Soulmates Never Die • Thorin/Bilbo, Fili/Kili/Frodo [tbc]

[igrab]

When the winds of the far shores licked their faces and crawled into their hair and tickled their nostrils, Frodo thought he would feel healed - like everything would magically be better, and while a great weight had lifted off his chest as they left Middle Earth, approaching Valinor brought no further relief for him.

His Uncle Bilbo, on the other hand, was a different story.

With each puff of wind in the full sails of their little ship, another shadow left Bilbo's eyes. With every lap of the waves against the hull, a wrinkle smoothed and faded from his cheeks. As they sailed on to Valinor, he grew stronger, younger; he straightened his back and took ever-steadier steps to the bow rail, breathed in a deep breath and let out a loud, happy laugh that bounced off the elvish wood there.

"Gandalf!" he cried out, his brown eyes alight with joy. "Gandalf, it's beautiful! Everything is so..."

But he trailed off, and Frodo blinked and came to stand by his uncle, who looked now just as he had when Frodo had first come to live with him, and for much of the rest of his long life. That honey-brown hair with threads of grey, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, an expressive pout on his lips and chin tipped up to meet the world head-on. He was looking out at the shore now, brows knitted, and Frodo cast out to try and see what it was that Bilbo saw.

They had a delegation waiting for them, on the banks of the port at Alqualondë. Elves, mostly, but elves such as Frodo had never seen - even taller and slimmer and more fair, more beautiful, more sharp-edged and Other. He wasn't sure he liked the look of them, and he turned to his uncle, but that wasn't what he was seeing at all. Frodo looking again.

Standing there, tucked in amidst those floating white robes, were three little blots of darkness.

Not the sort of darkness that Frodo was used to; not that at all. It was the dark of dark clothes and dark hair and a healthy layer of grit; it was the dark and small and sturdy of those who could only be called dwarves.

"Gandalf?" Bilbo said, his eyes never leaving them. "Is that..."

And something in his voice broke then, and he swallowed quickly, hands tightening on the rail. Frodo stared. He had seen that expression before, but never once on his uncle - nor on anyone like him at all. It was a look of desperate longing, the face of one seeing someone he's loved dearly and desperately for so long it has broken him many times over. It was the face that Aragorn wore upon seeing his lady Arwen at Minas Tirith; it was the look in Sam's eyes when he'd met Rosie's across that bar when they'd first come home.

"I wouldn't doubt it," Gandalf murmured. He, too, looked younger - startlingly so, though not nearly as young as Bilbo.

Something was going on here, something Frodo had no inkling of. "What are you talking about?" he murmured, trying to narrow his eyes to focus that little dwarvish blot. "Who's out there?"

His uncle swallowed and Frodo could see a wet sheen come over his eyes. "...My King," he whispered, so softly that Frodo almost didn't quite hear it. And when he had, he wasn't left with any better idea of who they meant.

The closer they got to the shore, the better Frodo was able to see individuals, rather than one mass of elvish white. There were others there, men and women of beauty beyond description, and some wore gowns and coats of all colors of the rainbow, carried staves and baskets of fine things, and some were crying.

Frodo leaned out to get a better look at the small knot of dwarves.

The tallest was almost of a height with men, and though the elves surrounding him were much taller still, there was a majesty and command in his presence that made them fade easily away. He was flanked by two others; one blond, one brown-haired, neither with the long full beards that Frodo was accustomed to seeing upon dwarven faces. They were all in deep blues and rich purples, edged with the finest wrought gold and cut gems. The younger ones - well, Frodo assumed they were younger, though he supposed that word had very little meaning in this place - were smiling ear to ear, while the elder - he had streaks of grey in his thick black hair, giving him quite a refined look - had a solemn expression, lips drawn tight together, eyes large and filled with tears.

He, too, had the look of one seeing a long-lost love; but in his case there was also worry, doubt, and a deep and abiding sorrow.

The elves and wizards stepped off the boat and were swept up in a wave of glorious embraces. Gandalf was lost for a moment, squashed between two men in deep blue cloaks, but Bilbo struck off in the opposite direction at once and Frodo made to follow him.

Time seemed to slow. No, time did slow, he was certain of it.

Bilbo shed the last of his age and exhaustion like an old coat, flinging it behind him and taking one light step, another, then he was running full tilt across the quay, arms askew, a wild mad grin on his face and tears of pure joy in his eyes. The tall dwarf blinked, his eyes widened; then his companions draw back and the purest, most beautiful smile spread over his face. He caught Bilbo as he flung himself at him, spun him in a wide circle with their coats fanned out around them, then set him on his feet and held onto him like he would never, could never let him go.

And Frodo still had no idea who this dwarf was. Not a single clue.

At some point in his life, my uncle fell in love, he thought. And he never got around to telling me.

"And who's this?" a cheerful voice sounded to his side, as one of the dwarf's dwarfy companions sidled up to him (the one with the blond hair and the little braids).

The other was quick to follow, coming up to flank Frodo on the right. "I do believe it's a hobbit," he said, and if that wasn't a shit-eating grin on his face Frodo didn't know what was.

The blond one laughed. "I do believe it's a Baggins, Master Kili. Can't you see it? The look of an expert burglar?"

He could still barely see his uncle under that massive bone-creaking hug.

Kili blinked. "A Baggins? No. No fuckin' way. He wouldn't've taken a wife - would he?"

Hang on. Kili. That was a familiar name. Kili and Fili, his mind supplied. They were two of the thirteen dwarves, when Bilbo had his adventure, long ago.

The blond one - surely Fili - shrugged and cocked his head. "You never know, brother. Well, let's ask him. Burglar," and Frodo blinked as he realized they really were referring to him, "is that there hobbit your father?"

Frodo sputtered. "Him? No, no. Not at all. I mean, he did raise me for the most part but he's my uncle. He never married."

And how odd for a hobbit, he thought, remembering all the gossip about town. For all that he was odd and had adventures it was still decidedly queer of him not to settle down. So they said.

"Never married! Ha!" Kili crowed. "See? See? I told you so, didn't I tell you so? Pay up, Fili!"

With a roll of his eyes and a good-natured groan, Fili fished in his pockets and tossed a gold coin over Frodo's head in a neat arc, which Kili caught without looking.

"Oi! Thorin!" he called out, flashing the coin. "This nephew here of Bilbo's says he never married!"

Thorin Oakenshield.

The name had a sort of ring to it, Frodo had always thought. It was... majestic. And now that he was standing there, face to face with the real thing, he couldn't find any other word to describe him. He was a thing of beauty and power, and he had his arms around Frodo's uncle like he owned him.

"Of course he didn't," the dwarf rumbled, burying his face in Bilbo's messy brown hair and giving the top of his head a kiss. "He lost his heart in a mountain hall, long ago."

Little hobbit hands curled into the panels of Thorin's coat, and Frodo was astonished to see his uncle - his uncle, who looked young enough to be his brother at the moment of all things - press up on his tip-toes and touch his lips to the dwarf's. "He did indeed," the hobbit murmured, his voice silky-sweet and shockingly present. "Some stupid dwarf made off with it, as I recall. And then he had the audacity to go and die on me."

"You're bringing that up again? You've got to let it go, my love," and without another thought, Thorin had turned Bilbo's shoulders and tucked them under his arm, strolling off deeper into the city as if this was any other day. "Come. I want to show you everything."

Frodo stood on the quay feeling very stupid indeed, and very - well - small. How had he not known? In all that time, in all their conversations, this had never come up before. Not once.

I think I'd've liked to know I had an uncle-in-law all this time, he thought, quite a bit cross now that it was sinking it. He couldn't've possibly thought I'd hold it against him, could he? I'm no Sackville-Baggins, and he began to follow after them, hands shoved in his pockets, for he had nowhere else to go. I've been friends with Merry and Pippin for years, of course I'm all right with those things!

Just as he was about to sink into a black mood with blacker thoughts, two hands descended on his shoulders and gripped him in an almost painful vice.

"Come now, why the long face?" the blond dwarf said, his own lit up in a mischievous grin.

"You'd better get used to it," the other added, and they were steering him now, following the others at a more rambling pace and absolutely not letting go of Frodo's shoulders. "They've been waiting for this for years upon years."

"Has it been years?" Fili asked, looking genuinely surprised.

Kili blinked. "It has, or at least I think it has." Noticing Frodo's confused look, his mouth tilted in a smile. "Time doesn't really mean much on this side of the sea."