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It was a common misconception that hobbits bore the mark of their soul-mate upon their skin. If anyone had bothered ask (no one ever did), and if the hobbit had been willing to tell (fairly unlikely. Soulmates being so private as it is), the hobbit would have informed the questioner that hobbits had a mark on their soul, not their skin. On a few, very few, occasions, that mark would carry forth onto their skin, but that was extremely rare, to the point of it nearly being unheard of. While it was true that hobbits usually did have a mark on their left wrist, it was not something that appeared due to their Soul-calling. It was something the hobbits painted on themselves, after the Call.
As their mark was upon their soul, the manifestation of the Call differed from hobbit to hobbit. In most cases, hobbits only felt the call once, at midnight, or midday, on the day they reach their maturity. The mark was a reminder of the call. This, in turn, led to another misconception, as hobbits tended to call the reminder on their skin for Call-marks, which caused other races to believe it actually called out to their soul-mate, or some silly thing like that. Some claimed the Call-mark heated up, or sung when their soul-mate was near.
The few hobbits who knew of the silly rumours going on about their Call-marks, often wished it was like that. It would be better than the vague and often unhelpful hints the Call tended to give. Sure, some hobbits were fortunate, hearing voices or even names that could lead them to their soul-mate. But others could be so unfortunate that all they got something like the chuckles of a brook, or the smell of bread. Not all that helpful when it came to finding your partner.
As such, hobbits considered soul-mates to be something of fairy tales. Of legend and myth. Oh, they knew they existed, but few ever recognised their soul-mate, and the few who did were usually too closely related for romance or breeding.
Bilbo's parents had been rare in that they'd been soul mates. His mother had told him that her Call had been a smell of oak, a feel of anxious confusion in the back of her throat, the taste of rabbit stew and wild mushrooms and sitting with her back to a bright fire. Her Call had been the main reason why she had travelled and adventured as much as she had in her youth. She had looked for her call, and had been startled out of her wits when she came home one day, to find that Bungo Baggins had build her a smial, and welcomed her home with the meal of her Call.
Bungo had told Bilbo, on one of those late nights where Belladonna had gotten herself lost on her way home (she had a surprisingly lack of time-sense, and an even worse ease of getting distracted), that his call had been fairly easy to read. A belladonna growing on a vast field, strong and defiant against the wind and weather that tried to uproot it. Bilbo's mother was the only one that had ever been named Belladonna, and she surely didn't let weather, or people, dictate how she lived her life.
Bilbo had foolishly expected something like that. A clear call, hobbits called it. Easy to understand. Instead, he got feelings,sensations, with no clear origin or cause. Fear clinging to his ribs, anger chilling his spine, hope and devastation lurking in his throat, love throbbing in his heart, exhaustion nipping at his limbs, head heavy with determination and eyes burning with grief, and a pained throat. Not exactly a Call you would want to chase. So Bilbo never did. He was as wild as one expected children and teens to be, but calmed down considerably after fell winter when his father took ill, and he was the perfection of a respectable Baggins by the time his mother's death rolled around.
Calm, collected, friendly, polite, kind, generous, dependable, reliable. Respectable. He was so punctual, his neighbours had no need for clocks, and no one ever needed to fear his behaviour, as he was as predictable as a hobbit could possibly ever be. True, it made him somewhat boring, and his days somewhat all the same, but that was the price of being respectable.
If his heart sometimes wished he had closer friendships, or just someone who would not be scandalised for him speaking his thoughts, for someone to cuddle with and he happy with, then that was something he just had to deal with. For on one hand, he desired the same closeness, the undeniable love and unconditional care his parent's shared, but on the other, he never, ever, wanted to feel all those things from his Call. And while he doubted any hobbits in Hobbitun, or any hobbit period, really, could ever make him feel like that, he still feared it. And no respectable hobbit would have a partner who was not hobbit, so that was out of question.
And then he went on an adventure. A real, proper one. Not just travelling for the sake of business, or to quill the stagnated, caged feeling Hobbitun and Bag End sometimes gave him. But an adventure that took him out of the Shire, out of Eriador proper. Brought him to meet elves, dwarves, men, wizards, and a shape-shifter. Had him battling wits with trolls, wraiths and a dragon. Had him fight, often desperately, against goblins, spiders, orcs and wargs. Had him more tired, more hungry, and more hurt than anything else.
And eventually, led to his call.
He felt the fear cling to him with tiny, pricking fingers, as Thorin's face become an ugly shade of scarlet as he shouted at Bard, demanding to know who had stolen the Arkenstone. The hope that Thorin would understand, but the devastating knowledge that he never would, made it hard to talk, made it hard to tell him that he had done it. Anger swept through him as Thorin grabbed him and dangled him over the wall. His heart throbbing painfully even as the fear clung tighter. He had to clench his eyes tightly to fight the nearly overwhelming grief that burrowed behind his eyes, even as his brain began feeling heavy. It didn't matter. Even if Thorin Oakenshield hated him for the rest of his life, it was something that Bilbo was willing to sacrifice. And if Thorin decided to throw him off the wall, then Bilbo would not argue.
A resignation welled within him, and it startled him a little. It brought his attention to the the fact that his Call was happening. Right here, right now. The irony was almost too much. After spending all his adult life painstakingly not looking for his Mark, he'd ended up chasing it unknowingly.
When Thorin dropped him, telling him to leave and never return, Bilbo felt all those emotions suddenly vanish. Like a thick blanket of gray snow had been thrown over them. Colours seemed to diminish with every step he took and he could only smile bitterly. He had found his Call, recognised his soul mate, and been rejected.
Rejection didn't happen too often in the Shire. But the few times it had, had been carefully documented. Bilbo hadn't heard much, not as much as other faunts had, seeing as his parents never cared to try and scare him away from seeking his Soul. What he'd heard, however, was that everything would fade. Feelings, colours, senses, morality, personality, until either you've become a living shade of who you had been, unfeeling and cold, or become a goblin. Both were frightful enough that he'd never sought, as most hobbits.
The battle was a blur. And Bilbo didn't know whether it was his fading, or the ring upon his finger that caused it. His body was wounded. He couldn't feel it, but he'd seen the blood. The black blood of the monsters he was fighting mixing with his. He saw no colours any more, either. But Orc and goblin blood was thick, and a dark, light consuming black. His blood was lighter, run freer and had a near white shade of gray. It didn't matter, though. For Azog was there. Standing tall, armour dent but not cut. Bilbo did the only thing he could. He almost lost an arm in his haste to stop the pale orc. But stop him, he did.
Blackness was coating his vision. His lips tugged into a weak smile. While hobbits may mark their skin themselves, they weren't always sure why they painted what they did. But as the last remaining breath left him, he decided that he'd definitely chosen correctly when he'd picked asphodels.