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No hobbits didn't have a one like dwarves. No they didn't have an innate sense if someone was their destined love. They had soulmates; they just had to find them.
Not that the boys knew all that when they'd started the conversation around the fire. But it still got Bilbo riled up listening to them.
"Don't be silly Kee; hobbits don't have a One," Fili threw a pitying glance over the fire to Bilbo. "It's because they aren't Mahal’s children."
"Oh," Kili watched Bilbo with a considering gaze. "So they just marry anyone?"
"Well-" Bilbo began just to be interrupted by Bofur.
"Maybe they marry by lottery!"
"Or lucky dip!"
"Or-"
Bilbo stood up and strode out of camp to the ponies. At least ponies weren't ridiculous, idiotic Dwarrows!
The group around the fire bemusedly glanced at each other. Had they offended their hobbit?
The subject appeared dropped until that night as Fili and Kili were on watch whispering to each other.
"Fee do you think mister Baggins got offended because he doesn't have a one?"
The soft voice made Kili sound very young indeed as Bilbo stubbornly ignored the whispered conversation staring instead at the stars overhead.
"I dunno Kee, he didn't actually say hobbits don't have a one. Maybe we should ask him tomorrow?"
"I didn't think of that!" Kili’s excited murmur cut across the camp. The conversation continued in a subdued way after that as Bilbo drifted to sleep under the stars.
---
As it turned out the boys did want to ask Bilbo about hobbits Ones. They just didn't want to ask the grumpy tired Bilbo. They followed him the whole day whispering to each other.
In the hours after lunch of the two shared silent looks from their ponies either side of Bilbo as they rode along.
"Is there something you need boys?" He asked voice carefully blank.
"Well we wanted to ask you see-"
"Halt!" Thorins strong voice echoes from the front of the line. "We'll camp here!"
Saved by the sour faced King.
That night as the camp settled around the fire Bilbo felt cheerier, having eaten a warm meal again. Food always made things better. So this time he wasn't grumpy when Fili and Kili dropped down beside him.
Instead he looked forward to telling these boys about his people.
"I assume you've been shadowing me all day to ask about hobbits?" He asked lightly. "Or specifically hobbit marriage habits?"
"Yes please!" Kili sat up eagerly.
"Do hobbits have a One? Or do you just marry anyone?"
Bilbo raised an eyebrow at the excited dwarf.
"I'll start by saying hobbits do not have a One," he declared bluntly enjoying the shocked confusion on Kili’s young face. "But neither do we marry just anyone; We have a soulmate."
"What's a soulmate mister Baggins?" The timid voice came from young Ori, and Bilbo looked up and realised he was being listened to by everyone around the fire. Including Thorin who appeared to be inspecting his boots with complete concentration.
"Our stories say that when hobbits were first made in the fire in the heart of the land we had one large soul that split in two." He smiled a little trying for happy as he continued. "And finding your soulmate means finding the other half of your soul and having the Mark of your story grow and your heart will wait until you do."
"That's like a One!" Kili was obviously excited over a romantic story. "When Mahal created us at his forge a strike of his hammer created two souls to be born. Yourself and the One made beside you. Your One!"
"Um mister Baggins," Ori hesitantly looked at Bilbo, pen poised over his journal. "What's the, um, 'mark of your story' bit mean?"
"Oh that's the tattoo that grows over your heart." As his matter of fact answer was met with confused looks he sighed. "The tattoo that grows from the moment you meet to explain how you came to be together?"
The dwarves didn't look any less confused.
"Oh well," he scratch his head. "It's usually about the size of your hand over your heart. My fathers was a circle of belladonna flowers around the market fountain where he first met my mother. Hers was an open scroll with his first words to her on it."
The group seemed to digest this for a minute until Bofur spoke out thoughtfully.
"What about yours Bilbo?"
Ah, of course someone would ask.
"Well as a matter of fact I don't have one." He tugged at his sleeves nervously. "A soulmate or a Mark."
This seemed to subdue them somewhat, even getting a few pitying glances.
"Ah but you’re still young!" Kili's enthusiasm couldn't be killed for long. "You still have years to meet them!"
"Ah," Bilbo hesitated to finish the story of soulmates. "Well that isn't entirely correct you see. Hobbits have another way to show they've met their soulmate."
He glanced around at the blatantly interested stares around the fire.
"Hobbits; after reaching adulthood." Here he stopped unsure how to go on. Not many cared enough to listen to hobbit habits. "We stop ageing until we meet our soulmate. It is said our heart waits for them."
He looked around again but none of the dwarves seemed inclined to interrupt.
"So I stopped ageing when I turned thirty." This was the embarrassing part; in the shire no one went ore than a few years without their soulmate. "And that was two hundred and fifty years ago."
All was quiet.
"So is that unusual?" A innocent voice asked.
"Kili!" His brother hit him and muttered something about manners.
Conversation turned to dwarrow Ones and Bilbo realised they didn't care he didn't have a soulmate. It didn't matter that he wasn't ageing.
---
Sometime after being rained on a week straight, used as a troll hankie and covered in Orc blood Bilbo decided he needed a bath.
Luckily Rivendell had private baths in its guest suites.
Luckily Bilbo was alone.
Luckily no one came running at his shout.
There on his chest right over his heart was his bright green front door. Circling it was thirteen black sets of foot prints leading up each side to the seven pointed white star above the door.
He'd met his soulmate.
But who was it?
---
Bilbo was elated.
He had a soulmate!
And he was horrified.
Who was his soulmate...
The practical thing would be to go out there to the dwarves and show them his tattoo. He quickly dressed and headed down the hallway where he could hear the dwarves singing. Luckily he's already told them about soulmates otherwise it would be an awkward conversation.
He arrived unseen at a balcony. He watched the dwarves singing, talking and eating. A small smile crossed bilbos lips. Maybe dwarves aren't so bad.
A scuff of boot beside him made him turn. Looking up into the scowling face of Thorin Oakenshield Bilbos smile withered.
"Halfling." Thorin nodded slightly and moved to join his nephews.
"I'm not half of anything!" Bilbo muttered angrily to himself.
With a scathing look towards the merry dwarves Bilbo turned and marched back along the hallway to another balcony. Perhaps he shouldn't rush telling them. That's probably for the best.
---
By the second night Bilbo realised his tattoo had grown. Before it had been a perfectly normal size. Although colour was rare it wasn't impossible.
Now there was another ring around the feet. He traced the pattern with a finger. Elegant lines coming to a sharp point; geometric shapes flowing towards a larger image. They almost looked like flower petals, around the centre of the tattoo.
Except they reminded Bilbo more of the arches in the Elvish halls. Double lined and overlapping at their base Bilbo thought they were pretty but ultimately unhelpful.
---
As he'd bathed before their nighttime escape Bilbo had noticed his tattoo change again. Now a simple rendition of his own blade hung below his tattoo. His finger traced it down Hilt to blade.
He shrugged. While a beautiful image it did not help with finding his soulmate.
---
There was no bathing or privacy to check his tattoo, and he honestly forgot, as they escaped Rivendell in the night. A storm came upon then as they crossed the mountains and giants battled in the lashing rain.
Bilbo was going to sneak out to check his tattoo when he was caught.
He didn't think of it again once they fell into goblin hands, or when he found the creature in the cave. There was no pause to think once he'd found his way out and had to yell at Thorin for being nasty for no damn good reason.
He'd help them get their home back. And hopefully one of them would decide he was their home.
What followed was horrible. Bilbo had to remember his life was no longer stalled. And he swore he lost ten years to the running alone.
They were chased by orcs; Azog at their lead.
Cornered Thorin attacked like an enraged animal. Bilbo didn't quite think over helping him but instincts kicked in and he rushed to defend his friend before he even realised he thought of Thorin as a friend.
—
After rescue by the Eagles the orcs still hunted the company. But after the jaunt in Goblin town the company was woefully under armed and were missing some of their packs.
Gandalf offered the house of a friend to recuperate. Well he'd said friend what he meant was; acquaintance of a friend who hasn't seen afore mentioned mutual friend in over a decade and is also a temperamental oversized bear.
Bilbo allowed himself a glare in Gandalf's direction as the company rested at Beorns table and told him their tale.
He excused himself from the tale to have a shower in the large room a helpful sheep led him to.
Shaking his head at the latest addition to his tattoo he decided he wouldn’t realise who it was by looking at the images: he’d have to fall in love and then realise who it was.
Still he traced the falling golden eagle feathers from the top of sting down his stomach to where they disappeared under his trousers as he dressed again after his throughly enjoyable scrub.
“Master Baggins,” The gruff voice of Dwalin has bilbo spinning on the spot to stare open mouthed. For a large draft he was quite light on his feet.
“Ah, yes, oh dear,” bilbo stammered suddenly realising he was caught out. “This is. Well this isn’t what it looks like.” He hurried to explain caught so unawares.
“It looks Master Burglar that since you started this quest you have met your soulmate. That,” he jabbed a meaty finger at the poorly covered tattoo. Bilbo dropped his hands away. “Wasn’t there when we last washed together in that steam before the trolls.”
“No it wasn’t. “ bilbo watched his toes unsure of the meaning of the gruff tone of voice.
“Luckily for you Master Baggins I have found my own One and wish to keep their identity secret for this quest so I can keep yours for you. Tell me who is it?”
Bilbo continues to hold his hands uselessly against himself.
“I don’t know.” He dropped his hands away showing Dwalin the entirety of the markings across his chest.
The dwarf raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“My that is an impressive collection. This is supposed to represent how you came to your soulmate?” At bilbos nod he rubbed the back of his neck. “Well lad I’d say you’re in for a long haul on this one. There’s thirteen here. At least I can narrow it down for you but tell no one I did. Oin, Gloin, Bombur and Balin are all either married or widowed. Nori is spoken for; as are Fili and Kili although they haven’t made any arrangements yet.”
Bilbo blushes bright red at the implications in the dwarve’s tone.
“It’s hardly as if it must be someone from the company!” Bilbo splutters. “It could be someone we meet at the end of the quest!”
“Aye lad. That’s true.” Dwalin smirks pityingly at the half naked hobbit. “Come back now Thorin sent me to check you hadn’t drowned and we don’t wish to worry the king now.”
—
Dungeons are usually dank, dark and depressing. Unfortunately the dungeons in the woodland realm still held a clean, bright and earthy ambience that personified the elves so Bilbo found himself frustratedly calmed during his desperate search for his companions. It took him precious days to locate the company, the keys and an escape.
The manic race through the river riding wine barrels left the whole company with a distaste for anything with a fruity bouquet. Moreover as Bilbo tried to wring the moisture out of his waterlogged clothes aboard the vessel belonging to a fisherman turned smuggler called Bard he noticed a continuously connected ring of empty barrels splashing in bright blue water ringing his upper arm where it would only just be out of sight under his clothes. He briefly worried for his secret before reminding himself of more serious and possibly incendiary concerns in his rapidly approaching future.
—
Flowers bloom around his neck as Erebor is recovered. Forget me nots, ambrosia- your love is reciprocated, blue iris’s for hope, red roses and pink and white carnations for honour, remembrance and gratitude.
When Thorin puts his hands to Bilbo’s throat the hobbit realises they came before the act to protect him in a way none of the company stepped forward to do.
—
It is the day that would later be known as the battle of five armies when an elven healer came to check over Bilbos injuries from escaping the mountain.
The woman sighed and tutted while smoothing a sweet smelling salve over his many cuts and grazes.
“You are far from home little cousin,” she mused as she moved around him fingers gentle but firm. “At least none of these will scar through your pretty tattoo. Although the design is odd to have before this day.”
She was running her fingers across his back tracing a phantom pattern. Or at least that’s what he would have thought before this journey.
“Please,” his voice broke with the rush of hope and the sick clench of his gut. “I don’t have a tattoo on my back. However my soul mark has behaved exceptionally unusually these last months. What can you see?”
Her fingers stilled before trailing down the curve of his spine.
“You do not know?” She asks tentatively touching the base of his spine.
“No,” he couldn’t say more or explain why he needed so much to know right now on the eve of battle.
“There’s an acorn,” she begins hesitantly but gains momentum quickly. “And so much gold, there’s a long winding trail of people and surrounding it all is Smaug the people wind up along his back. He’s so realistic, every scale and scar. Flying up your back; wings above his head ready to push forward. Above him stands a purple gem that almost shines with life. Standing above it all is the lonely mountain and the sign of Durin. It’s terrible and beautiful and so very painful.”
She rests a gentle hand on his shoulder and turn him to face her ignoring the tears streaming down his face.
“This is a horrible, painful and long story little cousin. Whoever’s heart this represents has travelled far with you and through many things. Take great care with a love like this. You only see this chance once in a lifetime.”
Bilbo is brave: because he has to be. He is hopeful: because he can’t not be. Above all he is so horribly afraid because the one he has found himself loving, wanting and despised by.
—
The battle progresses as these things do. In flashes of horror and hope emphasised by vivid colour and startling sounds. The clash of weaponry, while a jolting sound, was expected on the battle field; what made Bilbo pause in his mad rush to reach Thorin was the soothing low sound of singing coming from the army of men. The rhythmic sound kept time with their forward march into battle.
—
Surviving the fight with Azog was the hardest thing Bilbo had ever done in his life. It was so far out of his control, so far beyond his abysmal sword skills that he knew luck alone allowed him to live. That Thorin now lay beside him gasping for another painfully cold inhale. Bilbo knew the bare minimum of healing lore that all hobbits learnt as faunts but even he knew the king needed immediate help if he was to survive until nightfall.
When stories would be told in the years to come of the saviour of the king it would be a glorious retelling of a heroic slog back into the battle to find a healer to save the fallen monarch.
The truth was much more humble; Dwalin carried the unconscious body through the fray as Bilbo ran forward belittling, berating and beating down any who got in his path as was the way of hobbits. He fetched a elven healer and threatened him with such creative and direct threats that all who heard grew wary of the small gentle creature cover in gore and holding a short sword in an absentminded grip.
The healer was the true hero as far as Bilbo was concerned when he ran swift as a herring in a steam through the battle leaving Bilbo behind to tend to Thorin.
The worst was over and the stubborn dwarf saved by the time the hobbit arrived; Bilbo Baggins slumped down on a rock and watched with weary detachment as wounds were bandaged by efficient hands. He wondered if the one who woke would be the dwarf from before the battle full of rage and burning hatred or the friend who begged forgiveness in his last moments.
“He’s going to live,” the gentle voice of the healer penetrated the fog of confusion shrouding Bilbos mind as he pondered his future. “The battle is almost won I must away to help those that need me. You should do the same.” With a nod back towards the crowd of dwarves carrying a stretcher towards the mountain proper and a small smile the elven healer slipped away.
Bilbo nodded in affirmation of what though no one would have guessed.
“Yes,” he muttered to himself and the dwarf who went unnoticed by his side who raised his head to stare at the seemingly soft creature in front of him. “Hobbits help their friends and my friends need my help.”
Something turned to steel inside the small, battered and blood stained hobbit. He may have already been used as a hanky, dropped over cliffs, tumbled through rivers and pitted against a dragon but nothing would get between him and helping his friends.
Planting Sting in the earth in front of him he swiped another shorter blade from a nearby corpse. Straightening he stepped forward and disappeared Sting following suit.
The only sound was a whisper fierce and determined.
“The Erebor. For the company.”
—
Ori clambered after the dwarves into the city gates where they were resting their wounded. His head whipped to and fro desperately searching out any familiar face.
“Dwalin!” He gasped not realising he was shouting. “Bilbo has joined the battle! He’s dropping orcs like flies! He moves so fast you can’t see him but you can follow the bodies that just fall to the floor! He saved Fili and Kili!”
The news of the hobbit who saved the king and his heirs spread like dragon fire through the wounded and their caretakers.
—
The aftermath of battle is always a matter of logistics. Respectfully collecting the bodies of your allies as hero’s and dragging the corpses of the enemy into a place to dispose of them without risking the health of the survivors. In this particular battle leaving the orcs where they fell would risk contamination to the water supply of Dale which the men had begun settling in again. Naturally the three races banded together at this gruesome task without their usual bickering; after such a battle there was little enough to say that they wouldn’t waste their words on anything as petty as racial squabbles.
It was a man who found the unconscious hobbit as dawns eerie light gave way to the sun. At first he walked past the halfling thinking the feet sticking out from under the wargs corpse was another torn apart body. He stopped only because of the chance it would be a wounded dwarf in need of aid.
Coming around the great beast he realised quickly it was the hobbit the camp was speaking of in excited whispers; unconscious, blood mattered hair and a tenuous grip on a silver blade.
“Call the wizard!” He yelled to a nearby searcher. “I’ve found his hobbit!”
The message passed from person to person back to the camp. The searchers stayed at their job despite the curiosity no doubt burning their minds: they had a job to do and survivors to find.
When Gandalf arrived with a healer in tow they quickly diagnosed him with a nasty bump on his head but no real danger past exhaustion and hunger.
The hobbits body was carried before Gandalf into the mountain where he was quickly stripped and bathed to defend against infection before having his quite impressive collection of cuts and bruises seen to.
While he was being tended to the hobbit was watched over by Dwalin who felt compelled to see that the hobbit lived for himself not being able to believe it from hearsay.
The grizzled guard raised an eyebrow impressively expressive at the sight before him; half of the hobbits visible body was covered in tattoos that weren’t there at the beginning of the journey. If one knew where to look, and all dwarves would by the end of the week, it told the story of the company of Thorin Oakensheild travelling to reclaim their mountain: The bright door and dark foot prints, Durins star, the barrels and eagles feathers, the choker of flowers and the snarling bear. Little abstract geometric shapes connected all these pictures from around the base of the hobbits throat just below where a collar would hide it down across his shoulder where the barrels encircled his bicep before flowing further down over his heart and disappearing down his trousers.
The guard and friend smirked over the ferocious hobbit and knew that when he woke there would be chaos in the mountain.
There was no doubt in his mind who the hobbits soulmate was and it amused Dwalin that at the rate of gossip in the mountain that the most involved would be the last to know.
—-
Thorin may have been the last to know but he was the first Bilbo told when he awoke. The hobbit marched himself through the infirmary to where the king was speaking softly with his injured nephews.
“Thorin Oakensheild I must have a word with you,” the hobbit stopped in front of the dwarf and crossed him arms glaring. “I’m in love with you and if you ever run out alone to take such a stupid risk in battle again you will find my patience has a very sharp limit. Am I making me self clear?” He touched the sword strapped to his waist.
The king grinned and the pair were quickly kicked out of the moment by two disgusted nephews noisily voicing their opinions of what was quickly devolving from a sweet kiss to something much more passionate.
Bilbo didn’t mind. He might not have forever anymore but the life he did have left would be filled with love.