Title: Across the Ages

Author: foreverdistracted / 4everdistracted

Fandom: The Hobbit

Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Thranduil

Summary: Thorin awakens from a battlefield to a sea of strangers, with one familiar face ready to set sail for the Undying Lands. Sequel to Of Song and Silence, for 3ngel in Livejournal.

Notes: If you were satisfied with how Of Song and Silence ended, then I would recommend just skipping this fic. Quite a few timeskips in-between scenes, because I suck at transitions. Apologies if this comes across as too disjointed. Also, I think I may have read "Thrainsson" from someone else's fic, and it stuck to me. If this is the case, I apologize for the lack of proper credit. Heaping a truckload of thanks to my precious beta. Sorry for all the trouble, luv. Many thanks again to 3ngel for the wonderful prompt and the encouragement to write a sequel. I hope you like this!

The whirlwind of activity following Thorin's emergence was hectic, with Thranduil briefly in the middle of it. Though his word as Elven King held sway, one of the blue wizards was still summoned to help lay the matter to rest. Thorin's identity was confirmed, his health much improved, and Erebor once again had within its halls an heir of Durin.

As for Thorin, after his initial bout of confusion (which Thranduil was quick enough to deflect onto others to spare himself the discomfort), his expression remained stoic and unrevealing. Thranduil could not say exactly when the reality of his situation finally dawned on the dwarf, but apart from requesting to see a few tombs (his nephews', and some people that he had journeyed with, perhaps - Thranduil did not recognize all of the names), there was no trace of heartache nor grief on Thorin's face.

Thranduil wondered what it must be like to be in battle the previous day, and then to awaken to a sea full of strangers, in a place that was home but barely resembled any aspect of it.

He decided not to think upon it too closely. These were matters for Thorin to contemplate, so Thranduil took his leave politely after three days of the start of celebrations. He heard later that it had lasted well over two weeks. While he had been there, he had caught glimpses of Thorin from a distance, always surrounded by his kin, and had felt no need to impose.

By all appearances, neither of them had been all too inclined to seek each other out. There was no love lost between them, and there was no reason for that to change.

Thranduil had to admit to some personal disappointment in how he had handled Thorin's awakening. He did not think it was cowardice, though no doubt Thorin would be quick to judge him so. But the song from the far west lay heavy in his mind, and Thorin's eyes shone too brightly in that quiet, dark room. Thorin had needed answers, but from someone with a countenance far gentler than his, someone who could cushion as well as inform. Thranduil knew that he was ill-suited to the task.

But for better or worse, Thranduil was the first person to greet the long lost King of Erebor. And it was to him that Thorin directed a gravelly, confused, "Where...?"

Thranduil hesitated a fraction, the deep, scratched voice distracting him a moment, before issuing his reply: "You are in Erebor. You have been asleep for a long time." He felt that was apt enough explanation, but Thorin's heavy gaze bore into him until he felt the need to add, "It has been several hundred years."

"The battle..." Thorin's voice drifted as he looked down upon himself, at his rent armor, at the closed wounds that had been cleaned and bound.

"Was centuries ago." Thranduil stood and inclined his head toward the stairs, taking a few steps in that direction himself. "Come. Your people wait for you."

Thorin shook his head. "No. You speak nonsense." He sounded on the verge of anger when he raised his eyes (stormy blue this time, deeper than the sea). "None of your lies. Where is Gandalf? The hobbit?"

Their gazes locked for a few, tense seconds - Thorin's searching, Thranduil's calm and betraying little. At length, Thranduil held out a hand - merely a gesture of politeness, as he knew Thorin would not take it. "Come," he simply said, and waited until the dwarf struggled to his feet and followed.

It had been well over seven months since he had seen the Dwarven King, long enough that other matters quickly took precedence in his thoughts. Construction of his ship was well underway, sizable despite the small number of passengers. Matters of Greenwood, he gradually passed on to his eldest, who was taking to the task rather well.

He was staring at the last batch of diplomatic missives to be sent out, an innocuous enough stack of parchment that would go to kings and queens, lords and ladies. Succinct instructions of technical import, detailing Greenwood's new King as of the end of the year, the date of the coronation, invitations, assurances of continued trade and goodwill, so on and so forth. Most of the names, Thranduil barely recognized. Time seemed to move far more swiftly than in ages past, when he still craved gems and coveted the lost green of his forests.

He contemplated the blank piece of parchment in front of him, quill in hand, inkpot uncovered and gradually drying out. There had been no communication between himself and Thorin for the past several months. It was clear that Thorin wanted nothing more to do with him, but his spirit felt leadened at the thought of leaving the mortal world with only a brief, unfeeling glance shared as a parting gift with the bright spark of Erebor.

Well, he thought, with a mental shrug as he dipped his quill into the ink pot, what is a small note of farewell? Thorin could just as easily burn it if its presence offended him so.

At the very least, should he face Lady Galadriel again, he could honestly say that he had tried his best and not have to lie about it.

"What. Is. This?"

Thranduil frowned. He could feel the open hostility in waves - Thorin was nearly vibrating with it. His messenger had informed him, with some discomfort, that the Dwarven King sought his presence privately and had been escorted to the antechamber. Upon his arrival, Thorin had held aloft the note he'd written almost two weeks past, now crumpled beyond salvaging in a strong grip.

"It is a letter," he simply replied, and tilted his head inquiringly. Thorin had made a few changes to his appearance, he observed. Gone were the twin braids (as to their significance, Thranduil neither knew nor cared), and on the back of his fingers were tattoos of a mixture of symbols and runes. Two names also adorned each bare arm (Thorin's furs and armor having been switched from thick mail to light travel leathers), and these he could read clearly, the large, ornate letters intertwined with the respective weapons of their bearers - one an ornate bow, and the other, a pair of blades.

Triumph or failure, how these dwarves loved to mark themselves. He wondered briefly which among these trappings represented the halfling, or if he was even there at all.

Thorin had bared his teeth at his reply. "You are leaving?!" he demanded, shaking the offending note once more.

Thranduil blinked slowly at him, very much puzzled at this sudden show of rage. Seven months of silence, and here he was, nearly frothing at the mouth. "Within five months' time," he replied, watching as Thorin discarded the note with an angry flick of his arm. "The sea calls, and I must answer. "

"Do you wretched elves," the last word was spat out, the vileness of the tone so at odds with how much Thranduil realized he had missed hearing it, "feel no measure of responsibility? You abandon me when you should not. You rescue me when you should not! And now you leave as if you are not beholden to the consequences of your actions?!"

"'Consequences'?" Thranduil drew a quick breath, willing his own ire to calm. "You live to see the hard-earned fruits of your farce of a quest to reclaim Erebor. That is more than what your forefathers ever got."

"My quest ended, my family and friends perished, while I was asleep! I have earned nothing, Elven King. Do not tell me otherwise."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "And why would I wish to? You seem far too fond of clinging to your misfortunes."

"Darkness take you!" Thorin's glare was white-hot. His hands briefly formed tight fists, though he caught himself late and visibly willed them to relax. With a bit more control, he said, "What then would you have me do? Rejoice?!"

"I would have you do your duty as king and enjoy life in your precious mountain." Thranduil gave a one-shouldered shrug. "What else is there, for people such as us? We were born with burdens to bear and gifted with the will to bear them."

Thorin sneered sharply and directed his gaze toward the open windows of the antechamber. From this height, in the distance, one could see the vague shape of Erebor past the ocean of trees. "Do not mention again that we're made of the same mettle." There was a pause, brief, and when Thorin continued speaking, his voice was milder. "And do not call me king. You might wish to revise the address on your son's political inquiries back to Dain the Fifth. Though I did find them amusingly flammable."

For a moment, Thranduil was at a loss for what to say, and Thorin seemed content to let the uncomfortable silence stretch. During those many visits of healing, he had quietly pondered how life would continue when Thorin awakened. That the stubborn dwarf would deny himself the right to rule was something he had not even considered. He had worn that crown in all manners but physical, and, from all appearances, had seemed to want the very formality of it before he had fallen in battle.

Thorin walked towards the wing with an open view of his mountain and gave a heavy sigh. The abyss between Thranduil and the short-lived stretched ever on.

"Thorin." He wasn't sure if it was the lack of title or insult that drew the dwarf's gaze back to him. "Cease this madness. Erebor is your birthright."

"Erebor thrives under a modern king, in a modern age." His hand reached for the railing of the balcony, resting on smooth marble a few inches above his head. A restless gesture. "My thoughts still lie with tombstones. How can I even begin to adjust? Do you have the answer to that, Elven King?"

Thranduil couldn't help the light scoff in his voice. "You know that I do not. But do you think yourself unique in the face of such loss? Many have lived through worse. Entire lineages perish from a single battle-"

"You think it is the same? The very wind and earth that saw the passing of my people no longer exist, and I must hear of it all as if from a text of learning. I know not what to do." Thorin said the last almost to himself. "They were, and are no more. At times, there is no grief. Most days, it paralyzes me."

A retort hung on Thranduil's lips, the light sting from the rude interruption urging him to inquire as to how any of this was, in any form or manner, his problem. It might have angered Thorin to the point of storming off, with the added benefit of making Thranduil feel a little better. It was far too easy to be petty with this one, but what purpose would that serve? Part of him was reminded of how they had not conversed this lengthily, nor this deeply, since his eventful visit to Erebor, when the Arkenstone had been found. Conversation had flowed easily, then. Both of them had been more generous with their smiles.

Let me make peace with you before I leave.

Thorin's gaze returned to the east.

Can you at least give me that, Thrainsson?

"My men were slaughtered in Khazad-dum. Dwalin remained in Erebor because he refused to be parted from my grave. The most evil of corruptions slowly ate away at my halfling friend, even as he stayed by my side and wept for me." His fist on the railing clenched tightly enough for his nails to pierce through skin, his head and shoulders bent, as if the weight upon them had suddenly grown too great for him to bear. "And where was I?"

His voice broke at the last word. The naked pain in his tone sent a chill up Thranduil's spine. For a fleeting moment, the Elven King mourned with him.

He approached the balcony with silent footsteps. When he was within arm's reach, he carefully grasped Thorin's clenched fist in his right hand, feeling little resistance when he urged it to open. Callused fingers parted, revealing red, half-moon marks left on his palm, in danger of breaking skin. Gently, he passed the thumb of his left hand over each mark, letting faint magic heal the shallow wounds.

They both watched their hands, one upon another - callused against soft, dark against pale. Both radiating heat and sharing a familiarity that neither had felt in centuries. "You took my hand like this in Erebor once."

Thranduil nodded, his eyes glazing in remembrance. "A burn injury from the castle forge."

"Yes."

They both let the silence grow. It was comfortable this time. But as with all things precious between them, it was bound to last for only a moment.

"There are...rumors, I suppose," Thranduil said at length, letting Thorin's hand slip from his. Thorin flexed his palm and dropped it to his side. "Of permission being sought and denied. Of ships being turned back from the West." Thorin's eyes met his, and he knew that the dwarf felt the gravity that he could not adequately convey in words. "This new Age we are in, it widens the rift between Valinor and the mortal lands. They grow farther apart, and it leaves little room for people like us."

Thorin scoffed. "People like you."

"Us, you stubborn, impertinent thing." He fixed a hard glare at Thorin's vexed expression. "The Valar have been both kind and iron-handed in turns with their consent. But what is preventing you from asking if you might join us on our voyage to the West? It may very well be the last."

Thorin's reply was accompanied with a smug tilt of his head, and a faint, self-deprecating smirk. "Perhaps that I'd already sought it, and was denied."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. "How...?" He paused, then nodded in understanding. "One of the blue wizards?"

Thorin nodded, then chuckled after a brief pause. It was not a pleasant sound. "It seems you're the only one in all of Middle-Earth who deems me worthy enough for a second chance at life, if not peace. Trust that the irony is not lost on me."

Thranduil shook his head, puzzled. Aggrieved. It was no secret that the scales of the Valar could tip ever so unfairly, but he could find little reason in Gimli being granted permission, in those corrupted at heart by the power of the Ring to be granted passage, while Thorin was not. "I could ask, if you wish," he found himself saying earnestly. "It might hold more sway."

Thorin gave a light snort. The look he gave Thranduil was almost fond when he replied, "You know as well as I that it would make little difference." He shook his head, the mellow atmosphere vanishing as quickly as it had settled, and paced back to the middle of the antechamber.

Thranduil watched the stretching distance between them and frowned. "What do you wish of me then, Thorin Oakenshield?" he asked, carefully. He wondered why he even bothered, as the dwarf once again saw offense where there was none - what little remained of the congenial air between them dissipated as his expression closed back to prickly wariness. "I require some manner of guidance."

"I wish for nothing." A stubborn tone, all pride and indignity. "It was a mistake, coming here."

They looked at each other - Thorin with an air of challenge, and Thranduil, contemplative. Slowly, he asked, "Would you have me stay and ignore the call of Mithlond? Is this something you even desire?"

Thorin froze, then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Such heartfelt concern. Do you ask because you are offering?"

Thranduil tilted his head, considering. "No," he eventually answered. And if he were to owe Thorin any further honesty, he would have mentioned how the answer might have been different just a moment earlier, when their hands touched and the heir of Durin looked slightly broken.

But Thranduil could ill afford being trapped in such transitory moments. The call of Mithlond was too precious to one such as he, who had wearied of this world centuries before he had ever felt the song of the West. Even the Lady Galadriel could not have bid him stay if she had tried. What chance did a grief-stricken dwarf prince have, too burdened to move on with his life?

Thorin gave a derisive snort. "I did not think so. Do forgive me if I choose not to sate your curiosity at this time."

There did not seem to be any energy left in Thorin to be properly angry anymore. How odd, that this should sadden Thranduil the most.

Thorin idly tightened the straps of his coat, his movements methodical. Dismissive. "Fair travels, Thranduil, King of the Greenwood Forest. You depart this world neither my friend nor foe, though you take everything there is that I have known of it with you." He headed for the closed doors, pausing only once at the threshold, his parting words as formal and even as they had been the first time they were introduced to each other in Erebor. "May your journey be swift, that you may leave me to contemplate my miserable existence in peace."

Thorin's piercing gaze burned a shade of blue that Thranduil found hard to both describe and forget.

Time passed in a haze for Thorin as he occupied himself with various tasks in Erebor. Dain did not quite know what to do with him, that much was clear. He was offered the crown, repeatedly, and every time, Thorin assured him that he neither accepted it nor even desired it. The castle residents then moved on to trying to improve his living conditions, to which he had mostly agreed to. He put his foot down when they started suggesting that he move to the east wing, where there was proper ventilation, plush pillows, fresh flowers every morning, and scented oil to burn at night.

"If you must insist on burying me with gifts, then so be it. But my quarters will remain here."

"Here?" Dain laughed nervously. "In this...crypt?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

And that had been that. He was largely left alone, though they made good on their threats to bring flowers and oils all the way down to his otherwise spartan living space.

Sometimes, he thought he could feel the mountain pulse when he was in that room, in that hovering moment between wakefulness and sleep. Outside, Erebor's halls felt strange and unfamiliar, though the architecture remained the same. There wasn't a single familiar face among the dwarves, and its halls played host to other races - elves and men, among them. His initial anger over this change in protocol took his kinsmen by surprise, and never before had he felt like such a stranger among his own people.

But there was none of that in the depths of the mountain, where his tomb - now his quarters - lay. Time had not touched those walls. In it, he could think of yesteryears without grief or guilt - one moment had him listening to Bilbo's polite laugh, while another had him smelling pipeweed from one of Balin's many smokerings.

Dwalin was not a grave in the southwest corner of the Halls of Bravery. Ori's skeleton was not broken and scattered in the cracks of Khazad-dum.

His nephews were easier to think of, and he did so often and fondly. Battle-loss was a familiar, bitter thing to all dwarves, and mourning for Kili and Fili had felt natural, if not easy.

He was glad, at least, for one thing in this modern age - there were still orcs to contend with. The cleansing of Dol Guldur and Greenwood had driven hordes of them underground and they tunnelled farther to the east. Groups of them plagued Dale and, at times, Erebor's own borders, and Thorin's expertise in battle found a place at the head of a skilled party gladly assigned to him by Dain. He led excursions that cleared threats all along the western borders of the human settlements. It was tiring, dangerous work, but he was grateful for it. It kept his mind from straying too much.

Five months came and went. The last grand ship sailed to the West.

Six months, seven, and soon Thorin lost count. One day just flowed into the next. Dain tired of trying to involve him in matters of political or social import, and if he was not out fighting orcs, then he was brooding inside his precious room at the heart of the mountain, wrapped in solitude.

He had been returning late one afternoon from a harrowing chase all along the western border, when he spotted a small group of Greenwood Elves waiting across Erebor's bridge, several meters from the guarded open doors and astride tall horses. Why they did not just enter, he didn't know. He couldn't bring himself to care, either. His gaze swept across the passive faces once, and, seeing no one he recognized, he tugged his hunting gloves off and headed past the gates.

"Thorin."

It was a voice he knew all too well, despite having heard it relatively few times in his life. He spun in his tracks, searching the faces once again, until they settled on an unamused, particularly crownless elf in the middle. His eyes widened, surprise hushing his voice, though the incredulity he felt sounded clear to his own ears. "...Thranduil?"

It was not possible. Perhaps his son...? he considered, but the features were far too mature and familiar, now that he observed more keenly. He looked quite different without the crown, and with his hair pulled and gathered into a low tail that was slung over his right shoulder.

Truth be told, it was the expression more than anything else. Thranduil was looking very put-upon at his shameless gawking.

Thorin shook his head. A hundred questions paraded through his mind. The one that got out was, "Are you insane?!"

Thranduil gave him a dirty look. "Do you really wish to have this conversation out here in the open like this?"

"Your ship sailed. Your son is king."

Thranduil's gaze roamed briefly over Thorin's battered outfit. He smiled thinly when his eyes met Thorin's again. "I can wait while you change into something more suitable for company."

The implication was clear. Thorin scowled as he looked down at his disheveled clothes and chipped armor, stained with blood, muck, and who knew what else. The sting in his lip reminded him that blood still flowed from his nose and there was probably a bruise or two on his jaw. "Must you always catch me at my worst?" He scowled and deliberated being difficult - he wanted answers, but the stubborn elf would, of course, insist on propriety at the most improper time. "Very well. Enter and wait in the blasted hall if you must. I'll call Dain's men to care for your horses."

"There is simply no pleasing you, is there?"

Barely a minute into their private audience, and Thorin (now bathed and aptly-dressed, though his temper had taken a turn for the worse) could feel his blood steadily boiling with every answer Thranduil chose to give him. He still found it difficult to imagine that the same person who had supposedly spent one day a year, for hundreds of years, returning like clockwork to secretly administer healing on his broken body, was standing a few feet away from him and being so intentionally infuriating.

"No," Thorin growled as he paced, eyeing Thranduil with something close to panic, "no. You did not do this for me."

"Of course I did." Thranduil met his furious gaze with a slow, disinterested blink. "What possible benefit could I gain from slighting the Valar?"

"Madness. Sheer, utter-!" Thorin threw his hands up in the air. His fingers curled, wanting nothing more than to reach up and strangle that slender neck. "This is not what I wanted! I will not be indebted to you-"

"Do you not think that we are far too old to be keeping tally?" Thranduil sighed and relaxed his stance, laying a hand on his hip and his other palm on the edge of the open tomb between them. "Regardless of my personal reasons, it is done. And the Valar are not famous for granting second chances."

"Well. And here you are." Thorin gestured grandly at the elf, who was standing in far too relaxed a manner compared to the turmoil he felt within. "What is it you expect me to do? Perhaps a celebration in honor of the former elven king's uninvited return to Erebor?"

If Thranduil was at all affected by his mockery, he hid it well. Calmly, he said, "Dwarven hospitality has been fairly disappointing. You've yet to offer us lodgings."

Thorin frowned, caught off-guard. "I-" He mentally went through the earlier events and was embarrassed to realize that Thranduil spoke the truth. "Yes, of course. But-"

"And I insist on an extensive tour around Erebor. I have seen nothing but the entrance and your suffocating tomb for centuries, and should like to enjoy the rest."

Thorin wished the wretched elf would stop talking long enough for him to pinpoint when exactly he had lost complete control of the conversation. "Wait-"

"...and I thought perhaps, after that, we might travel together."

The loaded silence that followed hung thick and stifling in the air. Travel. Together? If Thorin needed any more proof of how addled Thranduil's mind had become, then there it was.

And yet the prospect seemed so tempting, if he let himself dwell on it. Away from the mountain that had once been home, with the one remaining person who knew him from Before. When there were no hobbits, no goblin kings. No dragon.

Thorin became aware, vaguely, that he had been staring dumbly at Thranduil since he last spoke. The elf merely stared back.

Thranduil seemed to have decided that his extended silence was assent. Such arrogance. "I've plotted a course southward-"

"No," Thorin interrupted, though he diverted his gaze to the coffin between them. Thranduil was being too flippant, and he could not bear it with the amount of naked honesty he was so carelessly piling on Thorin's shoulders. "No travelling."

He could hear the movement of fabric as Thranduil shifted from where he stood. The hand lying casually on the tomb's edge retreated from Thorin's vision. "Do you have issue with the activity, or the company?"

"Both. Neither..." Thorin sighed heavily. "You are confusing me."

Another bout of silence. Thranduil's tone was more careful this time. "If you need time to consider..."

"Do you not see, that I will count the days until you suddenly realize what an ill choice you've made, staying in mortal lands?" Thorin raised his eyes, feeling keen satisfaction when he saw that Thranduil was not as unaffected as he had sounded. The elf had actually been slighted by his abrupt refusal. "And what do you think will happen next? You will grow to resent me for it." He shook his head. "I will not be there to bear witness. As much as you try to pretend, there is poison between us, deep and uncleansed."

Thranduil seemed to have had a reply ready, but chose instead to withhold it. He watched the elf pause, consider, and eventually say, "You dismiss the idea of travel so quickly. Tell me first - do you not wish to?"

"I do not know. We-" Thorin gave a frustrated sigh. "I do not know." He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Both of us are far too sober for this conversation."

Thranduil hummed in agreement. "I suppose it was too much to expect you to understand that I had thought this matter through before giving voice to it in your presence." He gave a weary, helpless shrug. "Your fears are unfounded, though I am unsure how to convince you of this."

It was a while before Thorin spoke again. "I know you are sincere." The effort that took to say out loud... he huffed, and fixed an angry glare at the other. "I can feel it, curse you. Give me 'til the morrow, and you shall have your answer."

"Wait."

Thorin frowned and reared back his pony, his other hand holding fast to the reins of their pack horse to keep her from bolting ahead. He looked impatiently up at his sole companion.

"Before we leave, there is a matter we should discuss."

Thorin did not like where this was going. "You had ample time to mention it in the three weeks you spent here."

Thranduil gave a small nod. "This matter is a little delicate."

Thorin spread his hand, gesturing for him to continue.

"We must speak of compensation."

He frowned, unsure if he had heard correctly. "'Compensation'?"

"On the occurrence of our mutual demise. Mine, incidental." Thranduil gave a faint, smug smile. "Yours, eventual."

Funeral arrangements? Thorin wondered, and scowled at the odd phrasing. "Fine. What is it you want?"

"Should I die, I wish for you to travel to my people in the Greenwood forest. There are...items there, from an Age I would rather not remember too closely." He met Thorin's gaze squarely. "They are being kept from their rightful owners out of spite, one that no longer bears any relevance today."

How tempting it was, to make an issue of it. Thror had claimed, repeatedly, that Thranduil held within his kingdom relics from their forefathers - precious artefacts with great historical significance to no one else but dwarves. After a time, the accusations had begun to lose their weight, as he had steadily succumbed to sickness and grief before his death in Azanulbizar.

Thorin drew a deep breath and released it as he bowed his head. "And if...when I perish...?"

The response was fast and sure. "You will bequeath the Arkenstone to me."

Thorin laughed. "Of course. How could I have expected anything else." After a moment's hesitation, he said, "You need not wait. Here." He dug beneath the back of his collar and unhooked the metal clasp from his nape. Chain in hand, he tugged out the Arkenstone from its comfortable seat against his chest, where a detailed illustration of a dagger engraved with "Sting" was tattooed onto his skin. He threw the precious gem at Thranduil's head, who barely caught it in one hand. The elf looked both alarmed and forbidding at the ill treatment of something he so desired. "Take it. More reason for me to keep you close. But mark my words, if you choose to flee with it, I will hunt you down and scalp you."

Thranduil gave an airy sniff. "You will try."

Thorin watched, his emotions in some turmoil, as the stone he had nursed and kept close to himself was handled by elvish hands, then worn around an elvish neck. The gem's brilliance was soon hidden under folds of fine silk and travelling leathers. He averted his gaze before Thranduil could meet his eyes. "With that unpleasant business done with, show me the road that you have plotted out for us."

Thranduil urged his horse forward so that they rode side by side. He unrolled a map and pointed to a course southward. "We go by well-traveled paths if we can. I would rather avoid encounters with orcs, if it can be helped. This route is long, but it will take us straight to Aglarond. And from there, we can head farther west-"

"...You wish to follow the path carved by your dwarf-addled youngest and Gloin's halfwit son?"

The glare Thranduil fixed on him could have cut mithril. "I do not see you presenting alternatives."

"Regardless, some suggestions..." Thorin gave him a pained look.

Thranduil huffed and rolled the map in his hands. "If this is what travelling with you is going to be like, I may as well just return to Greenwood." He grabbed the reins of his white mare and rode ahead, all flying blond hair and affronted dignity.

Thorin couldn't quite contain a small laugh as he urged his pony onward.

Thranduil felt the warmth first - he always did. He dug deep into his pocket and drew out the Arkenstone, keeping most of it still hidden, just enough to take a peek. It was emitting a faint glow, though with each second, it seemed to grow brighter.

He barely had time to shove it back into his pocket when a stranger reached past him to put a coin into the slot. His movement must have looked suspicious, as the man gave a pointed look at his pocket, then raised his eyebrows inquiringly at Thranduil.

"Pocket watch," he said, by way of explanation. The man's expression turned incredulous. "I'm a little old fashioned."

"I see." The stranger's smile was wide, welcoming. "I'm a bit traditional myself." He took out a broadsheet and used the stand as something to lean on. He didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave quite yet.

He could feel the Arkenstone's warmth through the thin material of his slacks. Tall, this time, Thranduil noted. And, of course, eyes far too blue for their own good.

He had always wondered about the eyes. It was either the Valar's way of being kind to him, or their way of letting him know how amused they were with the choices he'd made in his life.

"I'm sorry - this is terribly forward of me..."

Thranduil snapped out of his thoughts to see the man awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. He merely watched, unsympathetic to the discomfort it was causing. When the man spoke again, it was with a note of shyness on top of the uncertainty, "But I know this coffee place that opens in a few minutes down that road, and I was wondering if you would like to join me."

Well. Thranduil blinked, and took a slow, anchoring breath. This was new.

"Depends. How good's the coffee?" he mildly answered. He let the man ramble on in that deep, soft voice (exalting the virtues of the establishment's caffe corretto) and privately wondered at this odd development. In incidents prior, Thranduil had always kept his distance, and the flow of the world was happy enough to accommodate him in this. Often, the incarnation would have far too busy and involved a life that was fit for being watched, but had little room for direct interactions with Thranduil himself.

There was also some form of growth with each new incarnation. It was hard to describe, but he could sense it as time passed, as he sought after each death, and found again. If he let his imagination run a bit wilder, he could say it was as if Thorin's soul was being prepped for something important down the road.

"...you're not really interested, are you?"

Thranduil gave him a considering look. Why not, just this once? And if this all turned out to be some colossal freak of fortune, he could hardly be held at fault. He had kept his distance - and his secrets - long enough. "I am. It's morning, and coffee sounds wonderful."

The smile he was gifted echoed the comforting warmth he could feel in his pocket.

Thranduil laid the Arkenstone upon Thorin's chest. He kept his hand there to stop the dying dwarf from pushing it off. "Keep it," Thorin muttered - voice so weak, it always came out as a whisper these days. "Yours now."

"Just this once," he said, trying to convey as much assurance in his tone as he could. "Don't argue."

A wet, wheezing cough - perhaps a laugh, if it were stronger. "Not dead yet."

"No," Thranduil said, moving his hand from the stone to grasp the wizened one that rested on the bed, "not yet."

Time passed - Thranduil could not tell if it were hours or minutes. He merely watched. Thorin flitted in and out of sleep. There was a steady manner in which the rhythm of his breathing grew weaker. It wouldn't be long now.

"Seventy years," he murmured to himself. He felt the fingers in his hand twitch, and saw still-bright blue eyes open a fraction and look at him.

"Blink of an eye," the old voice managed to rasp out. The eyes smiled, when the mouth could not.

His breathing had stopped.

The Arkenstone brightened, then dimmed. And dimmed.

\\\End.