A passion for Mushrooms

Gifts Unreturned

The kings on the walls seemed to stare at the hobbit in disapproval. When Bilbo had first seen the intricate stone mosaics that decorated the Hall of History, he’d been impressed by their artistry. Great dwarven kings of the past with lofty faces and shining armor made fantastic showings of prowess and prosperity, seeming to offer these things to the onlooker bold enough to follow their lead. After publicly embarrassing himself, Bilbo thought the kings appeared to taunt instead. In reality the gold and jewels they gestured for visitors to take were nothing but polished stone. Of course, that was all gold and gemstones ever were. Someone who wanted warm, growing things was unlikely to find happiness with people who only ever offered cold mathoms.

He wished Thorin had not given him the mushroom. No one had ever put food into Bilbo’s mouth before. Oh, he’d had a dalliance or two in the Shire, but never in his life had he experienced something so intimate. Thorin had not even used a fork! But Bilbo knew it meant nothing. Hadn’t he taken advantage of that very fact to feed Thorin so often himself? Those wasps had come home to nest. He could not now tell the king that such an act was tantamount to stripping a hobbit naked. For in the end, were not the rules of civility just another layer of clothing between a gentlehobbit and the world?

Bilbo knew that his friends—and indeed most of the dwarves in the room—were staring at him, but he could not calm himself. Willing the red from his cheeks was impossible. Slowing his breathing seemed even less likely. All he could hope for was that further evidence of his deplorable state could not be witnessed through his thick woolen trousers.

“I do not believe that I knew before this day the form of a hobbit’s desire, but I think all of Erebor has seen it now,” Tauriel murmured, taking Bilbo gently by the arm.

“Hush,” Bilbo hissed, swallowing hard and forcing himself to meet her eyes. “It is not polite to speak that way in public.”

Tilting her head to the side made Tauriel look even more youthful than usual. “A strange day indeed, when a hobbit asks an elf to speak less plainly. As you wish.”

“Sorry.” Bilbo felt immediately guilty. “I did not mean to be so short with you. It is only that it is so very difficult for me to—oh bother. This is all rather difficult for me. Shall I make amends in the dwarvish fashion? I am quite dwarvish in my customs these days.”

“I want neither silver Shire pennies nor golden Ereborian crowns of you. If your tone offended, it is forgotten. Rather, I would have you hear me.”

“I am listening, my lady.”

“You were not in Laketown when Kili first spoke his love to me. Have I ever shown you the courting gift he gave me then?”

“No,” Bilbo said slowly. Presumably she was attempting to distract him, which was very kind. Tauriel was not the type to speak of personal matters lightly, and he was grateful to her for making the effort. “At least, I do not believe you have made a production of it. However, I have seen the archer’s ring which you wear upon your thumb many times. It is beautiful craftsmanship, mithril I believe?”

Flashing a brilliant smile, Tauriel seemed to realize something. “Ah! Rings are a very common courting gift among dwarves. Indeed, Kili was not risen from his sickbed two days before he gave me this. As craft comes from the hands, so a dwarf in love seeks to decorate the hands of his beloved One with precious things. But this was not the gift that began our courtship.”

“Oh?” Looking with interest at her elegant hands, Bilbo did not see evidence of another ring. “Do you not wear it? Did it not fit?”

There was something fiercely triumphant in Tauriel’s grin as she drew a smooth, green runestone from a pocket of her gown. “Perhaps not the most noble of gifts, nor the easiest for me to carry, but he could not wait to speak. No sooner had it touched my hand than my impetuous prince called me his love, for all who understood his tongue to hear.”