Chapter Text
Thorin Oakenshield wasn’t one of the Marked.
At least, that’s what he told and convinced himself of for the first chunk of his life.
The strange mole on the back of his wrist - right over the protruding tendons and blueish veins - could very well be nothing. In fact, it looked like nothing: true Marks have shape, have meaning, are crafted into something symbolic for both soulmates - an axe, a flame, a mountain peak, something poetic like that. If he tilted it just right, Thorin might see the head of an arrow in the jagged shape inked onto his skin, or a slab of rock, or an obtuse angle. Or it might just be a normal, run-of-the-mill birthmark in a convenient place for him to cover up with leather bracers.
That is… it would be if it weren’t dark green.
Some of the legendary warriors in Dwarven history were Marked with a green symbol. They shared thoughts - they listened to their soulmate from across the entire world, or a bloody battlefield, transmitting information or coordinating attacks. Betrayal between those kinds of pairs was nearly unheard of; backstabbing was simply impossible, and nobody is too keen on hearing the thoughts of their counterpart being tortured. To have a green Mark was a sign of a fruitful partnership, if the two soulmates found each other in time.
Thorin’s father, Thrain, rejoiced when he spotted it and announced the good fortune to his people. The search began before Thorin knew how to speak - to find the dwarf prince’s soulmate was the top priority for many years; Dale, Laketown, the adjoining villages, spreading into the human kingdoms and beyond, the news traveled like wildfire.
Nobody was ever found, though.
More than that, Thorin never heard another voice in his head.
He spent late nights frowning down from his castle, barely noticing the guards marching behind him on the cobbled parapets, focusing on simply listening. He emptied his mind of thoughts. He blocked out the rushing of the wind swooping down from the Lonely Mountain’s sides. He did nothing but strain and hope for the barest whisper of acknowledgement from the soulmate he must surely have.
There was nothing.
The next night, he returned to the parapet and instead called out. He screamed as loudly as he could, imagining the sound bouncing off the inside of his counterpart’s skull. He gave his name, where he was, invited the silent spectator to visit him in Erebor, said they’d give them a royal welcome, asked their name, where they were, anything, anything at all. Nobody answered. Nobody was there. The line had been cut, or maybe never existed in the first place.
Thorin felt terribly alone on the windy parapet with his friends around him and his father just inside the castle walls. He rubbed the green Mark on his wrist with his other hand, and in the moonlight, the color faded and bleached to a shade darker than the rest of his skin - nothing special or important. Only the mad wished for voices in their heads, he told himself, walking sullenly back to his room furnished with animal pelts and great axes. Thorin was the furthest thing from mad there was, so he tried to swallow his disappointment and forget.
Only, he couldn’t.
His father, nor his friends or people let him forget and as the years went by and his beard grew thicker and his hair became longer and braided with beads and shells, the Mark burned on his skin like a brand.
The dwarves saw the Green Mark as a blessing and nothing less. It bestowed a magnificent power, but more than that, whoever received one not only labored to find their soulmate, but also their One. Almost every Marked dwarf - green or not - chose their soulmate as their One; it made sense and they often found their partner to be very agreeable. They could understand each other in a way nobody else could. The universe made them for each other.
Thorin didn’t have a soulmate, and so he didn’t find his One. He didn’t try to. His father and his people insisted that he should wait in hopes of whoever they were showing up one day out of the blue. Thorin relented. He always wore thick leather bracers around his wrists. His mind was firmly and completely his own, but each night, he couldn’t help but call out into the silence for someone who never came. It was a conundrum he lived with for many, many years, until…
…He had a much more dangerous problem to worry about.
* * *
Bilbo Baggins disliked being a Took.
Their reputation wasn’t nearly as spotless as the one he’d cultivated for himself, they bred all kinds of peculiar relatives that came around to his house on the holidays, and it clashed horribly with the rest of his heritage - the sensible, calm kind. That heritage - he called it the Rabbit - and the other Took blood - he called it the Wolf - fought with each other often in his head, creating a mighty racket.
Sometimes, it started as soon as he woke up: skip breakfast; check on all outer defenses; take note of waning supplies; map out the frontier mountains; sharpen the second largest axe; this is humiliating; this is defiling; this isn’t my birthright!!! Really, what was the Took side yabbering about all the time? It bordered on delusional, but, then again, it did belong to his ancestors and not to him, so he couldn’t blame it for its confusion.
Bilbo learned to ignore it. He ate breakfast, peered out his window to check his “outer defenses,” made sure all his “supplies” (emergency cheese wheels, pipeweed, and tea bag stocks) were accounted for, took a stroll around the Shire he didn’t need to map, and threw away the rest of the… advice. It became second nature - dismissing the foul, often angry thoughts clashing with the pleasant ones - but sometimes it deemed more difficult, like when he attempted to catch a quick afternoon nap and his entire head was tossing such foul curses about dragons and broken mining tools he got up to drink some lovely lavender tea to ease his nerves. Each night when he crawled into his bed with three comforters and eight pillows, part of his mind was barking about pitching tents and eating the last of the sheep guts.
Ghastly!!
The Took side sure was something.
Sometimes, though, the Took side said something mildly relevant. Bilbo often practised his smile in the mirror - not his natural smile, of course, but his passive aggressive smile reserved for idiot relatives and when things didn’t go his way - and that was when he observed his face the most. More than that, it was when he saw the large beauty mark splotched onto his cheek the most. He got compliments on it, yes, but he didn’t like the way it folded when he smiled, for it was in the perfect position to cover up his natural dimple. Rude!!
Occasionally, the Took thoughts muttered, I hate this damn mark just as he was looking at it. ‘Hate’ was a terribly strong word, but Bilbo agreed. He greatly disliked it. His neighbors said the green hue looked earthy and charming, but Bilbo knew they were just being nice. On the contrary, it looked like a festering bruise permanently stuck on the side of his cheek. It wasn’t even pretty, like a flower or a bird; it was just jagged and a bit crooked. If he squinted - really squinted - it might be a heart, but a sharp, stretched heart. Bilbo preferred his hearts round and unstretched, thank you very much.
In any case, the Took thoughts turned confusing and quieter the later the night became. Each evening, like clockwork, it would ask the same question: “Are you there?” Bilbo, often in bed at that time, was too tired to bother answering, because, yes, of course he’s ‘there.’ He’s in bed, in his home, in the Shire, like he’s always been and always will be. Now, will you please be quiet and let me sleep? But he didn’t say that, because he couldn’t be bothered in his warm blankets and sleep-addled brain.
But one night, he stayed up much later than he should’ve, writing down a little story at his desk. The candle beside him melted down to a mere stump with a flame. The plate sat neatly on a stack of books towering up to his chair held no food - his bedtime snack was long gone, and reduced to crumbs. The Took side had already gone through its nightly routine of demanding that he pitch tents and tend to the wounded or whatever nonsense. Now, Bilbo enjoyed the peace and quiet of his mind - and only his mind - describing pretty river valleys with faerie circles, quite forgetting his other nightly ritual.
Are you there?
Ah, right. The daily question. Bilbo, for once awake enough to rub his eyes, decided to answer.
Of course I am.
Out of nowhere and for no reason, the Tookish Wolf side exploded into a stream of questions that nearly knocked Bilbo off his chair. You are? How? Who are you? Where are you? How are you here?
Bilbo blinked rapidly, tossed his pen onto the desk and shushed himself. Oh, be quiet, he thought crossly. To his surprise and pleasure, the thoughts ceased almost immediately, though not for very long.
Forgive me.
Bilbo huffed and blew out the candle, deciding it was well past the time he should’ve fallen asleep. In his sleep-drunk state of mind, he found the voice terribly annoying and spoke his mind - literally. You know, I really don’t understand why you jabber so much. Nothing is going to change so you might as well just give up. I’m not listening and haven’t for years, and that’s how it’s going to stay. Pipe down a bit, will you? Please and thank you. Now, good night!! With that, he crawled into bed and fell fast asleep, thinking no more on the matter.
He didn’t hear the voice’s response.
I’m sorry to have disturbed you.
It sounded terribly sad. It waited a few more moments, but Bilbo snored on, his mind completely blank and silent.
Good night.
* * *
Thorin didn’t like his soulmate.
He knew the amalgamation of new thoughts that had popped up in the last fifty years must be them - it couldn’t be anything else. Thorin hadn’t suddenly taken up an interest in carrots, stews, and fireworks while leading his race through deserted lands and planning his vengeance against Smaug.
Disappointment stung his insides, and even worse than that, guilt at the disappointment ate him alive. He found that if he relaxed, his soulmate’s thoughts faded into the background, and he caught himself doing that more and more. The dwarves needed their king, not a frivolous madman listening to his mystical partner debate about the size of potatoes. As any good soulmate would, he checked in throughout the day, but nothing really ever changed. He tried to send a few messages of his own, but no responses came, as if they couldn’t really hear each other… or his soulmate was ignoring him.
The thought infuriated the dwarf king.
A hundred years he’d waited for his companion, and it wasn’t some great king or prince or warrior - he suspected it was either a human farmer or a Hobbit. He reasoned it might be worse - his soulmate could’ve turned out to be a pansy elf singing about the great deeds of Thranduil in his head. If it had been the case, Thorin would’ve left his people to track down the bastard and bash his head against a tree trunk. As it stands, though, he didn’t. He couldn’t drag thousands of his people with him to seek out a peasant or gardener; there were mouths to feed, money to earn, defenses to maintain, and mountains to climb - in such a vulnerable state, only the most selfish of leaders would drop their duties for such a pointless endeavor.
Thorin reluctantly stayed. Besides, with the disaster of Dale and the disappearance of his father, the memory of his Mark seemed to have faded into obscurity. Just as well, Thorin convinced himself he didn’t care either.
Squash and smoking pipeweed and nosy relatives and priceless silverware!! What absolute hogwash. Shameful, even. If he told the others of what his soulmate concerned themself with, it might taint his name or turn him into a laughingstock: for the first time in Dwarven history, the Green Mark is a curse instead of a blessing. Yes, Thorin Oakenshield decided he was quite embarrassed and so he said nothing.
It was different at night. At night, the thoughts on the other side quieted. While Thorin helped pitch his peoples’ tents and assigned patrols and guard stations, he let his soulmate’s thoughts filter into his head. They liked chamomile tea with two dollops of honey - specifically two, as they counted it out each time - at exactly ten o’clock. They read. If they were interrupted during this time, such a violent string of curses spewed in their head Thorin sometimes chuckled without meaning to and received a few perplexed looks from his comrades.
And, of course, once Thorin finally rushed himself into his own tent and shed his fur and armor, he asked the same question: Are you there?
They never responded, and Thorin’s hopes would fall once again. He felt deranged, waiting for a response from his linked partner. Sometimes, he convinced himself every weird thought was just his imagination. Other times, he cursed his soulmate’s name for their blatant disrespect. But most of the time, he just laid down and went to sleep; it had been that way for as long as he could remember, and so it made sense that’s how it would stay.
He had no reason to suspect a change as he stomped up the dirt path to a round door identical to every other round door in the blasted Shire. The mental wall between him and his soulmate was reinforced; his mission didn’t allow room for wandering thoughts of the tea kettle or birdwatching. Thorin banged on the door and glared daggers into the old, shriveled wizard who opened it.
“Where are they?” He growled, ducking his head to avoid crashing into the doorframe.
“Where is who?” The old windbag asked, shuffling out of the way as Thorin marched through the wooden walls, peaking into every room.
“The burglar. The burglar you promised us: where are they?”
“Bilbo is right inside there - the dining room - tending to the rest of your company like the good Hobbit he is! He’s really quite the stand-up little fellow. I think you’ll like him-”
Without letting the wizard finish his sentence, Thorin strode toward the source of the cacophony echoing through the tunnel system Hobbits called their homes. Kili cartwheeled past him. Bofur nearly ran him over carrying a turkey leg. Dwalin shrugged when they made eye contact, and Thorin groaned. It seemed he’d have no extra help controlling twelve man-children and instead they were picking up another immature, undisciplined, slow-brained, lazy-eyed-
“Excuse me!! Who is this now?”
Thorin bumped into a Hobbit.
Or, more accurately, a Hobbit stood resolutely in his way. Thorin glanced down his nose at him, ready for a scathing rebuke about properness, when something akin to shock rocketed along his bones and anchored him to the floor. All the noise and chaos died to a muffled din. He clenched his hands with no intention of throwing a punch. His mind… went blank.
The Hobbit was one of the Marked. Staring up so obviously it was painful was a blotch across the little man’s cheek in dark green. Jagged, stretched, a bit like an arrow, a bit like a mountaintop - Thorin’s hand flew to his wrist, clenching his arm where he knew the same Mark dirtied his skin.
Panic seized him next.
Can he hear my thoughts now?
Does he know I’m his soulmate?
Why must it be this thing ?
Does Gandalf know?
He likes his tea with two dollops of honey.
Get out of my head!!
Can you hear me?
Thorin’s face stayed painfully neutral through all of this, but he blinked as if woken from deep thoughts by the Hobbit clearing his throat awkwardly. Thorin collected the scattered, melting bits of his head and smashed them together. He bowed slightly. “Thorin Oakenshield.” He had half the mind to club the Hobbit over the head for ignoring him for a hundred years. And he was still ignoring him!!
Hobbit. You. Burglar. Can you hear me?
No response.
Thorin seethed while at the same time counting it as a small blessing. As the company filed into the dining room to stuff themselves, Thorin cautiously took down the reinforced wall between his thoughts and the Hobbit’s. He immediately wished he didn’t.
On the good earth’s name, let me not kill one of these things. No, no, not the chamomile tea!! Just one. Just one through the window. No, no, that’s rude; you’re the host and- but I didn’t invite twenty dwarves over! If they don’t leave soon, I’m going to… I’m going to… hide in the cellar. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll hide in the cellar and find a shard of something sharp because I just know they’ve broken a plate or eight and then-
Thorin swallowed harshly and clapped his hands together. “QUIET.”
The dwarves shuffled in their seats and shut their mouths.
One Hobbit-based disaster avoided. Thorin searched the burglar's thoughts but found no gratitude. His mood soured even more. He scolded himself and put the barrier back up; he wasn’t there to meet his soulmate - he was there to find the man who’d help them kill Smaug and take back Erebor. He’d lasted his entire life without concerning himself with his Mark; now was not the time to change. So Thorin Oakenshield glared at Gandalf once more and began the meeting.
* * *
Thorin never considered himself one for self-destructive tendencies, but a mix between morbid curiosity and a need for solid evidence against Gandalf the Grey’s idiotic decision to make the likes of the Hobbit their burglar persuaded him to take down the barrier between their minds more than he should’ve.
As the company (plus Bilbo) rode through the woods and the rain and the night, slogging along in mud and wincing with each fat water droplet pelting them from the trees, Thorin listened with satisfaction and disgust at the Hobbit’s thoughts.
Complaining.
Who could’ve guessed?
Complaining for hours and hours and hours - it was all the Hobbit did verbally and mentally. As they were taking shelter underneath an overhang - complaining. As they were scrapping together food for supper - complaining. As they got up at dawn to make good time and enjoy the warmth of the sun coming over the tree tops - complaining. If the Hobbit wasn’t spitting his unneeded opinions about breakfast and rest times, he muttered bitterly about it in his head, and Thorin heard every single word. He heard the burglar try to convince himself that the pony didn’t smell bad and the time he’d swiped an apple from a fruit stand counted as a robbery experience. He heard him curse Gandalf and worry about his cellar and wonder if he’d locked his door and then remember that his door didn’t have a lock. It was all the most pathetic thing Thorin ever had the pleasure and displeasure of witnessing.
The dwarf king’s fears were confirmed in every way possible - Bilbo Baggins shouldn’t be on the quest and the best thing to do was to turn around and dump him onto his front porch like he wanted to be. But… he couldn’t very well do that without revealing his shame: that he was mystically bound by the universe to the fool. Everyone heard the same amount of complaining as everyone else and seemingly had no issue with it - except perhaps Dwalin, and he had an issue with everyone. Gandalf whistled as they rode along, without a care in the world.
Thorin grunted and gripped the reins of his pony between his fingers, taking careful measures not to snap them like he wanted to snap the Hobbit’s filthy neck.
By golly, my legs sure are beginning to hurt. This saddle isn’t doing anything for padding! By nightfall my rump will be so sore I’ll look like a right fool in front of everyone trying to jump off.
Thorin rolled his eyes. Who says “by golly?” And yes, he grimaced to himself. The Hobbit will look like a “right fool” trying to unmount and he’ll enjoy every second of it.
At the end of the grueling day of travel, Thorin sat down heavily next to Balin, who peacefully smoked his pipe. The older dwarf smiled at his king and shot a glance at Bilbo. The Hobbit slid like a block of jelly from his saddle but landed on his feet. This seemed like enough to please the weak creature, and he straightened proudly and dusted off his jacket like an idiot. Balin blew out a smoke ring the size of Thorin’s head and murmured, “Well, our burglar’s holding up nicely, don’t you think?”
Thorin scoffed, tracking the Hobbit’s awkward stroll through the campsite.
Would you look at that? I got off of that steed like a weathered warrior! Nothing to see here boys except for the next great hero of old!
“No, I don’t think,” the dwarf finally answered his friend. “He’s done nothing but complain the entire journey; by the time we meet the Lonely Mountain, he’ll have lost his nerve and run off into the woods before we can catch him.” He shifted tensely as the Hobbit plopped down and began to dig in his pack only a few feet away, utterly content with his small victory like some naive child.
“He hasn’t complained more or less than your own nephews, Thorin!” Balin pointed out, jerking his head towards the two young dwarves.
Thorin scowled. Yes, he has , he thought sourly. Everything from the cold to there being a hole in one of his socks.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little unfair?” The old dwarf nodded warmly to the Hobbit’s little wave in their direction.
Thorin seethed and tore down the mental barrier.
Are we really going to sleep on the rocks tonight? There could be any manner of worms or spiders around here! This is completely unsanitary. I wish I had my hat. Some of these fellows desperately need one. Like that one over there. Phew! Do these blokes ever shower? I’m already running low on food. I reckon folks like these hunts. Oh, dear, they aren’t going to make me eat the ponies if food storages get too low, are they? I miss my bed!!
There, right there!! All the reason any of the dwarves would need to let him rot in some lonely ditch while they marched on towards their heavenly quest! But nobody except for Thorin could or would ever be able to hear it. “Unfair?” He growled, glaring daggers into the side of the Hobbit’s head. “He never should have come, Balin. He’ll be nothing but a burden. With a burglar like him, he’ll wake Smaug in seconds and bring fire to the nearest town and us with it. Do you really want your death to be on the head of an idiot Hobbit?” Anger bubbled up his throat and turned his vision a light shade of red; he knew it was petty and cruel, but he raised his voice just loud enough that Bilbo Baggins could hear every single word. “The old wizard must be going mad if he thinks our ‘burglar’ is going to do anything but kill us all and lose Erebor forever. My life’s mission will not be hanging by the will of a man who can’t even dismount a pony properly.”
He didn’t listen for Balin’s response. Instead, he waited in savage anticipation for the Hobbit’s thoughts.
Oh .
Thorin blinked in surprise. He didn’t dare turn around, but by the shuffling and ruffling of blankets, the Hobbit was inching into his sleeping roll.
I thought I dismounted it quite well…
Thorin only caught the last few words Balin said to him. “Get some rest, Thorin. It’ll turn out right in the end.” He nodded once before shifting more comfortably against the rocky cliff face to take the night’s watch. The old dwarf was snoring in seconds. With each minute that passed, the dwarfs gradually blew out their lamps and stamped out the fire, turned in their rolls and fell into slumber. Thorin expected Bilbo to be one of the first to slip into restless sleep, but he didn’t.
I’m going to get them killed.
Thorin stared up at the stars - so piercing and sharp they could cut - and listened to the Hobbit’s thoughts. The Mark on his inner wrist itched like fire; if the dwarf king decided to take off his iron bracer, he would’ve seen it glowing, fighting to be free and to be seen. Instead, he ignored it.
It’s going to be all my fault. They’re going to die because of me. Why did I do this? I should’ve just let them leave and thought nothing of it, like a good Baggins. That way, maybe Gandalf would’ve found someone more qualified than me and it would be their fault if all thirteen of these lovely, rude dwarves were burnt to a crisp by a dragon!
He’s right.
Thorin frowned, letting his eyes drop from the heavens and back to the vague shape of the Hobbit in the dark.
I’m nothing but a burden. I should just go get myself killed so they can get a proper replacement and nothing ghastly happens to… to them or Erebor. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. What was I thinking? I want my bed and my pillows and my tea. I can’t do this. I’m a complete idiot.
The Mark burned. Thorin twisted his bracer in an attempt to scratch it. A pang of guilt stabbed at his lungs. Almost absentmindedly, years of being unheard drilled into his bones, he muttered in his head, I shouldn’t have said that, fully expecting no response.
The Hobbit’s thoughts quieted for a moment, and for one, panic-stricken second, Thorin believed Bilbo had heard.
I want to go home.
Instead of relief, Thorin turned back to the stars to avoid looking at him. He couldn’t have put the barrier back up if he tried. An old, familiar aching in his chest opened up like a fresh wound - a beating heart, raw and in the open, dirty air, pulsed up at the cold universe that tied him to this strange little creature, but for once in his life, he didn’t feel so alone and sterile in his own head.
I want to go home, Bilbo thought, over and over and over. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.
As do I , Thorin said.
No more thoughts came through after that. Bilbo’s breathing evened out in the peace of sleep.
The urge to ask his nightly question pushed at the edges of Thorin’s mind, but he didn’t. Are you there? Bilbo Baggins, his soulmate, was right here.