The sun had crested the tree line three times when he met him.

Wandering aimlessly and without food, he had thought that perhaps this would be the end of him. A hunting accident gone wrong, separated from his party, and now helplessly lost in the forest, so far from the mountain that he couldn't see its peaks. He thought he had gone in the right direction home, but the gulls that eventually flew over his head told him he had gone too far west and not far enough north.

He knew if he could find the sea he could make it home, but it was easier said than done. He had very little sense of direction outside of a mountain.

You'll circle a tree five times before finding your way free, Mother once said.

Eventually he had come across a meadow, wide and sprawling and beautiful, with high green grass and towering oak trees and wildflowers. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and he had begun to back away from it. It had felt as if the meadow were not naturally occurring… it had felt like magic.

And then he had heard the voice, the voice of tinkling bells and sweet wine.

"You're lost," it had said.

He saw him then. A small creature that reminded him of the halflings of the east but with more delicately pointed ears and smaller feet, which had still been bare. He wore a green robe dotted with small white flowers and had been smiling vaguely, as if he knew the ways of the world in a way he himself didn't.

"Who are you?" he asked.

He hadn't answered but his smile faded.

"What are you?" he asked instead.

The other had looked confused but he ignored that question as well and gestured into the meadow.

"My home. It'll be night soon and you'll be more turned around in the morning than you already are. I'll lead you home tomorrow, Mharvir."

Mharvir had gasped at that, for how could this man know his name? Yet he felt oddly compelled to follow him into the meadow.

"What is your name?" he asked, with one final hope that he might get an answer.

The halfling had watched him for a while, his brown eyes holding knowledge Mharvir knew he would never understand, before he smiled faintly and said, "Nincener."

It was an elvish name, Mharvir knew, but Nincener was no elf. He had nodded and followed Nincener into the meadow and it had transformed before his very eyes.

Flowering bushes of roses and hydrangeas had shuddered into existence. A sandstone pathway appeared beneath Nincener's feet as he walked through the meadow. Blackberry and raspberry bushes sprang up from the ground, heavy with plump fruit. Apple and pear trees followed and Mharvir had marveled at the wonders before him.

And then a small cottage had appeared, white and grey brick and a straw roof, with a round green door and round windows. It was strange but Mharvir felt at peace there, no longer unwelcome, and he followed Nincener inside.

Nincener had fed him and asked him endless questions about his own life. Mharvir had suspected he didn't have much company and something in his heart told him Nincener was far older than he would have been able to comprehend. He had ached at the thought of such a person alone in the woods but any questions he asked about Nincener were brushed aside, as if he had no interest in sharing his past. But he told Mharvir stories of what he had encountered in the forest and how he made friends with all creatures that lived in it.

He told Mharvir stories that hadn't sounded as if they might be true but Mharvir knew that they were. He watched Nincener's eyes brighten as he gestured emphatically and laughed and touched Mharvir's shoulder.

Mharvir's one night in the cottage had turned into three before Nincener convinced him to go back to his family. But Nincener's eyes had been filled with grief, a grief Mharvir himself shared, and he had taken Nincener into his arms and whispered promises into his pointed ears. He kissed him and he fell in love with him and he would not leave him alone.

And he hadn't.

Mharvir returned to the forest and had known where to go better than he ever had before in the wide world. His heart led him there.

He had stayed with Nincener as often as he could spare the time, as often as would not be suspicious to his family, and felt a love so great he had written songs of it. And when he sung them to Nincener and watched his mischievous brown eyes shine in the firelight, he had known he would know no other love.

Years passed and years were filled with countless memories.

When Mharvir had more greys than not, he made his final trip into the forest.

He had stepped into the meadow and it had been dead.

The grass had yellowed, the trees were drooping and brown, the bushes were grey, and there had been no more sandstones to show his way. There had been no more cottage. A black circle burned into the ground that smelled of ash and death was where the cottage once stood. There had been no Nincener and Mharvir knew there would never be again.

He collapsed and wept until he hadn't been able to cry anymore tears.

And he left the meadow and never returned.

—

The battlefield had been heavy with ruin, with death and blood, its stench cloying. It had always been this way and yet with each war his heart grew heavier. He knew that one day the pain would be too much and would take him west but he had purpose yet. He felt it within his heart, that he was meant for something, and he knew he must go on.

He healed many that day, elf kind and dwarves alike, at the gates of Khazad-dum, which was now lost to them.

But when he had been beckoned into a healer's tent, he had known what he would find inside.

Who.

He knelt at the bedside of a dwarf with black and silver hair and knew him as well as he knew himself. Many hundreds of years had passed and yet he always knew they would meet again.

The dwarf had been in great pain and there would be no healing him. He had groaned and opened his blue eyes and looked into his own.

"You," the dwarf whispered and his eyes spoke the truth both of them knew. "You've returned to me."

"I have," he said and touched his love's cold forehead. "And you've returned to me, Mharvir."

"Mharvir," he had said with a faint smile. "That was my name once."

"What is it now?" he asked with a smile of his own.

"Frirvar," he gasped and his face contorted in agony. "My Nincener. An elf now." He chuckled wetly.

"They call me Dewedir," he replied as he grasped Frirvar's clammy hand. "Forgive my late arrival."

Frirvar had reached for his face then, his fingers brushing over his fair skin, wet with blood. "I would have given much to hold you in my arms again, Dewedir," he whispered. "You disappeared and took my heart with you."

Dewedir smiled remorsefully. "There was evil in the forest," he said simply. "Much like here."

"Will you leave me now?" Frirvar asked weakly.

"Never," Dewedir said and leaned in to press his lips against Frirvar's brow. "I will always be with you, my love. Find me again."

And when he had looked into Frirvar's eyes again, there had been no life left in them.

—

He had been a prince in his next life.

A prince of Dale, of men, and he had waited.

They would meet again, he knew, and even if the Valar would be cruel enough to do it on his dying day, he knew it would be worth it to see him once more.

The day had come that his father arranged for him to marry a lord of Erebor. Erebor was a shining beacon of snow and stone above Dale and his father had known it would strengthen alliances. He had an older brother who married a lady of the court but to have an alliance with the dwarves would see prosperous times come the winter.

And he had known then. He knew the day his father made the proposal that he would meet his lost love. He had known patience and yet he found it running thin until the day they finally set eyes on one another.

His hair had been black, as it always had, and his eyes the clearest blue, and Lif knew him like no other. And his love stared back at him with a faint smile and yet there had been apprehension in it too. Lif knew the feeling well enough but when they found time to themselves, he swore he would not allow tragedy to take them. That they would live to be old, together, and meet on the great shores beyond after.

Denon had been frightened, Lif knew, but when they married, Denon had smiled like he never had before. He had been beautiful and Lif felt his heart fill with happiness he hadn't known in thousands of years. They would live in Erebor and know peace and happiness and there were no evil forces or battles that would break them apart.

And they had known in peace and happiness. They watched their families grow and expand and helped to rule Erebor. They had seen the strength of dwarves and men and what could be accomplished when they worked together. They had seen their love for each other grow into what it never quite had the chance to before.

And if Lif had seen Denon watching him with fear in his eyes, he hadn't said anything. He didn't let himself believe it would end in anything but old age, wrapped in each other's arms until the end of time.

But it didn't.

One day Lif had woken with a heaviness in his heart he hadn't felt since the day of the battle. He ran through the mountain to where he knew he would find Denon. The mines were deep within the heart of Erebor and yet he did not stop until he reached them.

A friend grasped his arms, tears in his eyes, and told him of the cave-in. Of how he would never see Denon again. Of how he would not get to bury him. Of how he must remember him.

And Lif had known pain before, immense pain, but not like that day. He had wondered why the Valar were cruel enough to tear them apart.

And had hoped, for the first time, that they would never meet again.

—

He tries to forget the past as he walks up the hill and instead curses his sense of direction for getting him lost twice and forcing him to ask for help. The meeting with his kinsmen had not gone well but the walk south had helped to clear his mind somewhat. He is in an irritable mood no doubt, but soon he will meet truly loyal kinsmen and fill his stomach and rest his head in comfort. He can ask no more than that for tonight.

He sighs as he reaches the top of the hill and stops in front of a hobbit-hole.

And there, in front of him, is a rounded green door.

Thorin inhales sharply and takes a step back. His heart fills with dread, with hope, with despair and love. He had been so preoccupied with the quest that he hadn't let himself believe he would find him again. That this supposed burglar would be him.

His Nincener, his Dewedir, his Lif, his true love.

For most of his life he has hoped they wouldn't meet. That the fates would not be so cruel as to do this to them again. That they might never find each other, that they might live to see an old age with love of different kinds, that they might never doom each other to tragedy.

Thorin closes his eyes as they fill with tears and clenches his fist.

He cannot do this again.

But he must knock on the door. He must know, he must see his dwarves and Gandalf, and he must go on a quest. Musts have always been his downfall.

Thorin walks through the garden and steps up to the door. He lifts his hand and brushes his fingertips along the wood, freshly painted. The mark is glowing and bright and he finds himself angry that there is something marring the door. That it is not exactly what it once was.

He knocks three times and the merrymaking inside ceases at once and that too pains his heart.

It is Gandalf who answers and Gandalf who frowns powerfully at whatever must be written across Thorin's face. He tries to push it aside and steps into the hole as a hobbit comes through another door.

"Blast it all, Gandalf, this is my smial!" the hobbit says fussily. "I can answer my own bloody door."

Thorin smiles.

He's beautiful, as he always has been, and yet there is something right in him being a halfling. He has always had brown hair and bright eyes of varying colors and, even as a man, his ears have always been pointed. But his bare feet and green waistcoat fit him more and Thorin's eyes sting as he takes him in.

Hazel eyes find his own and the recognition in them nearly takes Thorin off his feet. There is pain there and fear and acceptance all at once.

"Bilbo Baggins, this is Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of our company," Gandalf says and there is something strange to his tone as he looks between them.

Bilbo stares for a while and fiddles with his waistcoat. He sighs. "Hello, Thorin," he says quietly, no trace of his usual smile anywhere to be found. "Please, come in and find something to eat. Though I don't know what's left." He shoots a glare at the dwarves who are hovering in the hall and they look at their feet.

And then he's gone, disappearing into one of the many rooms, and Thorin's heart aches in a way it never has. He knows, he understands, and he even agrees, but there is still something so terrible about it that it takes his breath away.

He eats because he knows he must but the food tastes like ash on his tongue. He listens to what the company has to say and they listen when he speaks and rouses their excitement for the quest. His nephews cheer but their eyes hold some sort of understanding that makes him uneasy. He supposes they know him too well.

Bilbo asks a few questions of his own and his stammering and unease and twitching nose are nearly too much for Thorin to bear. He excuses himself from the dining table and wanders the home until he finds a bedroom. A bedroom that belongs to Bilbo he knows and he refuses to feel guilty about entering it.

It looks so very like the cottage once did and Thorin circles the room and brushes his hands over the headboard of the bed and the books on the tables and the odd trinkets that his love has always loved to collect. He smiles at the maps and drawings and feels his heart swell with longing when he sees a pencil drawing of Erebor hanging on the wall. He touches the frame and wonders why the Valar insist on bringing them together when they seem to have no intention of keeping them that way.

"It's been a long time since I've seen it," a familiar voice says behind him. "But I'd like to think I got it right."

"You did," Thorin says quietly. "It is hard to forget the mountain once you've seen it."

"And loved it," Bilbo says as he comes to stand at Thorin's side and gazes at the drawing. "It's hard to forget anything you've ever loved."

Thorin closes his eyes briefly before he turns to face Bilbo. He doesn't reach out because there is a heaviness to Bilbo that has never been there before. He is wary and Thorin knows he has every right to be but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

"You belong in the Shire," Thorin whispers.

Bilbo's eyes dart downward. "And you belong in Erebor."

"Aye," Thorin says. "And with a bit of luck I will return to her in one piece and lead her to prosperous times."

Bilbo sniffles a bit and looks up at Thorin. "Then I wish you all the luck and happiness in the world, Thorin Oakenshield." He furrows his brow in pain. "I can't do it again."

Thorin smiles faintly. "Aye," he agrees. "Neither can I."

It's Bilbo who reaches out and takes up Thorin's hand. He holds it against his chest and looks at him with tear-filled eyes and a sad smile. "We'll remember each other for however many more lives they see fit to give us," he says.

It's a goodbye.

Thorin leans down and presses his forehead against Bilbo's and hears him gasp. "You will always be in my heart, ghivashel."

They embrace and kiss and it is too much and not nearly enough. But Thorin leaves Bilbo and disappears into another room and it is only out of his love for Bilbo that he doesn't do any damage to the walls.

He doesn't see Bilbo again and knows it's for the best as they ride out of the Shire in the early morning.

Thorin will always love him and he will always be in pain to never be by his side but it's what is right. They cannot continue on this way or it will destroy them both. It's… better that they only love each other from afar.

As Thorin lies to himself, he hears a faint voice.

"Wait! Wait!"

Thorin squeezes his eyes shut and sighs shakily before turning his pony.

There he is. Beautiful Bilbo, wonderful Bilbo, running through the trees, the contract billowing behind him. He's smiling, his eyes ever so bright, and he looks at Thorin with a love so strong that Thorin feels as if he might never recover from it.

The Valar may be cruel but they do allow them some happiness in life.

As Thorin accepts Bilbo into his company, as he dooms them both, he smiles.