You Had Me at "Handkerchief" {Bilbo Baggins/LOTR}

Chapter VII: When Bilbo Laughs at My Own Demise

Chapter VII:

When Bilbo Laughs at My Own Demise

"Get off me, you bloodthirsty savages! I am not a meal!" I exclaim angrily while flicking and slapping the mosquitos off my face. It seems as though these insects haven't had a good meal in a very long time, seeing as few people venture into the Midgewater swamps, east of Bree. This has been going on for the past three-and-a-half hours, and for some reason, Bilbo thinks my anger and exclamations are humorous to the ear. So while I am swatting and yelling, he is laughing heartily.

"Right now, I would mistake you for your mother," Bilbo remarks from a calmer state in between his bouts of laughter. I send him a glare as he has little reason to be speaking to me in such a manner, especially after his laughter of three hours hence. But, I reason, that I truly look like my mother during their journey to Erebor: browned blonde hair, dirty face, and irritated mannerisms.

"Your uncharacteristic exclamations and name-calling are sounding especially like your mothers at this moment," he answers my subconscious questioning as to what he is referring. Indeed, my mother is famous for her loud, and often funny, shouts of irritation. But more than that, her humorous nicknames for people have become commonplace within Erebor. "Dorkenshield" or "oaf" for my father. Thranduil is "Rapunzel," Bard is "Gaston," Legolas is "Leggy-lass," and Beorn is "Fluffy." Her imaginative skills and quick wit are ones that I strive for in myself.

"Sometimes I seriously question why Thorin fell for her in the first place," the hobbit remarks through my thinking silence. It is indeed a strange notion that the King Under the Mountain fell for such a strange and unique woman as my mother, especially after their first few meetings. She has recounted before that there was a mutual dislike within their first impressions, diluted over time but drawn out over several weeks.

"I will sound cliche here, but love works in strange ways, Master Baggins, and I don't think that anyone is immune to it," I answer Bilbo with the only solution that I can reason. My mother and father had a deep connection unknown to the both of them before their arrival in Rivendell, one not intended but seemingly inborn to their young hearts. They, obviously, are soulmates, Ones, and intended to be together forever. Love is a mystery to us all.

Turning to Bilbo, and at a disregard for the mosquito that just landed on my face, I recognize his eyes upon my figure. We stand within arm's distance of one another, allowing Bilbo to gently knock away the insect on my cheek with his hobbit fingers. Neither of us breaks our gaze, staring into our companion's eyes with unknown emotions and a deep connection. I can feel his heartbeat in the finger that now rests upon my cheek, his grey eyes boring into my own. Warmth encloses the both of us in the nasty and dewy swamp of human lands, though neither of us move any closer. It is peaceful and all-encompassing of the soul, and I cannot help in feeling that this is what I am to live for.

A rustling in the shrubbery to our left effectively tilts our gaze from one another and towards a leaping toad on saturated inlets. I giggle in the slightest bit, moving away from the hobbit so as to continue our journey, and dropping his hand from my cheek. He seems hesitant to move on, but catches up to my pace in a matter of seconds.

The tension is palpable between our two figures, like the pushing-and-pulling of emotions with each heartbeat. Around us, the stagnant air of the swamp moves with no wind of natural occurrence, or that of a dragon's wings. It is simply quiet to the ear, soggy to the touch, foggy to the eye, rotten to the smell, and saturated to the tongue. Most of all, it is awkward, and I dislike tension.