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The Dwarves say that when Durin I came to Azanulbizar and looked into the lake of Kheled-zâram he saw himself, through space and time, places he had never visited in times that had yet to come and had existed before time itself.

The only thing constant throughout these reflections was a crown, a crown of seven stars reflected around his head, for throughout space and time he was always King and Great.

And in those very caves above Kheled-zâram he chose to make his dwellings, and thus the magnificent realm of Khazâd-dûm was born.

Durin I lived so long, and Wandered so wide, met so many and saw so much that he became known as ‘the Deathless’, for when you Wander your soul never really fades, and your memory does not die.

The Dwarves say his greatness was such that, even after his passing, his descendants were given the gift of Wandering.

But Dwarves keep their secrets with such obstinate fervor and skill that as the ages wear on it is considered more of a legend, a prosaic tale that stands as testimony of the greatness and power of Durin’s Line.

Thorin does not think much of it, and then he does.

*

He’s naked, lying on the floor of one of the secondary halls, the one that leads to the kitchens. There is dust upon the stone floor and it’s far too dim, far too quiet, even for his Mountain.

He does not understand, but starts making for his chambers - surely something must have happened? Perhaps Dwalin hit him too hard as they were sparring (unlikely, but Thorin is not willing to rule this possibility out yet).

He has no recollection of undressing and wandering the halls of Erebor. Perhaps he has taken to walking in his sleep. Father will not be pleased, he thinks distractedly.

He’s wondering about the oppressive smell of charred meat, the thick and cloggy air, thinking that maybe there has been an issue in the kitchen? and is that cinder?, when he hears it. It’s a shrill noise, unnatural, grotesque, utterly terrifying.

“What is this?” he wonders aloud, clothes quickly forgotten and heart leaping in his chest. What has happened? Where am I?

“It is not a matter of where, more a matter of when,” his father tells him when he comes Back, but Thorin does not yet know, and he wonders about the space, rather than the time, as he follows echoes of the noise to the throne hall, and that’s where he finds it.

A dragon. Lying atop Erebor’s gold and jewels, amidst the very own fortune his grandfather cherishes just so.

Where am I? he panics, because this cannot be, it must be a dream, he was in this very hall just a few minutes ago, what is a dragon doing in Erebor? Where are his father and grandfather? What is this madness?---------- and then he is Gone.

“What did you see?” asks Thráin after Thorin has come Back.

Thorin’s palms feel clammy, and is the air perhaps thicker? does it carry the smell of sulfur, or is it just imagining? I saw our end, he thinks suddenly, because that must be it. That is what he saw. I saw fire. I saw death.

“I do not recall,” he lies.

Thráin does not ask him again.

Thorin does not forget.

*

His father tells him that it is, indeed, the Wandering, one of the many bittersweet burdens that come with being a descendant of the Deathless.

Thráin tells him it does not often pass from father to son, rather it tends to skip a generation, and it should have not concerned him, as Thráin has Wandered far and wide throughout his life (“I still do, sometimes, but not as much as in my youth, for I have found my purpose in life”), but he is nonetheless satisfied as he watches his son.

“It means you have great deeds to carry out,” Thráin says. “It is a blessing from Mahal,” he says.

“It is a Prophecy,” tells him Balin that very evening after he has returned to his chambers.

It is a curse, thinks Thorin, but he does not say.

*

He’s naked, lying on tender soil. He digs his fingers into the mossy carpet, taking in the earthy smell of dirt and the blissful chirping of birds. This could be much worse, he reasons. That is when a tiny voice clears his throat, and Thorin opens his eyes to find a strange creature staring at him.

“Are you lost?” the creature says, apparently unperturbed by the fact a naked Dwarf suddenly appeared before him in what Thorin’s keen eye deems to be an orchard.

“It would seem so, but in truth I am not. I am just Wandering.” Thorin sits on the ground, eyeing the tiny child in front of him. He’s small, smaller than any Dwarven child, and he walks barefoot, most uncommon for a Dwarf. His head is a mass of thick, unruly curls, and his eyes are gentle, expression benevolent.

Thorin does not know of this race, but apparently the child does know of Thorin’s, for he says, “You are a dwarf, are you not?”

Thorin nods, cocking his head. “And whatever would you be?”

The child puffs his chest, a vein of outrage in his voice as he replies “I am a Hobbit, of course.”

Of course, Thorin thinks. Whatever a Hobbit may be.

He has barely time to inquire after the When and Where as he feels himself shifting, muscles and limbs contracting and expanding at the same time, and he says “Farewell, akhûnith” and then he is Gone.

*

Balin’s surprise is clearly visible in his eyes as he helps Thorin find a book that will satisfy his curiosity toward Hobbits. He tells Thorin he has heard of them, of the Shire, but has never known of anyone who had personally met one.

“They are sedentary creatures, who cherish simple pleasures of life,” he says. “I do not know what to make of you Wandering all the way to the Shire.”

Thorin doesn’t either, but learns regardless, prepares himself in the (improbable) event of more Wanderings to the Shire. Hobbits don’t strike him as a particularly impressive folk - too quiet, too ambitionless for his taste - but some part of him is somehow drawn to them and what little he can find out about their culture.

*

He’s naked, lying on tender soil and something else, someone else, if the squeal coming from underneath him is anything to go by.

Thorin rolls off the tiny Hobbit and bows his head in apology. He’s in the Shire again, with the little one, who once again does not seem particularly fazed by a Dwarf suddenly appearing out of thin air - on top of him, of all things.

Perhaps this is one of those adventurous Hobbits he has read about in Balin’s books, one of those who like hunting better than farming, and who travel all the way to Imladris to stay with the Elves. Perhaps his Hobbit is a special one.

“Are you still not lost? Still traveling?” the Hobbit asks.

“Wandering,” he corrects him, and nods.

There is a relaxed silence as the Hobbit grabs the quilt on which he was sitting and hands it to him. Thorin had completely forgotten about his nakedness, and tries not to feel too guilty about it. It’s just a child, he reasons.

“My name is Thorin,” he says before he can think better of it. Is he supposed to give out his name? His father did not advise against it, but to Thorin it hardly seems wise.

Regardless, he feels like this is what he ought to do, so he bows his head again, “At your service.”

The Hobbit giggles and rubs his nose, bowing in a clumsy curtsy, “At your service, Master Thorin.” He chews his bottom lip, eyeing the puppets laid out at his feet. “Would you like to play with me, Master Thorin?”

Thorin snorts, picking up a battered rabbit puppet. He does not know how long he’ll Stay, and he doesn’t really have anything better to do. His ancestors seem apparently keen on making him meet this one Hobbit in particular, and who is Thorin to go against his ancestors’ wishes?

So he says, “Aye, why not?” and reasons that nobody has to find out about this.

They play for a long while, the Hobbit squeaking in delight as Thorin reenacts the legend of Durin the Deathless with stuffed animals. The little one brings him food, at some point, and Thorin eats in silence, listening to stories about the Shire.

The sun is starting to set as he feels like Leaving, and it is at the very last moment that Thorin realizes he has forgotten to ask what little one’s name is.

And then he is Gone.

*

He Wanders to the Shire quite a lot, after that, and he always Stays with the little one, which he continues to address as such, for he keeps forgetting to ask the Hobbit’s name.

They play with puppets, and eat food, and Thorin lets the little one tell him stories about his cousins, about his parents, about the Shire, and in return asks Thorin about the Elves, and the Big Folk, and Dale, and Erebor, and listens to him with wide-eyed amazement.

“I want to go wandering, on an adventure, like you do!” he says once.

“One day, when you are older,” Thorin always replies.

*

It is strange, how the sickness works. He sees his grandfather hoard more gold than one could ever need, and sees him succumb to the sheer weight of its power. He tries to warn Thrór, they all do.

But Thrór does not care.

*

He is naked, lying on polished marble. The wind feels warm on his skin, and carries with it the sweet smell of magic, of being suspended in time and space. He feels at peace, somehow, sunrays warming his skin with their gold, and he lifts himself off the floor with languid movements.

He does not know this place, and yet it feels familiar to him, much like the Shire.

“Thorin, son of Thráin.” He turns quickly, reaching for a weapon he does not have and cursing himself and his blood. “Welcome to the Valley of Imladris.”

It is an Elf who has spoken, his bearing regal and his eyes cordial. The Elf offers him a tunic, and then smiles warmly. “It is always good to see you,” he says.

Thorin does not know what to make of this; he has never met this Elf, has never traveled to Rivendell. Has he Wandered here? Perhaps in the past, before this moment, so that he could meet this Elf? He does not know.

“There is someone else who would find even more joy in your presence,” continues the Elf, speaking like he would to a friend. “Follow me, when you are ready.”

The tunic fits him almost perfectly, and it is blue, Durin blue, which makes him wonder how many other times, how many other Whens and Wheres he has visited Imladris. He wears it, and follows the Elf around marble halls and secret gardens.

His hands still itch for a weapon, for this could be a trap or a trick of sorts, but then he sees him.

The Hobbit - for at this point Thorin is sure he would recognize the like of Hobbits anywhere - is sitting under a tree, smoking his pipe. He’s old, hair white and skin wrinkled, but he must be important, for The Elf crouches with grace, his hand on the Hobbit’s knee, and murmurs something to him before helping him stand upright.

There is something familiar about the Hobbit, and Thorin thinks that maybe, maybe it’s his Hobbit, looking at him with wonder. The Hobbit’s hands are trembling as he cups Thorin’s face, lips curling into a soft smile. Thorin does not move, unsure of what he should do. This is most strange. He has Visited the little one countless times in his past, but never in his future. He does not understand why his ancestors would make him Wander this far.

“I was hoping you would come,” the Hobbit says.

“I fear I cannot call you little one anymore,” he replies, and his Hobbit laughs delighted. This much has not changed, he thinks as the Hobbit motions for Thorin to follow him and sit on a bench, close to him.

He Stays for a while, and lets the Hobbit hold his hand, fingers twining with Thorin’s, lets him trail a gentle finger along Thorin’s braids, and Thorin feels as if there’s something he’s not fully understanding, but he lets him anyway because this is his Hobbit and he knows him as if he were part of Thorin himself.

There is a sadness in the Hobbit’s eyes as Thorin tells him he’s about to Leave, his entire body seizing up, and his Hobbit murmurs something Thorin wouldn’t have heard, were it not for his Dwarven hearing.

“Don’t leave,” he’s saying, but Thorin is already Going.

And then he is Gone.

*

He does not Visit his akhûnith anymore, which makes him nostalgic about grassy meadows and quiet orchards, about lazy afternoons spent playing, makes him regretful and half-angry with his curse.

But he keeps Visiting his Hobbit in Rivendell, so he supposes this balances things out. His Hobbit does not speak of all the times they met in the past, even when Thorin asks about his life, and the path that has lead him to Imladris.

“Did you miss me?” he cheekily asks once.

“I always do,” comes the honest reply.

Thorin’s throat is tight as he grabs his Hobbit’s hand and kisses his palm.

He is content like this. Thinks this would do. There are days, though, where he misses the Shire, with its luscious hills and its tranquility, and he thinks he would not mind getting lost in all that again, maybe just once.

*

He is naked, lying on polished marble. His Hobbit throws a tunic on him, and simply continues writing in his book.

Thorin had tried to read it, once when he had Arrived and the Hobbit was asleep, book in his lap. ‘In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit,’ was the incipit, but he had not read further, for the Hobbit had woken up all of a sudden, snapping the book closed and simply staring at him. Thorin had not tried to read again, as he did not want to displease his Hobbit.

He wears his tunic and goes to sit next to the Hobbit. “I would ask you a question,” he says.

“Very well,” replies the Hobbit. He looks uncharacteristically wary, like someone who is already thinking an answer over in their head before knowing what question they’re being asked.

“Why did you leave the Shire?”

The Hobbit looks taken aback, but quickly scolds his features and regales Thorin with an enigmatic smile. “You will forgive me for saying this, I hope, but I am rather fond of Elves.”

Thorin nods briefly, inviting him to continue. Surely there must be something else behind this Hobbit’s decision to leave the comforts of his home and land.

The Hobbit is quiet for a little while, hands absently stroking his quill, and when he speaks again his voice is much lower, almost a murmur. “I thought the ghosts could not possibly follow me here, too.”

Thorin does not understand, but says nothing. “Perhaps,” he says instead, “If I had met you before,” but a little after, he thinks, “you could have stayed with my people, in Erebor.”

His Hobbit smiles a sad smile, and raises a hand as if to touch him, but in the end he does not. “Perhaps,” he concludes.

He does not know exactly why he does it, but Thorin cups the back of the Hobbit’s head and kisses his forehead. “I am sure of it,” he murmurs against soft skin as he feels the first symptoms of his body calling him Back.

Thorin kisses the Hobbit’s forehead once again, and then he is Gone.

*

He would like to think he has forgotten about the dragon, and the smell of charred dwarven flesh, and the way cinder flutters in the sky and falls on the ground like grey snow, but the truth is, when Smaug comes, it is no big surprise for Thorin. He does not expect his people to win. They do not.

Thorin also does not expect the Elvenking to turn his back on him and his people, but then again Elves are treacherous creatures, and Silvan Elves even more so. Aid does not come, and after a while he stops thinking it will. He will aid himself. Fashion a new life for his people out of the remains of the old one. This he can do.

After Azanulbizar he does not Wander anymore, for he has found his purpose in saving his people. He starts actually wandering the entirety of Middle Earth, doing his best, even though at times he thinks he does not Wander for he is lost.

He thinks of his Hobbit from time to time, but never goes back to the Shire.

And then he meets Tharkûn.

*

Much to Thorin’s chagrin, not all Hobbits are as adventurous as his one. This Bilbo Baggins looks like a grocer and he is useless to him and his Quest, Thorin knows without a doubt the second he lays eyes on him.

Too fond of the comforts of home, and even though he regards Thorin with a strange look in his eyes, a glint of something familiar that almost ignites a spark of recognition in Thorin, he is not inclined to take Baggins with them.

This is a Quest for warriors, not gentlehobbits. But Tharkûn insists Bilbo Baggins is the right Hobbit for this task, and he makes very clear this is not up for discussion, so Thorin has to agree to it. Luckily, though, Baggins says he will not go. Thorin feels relieved.

But then Baggins follows them, out of his door and into the unknown, legally binding contract already signed, and when Thorin asks about it Baggins simply stares straight ahead.

“Your song…” he starts, but then just shrugs; “I could not let you leave without saying goodbye.”

He does not understand the meaning of it, but Hobbits are peculiar creatures, this much Thorin knows.

And so Baggins stays.

*

Rivendell is at the same time foreign and familiar, and the thought doesn’t sit well with him. Lord Elrond already knows his name, which makes him wonder still, and invites them in his home, even as he tries to dissuade them from resuming their journey.

“I listen to no Elf,” Thorin tells Tharkûn. “We will resume our journey as soon as possible.”

The Elves of Imladris are polite but still far too cold and remote for Thorin, staring at the Dwarves as if they couldn’t quite puzzle them out. They sing and play for his Company, and walk the halls of Rivendell with grace, and peace, and tranquility. Must be nice, he reasons, having nothing to worry about, or fight for, or care about. Thorin is gracious with their host but does not wish to stay for long, as his distaste for Elves grows stronger every day.

The only one who seems to be enjoying himself is Baggins.

Of course he would, bitterly thinks Thorin as he’s wandering about Rivendell, trying to think about his burden and how they must hurry up and reach Erebor before it is too late. He’s lost in the maze of his own mind, so he does not notice he’s been walking the same paths he used to walk with his Hobbit when he Visited him.

It’s too late when he notices Baggins, standing on the balcony and staring at the Valley with a content smile on his face. How many times has he found his Hobbit standing much in the same spot, enjoying the peace of the Valley and the warmth of the wind, same serene expression gracing his old features?

Baggins turns to face Thorin, smile still on his lips, peace in his eyes, and Thorin stills, for it cannot be.

“You will forgive me for saying this, I hope, but I am rather fond of Elves,” chuckles the burglar, his Hobbit, the grocer, Baggins--- Bilbo. Thorin does not know what to think. This cannot be.

His disconcert must show on his face, as the Hobbit frowns and makes a move as if he wanted to reach out and touch him.

“Uh,” starts the Hobbit, “are you quite well?”

Thorin closes the distance between the two of them in a daze, cupping Bilbo’s cheeks and resting his forehead against the Hobbit’s.

It is the same time, the same, space, the same Hobbit. They are meeting now, in the present, in both of their presents, and it seems impossible. This is my Hobbit?, he thinks distractedly. It does not look like him.

“You remember,” Bilbo says just as Thorin starts Leaving. It is an unfamiliar feeling after so many years of stillness, and he does not want to Go, not now that he has so many questions that need answering.

“I will come back shortly,” he says, and if he sound uncertain, Bilbo does not say, he simply clutches his arms, and then he is Gone.

*

He is naked, lying on an unfamiliar stone floor. He sits and casts an eye over the room, trying to figure out his surroundings. There is a bed, and a fireplace, and a quilt that has half-fallen to the floor. Thorin wraps it about himself, and when he raises, he feels his heart clench.

The little one is asleep in his bed, clutching an all too familiar muddy stuffed rabbit in his sleep. ‘I could not let you leave without saying goodbye,’ had been Bilbo’s words that first morning when he’d chased them out of his door and into the unknown.

Thorin understands now, a thick lump in his throat. Bilbo had known all along, had followed him even after Thorin had been so cruel. I will not be so careless now, little one, he thinks now that he knows not all is lost, for the Hobbit is in his present now.

He takes the dirty toy from Bilbo’s hands and places it on the bedside table, leaning in to tuck the blankets snugly around the small figure. And then he remembers Bilbo murmuring something about ‘your song,’ the song he’d sung the night before in Bag End, and so he sings. He sings of the Misty Mountains, and of Smaug, and knows Bilbo will remember.

As if on cue, his little one starts shifting, sleepy eyes blinking awake just as Thorin feels like he’s Leaving.

“Wait for me,” he tells the Hobbit. “And this time you come to me, little one.”

And then he is Gone.

*
They say dwarves fall in love three times.

Once with the dark of the night, for black is the colour of the unexplored; once with the rich golden of morning, for gold is the colour of power, and once with the delicate hues of dusk, for those are the colours of longing, and beauty.

Bilbo's skin is pale, and creamy, and soft, and the contrast of Thorin's hands as they map out the contours of Bilbo’s back is not unlike the silhouette of Erebor against the evening sky, nostalgic and quietly majestic at the same time.

He would not say things are much different. He is still King Under the Mountain, still leader of the Company. Still determined to seize back Erebor. But he has his Hobbit with him now, and he knows his name, and when they leave Rivendell Thorin knows they are bound to be successful.

Somewhere along the way the Hobbit finds his courage, and Thorin finds himself. He thinks that if the entire Quest were to fail, he would not despair too much, for he would not trade his Hobbit for all the gold in Erebor.

And then they find the hidden door.

*

It is strange, how the sickness works.

Balin had tried to warn him, they all did. “I am not my grandfather,” he had grown tired of replying. Could they not see he would not fall victim to the goldsickness? He had all he wanted, all he needed.

Maybe, a voice had whispered in his head. Maybe you do, or maybe you don’t.

It is strange, how the sickness works.

“It is nothing but a stone,” Bilbo tells him. “Thorin, please, listen to me,” he pleads.

But Thorin does not care.

*

He’s lying on his deathbed as Balin tells him about Kíli and Fíli, and Thorin finds he does not have the strength to speak. Dwarves are famous for crafting things, he thinks, but all I do is damage what has been entrusted to my care.

Dwalin’s standing in a corner of the tent, his face covered in blood. “Dís is on her way,” he says, but Thorin knows she will be too late. He turns to his left, where Bilbo is staring at him, face blank. Another thing I have broken, Thorin muses. Then perhaps It it best I leave.

“Don’t leave,” Bilbo says, as if he knows. “Please, Thorin, don’t leave.”

He does not know how to answer. He does not want to leave, not really, but he cannot stay, for the wound in his side cannot be healed, try as one might.

Thorin curses his blood once again, his weakness of mind and spirit, it was nothing but a stone, and how could he have been so dense as to trade his biggest treasure for a pile of gold? He has traveled through Space and Time and came out none the wiser for it, as he ended up carelessly throwing away his very own crown of stars, his ghivashel.

Bilbo looks at him with sad eyes, hands carding through Thorin’s hair in a soothing gesture. “I have just found you again, do not leave me here,” he whispers, brittle voice and trembling hands.

He tries to smile. “You have always had me,” he says as he feels his entire body shake and tremble, and he begs Mahal to let him Stay, as he cannot leave his Hobbit without saying goodbye, not again, not after all he’s put him through.

But then a thought strikes him in that very moment, an image of a much older Bilbo writing his book as Thorin enjoys a cup of tea, sitting at the Hobbit’s feet on the marble floors of Rivendell.

We will meet again, ghivashel. He thinks. When your hair is white and you are amongst Elves, and the sun is shining and you are content. He feels warmth closing about his body, and fancies it is finally peace, but perhaps it is just him Leaving. We will meet again and I will not ruin that. When we will meet again I will not ruin us.

But he does not say.

And then he is Gone.

*

He’s naked, bleeding on polished marble.

Bilbo, a much older version of his already elderly Bilbo, is kneeling beside him in an instant, his face sad. “Thorin, I-”

Thorin shushes him with a finger on his lips, and then idly traces Bilbo’s features as the Hobbit’s eyes get misty.

“Bilbo,” he says it reverently, as he should have been saying it all those past years, all those Whens and Wheres where Bilbo was the little one, or his Hobbit, and much more still, past, present, future, a constant, a treasure, a gem, his very heart.

“I have lived a thousand lives, I feel like, but I lived them all with you, and this I am thankful for,” he says as he strokes Bilbo’s face, thumb gently caressing Bilbo’s cheekbone.

“You Left,” Bilbo starts, “That day, after the battle. You Left and I hoped, I hoped you would come to me, I hoped I would see you one last time, so I waited for you. And you came.”

Bilbo takes Thorin’s hand into his own, kissing his palm. Thorin’s vision is starting to blur, and this time he knows that when he leaves, it will be for a more permanent destination.

He cups the nape of Bilbo’s neck, leaning in as best he can so he can touch Bilbo’s forehead with his own, Bilbo’s hand clutching his bare shoulder, and Thorin thinks it is a blessing that he should be allowed to spend his last few moments like this.

It does not, after all, end in fire, as he had previously thought, but in peace, in the quiet stillness of an early morning in the Last Homely House East of the Sea, him King under a mountain that he has reclaimed for his people but does not care for anymore, but still a Dwarf king, holding his most valuable treasure in his arms.

Bilbo’s lips touch his forehead and steal one last kiss. Thorin closes his eyes, and allows himself to rest.

“I shall see you in another life, burglar,” he says.

And then he is gone.