Deathless

Summary: (One-shot) They called him Durin the Deathless because he was reborn time and time again into his own line. Some said it was because he was too powerful to be kept back by death. Others believed that he came back to lead his people in their time of need. But the truth was really not so complicated.

Pairing: Thorin/Bilbo.

Warnings: Sort of follows cannon.

Disclaimer: I do not own any familiar characters/settings/plot featured in this story. They all belong to (most likely rolling in his grave) J.R.R. Tolkien.

Deathless

His first memory was of the stone.

Stone was all around him—above him, below him, within him—and all he knew. It whispered secrets and stories to him; submitted to his touch as he created and destroyed things he did not quite understand yet. It protected him from the cold and heat of the outsider world; keeping away the evils and dangers that lurked until he was strong enough to face it himself.

It remained his first memory no matter how many times he was reborn. He was born of the stone and it was as a part of him as his own arms and legs. Recognizing that as the first thing was only natural.

But his last memory, his last thought before his death(s), was always of Ragnheiðr.

It is his twelfth lifetime and his name is Thorin II.

He is the son of Thráin II and the grandson of King Thrór of Erebor. He is older brother to a prince named Frerin and a princess named Dís. He is third in line to the throne, and yet another descendent of his first life as Durin. He is also the (unknown) reincarnation of Durin I.

It is his first lifetime in Erebor, and while he misses his kingdom, he comes to love this new one all the same. It is filled with passion and ambition and glittering halls of crafted stone. It is the fruit of his children's labor and it fills him with pride to see how far they have come.

He thinks that perhaps, this time, he will be able to leave his people behind. Perhaps this time they will be able to care and protect themselves without his power. Maybe, just maybe, he can finally finish the mission he started so long ago.

Then Smaug comes and changes everything.

He spent much of his first life wandering.

From one mountain to the next, he hunted down his brothers and sisters with nothing more than an ache in his chest to guide him. Each time he found one that ache grew less and less until it finally disappeared with the last of them. It was during his wandering that he met Ragnheiðr.

Lost in a forest that he did not know nor understand, he had wandered about for what felt like days on end. He could not read the trees or the grass and the wind did not sing to him its thoughts. It was nothing like the stone and he had felt blind and hopelessly lost as he stumbled through the dirt and foliage.

"Do you need help?" a voice from above had finally asked him.

He looked up, startled, and found the most bewitching creature watching him from the trees. He—she? it?—stared down at him with round eyes the color of gold as it melted in the flames. Brown curls framed a sharp face that was as pale as moonlight and as smooth as his blade. Dressed in foreign leathers and cloth, it was the most unusual and enchanting being he had yet seen.

"Are you from the Creator?" he asked, trying to ignore the watery sting in his eyes as he struggled not to blink. "Did He send you to help me?"

The stranger smiled; a curl of ruby lips that brought out arched cheekbones and white teeth. "No, it was not Aulë who sent me but another. They heard your cry and sent me to lead you out of this forest."

"Are you going to help me?" he wondered, finally giving into the urge to blink. To his relief, the creature above him did not disappear as his eyes closed.

"That is why I'm here," the stranger reassured, sliding off the bark it had been sitting on and landing on the grassy floor in a crouch. As it stood up, he realized it was the same size as him and—from what he could see—was most likely a male.

"What are you called?" the stranger asked, titling his head to the side and looking him up and down with his wide eyes.

"I am a Dwarrow," he had replied, confused.

His savior blinked and then laughed. It sounded like metal against stone. "No, no, I mean what is your name."

"Name?" he repeated, still confused and uncertain. "I do not have a name."

The stranger frowned. "Oh. Would you like one?"

He shrugged. "I suppose?"

"So eager," the creature teased, tapping his chin with one long and hairless finger. "Then I will call you Leofwine."

"Leofwine," he repeated, and a feeling of right rolled over him as he pronounced the foreign letters. "Yes. Leofwine. I like it. Thank you."

The stranger titled his head in acknowledgment. "You're quite welcome. Everyone needs a name that is there's alone. It is what sets you apart from the other Dwarrows."

"Do you have a name?" he—Leofwine—asked the stranger.

His savior smiled again and it was like watching a blade or axe come to life on his forge; new and mesmerizing and brought out by Leofwine.

"Me? I am Ragnheiðr."

When Erebor falls, Thorin feels a part of himself fall with it.

It was like losing Khazad-dûm all over again. It did not matter that he had not built Erebor nor ruled over it; it was made by his children and it was his role to protect them. Seeing Smaug rain down fire on his people—blood of his blood—reminded him of his failure to save Khazad-dûm. The screams and smell of burning flesh became imprinted on his mind until all he saw when he closed his eyes were his people— Khazad-dûmErebor—that he fails again and again.

Blood and fire. It is a theme that he is altogether too familiar with.

With Erebor lost and his people homeless, he has no choice but to turn his attention to caring for them. He must ignore his true reason for being reborn because he has a duty that he cannot ignore no matter what name he holds.

Leofwine will have to wait. It is time to be Durin again.

Ragnheiðr, as he learned over their journey together, was part of the Maiar and served the Valar. He followed the commands of Estë the Gentle, and it was by her will that Ragnheiðr came to find him.

"She saw how tired and hopeless you were and sent me to help," the Maia had explained as they hid underneath a tree to escape a passing storm. "She doesn't like to see souls grow weary from life. So she ordered me to lead you out of the forest and see that you find your path again."

"What if I don't know my path just yet?" he asked, trying not to notice the way Ragnheiðr's arm and leg pressed against his own flesh.

Ragnheiðr simply shrugged and smiled at him. "Then I guess we just have to keep looking."

He could not say how long they traveled together. It could have been merely months or even years. He didn't bother to keep track at the time because he was not yet a warrior or king or Durin. He was simply Leofwine; the traveling companion of Ragnheiðr. What need did he have for time?

They spent their days trudging through grassy fields and running rivers and rugged mountains. They spoke of their lives up to that point; of how Leofwine had awoken in a bed of stone and had followed the whispers of the land and the ache in his gut to his brothers and sisters. In return, Ragnheiðr spoke of his time at the side of Estë and how she taught him to heal the weary and ignite hope within the lost. When they ran out of stories to tell, Ragnheiðr taught him how to read the sun and moon and stars in the sky. Likewise, Leofwine showed him all the different stones there were, and how his Creator had taught him in his sleep how to mold it from something ugly into something beautiful.

"You are amazing, Leofwine," Ragnheiðr had claimed after he showed him the iron bracelet he had crafted. "Simply amazing. I never knew something so beautiful could come from something so plain."

The words made something in his chest swell up. He didn't know what it was at the time—would not know for a long time—but he knew that he wanted to feel more of it.

Ragnheiðr made him want a lot of things.

Thrór tries to retake Khazad-dûm and pays for it in blood.

It is a strange thing to watch his grandfather (grandson) fall at the hands of a lowly beast. He has seen many die—friends and foe alike—and has even embraced death himself a few times—but never for long because his mission was not yet complete—but it never gets easier. It never fails to make his stomach clench into knots and his throat close up until he feels like he's choking on air alone.

The rest of the battle is a blur to Thorin. He knows he kills the monster that took Thrór from him but that is the only victory he claims that day. The loss he faces—Thrór, Thráin, Frerin—rob any glory he might feel for that bloody battle. But if he's honest with himself, the glory of battle died for him a long time ago in a lifetime the world barely recalled.

The longer he traveled with Ragnheiðr, the more his feelings began to change.

It was a gradual change that he couldn't pinpoint. Perhaps from the very moment he laid eyes on Ragnheiðr it started, but he could not say for sure. What he does know is that whenever Ragnheiðr looked at him, he felt as exposed as he did before his Creator. Whenever Ragnheiðr brushed against his arm or hand, he felt the urge to follow and press that soft and hairless skin against his own. He found himself memorizing the arch of his shoulder blades and curves of his calves. When he closed his eyes, Leofwine could still see the exact shade of amber to Ragnheiðr's eyes.

Eventually he took his concerns and questions to Ragnheiðr. The Maia always answered his questions and was always willing to teach Leofwine about the things he did not know yet. It seemed only natural that he went to him over this as well.

"Whenever I look at you, my heart begins to beat faster," he told Ragnheiðr, grabbing the Maia's hand and holding it up to his chest so he could feel it for himself. "I feel hotter and breathless whenever you get too close. I find myself wanting to be closer to you at all times, and I can't stop looking at you. What is wrong with me? Am I sick?"

In response, Ragnheiðr had simply stared at him for a long time with his golden eyes. At that time, he could not read the emotions in them because he was still too young and ignorant. It would only be later in life—after the wars and campaigns and endless work of building a kingdom—that he would make the connection.

"You're not sick," the Maia had eventually replied, moving his amber gaze down to the chest that his hand was still pressed against. "What you feel is normal for your kind though I did not expect you to feel it for me…"

"Is that a bad thing?" he wondered, grasping the hand in his tighter incase Ragnheiðr tried to pull away.

Ragnheiðr gave him a crooked smile that lacked the usual brilliance it held. "No, not a bad thing just… impossible."

He did not understand then. "Why is it impossible? What is wrong with me, Ragnheiðr?"

Ragnheiðr sighed and gently pulled his hand away as he stepped back. "I cannot tell you that, Leofwine. You must be the one to define your feelings this time. Only you can say for sure what it is you feel."

He still did not understand. "But how can I say what they are if I do not know them?"

Ragnheiðr simply smiled again. "You will, Leofwine. You will."

As the years go by, he begins to doubt that he will ever complete his mission in this lifetime.

It is not a new realization. Thorin has been reborn twelve times before for the exact same reason, and he will continue to die and return until he fulfills the task he set out to do. It does not faze him, no, but it does make something in him sigh bitterly. He has spent a thousand years searching for amber eyes and has found no hint of them anywhere. How much longer will he have to keep looking?

As the years keep going by, Thorin begins to think it may take a thousand more.

His Creator looked like a Man with skin the color of night and eyes that burned like the forges he worked. He towered over Leofwine like the sun and had arms like trees and shoulders as wide as the mountains. His hair was long and thickly curled and as red as Ragnheiðr's blood on his hands.

Standing before Him, Leofwine felt no fear or awe. Simply a terror he never knew and a desperation that made him shake.

"Bring him back," he begged his Creator, holding the lifeless Ragnheiðr in his numb arms. "Please bring him back."

His Creator simply looked at him with a soft sadness in His fire eyes. "You know that is beyond my power. I have no control over the life and death of him."

He shook his head fiercely; causing his black braids to slap against his face. "No, no, you don't understand, I need to see him again! I need to tell him that I know what it is I feel! I know it now!"

"And what do you feel for him, my child?" his Creator asked with a voice like thunder.

"Love," he had choked out, falling to his knees and hugging Ragnheiðr to his body with all his strength. "It's love. I love him and I need to tell him."

He did not know the answer to his question until Ragnheiðr push him out of the way of a sword wielded by a Man he would never know. It was there—as the Maia bled out in his arms—that Leofwine finally understood his feelings. But it was too late now. He could never tell Ragnheiðr he loved him because he was dead, and Leofwine could make swords and crowns and gems that sparkled like the stars, but he could not make the blood from Ragnheiðr's chest stop.

His Creator watched him as he hugged Ragnheiðr and hid his tears in the brown curls. He did not want his Creator to see him in such a state, but he could not bring himself to stop the tears. He felt like something had broken inside of him and he did not know how to piece it back together.

"I cannot bring him back," his Creator reminded him as if He had not already crushed Leofwine's hope. "But I can arrange a… deal with you and him."

He sniffed and looked up from the silky hair. "Deal? What sort of deal?"

"One that may take a long time to complete," his Creator replied with a face of stone. "You may die and be reborn many times before you can see him again. You may suffer great heartaches and lonely years in this time. That is the price you will have to pay to see him again. Do you understand?"

He nodded without hesitation. Ragnheiðr was worth any price. "I will pay it. No matter how long it takes, I will bear it all to see him again."

His Creator sighed and His massive shoulders slumped slightly. "Very well. Then from this point on you will be Deathless. You will live and die like any other mortal, but unlike the others, you will be reborn with your memories intact. You will do this until you find Ragnheiðr to tell him your answer. Will you accept this price, Leofwine?"

"Yes," he replied, his heart hardening with a determination that would never falter no matter how many times he fell from grace. "I will do this. No matter how long it takes, I will find him again."

His Creator nodded. "Very well, Leofwine—"

"Please, no," he interrupted without shame. He was too broken to care at that point. "Don't call me by that name. I cannot bear to hear it from any other lips but his. From now on I will go by a different name. One that will be known to the outside world alone. From now on I am simply Durin."

His Creator gave a grim smile of approval. "So be it, Durin."

His journey ends on a cool spring night at a green door in the Shire.

When he knocks on the door, Thorin was certain he knew what was behind it. His kin, of course, because his sister's sons were anything but quiet, and the comrades he had handpicked for this quest. It is a mad quest he is undertaking, and while a part of him is sure he is going to get everyone killed, a bigger part of him—Leofwine—just doesn't care. He has lived and died twelve times at this point; what does one more matter?

Then the door opens and Thorin's world collapses around him.

He does not look exactly like Ragnheiðr. His face is rounder, his lips a bit thinner, and he's taller than Ragnheiðr ever was. But his brown curls still tumble into his face and his skin is still as pale as moonlight, and as he looks up to meet Thorin's gaze, all he can see are eyes of gold—

"Good evening. I assume you're here to join the rest of the lot tearing apart my house?" the Hobbit— Ragnheiðr—asks with a voice so painfully familiar that he was sure he was going to start crying or laughing. He doesn't, of course, because after a few thousand years he finally has some self-control. But it is a close thing.

"No," he manages to rasp out, his tongue feeling like iron and his throat as dry as a desert. "No, I came to answer a question that was asked from someone long ago."

The Hobbit raises his dark brows slowly. There is a look in those golden eyes that is far too familiar for him to ignore. "Oh? What is that?"

"Love. What I feel is love," replied Thorin—Leofwine—to the person who asked him all those centuries ago.

In response, Bilbo Baggins—Ragnheiðr—smiles as brightly as the finest jewels of his greatest kingdom. "Took you long enough. Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you?"

Thorin simply laughs and slides his arms around the shoulders that he once studied in another life. He pulls the body he once held in death close to his own, and buries his face in the brown curls that once caught his tears. Between their clothes and armor and flesh, he thinks he can feel a heartbeat that beats as fast as his own.

"I think I have an idea."

The End