Chapter Text
Bilbo pulled on his collar and cravat, trying to get any air to circulate below his stuffy, suffocating layers. The April heat was unforgiving. With not even a wisp of a cloud overhead, by the time Bilbo had gathered all he had to from the market and made it to the front gate of Bag End, he was more sweat than hobbit.
Bilbo huffed out a frustrated sigh as he spotted someone familiar outside his home. With as hot as he was, he didn’t even want to acknowledge the wizard sitting on his bench and puffing smoke rings out of a long pipe. Bilbo was sweaty, tired, and he was done with socializing for the day.
“Unless you are here to tell me that you found my soulmate, Gandalf, I am uninterested. Call on me another day,” Bilbo said as he entered through his gate and walked up to unlock his front door, completely bypassing the wizard.
“That is a rather unbecoming greeting by such a properly dressed hobbit,” Gandalf replied, teasing.
There were many things Bilbo wished to reply, but he knew Gandalf was well aware of that, even asking for that, so he remained silent. As Bilbo unlocked his door, he watched out of the corner of his eye as the wizard dumped the ashes from his pipe and stood to follow after him. Gandaf was right behind him by the time Bilbo was walking inside, removing the possibility of slamming it closed behind him and locking the wizard out.
Instead, he did the proper thing and let Gandalf in, much to his own dismay. However, that was where his propriety ended.
As soon as the door was shut, and after confirming the curtains to all adjacent windows were drawn fully, Bilbo pulled off his cravat and waistcoat, both soaked in sweat, before he loosened his shirt a bit and let himself breathe.
“That behavior is rather unbecoming as well,” Gandalf commented, gaining a pointed glare from Bilbo.
“It isn’t as if you haven’t seen my markings before. You snuck your way into my home; you are not a guest. Therefore, I will not be treating you like one,” Bilbo replied before wandering off to his room to change into dry clothes, his discarded ones in his hand.
As he undressed down to his smalls, Bilbo couldn’t help but steal a glance at himself, at the bold tattoos that marred his body; a reminder of who was bestowed upon him by the Valar, yet someone he could never find.
“Mum, I think something is not right,” Bilbo called as he stumbled out of his room, finding the hall outside already decorated for his party that night.
“What is it, dear?” His father, instead, replied as both his parents rounded the corner.
As soon as they had laid eyes on Bilbo, the newly come-of-age lad clad in nothing but his small clothes, it was clear by their gaping mouths and wide eyes that they had found what Bilbo had noticed as soon as he had woken up—what burned as it continued spreading across different parts of him.
“What is this?” Bilbo asked, trying to hold back the panic from his voice.
Both he and his father looked to his mother, Belladonna, the voice of reason, who approached and looked over the various tattooed patterns and foreign runes and imagery on his body.
Bilbo’s mother circled around him with a concerned expression before she moved to stand in front of him and grabbed his hands, holding them as her fingers barely brushed against the rings of runic patterns still growing up his forearm.
“This is the work of a dwarf.”
Remembering that fateful 33rd birthday when he had gone from a kid who loved spending summers swimming shirtless in Bywater Pool with his many cousins, to an adult that looked almost prudish in his fashion, Bilbo traced the now-familiar patterns with his fingers.
He still did not know what they meant, what the significance of the tattoos were to his soulmate, but they were a part of him he had grown to love as much as loathe. It was truly beautiful art that covered him even if no one would see it for fear of social ridicule. He and his parents had made the decision to tell everyone he didn’t have a soulmate. Which, in essence, was true as after almost two decades, even the great Gandalf had not found them.
“Did you get lost back here?” Gandalf asked, clearly sarcastically, as he walked into Bilbo’s bedroom and sat down on his bed, making it creak worryingly.
“It isn’t very polite to barge into someone’s private room while they’re changing,” Bilbo replied, looking away from his mirror to finish dressing.
It was Gandalf’s luck that Bilbo kept his smalls on. Otherwise, they would be having a much more heated conversation about peeping on people. Not that Gandalf hadn’t seen it all before. The wizard loved to lord the fact that he used to help Belladonna change nappies over Bilbo’s head.
“It isn’t very polite to keep guests waiting,” Gandalf shot back.
“You aren’t a– ! Ugh! Just, what do you want?!” Bilbo yelled, at the end of his rope.
He continued getting dressed in a huff as Gandalf tapped his foot and then resituated himself on the edge of the bed for a moment, clear signs that he was warming up to say something Bilbo really wouldn’t like.
“I am aiding a large company on a quest east, and they have room for one more. I was hoping they could stop by tonight and meet you for a trial run… of sorts.”
Bilbo scoffed as he pulled on his bracers, almost convinced the wizard was joking, but he knew better.
“I am not my mother,” Bilbo replied, opting to roll up his sleeves and make the patterned rings going up his arm visible. “Adventures and the like are not on the table for me. Not now and not ever.”
“You have your mother’s spirit.”
“Yes, and my father’s legacy. I am a proper Baggins of Bag End.” Bilbo looked up to see Gandalf seemingly unconvinced, so he continued, “Even if I wanted to go on a quest, which I don’t, it is an impossibility. Not just because of my responsibilities here but because there is no way I can journey through the harsh heat of summer while keeping myself covered.”
While his cousins were gifted with dainty daisies of a Brandybuck circling their ankles, delicate Chubb forget me nots weaving around their fingers and wrists, or the more bold Bracegirdle carnations painting their forearms, Bilbo was stuck with shameful, scandalous dwarven tattoos.
The only flower on him was the one he had chosen himself; a response to his soulmate to let them know they weren’t alone: a single cornflower, the Baggins’ family flower, on his left forearm to compliment the rings on his right. Part of Bilbo wanted to tattoo it on his face as payback, but that would just be hurting himself as much as his soulmate.
The bed creaked as Gandalf stood. Bilbo expected the old, pushy wizard to give up and walk out, but instead, he moved to kneel in front of Bilbo, meeting his gaze head on.
“Those I am giving aid to are dwarves,” Gandalf finally said, letting the implications of that statement hang between them.
Something inside Bilbo broke. That same hope and longing that had stayed with him through the years despite the countless dead-ends he had met in his search for his soulmate came rushing back to him. Though he was terrified of not finding them once more, he had to see.
“How many should I set the table for?”
…
The stocky shape of Dwalin waiting atop the hill overlooking the halfling town was a relief. Thorin felt the headache that had plagued him for most of the day begin to ease as he came upon his shield brother.
“You did not need to wait for me. I can fare in the gentle land of the halflings well enough on my own,” Thorin said before knocking his head against Dwalin’s.
“I know you can get around by yourself just fine, but I thought we could both use the time to ourselves before meeting with the others,” Dwalin replied before adding, “By the sour look on your face, I take it the meeting did not go well?”
“It did not.” Thorin fell into step with his shield brother.
“So we are on our own?”
“It seems so,” Thorin confirmed. “The lords did not see our quest as a noble one. Rather, they laughed, said it was a fool’s mission. They will not spare a single coin without the guarantee it will be repaid tenfold.”
“We both know it will,” Dwalin assured as he knocked his shoulder into Thorin’s.
“You are welcome to travel to the council yourself and tell them as much, though I do not think it will do us any good,” Thorin teased, but Dwalin just huffed in reply, matching Thorin’s earlier ire before the company of his kin had eased him somewhat.
It was good Dwalin had not accompanied him to the meeting. His cousin, for as honorable as he was, did not have the same mithril patience as Thorin—a trait he had inherited from his mother.
“So the burglar Tharkun has promised us is our only hope?” The question was clearly in jest. Still, Thorin took it seriously.
“We have the strength of our kin with us. If not in numbers, then in spirit,” Thorin reassured. “Though, the wizard swears to the invaluable nature of this halfling. I am willing to hear him out.”
There was a lull in conversation where Thorin could tell Dwalin was thinking of saying something, but then he seemed to shake off the thought, continuing on and looking out at the sky as the sun lowered on the horizon. Around them, halflings passed by and stared before going about their evenings, too busy or too scared to ask what dwarrow were doing in their town. Either way, Thorin paid them no mind, favoring the landscape much more than the people.
The land of the halflings, though it did not compare to the stone of Erebor, was pleasant. It was green with all sorts of plants and farmland, the sun making it glow like gems, and the scent blowing in the breeze was sweet and earthy. As they passed a few homes, odd and rounded, sunken into the earth, Thorin studied them, trying to find the appeal. Like dwarrow, the halflings made their homes within the earth rather than atop it, but instead of favoring stone, they carved them out of dirt, tending to all manner of plant life not just around the dwellings but on top of them, too.
“Strange,” Dwalin commented, prompting Thorin to look over and see his friend staring at the homes same as him, stopping in front of a rather intriguing one with a bright purple door.
“I suppose so, though I’m sure their kind would say the same of us,” Thorin replied, but Dwalin just shrugged in response and walked ahead.
As Thorin turned from the house to continue as well, his eyes caught a striking patch of blue in the garden. His heart leapt at immediate recognition, and he rushed towards it, leaning over the garden fence to get a closer look.
“Dwalin,” Thorin hissed, his shieldbrother immediately coming back to his side.
“What?” Dwalin asked before his eyes naturally followed Thorin’s, his brows furrowing in question as he leaned in. “Is that…?”
“Cornflower,” Balin finally announced, holding up the textbook to point to the illustration. “That is what it is called in the towns of men.”
Sure enough, the drawing of the little flower matched the one on his wrist with striking accuracy.
“But where does it grow? What significance could it have for someone to give it as a clue?” Thorin asked, pacing the room as he practically begged Balin for more information, anything to help soothe his confused and longing soul.
“I– I am not sure yet, Your Grace,” Balin answered, flipping through the pages of a few books.
“I must know!” Thorin shouted, stopping his pacing to glare at his advisor before the gentle hand of his sister was pressed against his chest, the gesture grounding enough for Thorin to close his eyes and take a deep breath.
Thorin looked down at his arm for the hundredth time that day, admiring the little flower there and rubbing his thumb along it, hoping it would speak to him somehow and tell him what to do.
“Thorin,” he heard his sister call before the hand on his chest moved up to his cheek, wiping away a stray tear he hadn’t realized had fallen. “You have not slept at all in the few days since that appeared. You have not attended any meetings, fulfilled any of your duties as an appointed lord. We are worried about you.”
“I know.”
Dís began stammering before letting out a defeated sounding sigh. “The flower is not going anywhere, but neither are your duties. Please, brother, you must rest.”
Despite her sweet tone, Thorin ignored his sister’s pleading. Even as she moved her other hand to cover the flower, shielding Thorin’s view of it, his gaze turned to the rings on his right arm instead.
“I had given up on them; I thought they were gone, passed on to the halls of our maker,” Thorin stated, staring at his arm and counting the rings again and again, reading their inscriptions. “I cannot give up on them now.”
“Thorin,” Dwalin called then, stepping forward as Thorin finally looked away from the tattoos and turned to him. “Seven rings for seven stars, my friend, and you are over two decades past that mark; beyond the favor of Mahal.”
From the desk, Balin stood, closing the books he was reading, a deep look of regret crossing his face. “We are not asking you to give up on them, lad, but your people are starving in the Blue Mountains and winter is fast approaching. Your One may or may not need you, we do not know, but there are many dwarrow here who definitely do. The Valar have made their decision. It is time you make yours.”
“What is it doing here?” Dwalin asked as if accusing the flowers of a crime, glaring at the little blue blooms.
“We know why it is here,” Thorin replied, moving to crouch next to the fence and smell one of the cornflowers peeking through the slats. “It is not as sweet as I had imagined.”
Of course, the idea that his soulmate, his One, was a homely creature of the Shire had crossed Thorin’s mind during his research. How could it not have? The few mentions of them in books in the Blue Mountains, and before then, in Erebor, always mentioned their affiliation with flowers and growing things. However, Thorin’s desperate need to search for his other half had eased into a small ache over the years, and he was less likely to walk up to a stranger’s home in a strange land than he was to give up on the quest and return to the Blue Mountains.
“Do you… do you think that they are in that home?” Dwalin asked.
Thorin looked around and then shook his head. “No, I see more of the same flowers in the window of the home next to this one, and I’m sure there will be more along the way. Flowers are like copper to halflings—useful in many ways but abundant beyond comparison and easily replaced.” He stepped away from the flowers then, starting to walk again as if his soul did not now yearn anew for his other half. “Let us move on and meet that burglar.”
…
Halflings were strange creatures. That, Dwalin was sure of. However, he had never seen one so… priggish. Perhaps the lacey thing tied around his neck was cutting off blood flow to his brain, as clearly, Bilbo was not acting right. Not acting in a way any person of his, apparent, status or prerogative as host should.
“No, put that back! I prepared meals for everyone for a reason, which you all already ate. You cannot have those as well!” Bilbo Baggins, the strange little thing, scolded Bofur, ripping a bowl of fruit from the miner’s hands.
“I think the halfling’s glare could rival your own,” Nori teased, startling Dwalin as he came to stand next to him in the hall. “Odd little fellow.”
“I’m starting to think Gandalf is lying to us about Mister Baggins’ value to our cause,” Dwalin muttered back, unable to take his eyes off of the various scoldings and confrontations between his kin and the halfling who, despite being in his own, stuffy home on a hot, April evening, was in floor length trousers and long sleeves with a suede coat overtop. The bareness of his feet and his head, his collar stopping just below his jaw, almost seemed revealing and vulgar in comparison.
“Well, Thorin assessed the little fellow and approved of the arrangement, and Bilbo agreed, as unlikely as that seemed after he heard about Smaug,” Nori argued, not privy to Dwalin’s thoughts on Mister Baggins’ attire. “Though Thorin has been acting odd, too. Perhaps the pressure of the journey we are about to embark on is finally getting to him, especially without the help of the other lords.”
Dwalin sighed, trying and failing to respond in a proper, truthful way while staying loyal to Thorin.
“So there is something else going on,” Nori presumed before he put on a mocking voice, swaying his shoulder into Dwalin’s roughly. “More tales of Thorin and Dwaln—shield brothers since birth, side by side suckling on their mother’s teats, battling together against teething pains and diaper rash, learning to swordfight with binkies–”
“That is enough,” Dwalin said, cutting off his love. Usually Nori’s teasing jealousy of his and Thorin’s close friendship was amusing, but not today; not after what Thorin stumbled across while on the road to the halfling’s home. “I am sworn to protect Thorin, which includes his secrets. I cannot reveal anything, even to you. You should understand better than most, Spymaster.”
Dwalin looked over at his love, catching a glimpse of the pair of rings on Nori’s wrists, the ones that were a perfect match for Dwalin’s own. It made his heart ache for a moment, seeing the evidence to the ease of his own companionship in comparison to the near-century Thorin had been looking for his own One. Dwalin knew the little blue flowers they had stumbled upon just added fuel to Thorin’s forge, reigniting his shield brother’s search, which was the last thing the company needed at the moment.
“Spymaster, sure.” Nori scoffed, pulling Dwalin from his thoughts. “More like a glorified thief.”
“You will be a real spymaster when we retake Erebor,” Dwalin argued.
“If we retake Erebor,” Nori corrected, “If the halfling can do his job.”
Together, they looked back to Bilbo, watching as the halfling adjusted and pulled at the collar of his shirt again, a sheen of sweat covering his neck and face as he rushed after Bifur, who was carrying an expensive-looking vase.
“I do know one thing though, he might melt before meeting dragonfire if he is wearing that when we leave tomorrow,” Dwalin added, shaking his head.