He wished his neighbour to come and share a pipe and good conversation with him some evenings, and held high hopes that some of his young cousins (or second cousins, or first cousins once removed, who cares, they were his family) truly enjoyed gathering in his smial and listening to retellings of the silly children’s stories he had crafter for them. He had a good collection of them already, all written in leather bound notebooks and hidden behind his more sensible studies.
He was a gentlehobbit, after all, and no hobbit of any status wished to be lonely.
After his parents’ death, one sudden and unexpected, another silent and long dreaded, he had dared to wish for more. Firstly he prepared a prayer and performed the appropriate rituals to plant it in his most fertile flower bench. Then he sat on his father’s arm chair, back straight and chin held high, quiet tears running down his cheeks and neck, and begged the Valar to take it back, to give this lovely grand hobbit hole back to its rightful owners and fill it again with the sound of his father’s pen scratching on a paper when he scribbled this and that letter, of his mother humming an elvish tune under her breath while her mince pies filled the rooms with smell of burnt sugar.
His mother never was that good a baker. Bilbo had had to teach her when he was old enough to hold a spatula.
Because surely this was a mistake, no respectable hobbit lad like him should have lost both his parents within a year, left alone so young. Surely the creators had the power to reverse it all and grant him his wish. Surely he was good enough person who deserved to be surrounded by his family, his sweet parents whom he loved so very much. If he just wished hard enough, didn’t give up, surely….
But his prayer did not sprout, did not grow. He wasn’t granted his wish. No one could come back from behind the veil of whichever afterlife they had entered, no matter how hard their loved ones kept begging. Bilbo had learnt that the Valar were too grand to care for a single hobbit lad and his grievances. So after a slightly-longer-than-appropriate mourning period he had thought “How silly of me”, left the arm chair, dried his tears and accepted his place as the rightful, if slightly too young, master of this new, quieter Bag End.
That was the last time he had dared to care for anyone enough to include them in his wishes. There was no one special in his life anyway, and he was old enough to know that he would never settle down and find satisfaction in life with a nice hobbit lass. That was simply not something he would have desired, even if he still had the courage to desire anything at all.
That didn’t mean he stopped hoping that good things would happen to his family and friends. He wished for good crops and lucrative business for his relatives, and easy childbearings and healthy infants for the wives of his neighbours. If anyone around him fell ill or suffered a loss of any kind he sent them all his best wishes and gently, if somewhat mechanically, planted a little prayer in his back garden. But to be truthful, he didn’t believe any of his prayers would take root or grow, he only kept doing it for a lifelong habit, and to avoid all possible bad omens. Being cynical didn't mean he needed to be stupid and reckless, no.
But whenever he wished for something these days, he didn’t give himself the permission to hope for more than mild summer winds and a pipe shared with a friend.
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His resolution had been thrown to the ditch after a meddling wizard had introduced him (rather forcefully, in Bilbo’s humble opinion) to a gang of 12 loud and boisterous dwarves and their graceful, if overly brooding, leader. It had been the blasted song. Saying “no” and even being extremely resolute about it didn’t stop the longing of their song finding its way to his heart and taking root in there somewhere.
Some wishes didn’t need to be his own to grow strong.
During their journey he kept looking back, dreaming of his warm little hobbit hole and all its comforts he had so swiftly abandoned. A hundred times and some more he caught himself thinking “If only I was back in my armchair, if only I had a fire going and chasing this everlasting chill off my poor bones, if only could be sitting in my cosy garden right now, smoking a batch of good pipe weed and munching a poppyseed cake”. But these little thoughts that had been normal in his Life Before the Quest started soon feeling petty and insignificant. And this is when he stopped looking back and started hoping for great things in the future.
“I hope we’re going to reach the mountain. Alive.”
“I hope I can help these dwarves to win back their home.”
“I hope that Thorin Oakenshield will recognise me as skilled and valuable part of this company.”
“I hope that Thorin is all right. Please let Thorin be all right.”
Because somewhere, at some point, he had begun to care again. He truly cared for this boisterous bunch, and he sincerely wished all the best for them, all the gold they desired and any mighty mountain they wanted to shelter them and their families.
Sometime soon after the goblin caves, after the fear and excitement under the hills, and the pure terror of seeing Thorin being struck down by a pale monster and his small army only moments after, he had come to notice that he might have developed a different kind of care for their leader. Instead of warm and beautiful feelings he suspected would’ve been appropriate in situation like this, the realisation filled him with dread. A long time ago he had learnt not to attach himself to another being, not to get his hopes up over caring something else than immovable objects and easily measured moments of peace and quiet. The Valar had bene clear in their lesson all those years ago; when it came to himself his wishes held no power. His prayers never grew.
For one terrifying moment he had thought that this unwanted feeling in him had got the dwarf king killed already, so motionless he laid on a hill top where the eagles had released them. The relief of seeing him roused by Gandalf threatened to make his knees give, but his big hobbit feet were sturdy as ever and kept him standing, staring at the wounded dwarf with wide eyes and confusion of emotions dancing in his lips.
“I should be fighting this. It’s not meant to be, I was never supposed to have this, I have done nothing to earn it, I cannot…” Bilbo thought a little hysterically. In his turmoil he didn’t even notice Thorin shouting him abuse until the dwarf was spitting them right in front of him. The feeling of justified hurt (“I bought you back your life by gambling with my own!”) was short-lived and replaced by something else entirely when suddenly he found himself in a tight embrace, a heartfelt “I have never been so wrong in my life" whispered in his ear. And no matter how afraid Bilbo was, he could not stop the sudden energy bolting through him, making his toes curl and palms of his hands heat up when he felt strong arms circling around him and pulling him even closer.
It took all his willpower to let go, turn around and start marching down the unsteady path, smoothing down his happy grin and shaping it into something more neutral and polite. Blissful, even if forced, ignorance would work as a lovely strategy in this situation.
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But such is the nature of caring someone that it cannot be erased once it’s taken root. And Bilbo could feel it growing in his heart, this new and fickle little thing. Day by day it demanded more space in him, turning his blood hot and loud in his ears. His tongue grew thick and sluggish in his mouth and his eyes seemed to have found new home in Thorin’s.
The dwarf’s newfound respect of their burglar seemed to also morph into something else, possibly something more resembling a tentative friendship. During their short stay in Beorn’s cottage Bilbo found himself more and more often sitting side by side with their gruff leader, who in fairness didn’t seem to be that gruff anymore. “Thank you”, Thorin would say, out of the blue one evening when they were sharing a pipe of harsh dwarfish tobacco at the veranda. And Bilbo would meet his eyes briefly, his mouth curving upwards, and turn his face away to bask in the last soft rays of setting sun. And Thorin would keep watching him, eyes as soft as the dying sun, and they would sit there in companionable silence until the world was dark and the embers of their pipes grown cold.
“Tell me about Bag End. Tell me about your family”, he would say the next morning when he watched Bilbo sewing new buttons to his vest to replace the ones he had lost in Gollum’s cave (not that he ever told the story to anyone). So Bilbo spoke about his home, his garden, told Thorin about the books he had written and the ones he had planned on writing before he had ran off to an adventure with thirteen dwarves and a wizard. He told about his parents, the extraordinary life of the only child in a society were every other hobbit fauntling had at least four siblings. He told that his parents had died when he was young, leaving the smial and the lands for him, but left it at there. And maybe Thorin sensed that this was not a story the hobbit would like sharing, or he simply didn’t want to pry, but he didn’t ask for more. Bilbo would tell him anyway, the night after, when he sat looking while Thorin oiled his leathers in candlelight. His small story of sickness, loss and grief was only punctuated by the creaking of dry leather and shuffle of cloth on it, and occasional flick of a pair of dark eyes towards him. He didn’t speak about the failed prayers or his lost faith, because these things were too private to leave his heart and climb their way up his throat and to the cold harsh world. That’s something Thorin never needed to know, no one did. He didn’t speak of loneliness and slow acceptance, but somehow his - this dwarf-in-exile seemed to pick the meaning of it between his words anyway, because before they parted for the night he felt a hesitant hand touching the crown of his head.
“I’m glad you decided to join us, master Baggins.”
Bilbo could only nod, watching as the dwarf turned around and climbed the steps to lay on his bedroll. His heart made an irregular little leap when he memorised the warmth of the hand on his head, basking in it like he had in the gentle light of setting sun just a day before.
He couldn’t really deny it anymore, could he?
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In the morning of their leave he woke up before the sun and sneaked past his sleeping friends to the corner of their host’s garden where he had seen a perfectly suitable oak tree. He found the tree soon enough and climbed to the bottom branch, wading his way through the green leaves until he found exactly what he was looking for: a pair of ripe brown acorns growing side to side from a single stud.
Gently he plucked the acorns to his hand, beginning to mutter the first preparation spell, first nervously, then gaining his confidence and finding the rhythm. He sheltered the small baubles in his hand and jumped down, landing gingerly on the grass below, still breathing out the familiar words.
He walked to the eastern side of the tree, where the first pale pink light of rising sun would soon start showing. He sank on his knees to the ground and finished his preparation words, breathing them gently to the acorns between his hands. Then he collected them both in his left hand and held them close to him while he began digging the soft soil with his right until he had a small but a good few inches deep round hole in front of him. This was done in utter silence, Bilbo could only hear the waking birds and feel the vibration of the ground below him. Something was waking up. He could feel it in the air around him, the soil between his fingers, his own blood flowing back and forth from his swelling heart.
For the first time in years, in more than two decades, Bilbo dared to hope again.
And so he leaned down until his forehead was touching the damp ground, clutched the acorns to the core of his body and stated humming. The words were not of any known language, and at the same time they were, and Bilbo knew how to bend them to convey his wish. He concentrated on the energy flowing from the ground, through him, to the acorns in his heating palms, back to the ground through his bare toes. The stream grew in strength, and he settled himself in the middle of it, as a tool for this power - no that wasn’t quite it, it was more like the power became part of him while he yielded and shaped his mind to make space for it.
He stayed like that for maybe a couple of minutes, but it could’ve as well been hours or days, so intense was the birth of his new hope. And so he prayed, and prayed, and prayed.
When he felt the final rush nearing he gently pried his hands open, picked one of the acorns and slowly set it in the hole in front of him, pulling the black soil on top of it until the hole was full again. As the energy finally rushed through him he closed his eyes and planted his right hand on top of the freshly dug ground while still holding the acorn in his left against his chest. There he stayed, unmoving, breathing out the closing words of his spell, until he could feel the morning sun touching his eyelids and warming his cheeks. He opened his eyes but didn’t let himself slack quite yet, keeping his eyes on the patch of ground and his hand sheltering it. Only when he was sure that the sun had risen high enough to cover the whole plot around him he lifted his hand up, watching the new light kiss the virgin ground, freshly dug up and rearranged by his nimble fingers.
Bilbo rose to his feet and dropped the second acorn into the inner folds of his coat. Were Thorin a hobbit and aware of his feelings he would’ve given the second acorn to him to plant as his own, or maybe they would’ve done this together, both of them, to accept the link between them. Or maybe, oh dear mother of everything green, to consummate their union of souls before doing the same in body. Bilbo shivered. It was not an unpleasant thought.
But these things could be done in so many ways. There were no strict rules in caring, and Bilbo’s good wishes had always been private, even when he hadn’t really believed in their power.
His prayer had been finished.
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In the end he hadn’t showed the other acorn to Thorin. But he had felt the need to touch, to include Thorin personally in his ritual with more than just thoughts and words. “Just in case”, he though when he walked to the dwarf who was just finishing his breakfast and promptly placed his hand on his forehead while touching his fingertips to the acorn inside his coat. To say that Thorin looked puzzled by this behaviour would be an understatement, but he answered his smile nevertheless, an amused glint entering his blue eyes. He clearly didn’t understand this gesture he only assumed was a hobbit custom, but didn’t recoil from it either.
“Him”, Bilbo thought fiercely and drilled his gaze to those beautiful eyes. He felt his small smile spread into a grin. “He is the one you are to keep safe, you hear me?”
The Valar had better be listening this time.
He released Thorin and settled himself next to him at the large table, picking fruit and scones on his plate, praising the sweet taste of them and complaining the taste of the packed food they would have to eat once on the road again, moving from one topic to another, only pausing to chew when absolutely needed. All the while he felt the warmth of his friend on his side, a brush of knee against his own and a pair of smiling eyes roaming his face. And so Bilbo Baggins began to believe in hope again.