The idea for this story came from two main inspirations:
First: it seemed to me that there are a number of stories that portray Thorin as the one struggling with the concept of Bilbo being is "One" or soulmate and not being able to tell him, but very few (that I know of) go the other way around. I've read some fantastic stories in the "unrequited love" category or from Bilbo's P.O.V, but not so much in dealing with something like a soulmate level of it. So I wanted to add that in a way (along with the angst of unrequited love. Sorry, but I have trouble getting away from that).
Second: something that I will reveal at the end of the story. I wouldn't want to give away too much.
A.N. 1 Some italicized sections indicate that the speaker is using Sindarin or Quenya. It will be clear in the context of the story. Translations for small phrases and words will be listed at the end of each chapter, with a full list at the very end. I'm only just starting to research them, so please correct me if I've gotten something wrong. I want to be as accurate as possible, but I don't know if the resources I've been using are correct. I'd love some suggestions if anyone knows of some good resources.
A.N. 2 Combination of book and movie events with borrowed lines from both. References to The Silmarillion, but hopefully not so in-depth to be confusing.
A.N. 3 You'll find throughout this story that some things will not be fully explained. The reason for this is because I plan to fill those plot holes in a sequel. See my profile page for a hint.
And so I present to you the first in the "Blessings of the Valar" series, The Gift of Yavanna. I hope you like it!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or The Silmarillion. They belong to the incomparable J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just playing in his universe.
Bilbo Baggins trudged up the steep slope, his eyes fixed on his destination. A biting breeze whistled all around him, and he futilely pulled his coat and scarf tighter around his small form, even though garments no longer provided him with any warmth. Only the sun was able to thaw the lingering chill in his bones most days, but it was still too dark at the moment.
After laboring for an indeterminate amount of time, the path leveled at last. The ruins of what might have been a stone stairway gave way to frozen earth, dotted here and there by large chunks of broken masonry. He exhaled in relief, and hoped once more that the icy ground might still hold just a little bit of heat and enough nutrients to sustain them through the winter. He would not have this long journey, so full of suffering, end in vain.
Bilbo was careful to keep his distance from the sheer drop of the cliff when he turned to gaze out over the dark valley below. To his right was the once ruined city of Dale, now inhabited by the survivors of Laketown. From this vantage, he could see the light of many bonfires, and he remembered feeling so small when he wandered amidst the multitude of men, dwarves, and elves working side-by-side to restore the city to its former glory. To his left were the gates of Erebor, newly rebuilt by craftsmen from the Iron Hills. Even now, so early in the morning, they stood open to welcome caravans transporting supplies and dwarves returning home at long last.
It was hard to believe that it was only a few weeks ago that the field between the two settlements had been the sight of a great battle, in which countless lives were lost. It was only due to timely aid, and no small amount of luck, that Bilbo and his dear companions had not been counted among the dead, despite a few close calls.
The hobbit's sight remained on the dwarven kingdom and his thoughts strayed now to his friends: thirteen stubborn, brave, and all around wonderful (in their own ways) dwarves. His contact with them had been limited these past weeks, as they were still healing from their wounds while overseeing cleanup and rebuilding efforts. Even if he could have been of any assistance, he was technically still banished from the realm. He was fairly certain that his friends would welcome him with open arms, should he choose to visit, but he was keenly aware that Dain's subordinates considered him a traitor because of the Arkenstone incident, and would continue to do so until Thorin decreed otherwise.
Bilbo smiled when a bittersweet sense of nostalgia washed over him and ignited a faint twinge in the center of his chest. Thorin had been the one who had come closest to death during his final duel with Azog, but he would live, thanks in large part to Bilbo. He was recovering within his childhood home, completely oblivious to Bilbo's current state. It was unlikely that the dwarf king was even aware that the very being he had threatened to kill had saved his life (and not for the first time, either).
Bilbo was not sure where he and Thorin stood anymore. All he could do was hope, and trust the occasional message from Balin, that everything was alright. He wanted Thorin to be well and at peace. He wanted him to claim his rightful crown, and rule over the kingdom he had sacrificed and fought so hard to regain. He wanted Thorin to be happy.
He also wanted to be around to witness and be a part of it all, but not every wish was attainable.
Just then, a series of loud thumps accompanied by drastically quieter footfalls drew Bilbo from his inner musings, and he grinned. If Gandalf, or the female elf trailing him, had any inclination of sneaking up on him, they would be sorely disappointed. The magic and ethereal nature they'd been endowed with could accomplish many unbelievable feats, but taking a hobbit at unawares was not one of them, especially when he had half expected them to appear. He waved cheekily when the huffing wizard appeared, coming from the very same path Bilbo had finished climbing.
"Good morning!" he called, noting the flash of relief that flickered across his companions' faces.
"Good morning?" Gandalf sputtered. A scowl tugged his aged features downward. "Bilbo Baggins! I have been sick with worry! I've been looking all over for you, wondering if you'd left before I could bid you farewell. And when I finally find you, after scaling this Valar-forsaken mountain, all you can say is 'good morning'?"
Bilbo made a show of looking chagrinned, though in truth, he wasn't all that ashamed of himself. Time was running out, and he didn't want to be delayed by a barrage of questions and long goodbyes.
Gandalf seemed to understand in some measure, for his expression softened as he came to stand close, towering over the hobbit. "How long?" he whispered.
Bilbo shrugged. "Soon, I should think. That's why I came up here. This..." and he gestured to the general area with a sweep of his arm, "is where I want to be when... when it happens."
He took a few steps closer to the cliff, returning his gaze to the kingdom he'd helped rescue from a dragon while he explained his reasoning. "Assuming she survives the winter, this spot offers the best chance that her seeds will scatter all around the mountain and fields. Hopefully, enough of them will take root and make everything green again." His voice dropped in volume and pitch. "And... I want Erebor to be the last thing I see when the time comes."
"Bilbo..." The red-haired elf that had followed Gandalf came to kneel in front of him, so that they were eye level. "This cannot be. I will not accept it. Surely there is some way to stop this or reverse it. Or delay it at the very least. Please..." She placed her hands on his shoulders. "I would not lose you so soon, mellon."
Bilbo chuckled and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Tauriel. The only one who COULD help is Thorin, but even if he wanted to, I don't think he can, if you take my meaning."
"It would not hurt to try, would it? He is well now, and his mind is free and clear. Kili told me that he means to make amends to you. I am certain he would help, if only he knew it was in his power to do so."
When he did not respond, she stood up and swiftly began to retrace her steps down the broken path.
"Tauriel? Where are you going?" Bilbo called.
"To find that fool of a dwarf king," she shouted back. She was gone before he could mount a protest.
He sighed heavily while Gandalf merely smiled. At Bilbo's glance, he murmured, "Oh the impatience and hopeful follies of youth."
"I guess she is pretty young, at least by elvish standards," Bilbo agreed as a ran a hand through his curly locks.
The Grey Wizard trudged closer and took a seat on a large, overturned block of stone. He let his staff lean against his body while he fished out his pipe and a pouch of Old Toby from somewhere on his person. After packing his pipe, he held out the tobacco pouch to Bilbo and raised his bushy eyebrows.
Bilbo held up a hand. "Thank you, but you should save it for yourself. Much as I would like to, I'm afraid I can't properly enjoy it anymore."
Gandalf withdrew the offer, stuffing the pouch back into his robes before lighting his pipe with a glowing finger.
Strangely, the familiarity of such an everyday activity brought comfort to Bilbo, when he supposed he should be more sullen. He was grateful for it, if indeed that was Gandalf's aim. Still, he did not want to hinder him from tending to more pressing matters.
"I'm okay, Gandalf," Bilbo assured him. "Really."
The wizard smiled around his pipe as his eyes roved up and down his diminutive form. He took a shallow inhale and then blew out several colorful smoke rings. "I'm sure you are," he said slowly. "But I'm quite fond of you, you know, and I should like to stay by your side until it's over, if you have no objections."
Bilbo nodded, touched by the gesture and the admission. "I think I would like that. Thank you." He moved away from the edge and went back to the exact spot he'd chosen for the occasion, facing Erebor. Following a long, companionable silence, he whispered, "I am glad you're with me, Gandalf, here at the end."
"So am I, dear boy," Gandalf replied. He paused for a beat, and then added, "Tauriel was right, you know. Thorin truly is a fool."
Bilbo laughed at that, if only so that he would not break down and cry. And while he waited for the inevitable to occur, he reflected fondly on his journey, and the moments that had brought him here.
In the beginning, most of the dwarves were friendly, or at least semi-cordial to Bilbo (with Thorin as the only standout exception), but most did not actively try to get to know him. Gandalf had tried to explain to him that in general, they learned about and endeared themselves to others by observation and action over polite, inquisitive conversation. That wasn't to say that they would not engage in it at all, or that they'd refuse to share their own experiences if asked to do so. It was simply that they lived by the old adage that "actions spoke louder than words", and therefore, they would not open up or welcome him fully until he'd done something (no matter if the gesture was big or small) to encourage it.
Bombur, for example, was won over by Bilbo's genuine interest in his recipes and cooking abilities, his refusal to tease or comment on his considerable size, and his willingness to help out in any way during meal times. Fili and Kili took to him after he begrudgingly covered for them when one of their numerous pranks went horribly awry, while Dori bonded with him when Bilbo offered to share his favorite tea with him. It was an exhausting process and well worth the effort, but even after they began to accept him as a friend and member of their company, most of them didn't show much interest in Bilbo's culture or his deeper nature for a long time.
The first one to actually ask Bilbo about anything further than the daily lives of hobbits or other surface level topics was Ori. Ever the scholar, he was far more open-minded and curious about the world at large and the other races that inhabited it. He was reserved compared to the others, and unobtrusive, so he did not approach Bilbo with anything more than pleasantries until he'd overheard him singing softly in Sindarin.
"You can speak Elvish, Mister Baggins?" he asked.
Bilbo nodded as he struggled to keep his pony on the path. "Mm-hmm. I'm a bit out-of-practice, since there's little call for it in the Shire, but I've always liked using it whenever I can. Sometimes, I even translate stories and songs back and forth between Westron and Sindarin in my free time."
"Really? Me too!" Ori glanced around to see if anyone else was listening, and then elaborated quietly, "I've copied some sections of our journey in both Westron and Sindarin." He thumped the heavy book peaking out of the pack hanging at his hip. "We usually keep our history records in Khuzdul so it stays secret from outsiders, but I like to think that someday others would be interested to read the story of how we took back Erebor."
"I think I should like to have a copy, Master Ori." Bilbo glanced up thoughtfully. "Or I suppose I could write my own version someday. Then again, I may need you to send it to the Shire, since there's a good chance I'll be fulfilling one or more of those 'incineration' clauses in my contract. It'll probably become a fable for fauntlings, to teach them why they should never go on adventures," he pouted, not for the first time.
Ori opened and closed his mouth a few times, likely meaning to refute such a statement, but ultimately he decided it was better not to comment on the likelihood of Bilbo's certain death, or his misgivings on signing up for this endeavor. Instead, he latched onto another topic to continue the conversation. "Is it common for hobbits to teach their young through stories then?"
Bilbo brightened considerably, excited by the dwarf's curiosity. "Oh yes! I think everyone loves to hear or tell a good story, and hobbits certainly remember things a lot better that way. We're not as meticulous or concerned with written histories like elves or dwarves though, so we've lost a lot over time. There's really only one account concerning hobbits from the Elder Days that we all know, and we're taught it as young as possible."
Ori's eyes went a little wide with youthful anticipation. "Oh, would you tell it to me, Mister Baggins? I love hearing stories about the First Age." He hesitated and bit his bottom lip. "Um... unless it's supposed to be a secret..."
Bilbo laughed with a shake of his head. "Not at all! We tend to be suspicious of outsiders, but once we trust you, we'll tell you pretty much whatever you want to know. I'd be happy to share the tale with you, if you like."
The scribe bobbed his head. "Oh yes, please! And can you tell it in Sindarin? I've always felt that stories from the Elder Days just sound more potent in the elvish tongues. Besides, I could use some practice in hearing and speaking it."
Bilbo had refrained from using any of the Elvish languages too often thus far in their journey, since there was obvious disdain among most of the dwarves at any and all things elvish. Luckily, he and Ori, along with Gandalf, were trailing at the end of the procession, and would probably not be overheard as long as they kept their voices low. And Bilbo could hardly resist such enthusiasm. "As you wish." He sat up a little straighter in his saddle, and puffed out his chest. Then he switched to storyteller mode in his mind and flowed easily into hushed Sindarin.
"In the aftermath of the War of Wrath, in which Morgoth the accursed was defeated utterly and shut behind the Door of Night, great numbers of the Eldar forsook the Hither Lands and set sail for the Blessed Realm. Though many yet remained, determined to heal the hurts left on the lands they loved, there were not enough, for the shape of the land itself had changed and the evils wrought by the servants of the Dark Lord were not easily undone.
"Few elves or men were aware of it, but some of the Valar and the Maiar wandered the wide world beyond their domain, surveying the damage left in the wake of the great battle before the gates of Thangorodrim. Among those that walked and wept unseen was Yavanna, Lady of earth and all things that grow. She, like the other Valar, was sorrowful for Eru Ilúvatar's children, those that suffered and died or were lost to the darkness. But she also gave thought to the seemingly endless marring of the world.
"It seemed to her that little now remained of the Valar's original designs, her own especially. She had been gifted with the Shepherds of the Trees to defend her creations, but even they were not immune to the fires of Morgoth. The land was laid bare, and she knew that it would be many long years before life would return to it, and all would be green and glad again.
"So Yavanna grieved, as a mother whose children were slain before their time. But as she cried, there came into her heart a strange awareness that she was not, in fact, the only being that mourned the loss of plants and trees. She felt it in the earth beneath her feet and heard the wails in the winds of Manwë. Long she roamed, seeking the ones whose hearts mirrored hers, and she found them at last in the Northern regions of Middle Earth, below what would be one day be called the Vales of Anduin.
"She was rather astonished by the tiny creatures, for she had not seen their like before, nor could she recall their mention by any of the other Valar. She watched them, invisible to their eyes, and delighted in them. They were small in stature, not too dissimilar from the children of Aulé, though they were shorter still and slight. They had keen, bright eyes, round, merry faces, and clever, nimble fingers. Their hands especially made her smile, because, like her own, they were covered in soil from planting, tilling, and weeding the ground.
"She observed their labors to restore the vast greenery and gardens she had sown in ages past, grateful to know that she was not alone in her anguish. The small beings were persistent and hard working, but they despaired in knowing that the product of their toils was so very fragile. Barren fields saddened them, and they languished with the withering of trees and flowers.
"Yet they loved the designs of Yavanna, so they continued to do all that they could to nurture the land, and with the help of elves and dwarves, they had developed many ingenious ways to achieve their goals. One practice in particular fascinated Yavanna, and the beginnings of a plan formed in her mind.
"Working closely with the other races that lived near them, the hobbits (for that is what they were, of course) had added to their homes marvelous little rooms constructed of tinted green glass, wherein was housed innumerable clay pots. When the seasons changed and the weather of the world became too inhospitable for growing things, they would pack the pots with soil and plant the seeds there, and the "greenhouses" provided the perfect atmosphere for them to grow into small plants. Then, when spring came again, they would transplant the thriving saplings from the pots to the fields of the earth.
"Now the Valar do not sense the passage of time the way mortal beings do, so it was many years before Yavanna at last contrived a solution to the problem of the perpetual destruction upon her creations, and thus resolved to act. With Manwë's blessing, she revealed herself to the hobbits, and for the first time, they beheld one of the Valar in glory, and they were greatly afraid. But she spoke kindly to them, sharing their love of trees and plants, and praising their efforts to restore her work. And when she had earned their love and trust in turn, she declared to them her purpose..."
"Master Baggins! A word..."
Bilbo and Ori both jumped at the deep, bellowing voice that interrupted the story. Ori had thus far not voiced any questions or comments he might have had, because he'd become so enraptured by the tale, and Bilbo was quite practiced at being able to recite even dry histories with a melodic and focused energy. As a result, they'd both tuned out all else until they were startled out of their trance.
They shared a nervous glance, and then Bilbo reluctantly guided his pony to catch up with Thorin. He forced himself to smile and meet their leader's glare. "Yes, Master Oakenshield?"
He reciprocated with a sneer. "Tell me, Master Baggins, do you see any elves in the company?" His words were slow and utterly condescending.
"I'm sorry?"
"Since you insist on speaking in their tongue, I assumed there must be elves accompanying us on this quest. Is that so? Have I missed them somehow?"
Bilbo did not appreciate being spoken to like a wayward child, but he was still rather intimidated by the Thorin. He was rude and haughty, but there was no question that his presence commanded respect and attention. Bilbo frowned, and did not answer.
"I will not have the language of my enemies spoken in my presence. You will keep to the common tongue from now on. Are we understood?"
Bilbo bit back a number of biting retorts and nodded.
"Good." Thorin spurred his pony ahead, leaving the fuming hobbit with no further dismissal.
Bilbo checked his own mount so that he could fall back to the end of the procession again. The other dwarves were quick to pass him, some offering small, sympathetic grins, while others threw a sharp glance that clearly said they were in full agreement with their king.
"Sorry, Bilbo," murmured Ori, returning to ride by his side.
He turned to the young lad and shrugged. "There's no need to apologize." He lowered his voice and groused, "You're not the one being utterly unreasonable."
"But I am the one who insisted on speaking Sindarin. He should have reprimanded me." Ori ducked his head a little. "You should told him it was me."
"It wouldn't have mattered. He would have blamed me anyway," Bilbo spat bitterly. "Insufferable dwarf..." He stared down at his hands, clenching the reins of his pony so tightly that they almost popped.
Mellon = friend (Common enough that I'm sure most people already knew that)
Until next time; thanks for stopping by!
