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The first month is the hardest one.
Thorin is dazed, his face creasing into lines of disbelief and sorrow. His eyes are dark and full of anger. He has nightmares. He is full of a terrible, ferocious guilt.
Frerin stays close. Thorin is too tall now (has been too tall for a century and more) and far too heavy for Frerin to prop him up, but he’ll try.
He’ll try.
…
The second month is better. A bit.
Thorin looks up, now and again. Their mother has taken to soothing the nightmares. Their nephews hover. Frerin feels useless and superfluous, too young and too inconsequential to make any difference.
At least Thorin is eating. He doesn’t speak.
(Thorin used to tell Frerin everything.)
Frerin tries not to let it sting. He smiles at his brother, nudges his arms and slaps his back, and jokes just as they used to.
This Thorin is too old now, and too hard, to laugh along. His brother is old enough to be his grandfather – and, like his grandfather, he is too tightly wound in grief and shame to hear.
…
The third month is pretty awful.
It is as if he never arrived in Mahal’s Halls at all. He practically disappears, hiding in his forge and escaping to the Chamber of Sansûkhul, refusing any company.
In a fit of spite, Frerin wishes he had never shown Thorin the waters of Gimlîn-zâram. He waited so long.
Thorin drifts through the Halls like mist, and Frerin cannot catch him.
Their father pulls Frerin aside one day, and asks him why his face appears so sour. Frerin blurts out, “I miss him, all right? And he won’t even look at me!”
Thráin sighs and his broad hand lifts Frerin’s chin. Frerin will always look up at others. Frerin never had the chance to grow.
“To know that we are trapped in this twilight – to really know it, deep in your bones… It is a hard thing to come to terms with, son,” Thráin said gently. “Give him time. You’ll have your brother again.”
Frerin buries his head in Thráin’s vast beard and mumbles, “no I won’t. Not like before.”
…
The fourth month is horrible.
Frerin tries to be patient, really he does. But Thorin is here again, though he is quiet. When he does talk, his voice is muted and dull. His sudden bouts of temper are savage and even frightening.
So Frerin tries to join in with his work at the forges. Thorin has developed amazing skills as a blacksmith, and nothing Frerin can make is anywhere near as fine. They used to work side by side, but now Frerin is the student and Thorin the master. He hates it, but endures as long as he can, simply to remain close to the strength and presence that has always meant safety to him.
“No, here,” says Thorin, reaching over his shoulder to grasp the metal firmly. “You didn’t heat it long enough. It will shatter.”
Frerin swallows his resentment and nods. “I’ll do it,” he says stubbornly.
Thorin steps away, his mouth a flat line and his hands raised. His hands are enormous, just like their father’s.
(Frerin’s hands are smaller even than Fíli’s.)
He jams the sword back into the flames, and Thorin’s cheek twitches. Then he steps forward again and shakes his head. “No, no! Idiot. You need to put it in the hottest part of the flames. See?”
Frerin lets go of the handle – he’d worked for so long on that handle – and without a word he walks straight out of the smithy door and doesn’t return.
…
The fifth month, Frerin sulks.
A lot.
His nephews knock on the door, but he can’t stand their sympathy. They’re bigger than him. It’s obscene. It’s unfair. They don’t really care about Frerin – only that Thorin is upset about Frerin.
They won’t even call him uncle.
He snarls at them to leave, and they do. Or at least Kíli does. Fíli stays a moment.
“You’re being unfair, you know,” says the blond Dwarf. They’re very alike, Frerin and Fíli. Would he have looked like that, one day? Would he have been tall like his father and Thorin, or short like his mother and Fíli?
“What would you,” Frerin growls, “know about unfairness!”
Fíli looks sad, but he finally leaves. Frerin cries into his furs and falls asleep with dry mouth and aching eyes.
…
The sixth month Frerin emerges, but he won’t look up at his brother or nephews, and he won’t speak very loudly, no matter how much their grandmother scolds and tuts.
His mother looks disappointed. It cuts as deep as the knife that spilled out his life.
He avoids his family and keeps to his room. Sometimes he visits Gimlîn-zâram, and he watches Dís mourn and mourn, the grey flashing in her dark hair. His baby sister.
She is beyond him now as well. She became a mother and a regent and a jeweller, and Frerin is still this.
Everyone has left him behind.
…
In the seventh month, Thorin grasps his sleeve and mutters, “Come with me.”
Frerin scowls at him, but follows. He has always followed. He is the second son.
Thorin takes him back to the forge, where he hands Frerin a beautifully balanced poniard, gleaming like the tooth of a dragon. There is barely any decoration. Thorin isn’t one for fancy work.
“It’s lovely,” he says, and looks up at his brother. Thorin actually smiles when their eyes meet.
“It’s yours.”
Frerin blinks, and he knows the question is written all over his face.
“Well, then,” says Thorin, and his smile turns wicked as he pulls a peculiarly curved sword from his rack, “shall we?”
Frerin falls into guard reflexively and Thorin is rushing at him, and he is so strong, so fast! It is ridiculous, and it is wonderful. He loses spectacularly, and yet he is grinning by the time the bout is over.
“That’s better,” Thorin says firmly, and his great hand gently cuffs the back of Frerin’s head. “That’s as it should be.”
Frerin beams.
…
In the eighth month, Frerin does a lot of thinking.
Thorin has become obsessed with visiting Gimlîn-zâram, and Frerin has a lot of time on his hands. Well, he always has had a lot of time on his hands. He has been dead for one hundred and forty years.
They haven’t spoken about… anything. Thorin does not share any more, and Frerin cannot always understand his grief. Still, he makes sure he is always there when Thorin comes out of the starry waters. He makes sure that he is merry and smiling. Thorin likes it when Frerin smiles and laughs. It makes his grim demeanour lighten and his dark brow smooth out (just a little) when Frerin makes a joke.
Frerin wishes he felt like laughing. He feels like a performer.
But Thorin needs this.
…
His mother holds him tightly, sometime in the ninth month.
“I love you, my bright golden boy,” she tells him softly. “I love you for who you are, not what you are to others. I love you, Frerin. I love you.”
Frerin swallows the lump in his throat. “I’m just a child,” he says in a voice that sounds very unlike his own. “I’m not important any more. If I ever was.”
“You will always be important to me,” she whispers, and rests her head on top of his. “You are important to others, too, even if they can’t show it.”
Thorin’s name lingers in the air, but remains unsaid.
Frerin and Fris, by Jeza-Red
…
The tenth month sees the pattern continue.
Frerin smiles and jokes and laughs, nudging his brother and needling his nephews and generally making a spectacle of himself. Thorin smiles at the antics, and now and then he even laughs fully.
Frerin imagines that this is what victory feels like.
…
“It’s nearly a year,” Thorin says, and his face is hard and grim.
Frerin looks up, and he stifles his sigh. “Yes, nearly.”
“How have you coped, all this time?” His brother pushes his hand roughly through the great shaggy mane of his hair, the grey standing out vividly in the torchlight. “I cannot stand it!”
Frerin is silent, and then he says suddenly, “do you really want to know, or should I say something funny?”
Thorin turns, and his look is startled. “Nadad?”
Frerin bites off a curse, and smiles brightly. “Ignore that. Just a bit of sour grapes. Did you want to hear a song? I warn you, it’s filthy.”
But Thorin’s dark brows are drawing together, and the game is up. Thorin is stubborn and single-minded, but he is not stupid. “Frerin, are you all right?”
“Oh, stop,” Frerin mutters, and he sits down heavily. His booted feet look ridiculous beside Thorin’s. “Just stop.”
Thorin crouches down before him. “Stop what? Brother, are you well?”
“How can I be otherwise?” Frerin says bitterly, and he glances up at Thorin, who looks properly worried now. “Don’t you fret over me. I’m fine.”
“You can tell me,” Thorin says, and his big hand lands on Frerin’s shoulder, engulfing it.
Now that’s a laugh. “I know,” Frerin lies, and he smiles again. Thorin smiles back. “The trick is to keep busy,” he says, and Thorin pulls him to his feet. “Want to go throw things at Fundin? He still splutters like a boiling pot.”
“That’s not very kind, Frerin.”
Kind. Thorin is being kind, and it burns. “Forget it, stupid idea. I suppose you want to hear that song after all?”
…
One year, and Thorin is a thundercloud again. His eyes burn and he snaps at everyone, and Frerin is torn between being there for his brother, and hiding. He does a bit of both.
Thorin’s temper is indiscriminate. He lashes out at his mother at the table, he snarls at strangers in the Halls. He scowls at his nephews, and he roars at his father, who endures it stoically and with sadness in his face.
Frerin is hiding – or at least, he is trying to hide – when he inadvertently stumbles over the one Dwarrow he is hiding from. Thorin has ensconced himself in Frerin’s room, sitting hunched on the end of his bed. His head is in his hands, and when he looks up, his eyes are red.
“Don’t tell me to leave,” he rasps when Frerin freezes at the door.
“I…” stammers Frerin, and he fumbles for the latch, “I’ll leave you be, then.”
He is pulling the door closed when Thorin mutters, “stay.”
He freezes again, and then his heart clenches so painfully it feels as though a fist has grabbed it and tightened its fingers. Thorin’s fist, Thorin’s fingers: huge and strong and pitiless.
“I’ll stay,” he whispers, and he closes the door behind him. He inches across his own room, and gingerly sits down beside his brother. Thorin’s hair is spilling everywhere, and his blue eyes (the same, the exact same as Frerin’s) are swimming in tears. They do not fall down his cheeks, as stubborn and adamant as Thorin himself.
The minute he sits, Thorin turns. His arms wrap around Frerin so tightly his ribs creak, and Thorin’s head butts up against his forehead and Thorin’s breath is hot and sour upon his face as he wrestles with his sobs. His face is so twisted it looks like anger and not grief.
Frerin is trying not to blubber like a little baby. “It’s okay, Thorin,” he says and pats at Thorin’s face clumsily, desperately. He tries to sound comforting, but he isn’t very good at it.
This is wrong. Thorin is the strong one. Thorin has always been the strong one. Thorin has always comforted Frerin, not the other way around. He follows where his brother leads. He is only the second son, the one who did nothing and achieved nothing except dying.
“I do not deserve…” Thorin manages, and his head dips. “I do not deserve your comfort.”
“Shut up,” Frerin says, suddenly furious. “You do. And you are going to have it, whether you like it or not!”
“Selfish creature that I am, I will take it,” Thorin says hoarsely, and his eyelids drop. His broad shoulders shudder. “I do not deserve it. I do not deserve a brother such as you. I bring ruin wherever I go. You should have had better.”
“Shut. UP!” Frerin snarls. “You are a fool and an idiot indeed if you can’t see that it’s not about what you damned well deserve, you stupid old Dwarf! You are my brother, no matter how you’ve changed, and I love you!”
Thorin seems dumbfounded, staring at Frerin with wide and glossy eyes.
“I know you’re sad and angry all the time,” Frerin rages, and his hands grasp tightly at Thorin’s braids and hang on. “I know, all right? The whole of Aman knows! But you didn’t deserve what happened to you, and you didn’t deserve to die, and you don’t deserve to suffer and in Durin’s name you bloody well do deserve a brother who loves you. So shut up, shut up forever and never say that ever, ever again or – or – or I’ll tear your braids straight out of your stupid fat head!”
He stops, panting and glaring.
Thorin seems lost and somehow younger, his mouth slack and his hand rising to cup Frerin’s cheek. “Nadad,” he croaks. “Nadad, nadad… Frerin…”
“D’you know how much I missed you?” Frerin says, still glaring. “I waited and waited and waited. For you. For my brother. Don’t you dare tell me I should have had a better one. Don’t you dare.”
Thorin manages a smile though it is a little wobbly. It is very unlike him. “Consider me warned.”
Frerin yanks at one braid and tugs Thorin’s head close again. “I have the best brother ever,” he grates out. “And he is a great Dwarrow. He is a hero. He has always been my hero.”
Thorin bites down on his lip, very hard.
“And so what if I’ll never find out who I could have been?” Frerin says wildly, soaring upon wings of anger and pent-up worry and sheer audacity. “So what if your nephews never call me uncle, or if I am stuck like this, half-grown, never able to look anyone in the eye? So what? You’re here now! Well, sometimes you’re here, and sometimes you go places in your head. But I have you back, and that is worth it all to me. Every last thing - all of it. No matter what.”
“Frerin,” Thorin says, muted, and he rests his head against Frerin’s again. “I love you too, nadad. I missed you too.”
“You?” Frerin laughs, and for once Thorin winces to hear it. “You went on. Everyone moves on. Except me.”
“I never did move on,” Thorin says, very softly. “I missed you too. Every day.”
“You had your nephews,” Frerin says, and he swallows. “No, stop it. Stop making it about me now.”
“But it is always about me, isn’t it?” Thorin says, and damn him for being too clever sometimes. “Do you feel forgotten, Frerin?”
All his anger drains away, and he knows Thorin can read the answer in his eyes before he closes them. “Ah,” Thorin breathes, and he gathers Frerin up in his arms and together they hold on, hold on tightly.
“You didn’t deserve it,” Frerin huffs into Thorin’s shoulder.
“Let’s agree to disagree on that,” Thorin says, and Frerin wants to hit him.
“No! You didn’t! You were a hero and a warrior and a saviour and a King! You didn’t deserve it!”
“Neither did you,” Thorin says, his arms tightening around Frerin. His big brother. The safest place he knew.
“Making it about me again,” Frerin says bitterly, and he laughs and laughs and laughs into Thorin’s shoulder, now wet through with his tears. “Thorin, I did nothing of any importance, not like you. The most I ever managed to do was die.”
Thorin pulls back, and his eyes are blazing. “I will strike you if you ever say such a thing again!” he growls, and oh, he is properly livid now. Frerin has finally prodded that burning anger that lives in his brother, and it is coming to devour him. He closes his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“Good,” Thorin grunts.
“But it’s true,” Frerin whispers, and he tries not to cry.
“It is a lie,” Thorin growls, and he pulls Frerin even closer, his head towering above by at least a foot. “A foul lie, and you must not think such things, ever again.”
“Thorin…” says Frerin wretchedly.
“No,” Thorin says, and he is smiling, the bastard. “Tear my braids off, then.”
“I will strike when you least expect it,” Frerin mumbles. “I wish…”
“I do. Did. Every day, Frerin. Every day.”
“I missed you so,” Frerin says, his teeth clenched so tightly his jaw aches. His eyes prickle and sting. “I missed you, Thorin. Sometimes I still miss you.”
“I know,” Thorin says, and the self-loathing is back in his voice. “Sometimes I was grateful.”
Frerin’s breath catches.
“What we lived through… no. It was not a life I wanted for you.”
“It wouldn’t have been your decision to make, you pig-headed…” Frerin hisses, and then he pulls Thorin tighter. “Get down here. You’re too damned tall.”
Thorin and Frerin, by Jeza-Red
Thorin does, ducking and effortlessly hoisting Frerin higher, nearly onto his knee. It is embarrassing, but they are looking eye to eye at last.
“You are right about one thing,” Thorin says, and it is wonderful to meet his eyes. It hurts in the best possible way. “I have you back, my brother.”
Frerin clutches at Thorin, and his voice is different, he is so different. Gone forever is the laughing prince, the leader of all their pranks, the boy full of mischief and pride. He is so old, and hard, and he rarely smiles. He rarely laughs. His eyes are full of grief and guilt, and he is so, so angry.
But he is Frerin’s brother.
…
Fifty years on, and they lounge together in the throne room of Erebor. Dáin is on the high seat, and he looks incredibly bored. A sardonic curl of his mouth betrays him. The representative of the Miner’s Guild gives the report from the delvings of the northern quarter, droning on and on and on.
Dís is standing beside the King, ignorant of her two ghostly brothers sitting right behind her. Her hair has turned quite grey. The youngest of the siblings is now the oldest.
“Bet you she gets impatient and chucks him out,” whispers Frerin, and Thorin rolls his eyes.
“No bet,” he rumbles, and grins.
…
END