Chapter Text
Soulmarks weren’t common amongst the Hobbits. A few, scattered throughout the Shire, popped up every other generation, and there was always Took blood to be found in the veins of those who bore one. A strange heritage of an even stranger dalliance of one of their ancestors with a fairy, such was the most favourite speculation off the rumour mill. Soulmarks were rare and extraordinary, and the Hobbits, sensible folk that they were, didn’t bother with it much.
For why should one turn a blind eye to all the other young lads or lasses just because they wore a single person’s name on their wrist? A mere marking couldn’t seal one’s fate. Love didn’t sprout full grown and winged between two soulmates as soon as they laid eyes on each other – it still was a fragile seed that needed care to bloom. Courting was a serious and respectable affair, and when it sometimes turned flat, when the spark couldn’t be fanned into a steady flame, when the pair of soulmates decided they would rather remain friends for life, no ill will reigned between the families. “Letters on skin alone don‘t make hearth and home,” the elders would mutter around the stems of their pipes and nod to themselves, wisdom and Old Toby like clouds around their heads, “and they certainly won’t keep your pantry full.”
Besides, it was said that taking a soulmate for a spouse often resulted in extraordinary things happening to your children. Which would be a preposterous notion, of course, if the evidence accumulated through the years didn’t point to it so obviously. Isumbras III, the Thain of Tooks, bore the soulmark of his wife, and would often blame it for the expenses he had to spend on clothing for his stupidly overgrown son Brandobras. It was a rather short-sighted complaint, as it turned out eventually, for after the Battle of Greenfields, every tailor in the Shire saw it as their personal honour to make the finest shirts and waistcoat for the blessedly tall Hobbit who slew the King of the Goblins.
Another remarkable Took, old Gerontius, would often show off his wrist adorned with a neatly written Adamanta Chubb across the veins. Many believed that the record number of offspring Gerontius and Adamanta brought to this world – twelve in all – was a direct consequence of it. Others (because there never was only one line of gossip regarding any given topic in the Shire, honestly, what would be the point of gossip if not in sharing different theories, comparing them, arguing over them, and ultimately embellishing them for further percolation?) would murmur that those nine Took lads were all right, if a bit too many, but it was those three wild daughters who caused the most trouble. Take that young Belladonna, gallivanting around with Rangers and making friends with the Elves of Rivendell!
Those romantically inclined would say that the soulmarks were perhaps Fate’s way to ensure that people meant to accomplish great things would enter this world at the right time, thus marking their parents so they wouldn’t miss each other in their youth.
But for the most part, Shirefolk were not romantically inclined. The small people loved their simple lives, far and safe from any adventures and great deeds, with little regard for the happenings in the wide world. The prospect of children destined to play a significant role in the grand scheme of things began to be viewed rather as an obstacle to marital happiness than as a privilege granted by the Valar themselves. It went so far that choosing the other part of your soul for a lifemate was seen as a social disadvantage amongst the more respectable gentlehobbits. In the end, it only ever made for the disturbance of peace.
So it happened that when Belladonna’s son Bilbo was born with a strange scribbling resembling crow’s feet on his tiny wrist, a strange foreboding settled itself deep within his father’s heart: that his son, the only heir to the reputable Baggins name, would one day want to meet this not-Hobbit (for as illegible the name currently was, it was clearly no Hobbit name) and he would run off on an adventure to whatever land an whichever people used such inelegant lettering.
*
“Or we could simply ask someone. There’s plenty of Dwarves passing through Bree–”
“They won’t tell you a thing, dearest. Not a hint. Secret language, sacred script, doesn’t matter that they engrave their initials on every ware they sell, they won’t translate it to a Hobbit.”
“We could take him to Rivendell. I’m sure Lord Elrond can read every script on Arda.”
Bungo had long ago adopted the decision not to get jealous of the Master of the Last Homely House, so he merely rolled his eyes and carried on.
“Or we could let sleeping dogs lie. Who needs a soulmark to be happy? Look at us – I couldn’t love you more than I already do, even if I had your name across my wrist.”
“Oh darling, that’s so... Perfidious! You foul man, trying to sweet talk me when I want a serious discussion!”
Fifteen year old Bilbo rolled his eyes and sneaked out of the back door of Bag End to spare himself another of his parents’ arguments. Billing and cooing doves as they were for most of the time, Bilbo’s peculiar soulmark was the only source of disagreement between them. At this age, it was already clear that the letters were Dwarvish, and Belladonna insisted that they should take the initiative and find out whose name it was. Bungo didn’t like the prospect one bit. No Dwarves lived anywhere decently near the Shire, apart from those ever-travelling merchants or peregrine blacksmiths wandering from one town to another – and just thinking about their nomadic life was making Bungo’s stomach turn.
Anyway, Bilbo was still too young. Not even in his tweens. Plenty of time to have a proper look into the matters when he came of age. Moreover, didn’t Dwarves age differently? Bilbo’s other part could be walking the Middle Earth for decades already. Why can’t they show a little effort and come here to find Bilbo? They shouldn’t have any problem with reading Westron! Honestly, by now Bilbo could recite all his father’s favourite points by heart, the crown jewel of his argumentation always consisting of –
“And, say, how do we know if the Dwarves even have soulmates?”
“Why, my dear Bungo, they most certainly have.”
Bilbo froze with one foot in the air and his hand on the garden door latch. That booming voice carrying from inside of their home... he heard it before! Could it be...?
“Gandalf!” The exclamation of his mother’s unfeigned enthusiasm, accompanied by delighted clapping of her hands, was almost – almost – loud enough to cover his father’s groan of exasperation.
“Welcome, welcome, old friend! Give me that hat – tea will be ready in a jiffy – sorry, we’ve been rather preoccupied, I didn’t hear you come in!”
“I didn’t hear you knock on the door,” yes, and that was his father, enforcing his resolve not to be annoyed by another example of the vast array of Belladonna’s ill-mannered friends. Bilbo discarded his plans on raiding the Old Took’s orchard and tiptoed back to sit under the parlour window.
Which was, unfortunately, a place well within reach of Gandalf’s suspiciously accurate staff.
“Bilbo. What did I tell you about eavesdropping?” His father scolded him after he was dragged by the collar through the window and plopped on the fourth chair at the table.
“It’s not eavesdropping when it’s concerning me!” Bilbo objected and rubbed his smarting ear.
“I keep telling you he’s still too young for this–”
“Now, now.” Gandalf nipped another argument in the bud, shook out the sleeves of his robe and levelled both Baggins parents with a jovial look. “What’s this all about Dwarves and soulmarks?”
“Eavesdropping,” intoned Bungo nonchalantly.
Bilbo mentally adjusted his opinion on his father. Talking back to one of the Big Folk! To a Wizard! Bilbo was impressed by his parent, which was quite a feat.
“Well, I’m afraid the entirety of Bag Shot Row were unwilling participants in this unbecoming behaviour. The sound carries, especially through open windows.” Gandalf’s eyes twinkled and he blew at the hot, fragrant liquid Belladonna brought him in her best sauce-boat. Tea cups were just too small for him.
“It’s Bilbo’s soulmark,” she explained, sitting down and straightening her skirts. Under her stern gaze, Bilbo sighed and extended his arm for examination. “It’s in Dwarvish, and we can’t read it. Do you know what it says?”
Gandalf took Bilbo’s hand, bent the wrist this way and that, drew back the grey curtain of his hair on one side to get better light, frowned, huffed, sipped on his tea, hummed and clicked his tongue, and when Bilbo thought he would soon burst out of his skin before he bore another second of this, the wizard glanced down at Belladonna with his most benign smile and said: “Yes, I can read it.”
“And?” chimed the three-voiced harmony from around the table.
The wizard looked unfairly pleased with himself for having such a rapt audience. “It says, Thorin Oakenshield.”
Both Bungo and Belladonna moved their lips silently, testing the name on their tongues. Bilbo snagged his hand back, wishing for the thousandth time that the blasted letters would just disappear, and then he noticed the strange look on the wizard’s face. It was... turned inwards. Bilbo knew that look. Old Gerontius looked exactly like that – minus the long beard, of course – at his last birthday party after he ate one sausage too many and then for a second he couldn’t decide if the last bite was going to stay in or make a repeated curtain call. Since there couldn’t be anything wrong with his mother’s tea, Bilbo drew the only other possible conclusion.
“You’re keeping something to yourself.”
“Oh, why would I do that?” Oh, but Bilbo was fifteen, and at this age you can tell when a smile has just that much teeth to be really well-meaning. ‘Get down from my apple tree and nothing will happen to you,’ he’d heard that, seen that same smile, and then felt the consequences on his backside enough times to not believe it.
“You’ve heard that name before.”
Gandalf raised his eyebrows and closed his eyes, nodding sadly. It made him look very gracious, Bilbo was going to give him that, even when accepting his defeat.
“I know of someone by the name of Thorin, yes. Though I am not so sure about the Oakenshield part. Dwarves gain their names in battle, and Thorin is still young. But who knows how much has changed since the last time I’ve been to Erebor.”
“Erebor?” Bungo asked at the same time that Bilbo blurted, “And is this Thorin... pretty?”
“Bilbo!”
“I’d say so, in a Dwarvish sort of way,” Gandalf chuckled. “Hair as black as a starless night, and a beard to match–”
“Beard?!”
“Dwarf women are known to grow beards, boy,” Belladonna soothed him. Gandalf laughed a bit louder. With a bit more strain.
“Thorin is a Prince of the line of Durin, and the heir to the Throne of Erebor, the mightiest and wealthiest of Dwarven kingdoms in Middle Earth. And he’s a he. A Dwarf.”
Bungo carefully and in complete silence rose from his chair, went to the kitchen, came back with the tea pot and two tea cups, poured into each a half-full, and looked expectantly at his wife. Belladonna obligingly produced a small flask from a hidden pocket under her skirts and topped up the cups with something that smelled far stronger than it looked. Bungo then sat back down, still perfectly collected and reserved, and inclined his head towards Gandalf to indicate that yes, now he’s properly equipped to deal with that nonsense.
“You know, it’s not unheard-of,” Belladonna said, her quick mind as usual considering the practicalities. “My great-great aunt on father’s side had the same thing happen to her, and she became best friends with the lass, godmothers to each other’s children and all that.”
“I’m sure your great-great aunt didn’t have the name of an outlandish Princess on her wrist,” Bungo chortled a little. “Where on Arda is Erebor, anyway?”
“Oh, to the East from here, across the Misty Mountains and over the Greenwood–” Belladonna answered easily before she realised that she ought to keep her mouth shut, judging by the way Bungo’s eyes bulged out of his head at the mention of the Misty Mountains.
Bilbo was still trying to wrap his head around it. Needless to say, Gandalf wasn’t helping.
“I should mention that Dwarves hold the soulmarks in highest regard. Their women are few, and their lives are often long and lonesome, so when a Dwarf is so blessed to find the other part of his soul, he loves them in full.”
Bilbo, to his own dismay, felt his face heat up with the beginnings of a blush. “So he would want to marry me?”
“Scandalous,” Bungo murmured into his cup. Belladonna cleared her throat and tapped her foot under the table.
“What?”
“My dear husband, if you’re about to imply that there’s anything wrong with love in any form, then you should have been a little quieter about your rather racy affair with Rorimac Brandybuck the summer before you started courting me.”
“Dad!” Bilbo exclaimed, mortified to the tips of his ears, which were quickly turning scarlet. He was a teen, he was equally fascinated and disgusted by the affairs of the flesh, and as every teen, he was quite willing to believe the theory about storks delivering babies where his own parents were concerned. Even though he knew that he was the living proof that said parents must have – at some point in their life, at least once – done... that.
Belladonna turned to him just as brusquely. “And you, young man, should find a better place for your canoodling with young Merimac than our vineyard, which happens to be in direct line of sight of the kitchen window, thank you very much.”
Bilbo’s ears gave up on scarlet in favour of crimson.
“This is the Belladonna I know,” Gandalf muttered into his whiskers and both Baggins men glared at him from their respective places.
“Try to look on the bright side,” Belladonna ventured after a few moments of bewildered, wound-licking silence.
“Is there any, I wonder?”
“If Bilbo is going to become a hus…. a companion,” Belladonna corrected herself out of pity for her son’s obvious discomfort, “Of a Dwarvish prince, at least he won’t have to worry about what would happen to their children. Seeing as there won’t be any.”
Gandalf’s eyebrows climbed higher. “Worry? For what reason?”
Bungo rubbed his forehead. “It’s the thing about soulmark marriages. The children always have the most… extraordinary things happen to them.”
“My parents are soulmates,” Belladonna added with pride, completely disregarding the common Shire opinion on soulmarks.
“And you think that explains your many adventures?” Gandalf’s eyes shone with amusement. “I don’t believe that this… occurence could be a law of nature. Look at Bilbo - about to have the greatest adventure that ever happened to a Shire Hobbit and I don’t see any marks on your wrists.”
Bungo snorted. “It’s true. I dread to think what greater adventure Bilbo’s children could have, seeing as travelling all the way across the Mountains to woo a Prince is already a stupendous folly.”
“You have a point there,” Belladonna amended, “Bilbo is still too young for such a journey.”
“I’d say Bilbo is still too young for a wedding!”
“And I would say,” Gandalf waded in, “that Bilbo is still too young to decide for himself.”
“Thank you, Gandalf,” Bilbo piped up and decided that hard knocking staff or not, Gandalf was going to become his great friend.