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In the Shire, in those fine, golden months where spring bloomed into summer and the air was warm and mild, a local superstition flourished. It was not a dark and portentous belief, as hobbits did not put much stock in such things, yet it was still passed along with all due seriousness: any hobbit bitten by a Dit-Dit would fall in love. So it was spoken, and so, time and again, it proved to be.
As a Faunt, Bilbo had imagined a Dit-Dit as something huge and terrifying: a wolf with wings. It was almost disappointing when his mother pointed out something that looked like a ruby-red butterfly no bigger than her thumbnail. 'It's not even a bite,' she promised. 'When it lands on you, some of the colour on its wings stays behind. At first glance, it looks a little like blood, but it washes off within a day or two.'
Bilbo had politely expressed his doubt that love, true love, like that between his parents, could be predicted by a bug. Belladonna's only response had been a knowing smile as she ruffled her fingers through his hair.
'Wait and see, little one,' she had murmured. 'Wait and see.'
And so Bilbo did. Childhood gave way to the volatile existence of a tween, which soon levelled out into something approaching maturity. In due time, he lost both his parents, and there were days when he thought that grief might eat him alive.
Yet the years continued to turn, and over time even that pain became a smooth, hard thing, no longer cutting in as deep. He watched as the hobbits he had grown up with found partners. Some were staid, steady courtships, born of common-sense, but the grand romances? Well, their beginning was always marked by a small, red patch on tanned skin, easy to overlook unless you were searching for it.
However, Bilbo was never among their number. He celebrated in the happiness of his peers and fell into a comfortable, bachelor life. It did not take long for him to appreciate his solitude, and that appreciation only grew with the turn of each season.
Perhaps that was why it was such a shock when a wizard turned up on his doorstep, speaking of adventure in a way that birthed a cold sweat down his spine. He was a respectable hobbit, after all, and had no time for such fancies! Nor, he realised that evening, did he have any time for the dwarves showing up on his threshold: loud and boisterous and more than a little alarming. Gandalf seemed delighted, and did not quail even the slightest under the power of Bilbo's glare when yet another knock came on the door.
There was nothing gracious in Bilbo's expression when he yanked it open, a silent snarl trembling on his lips. Perhaps that was just as well. Anger was a good mask for whatever his heart did in his chest, a sudden, harsh thump like it had stumbled in its beat.
The dwarf looked at him with warm blue eyes, the silver streaking his hair gleaming in the lamplight and his resonant voice curling around Bilbo like hearth-side warmth. He managed to stammer something in response before he shuffled aside to allow the stranger entrance into his home, though he could not for the life of him recall what words had passed his lips.
And as he moved to shut his door, a flicker of red caught his eye. The Dit-Dit took flight from where it had alighted on the back of his hand, leaving its damning, painted kiss behind.
Bilbo recalled his mother's words, her soft claims echoing around his mind before he scoffed a laugh and shook his head in dismissal. Oh, the dwarf was handsome, sure enough, but it did not take more than a few minutes for Bilbo to realise that Thorin Oakenshield, for all his majesty, was arrogant and harsh, with little to recommend his character. They spoke of lost homes and empty thrones and dragons and gold, and Bilbo would have decried every one of them as mad if not for the serious way Gandalf nodded along with them. As it was, they expected him --him! -- to join them, and there was only one answer he could give to that.
Quests were not a part of his life, and they never would be.
And yet, as he went to bed that night, he could not sleep for the whirling of his thoughts. His parents had both told him that love was an adventure. At the time, he had dismissed them fondly as fanciful romantics, but here, on the cusp of something he could sense deep in his heart, he found himself thinking twice.
His life in Bag End was safe and comfortable, but even he could see it was an unremarkable existence, and something in him quietly craved more. It was the same part of him that looked at happy couples and wondered if he would ever find something similar.
Now, he stared down at the stain the Dit-Dit had left on his skin. It was tempting, of course, to brush it off as nothing more than coincidence, but as sensible as Bilbo Baggins claimed to be, there was still some part of him that wanted to believe. Not just in love itself, but that there was love out there for him. He had not found it in the Shire, not in all his years, so perhaps he needed to think about the world beyond the West Farthing.
Perhaps this, staying here in Bag End, would be the biggest mistake he ever made.
And so it was that Bilbo Baggins went on an adventure.
(Many miles and many months later, Thorin Oakenshield, newly healed from his battle wounds, kissed him as if he needed Bilbo more than he needed his next breath. It was a giddy, rushing moment, and as joy filled his heart, Bilbo thought of a small red butterfly in the Shire, and the love it had brought into his life.)