Title: A Cursed Blessing
Pairing: Bilbo/Thorin

Summary: In time of great change a Prophet is born, selected by one of the Valar. When Bilbo is born, he had the markings of the Prophet but it was not One of the Valar that had chosen him, it was all.

Disclaimer: I am merely borrowing the characters of Tolkien; I do not own them unfortunately…

Author Note: I'm not sure how this will turn out, but the plot has been heavy on my mind and the length of chapters can range from 1000 words or over 2000 depending if my muse allows me.


In times of great change a prophet of the Valar would be chosen, but none had been born with the markings since the battle of the Last Alliance and he had died in the battle saving his King. All races had begun to lose hope that the Valar had forsaken them and soon some races had all but forgotten the legends of the Prophets. But the Elves and the Dwarrow did not forget, they still held hope for their saviour to come.

There had been a Prophet of near all races, a soul bound to not one race. Men, Elves and Dwarrow the like, blessed by their creator or another.

There was Durin the Deathless, the great warrior marked by Aulë. Thengyril the elf maiden who had been born in the first age to the lands of Beleriand that were Nath-Tathren during the Great War, she had been the prophet of Irmo. It was many years after Durin's death that Rahim had been born a Man with the blessing of Nienna the Lady of Mercy, he fell protecting Isildur his king and friend.

All hope from the world was taken as disaster and misfortune hit the lands once more. The Dwarrow's were cast out from their home by a fire drake, their numbers decimated at the battle of Azanulbizar.

Then one spring afternoon a ripple was felt across Arda. A Prophet had been born, one of great power. A babe, a small babe with gold hair was born to Belladonna and Bungo Baggins of Bag End. His eyes were the richest green with flecks of brown and gold, a smile so bright that it made all those around him feel whole.

But it was the markings upon the wrist that stood out the most, little symbols that Belladonna had seen before – though only three of the fourteen – that made the truth known. Her little Bilbo, her brightest star was a Prophet marked by all the valar.


Bilbo had led a simple yet extraordinary life, well protected by his Mother. Though his mother of flesh raised him and loved him, it was his Mother of spirit that had taught him and guided him through life.

It was Yavanna who taught him how to use his skills, which marks on his arm were from who and how to use and connect to them. He was special, that was what everyone whispered to him and it was what he had hated the most.

Prophet some called him, a Prophet of Arda, the rarest of all that had been born as he had been marked by all the Valar.

A Tree for Yavanna Giver of Fruits that was interwoven with a Hammer, the representation of her Husband Aulë.

Varda was next with her Stars that swirled around with soft lines that were of Feathers for her Husband Manwë.

Nienna sat alone with a single teardrop, beside her tear rested what Bilbo saw was a gavel for Mandos Ruler of the Dead that interwove with three strings that represented his wife Vairë the Weaver. Their brother Irmo's mark was hard to read, a flower mid-bloom and stood alone with no sign of Este.

"It is the sign of both Irmo and Este my little one, for Este is the Vala who is responsible for healing of the hurt and weary. A flower mid-bloom represents Irmo and his wife. The representation of Dreams and Healing." That is what Yavanna had told him when he had inquired.

With a deep sigh, Bilbo ran his thumb over the bird mid-flight carrying a horn, Vána his Mother's sister and her Husband Oromë's mark. Below that was a deer – golden in colour against his sun kissed skin that represented her Husband Tulkas – jumping over the soft waves of Ulmo's mark.

The marks though separate and interweaved with those of their spouse connected to the spot in the middle of his wrist at the base of his palm by the mark that seemed to shimmer. It was the mark of Eru The One, The Father of All.

Yet, no matter how special everyone said he was — to him it was a burden. A curse. He felt strongly and saw things he did not wish to see, he craved the skies and all things that glittered and grew. He felt the call of war and felt the death around him all the while struggling with grief he felt.

No, being a Prophet of Arda was not what all was made to be. Not even when his own kin and parents were in trouble, he could not use the powers he possessed to save them and in the end Mandos had claimed them.

If it wasn't because of him in the first place they would still be living, his status had brought forth the orcs and wargs on top of the wolves that harsh winter. Though no one blamed him, he blamed himself enough.

"Why are you weary my sweet one?" Yavanna asked softly as she took her place at his side.

Bilbo sighed and lit his pipe, his eyes closed as he tilted his face towards the sun. "I don't know, I guess I am feeling melancholic. There is a great shift in the air tonight, something that tells me that everything is about to change."

Yavanna hummed softly and turned her eyes out over Hobbiton with thought. Some days even she had felt grief and guilt for being a part of Bilbo's creation. But Eru had seen the future and had seen what would happen if a prophet would not be created. It was he who had asked for them all to place their mark as the road before the prophet would be a hard one.

She had stood by his side some days with Nienna and wept alongside her child. He had faced so much already because of them, so much grief.

Bilbo let out another sigh, drawing Yavanna's attention once more to the Istari before her with surprise. "Goodmorning." He greets, blowing a smoke ring into the air, watching as it shifted into a moth and flew back.

The wizard grins, more of a smirk really as his eyes danced with mirth. "What do you mean? Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or, perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning. Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?"

"Can I help you?" Bilbo asked blandly ignoring the question all the while eyeing the grey wizard before him. He of course knew who Gandalf was, being a friend of his mothers and the Maiar of Manwë, Varda, Irmo and Nienna who had favoured him the most.

"That remains to be seen, I am looking for someone to share an adventure." The wizard replied with bright eyes. This of course just made Bilbo sit up straighter and narrow his eyes down at the Wizard; he could see his Mother stiffen too at his side from the corner of his eye.

Bilbo snapped his mouth shut as he saw his fate. The first of Gandalf's company would be at his door around nightfall whether he wished for it or not. It seems that he has been called and his time has finally come. "Do not take me for a fool Olórin; I know why you have come. Tell me how many I am expected to house and feed before making your merry way down to tell them."

This took Gandalf by surprise, both at being caught out and hearing his name fall from the hobbits lips. "Thirteen in total beside myself."

The Prophet stood from his little seat and nodded, he had a feast to make and so little time to do so. He would need to run to the market to gather more food, meat more so than vegetables or he could get Hamfast and Hamson to do so for him while he started. "Then you best be on your way. Oh and Gandalf?"

The wizard stopped and turned back to the hobbit at the door with raised brows. "Yes my boy?"

"You better give the leader the correct Map to my home or make him come with another, he'll get lost… twice." With that, Bilbo closed the door and stared into the sad eyes of his Mother.

"Your time has come then my little one. I knew it was to be soon but…" She trailed off, taking a deep breath as she pulled him tightly into her embrace.

"I know Mother." He whispered into her neck. After all, a prophet was cursed to die in the end.

Author Note: Well, like I said in the AN at the top the length will grow but I can always promise a chapter over a thousand words.