A.N.: I wrote this nearly over a year ago together with my friend Wisperwind. She is going to upload this fanfiction on Ao3 while I will do the same here. Let me tell you this fanfiction nearly killed us with the huge amount of research we had to do. So much bloody research.

Just some tags that you will find in Ao3: Bagginsshield (At some point in the distant very distant future) Slow burn, like snail speed. Time-travel, Fix-it, Canon Divergence. A huge amount of Battles gosh how i hated writing those. Azanulbizar and obviously The company of Thorin Oakenshield. Rating may change.

This FanFiciton is based on the book and on the movies. Especially the events happening before the quest of Erebor are more or less based solely on Tolkien's written words.

oOo

Haunting I

oOo

The eyes of Thorin II Oakenshield followed the boat as it inched towards the endless seeming horizon. It was being carried away from the harbour on gentle waves. Slowly and steadily it moved out of reach. Thorin had raised his hand to grasp one of the departing when they had boarded the vessel, but his fingers had phased right though the elder Hobbit's cloak. It should not have come as a surprise. The chasm that separated him from Bilbo Baggins had always been unbridgeable, even before his untimely death over eighty years ago. The fact that he was now unable to touch the Hobbit literally as well as figuratively had changed surprisingly little and he had come to accept this as his penance.

The other Hobbits who had come to say their goodbyes where still standing in the harbour. Samwise, Meriadoc and Peregrin. They all had proven themselves to be brave beyond believe. They had lost much on their journeys and had gained even more. They had endured much and yet there they stood crying as if, with their friends, all happiness of this world was taken from them where no hardship had managed to do so before. Thorin would have been lying, he had said that he could not sympathise.

And so, though they could not see him, he took his place besides the mourning Trio. Together and in silence they watched the boat disappear. He stood with them until its white form had become indistinguishable from the glittering waves and the rising disk of the morning sun had swallowed its silhouette.

Eventually, the Hobbits left but Thorin found himself unmoving. There went his reason for existing still. His place and anchor in this world where he was adrift. He had followed the Baggins family for near a century. He had stood besides Bilbo through his return home, had seen him both rise and fall in the regard of his fellow Hobbits who respected him but thought him mad at the same time. He had witnessed Frodo's birth and the deaths of his parents. He had seen him being passed around his relatives until finally Bilbo had taken the boy in. He had seen them grow closer, become a family.

He had seen Bilbo wither and brush along the edges of madness under the influence of Sauron's Ring.

He had seen Frodo almost doom the entire world for the same reason.

A heavy hand, roughened by years spend working at a forge, landed on his shoulder. "They are gone. Are you ready to let go now, my child?"

The voice was deep and rumbling. It called to mind the image of a rockslide upon the mountain side. It was a soothing sound.

Even though he had heard it only once before, he knew immediately who this voice belonged to. There were only so many out there who would hold conversations with the dead after all. Even fewer were the numbers of those who could. He proved himself to be right when he finally tore his gaze away from the ocean and turned around.

Besides him stood Mahal, his Maker and the Maker of all dwarves, in all his grandeur. He was smiling at Thorin through his long, thick, silver beard. The beads that were interwoven in it all differed in size and material and glowed in the morning sunlight. But even though the Valar's golden eyes were warm, his presence did nothing for the ice that had settled in Thorin's chest.

"I did this to them." His voice creaked from deep-seated regret and self-loathing. It was a thought he had held for far too long and to put it to words now was liberating, but it also made in vulnerable. He took a deep, calming breath and released it with a shudder. "I did this to them", he repeated, this time with more strength to his voice. "To Bilbo more so then to Frodo, I'll admit. But in the end it was the Ring that broke them and there is no one more to blame for its finding than me." When no answer came forth, he continued. "It was me who took Bilbo from his home and across half of Arda to the Misty Mountains. Even worse, I did not protect him there. He fell and I did nothing to stop it and when he returned by pure, unadulterated luck, the shadow was already upon him. I never even saw it, to absorbed I was with my own problems to see what burdened my companion. No, I shall never be ready for I shall never deserve to step into my ancestors halls. Not when it were my actions that left these two brave and pure souls so tarnished."

"My child, you are not the first dwarf to refuse to enter my halls. It was to be expected, I suppose, with how stubborn I made you. Yet, I had never thought I would see the day where one of mine would refuse his rest for the sake of the souls of my wife's children." There was a hint of pride in his maker's quiet rumble. Pride for what, Thorin, in his grief, could not hope to understand.

"Let me put your mind at ease in this one point, at least. You are right in so far that the touch of Sauron lays dark shadows upon the souls of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. Remind yourself, however, that they have been accepted into Valinor and will be cured of all ailments there. It will take time but there is yet more goodness within them then evil. They will heal."

"Do not judge yourself so." Someone new interrupted from his other side. The voice was beautiful and as Thorin turned around he saw that the woman it belonged to was no less so.

Her dress was the colour of rich green leaves and her straw blond hair was so long, that it spilled down her back onto the floor in gleaming waves. Upon her head rested a crown woven of ivy and vibrant flowers. Bilbo would have known the name of each of them and likely scolded him for not knowing a single one. He could almost see the indignant Hobbit in his mind, shaking his head and sighing at him, exasperated. 'How you survived this long, I will never understand', he would have said. 'I bet you'd eat poisonous mushrooms thinking they were truffles if I didn't watch out for you!'

When the woman move to take her place to the right of Mahal, Thorin noticed two more peculiar things about her appearance. The first was that she was barefoot, and that wherever her feet touched the earth small flowers and grasses sprouted to life. The second was the single wooden bead he could see in her hair. Where before Thorin had thought the woman barren of all jewellery, once she turned around he could not help but notice the delicate ornament. It had been craved with care from a dark wood, inlaid with small gemstones and then polished to a shine. Now it fixated the two simple braids that ran from her temples to the back of her head.

Even though the choice of material was unusual, its purpose was obvious to Thorin: It was a wedding bead.

"Lady Yavanna", Thorin said in realization, for it was who she was. The Green Lady, Valar of all Flora and the Wife of Mahal.

"Your empathy for these children of mine does you honour, Thorin Thrain's son. But do not burden yourself with guilt for their fate. It was the destiny of Bilbo Baggins to find the Ring and it was Frodo's destiny to destroy it. You were merely an instrument in ensuring they would walk their intended paths. Now that the deed is done and the world is forever rid of Morgoth's Shadow they are as free as every other being in Arda, and so are you."

"Destiny it might have been", said Thorin, "and I might be tempted to believe it. Yet, there is no path I can take and no penance I could suffer that would absolve me from what I did when the Gold Madness held me in."

"He forgave you", reminded Mahal.

"I was dying and he is a good soul. No good dwarf holds grudges with the dead and no good Hobbit would either. I shall never know if he would have forgiven me had I lived."

In the following silence Yavanna took the time to study Thorin's face closely. The dead dwarven King was one again watching the ocean. There were tears in his eyes but Thorin refused to let them fall.

"What would you do for a chance to know?" she asked after a while. Though the question had been quiet, ot broke the dwarf out of his melancholic contemplation with a jerk.

"What?"

"If there was a way for you to know, would you seek it? If there was a chance to make amends, would you take it?"

This time when he answered Thorin's tone was raw and almost angry. "My Lady, I would do anything, give anything, to undo what I did. I wish I had never..." he trailed off. "But as you can see, I am dead. There is nothing that I can do that I have not tried already. No, all I can do as I am now is watch my friends as they yet live and be useless as they suffer."

There was compassion in the Lady's tone when she answered, but it was a distant sort of emotion, as if she could only understand Thorin's pain in the most abstract sense.

"Yes, it is true that you are no longer among the living, and I must say I am glad for it for I could not speak to you otherwise. You are truly a curious dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield. Yes, my husband," she said as she turned to Mahal, "I do believe you chose correctly."

Once more looking at the so titles 'curious dwarf', she continued. "My husband and I have a proposition for you, Once-King." She paused as if to make sure she had his full attention, then she said; "There is an object of little power but of great beauty and importance that I wish retrieved from Arda. However, my children - the Ents - are in ill-fitted to the task and any direct intervention with the affairs of living souls is forbidden to us Valar. In addition, circumstances have since made it impossible for the artefact to be recovered without repercussions."

Thorin could not imagine where Yavanna was going with this. It was true that, since he was dead and therefore exempted from the 'no interference with the living' rule, the Valar could intrude on his business to their hearts content, though they had never done so before. Be that as it may, him being dead also made him useless for any sort of task in the living world, as he had had to admit to himself years ago.

"So we will set before you a Quest, Thorin Oakenshield. You will be send back into the world of the living, to a time where the retrieval of my artefact was still possible. We are granting you a second chance with this, but whether it is used well will solely depend on you." Thorin stared at the Valar with open shock. Surely he had misheard? His mouth fell open but he could not speak. It was too much, too many conflicting emotions warring for the upper hand within him. Hope, fear, grief, joy, anger...

He had not yet collected himself when Mahal took the word. "Your journey will be long and hard. On it, you will find allies old and new as well as enemies. You will face tragedy and loss, hurt and despair. However, if you can prove yourself stronger then the hardships you shall face, this road might just lead you to the redemption you so crave."

"Now, Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, second of your name, will you accept the Quest we bestow on you?"

Even with his mind in disarray as it was, there could only be one answer. "If there is a chance, even the slightest one, then I will take it."

Both Valar smiled and Yavanna began to hum softly. Her form seemed glow and light danced in her eyes like rays of sunshine falling through the roof of a mighty forest. Slowly she raised her hands towards the rising sun and when she lowered them again, she was holding a tiny crystal flower that glowed a like a dying ember. She smiled at him and stepped forward. "Take this with you. In time you shall know why it was given," she said as she laid the flower into Thorin's hands. It was a small, delicate thing and felt strangely warm to the touch. Thorin had to take care not to damage it when he stored it into one of his pockets. The Lady smiled and stepped back. "You walk with my blessing."

In her place, Mahal stepped forward, both hands clasping Thorin's shoulders as he brought their foreheads together. The face of his maker seemed ageless. Not a single wrinkle marred his bronze skin, only a few lines of laughter were around his golden eyes. The youthful face should have clashed with the length of his beard but somehow it only seemed fitting. Mahal's skin felt like liquid heat as he touched him. "I, too, shall bestow a gift upon you," and from the folds of his cloak the Valar produced a horn craved from plain grey stone. "Use this when all other paths are bared and help will find you. You travel with my blessing." Thorin accept the gift with gratitude and stored it away as well. Mahal nodded in satisfaction and stepped backwards with a small smile twisting his beard.

"With this now go, child of stone, change what was but do not expect to find all the same as you once did." Yavanna's and Mahal's voices mingled together as if slowly becoming one voice. "Go now Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the mountain. May your past become your present."

Darkness spread across his vision and then swallowed him whole. He saw nothing and could only hear their voice echoing in his ears as he lost consciousness. His last thought was that he never got to ask what it was that was supposed to retrieve for the Lady Yavanna.

oOo

Blood was running the cold stones in rivulets. It had sunken into the earth and turned the glen into a muddy terrain. In the sky, crows were circling the field. Thorin stood there surrounded by the bodies of those who had fallen. The battle was over. They had won. Yet, Thorin felt no elation, only bone deep weariness. He felt hollow as he stared at the corpses that littered the ground. Blood was clinging to his skin like war paint. It seemed to be everywhere. So much death, so much bloodshed. What would he not give to see something other than red, to taste something other than iron?

With heavy steps Thorin moved across the battlefield, passing by the corpses of dwarrows and orcs alike. He knew it to be untrue but here, in this valley near drowning in blood, they all seemed the same to him. Thorin was aware that he was well past his limit. He was still a growing dwarf, a child, no matter how one chose to look at him and this battle had taken everything he had to give and then kept taking. He could barely stand. Had he stopped moving then, he would have dropped like a stone and likely not woken up again. So he kept on walking further.

Something glinted in the distance, reflecting the sunlight. He would have thought it some piece of armour or maybe a discarded weapon lying on the soaked earth – for there was no shortage of either – had it not been for the golden tint the glittering light held. He frowned. In the back of his mind, something told him that this was important. He changed his direction.

Once he reached that which had grabbed his attention, he bend down and gently picked it up. It was a bead. Such a tiny thing. His frown deepened. Thinking through the haze of exhaustion was difficult but... he knew this bead. A strangled sound escaped him. Of course he knew this bead. He had crafted it himself over twenty years ago. It lacked the finesse he had acquired since; just a simple bronze pearl engraved with a sun. It had been his present to Frerin on his twentieth birthday and had seen it in his brother's hair every day since. Frerin would have never left it behind by choice. A sudden feeling of foreboding dread swept away the fog around his thoughts. His brother. Where was his little brother?! He whirled around, frantic eyes searching the corpses that littered the ground.

"Frerin!" He shouted and listened as his voice echoed across the battle field. It was drowned out almost immediately by the screams of the dying and those seeking to aid them. If he could have speared the breath, Thorin might have cursed.

"Frerin! Naddith!" Thorin's cries rose with in volume as he received no answer. "Frerin!" His gaze swept over the fallen hoping and fearing to see his little brother amongst them. His heart was hammering in his ears. The adrenaline was back, banishing away every last dreg of hurt and exhaustion. It would be a short-lived blessing. Thorin needed to hurry. He managed a few steps further south before something stopped him in this tracks. His eyes widened and a pained, half-choked sound escaped him.

Beneath the black-bloodied corpse of an armour clad orc he had caught a glimpse of soft, golden hair.

"No..." The word that fell from his lips, was no more than a breath. He shook his head in denial, then he broke out into a run, hoping against hope that he was not too late. He reached the fallen orc, fell to his knees and immediately starting to push the foul smelling body off. Beneath the orc caught sight of the still form of his younger brother.

"Naddith," Thorin whispered. He reached out with careful fingers and caressed Frerin's cheek. His skin was snow-white and cold as ice. It was painted a strange mixture of red and black, blood both orcish and dwarven colouring it like a canvas. Most of it appeared to be Frerin's own. He was not moving.

"No. No no no. NO! Frerin, brother, please don't do this to me." Thorin grasped his brother by the shoulders and shook him lightly. "Wake up!"

Nothing happened. Frerin's eyes remained closed, his body unresponsive. Under the armour it was near impossible to see if his chest was moving with breath. Thorin tried once more, panic creeping up on him and this time he was shaking a little harder. "Frerin, wake up!" Tears where burning in Thorin's eyes, blurring his vision and he wiped at them angrily. His breath was coming out in short pained gasps that had nothing to do with his own injuries.

This could not be. He could not have fought his way through and survived this bloodshed only to find that Frerin had...That his brother had...

A small groan escaped the still dwarf's bloodied lips. Whatever air there had been left in Thorin's lungs, left it with a cry of hope. He was alive. Frerin yet lived. There was still hope. Thorin lowered Frerin back down to the ground and stood.

"Help!", he shouted. "Help! I need a healer!" But even as he shouted he knew it would be no use. They were too far away from where the centre of the battle had been. If there were any healers at all heading in their direction they would not reach them in time. Still, he had to try. He screamed for help, as loud as he could. Again and again until his voice turned hoarse. No one heard him and when his eyes fell once more on Frerin's lips, slightly parted and letting out shallow breathes and pained moans, Thorin had to admit to himself that if anyone was going to save his brother, it was going to be him.

He brushed the tears that still blurred his vision out of his eyes and knelt down to set to work. Despair filled him as he first noticed the true extend of his brother's wounds. "Prioritize," he told himself. Shallow cuts and broken bones could be worried about later. No, what alarmed Thorin the most where the three arrows protruding from his brother's chest and the oozing wound on his forehead. It look as if it might have been inflicted by a mace and as Thorin took a closer look, he caught a glimpse of a something white. The skull was visible, he realised with a start. That settled it. Head-wound first.

He ripped of what was left of his cloak, bunched it into a ball and pressed it to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. "Come on now, brother. Wake up," he murmured, unsure if it would not be more of a kindness for his brother to stay unconscious but unable to bring himself to care. He needed to see his brother awake to reassure himself that they would both see another sun rise in the morning."You are stronger than this. This bloody field can't take you from us, I won't let it."

Thorin kept on the pressure as well as the soft murmurings and miraculously, after a short and panic-filled while, Frerin's blue eyes flickered open. They were glazed over with pain and and it was clear the focusing on what was before him took all strength that was left within Frerin's broken body.

"T-Tho...rin." Frerin said the name in a broken voice even as his lips pulled into a weak smile.

"I am here, naddith. I'm right here. " Thorin said. A tremor ran through his frame making his voice unsteady. His right hand that he had been using to hold himself up over the ground found Frerin's cold left and laced their fingers together. He leaned forward so that his little brother could have a clear view of his face.
"I-I'm ..." Frerin took a few feeble breaths that sounded painful.

"Help! We need a healer!" Thorin cried one more time, looking up and around, frantically trying to find somebody who could help. There was no one. Nothing had changed. He was still on his own, on the far side of the battlefield, with his brother whimpering in pain and slowly bleeding out besides him. Slowly dying. The realisation hit Thorin with the pain of a burning sword piercing his back. Frerin would die if he could not get him to a competent healer in time and the chances of that happening where...

"Th-o...or..." Thorin hushed his brother, trying and failing to keep his dread out of his voice. He felt like dying himself. Could it be that he had found his brother still breathing, only to witness his life slip away form him? Could fate truly be so cruel? "Be silent, naddith," he choked out. "You need to safe your strength."

"I...I'm ...sc-a...red." Thorin felt ice-cold fingers squeeze his heart as he looked into his brother's fear filled eyes, still hazy from the pain. He swallowed. "T-There is nothing to be scared of, Tahel. You will be all right." Thorin tried to keep his voice steady but the horror over his epiphany was clawing at his heart. Fresh tears where obscure his vision once more, and this time he let them fall freely. He did not have the strength left to hold them back. Still, he had to at least try to reassure his little brother. Even if there was nothing else he could do anymore. He let the blood soaked cloak fall to the ground. The bleeding had stopped but Thorin feared that it was only because Frerin's body did not have any blood left to bleed. He sat up and pulled his little brothers head into his lap. "Everything will be all right. I've got you."

Thorin raised his head, looking around for any kind of aid. "Someone help us! Please!" Thorin sobbed, this time so quiet, he doubted even Frerin heard him.
"I -I.." Frerin's voice had gotten even frailer. Thorin looked back down towards his brother. His shoulders were trembling, shaking with ill-concealed sobs. Frerin on the other hand lay perfectly still.

Thorin's trembling left hand was caressing Frerin's blood matted hair, his right once more holding onto the dying dwarves ice-cold left. "I ...d-do ...n...ot..." Fear and despair were clearly visible on his brother's face and Thorin felt like his world was breaking apart in front of him. Frerin's breathing was becoming even more laboured. "...w-want... t...to ...die." Tears gathered in Frerin's eyes and rolled down sideways over his blood smeared cheeks, vanishing into his hair.

Thorin felt as if someone had taken the heart out of his chest, pierced it with a thousand needles, rolled it in salt and then put it back. The tears that where already rolling down his cheeks increased in number and a wrenched sob broke free from his chest.

"You will not die!" Thorin shouted in denial. The last bits of his rational mind leaving him in his grief. "You cannot die! No! I refuse it! By Mahal's name, live! Please." Thorin chocked out. "Please. Don't leave me alone."
"T-Tho...ri...n" Frerin fought to get the words past his lips. Thorin sobbed as he clung to his brother. He knew what he had wanted to say.
"Me too." Thorin choked out as he kissed Frerin's forehead. A weak smile pulled on Frerin's lips so unlike his usual broad and cheerful grin. "Thank..." Slowly his eyes slipped shut.
"NO! Don't! Stay awake, Tahel! Please!" Thorin begged as he pulled Frerin up higher into his lap. "Don't! Please! You cannot do this to me! Wake up!" But Frerin did not rouse at Thorin's pleas. He drew one more rasping breath, then another and then, there was nothing. Frerin, son of Thrain drew his last breath in his brother's arms.

A roar of anguish tore itself from Thorin's throat. He could feel himself shatter as Frerin's heart ceased to beat. He cared not for the tears that were now sliding freely down his cheeks nor for the sobs that wrecked his frame. He was shaking from the force of his grief. Another cry of broke free from him, this one louder than any before, as he rocked his little brother's body in his arms. He screamed his grief and despair to the sky as loud as he could manage with his broken voice. He screamed so that even the Valar might hear, and so they would know what pain they had brought upon Arda by taking this light from its plain so soon.

When his voice was gone Thorin buried his face in Frerin's sodden hair and cried. Underneath the dirt and blood there was still a faint smell of leather, wood and cranberries. The life that once had been. He squeezed his eyes shut, no longer able to stand the sight of Frerin's mangled body. He was so still in his arms. Cold and unmoving. It was wrong to see his brother like this. Frerin had never been able to sit still, always fidgeting.
He didn't know for how long he cried. Frerin's body was growing even colder, the last bits of life's warmth leaving him forever. "I'm so sorry, Ibrizinlêkh." Thorin croaked, his voice hoarse from his crying and shouting, as he clutched his dead brother close. Carefully but with shaking hands, Thorin brushed his brother's hair out of his face.

Frerin had been their sun. He had been the only thing that could make their grandfather smile aside from the gold, even if only for a second. He had managed to pull their father out if his dark thoughts of dragon fire and crushing responsibility. He had been able to make their sister Dís, ever one to worry, forget the prospects of their bleak future. He managed ... had managed to lift Thorin's out of his darkest moods with nothing but his mere presence. His laughter had warmed them even in the darkest days. No fire could ever have competed with the warmth his little brother had been able to spread.

Thorin still remembered when his father had handed him Frerin just after his birth. Still remembered Frerin's tiny weight of when he held him in his arms for the first time. He had listened to his brother as he took the earliest breaths of his life. Now he had held him in his arms as he had died, no more breaths to take, no more jokes or laughs, no more cries and no more pouts. He would never hear his brother call his name again, never be teased by him again. He would no longer hear his joyous laughter, never see that mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He would never again be awoken by Frerin sneaking into his room at night after a nightmare. Thorin's little baby brother was gone, the one he had sworn to protect. He had failed.

Numbly Thorin bend down to place a kiss to the forehead of his brother's corpse, then lay down and curled up on the cold earth next to him. It was where they would be found later the next day.

Later the healers would tell Thorin that there was nothing that could have been done for his brother. They would tell him that he did all he could and not to place the blame on himself where it didn't belong. That he should celebrate his victory over Azog the Defiler with the people, not wallow in sadness in the back of a healer's tent. They would say their "We are sorry"'s and "We grief with you"'s but their words would not register.

It would take Thorin many years to realize that he had lost far more than a brother on that day.

oOo

Thorin's eyes snapped open, tears trailing down his cheeks. He sucked the air into his lungs as fanatically as if he had just been submerged in the depths of an ocean. It felt like retaking his first breath. He squeezed his eyes shut as the tears continued to flow down his cheeks. It had been a long time since he had last dreamed of Frerin. He had pushed the death of his little brother to the furthest corner of his mind. The last time he had remembered his death and allowed himself to endure the pain that came with it had been before he had embarked on his quest to reclaim Erebor, which had led to even more pain and death. Fíli's and Kíli's laughing faces appeared in his mind. He clenched his hands into fists as he tried to banish the dark thoughts that threatened to consume his mind.

He opened his eyes and stared at the roof of a tent. A confused frown appeared on his face. He remembered standing at the Grey Havens watching the boat disappear in the distance. The maker and the queen of the earth had been standing by his side. He could still hear their words ringing in his ears as he slowly sat up. He had been laying on a cot inside a tent. The tent was sparsely decorated. Furs were hanging on the linen walls to keep the cold at bay. A wooden chest was standing in the corner next to a small wooden desk that looked like it would collapse if one more scroll was placed onto it. Thorin couldn't remember how he had gotten here.

Also curious was the fact that his hands were made of bones and flesh, no longer the silvery smoke-like substance that his body had become after he refused to enter Mahal's halls. He stared at his hands in wonder. He flexed each finger slowly and watched as his muscles moved beneath his skin. He didn't understand how or why he was solid once more when he hadn't been for all the years that he wandered Middle-earth so far. Carefully he reached his hand out towards the thick furs he had lain beneath while he had slept. Gently his hand stroked through them. He could feel them. He could feel every single hair tickling his fingers as his fingers trailed across the fur. He could touch it without his hands going through them. He had been unable to touch anything in the living word for the last 80 years, so why should he be able to do so now, all of a sudden.

Slowly he pulled the covers back and stood up. His gaze continued to stray over the items laying scattered in the tent. His heartbeat stopped for a moment as his eyes landed on the armour laying next to the cot he had been sleeping on. He felt ice fill his veins as he saw the heavy iron armour. Dark grey plates with the Durin crest engraved into the centre. The heavy, square helmet with tiny slits for the eyes was laying next to it. Almost as if he was in trance, did he move towards the desk he had noticed before. A map was spread out beneath the scrolls. A map of Azanulbizar. That wretched valley where so many lost their lives. Where thousands of Dwarrows had fallen by the hands of Orcs and where his little brother had lost his life. The place of the Battle of Azanulbizar.

With suspicion growing in his mind, he grabbed a tunic and trouser from within the chest and hastily put them on. He didn't spare the time to bind the laces of his heavy boots as he was already walking could see tents upon tents were set up on the uneven ground. Dwarrows of all clans mingled between them, sharpening their weapons underneath the blazing sun. A guard was standing beside the entrance of his tent. Hethin was his name and Thorin remembered seeing his corpse among the fallen. He had died by an orcish arrow that had pierced his throat. He noticed Thorin watching him and nodded once. With a blank mind Thorin nodded back. He could see him. Nobody had been able to see him in the last 80 years. He tore his gaze away from the dwarf whose corpse he had seen lying in his own blood after the battle. A battle that, apparently, hadn't happened yet.

'May your past become your present.' The final words of Mahal and Yavanna rang in his ears as he stared at the dwarrows that would fight tomorrow, many of them would fall. Thorin took a staggering step backwards. He had returned to life! And not only that, he had been send back to the past. 'Would you want to go back and change things?' Mahal's words rang in his mind. He had a second chance. He could make things right. He could save so many people from so much pain. He could save Dís from her anguish as she held the bodies of Fíli and Kíli in her arms. He could watch them grow once more and prevent their death on the battlefield in front of Erebor's gates. He might even be able to stop Lake-Town from being consumed by dragon fire. He could save Bilbo from the corruption the ring had caused over the years. He could make sure that little Frodo would never have to carry that burden. He might even be able to influence the battles that had taken places years after his death, pave the path for Aragorn's reclaiming of Gondor. But most importantly right now, he could save his little brother's life. Frerin's laughing face flashed in front of his eyes.

He knew it was a fool's hope but he took a deep breath and started running, rushing past the tents and the armoured dwarrows mingling about. He vaguely remembered the layout of the camp and as he dodged a dwarf carrying heavy battle axes a flagpole came into view that he knew was close to where he needed to be. Some of the dwarrows he passed were calling out to him but he ignored them. Voices that he had long since forgotten were calling greetings. Voices whose speakers would fall tomorrow. He cared about them but in this very moment he cared only for one.

He made a sharp turn towards the right, past a colourful tent and nearly ran into a dwarf who was carrying a heavy basket full of loafs. Breakfast. Thorin called a quick apology over his shoulder in Khuzdul and continued running. When the dark blue tent came into view, he recognized it instantly. His steps grew slower until he came to a full stop a few meters in front of the entrance. His heart squeezed painfully as he thought of what awaited him inside. However, before he could decide whether or not to step inside, somebody walked out of the tent.

Frerin looked just the way he had preserved him in his memory. Thick, golden hair that spilled over his shoulder in what appeared to be an untameable mess. It looked like as if he had just rolled out of bed. Two strands of hair were braided and clasped together at the back of his head with the bead Thorin had made him. They had seen better days and were becoming loose. In comparison to the bird nest that was his hair, Frerin's beard was almost neat. Three claps were holding the short beard together or rather preventing it from becoming just as much of a mess as his hair was. His dark red tunic was rumpled as if he had slept in it, which he most likely had. A sword was hanging on the left side of his thick, runes engraved leather belt and a quiver with grey feathered arrows was hanging on his right. A bow was slung over his left shoulder. His gaze was locked onto the sky where a hawk was flying through the sky circling above them. He remembered that it had been a dream of Frerin's to fly through the sky as if he had wings of his own. Only when the hawk disappeared in the distance did Frerin's gaze stray from the sky and return to his immediate surroundings. His eyes, a deep ocean blue but still a shade lighter than his brother's, landed on Thorin. A wide smile broke out across his features, lightening his face with joy. He was almost burning with life.

"Good morning, nadad." He called and, when Thorin failed to return his greeting, a worried frown passed over his features as he took in Thorin's dark expression. After he thought for a second a guilty glint hushed through Frerin's eyes. Which was what shook Thorin out of his stupor. With determined steps he made his way over to his little brother.

"If you're still mad about the frog incident, I already-" Whatever else Frerin had wanted to say about the frog he had put in Thorin's soup the day before was cut off as Thorin pulled his brother into a bone crushing embrace. He chose to ignore the sword pommel that dug painfully into his hips. Instead he relished in the warmth of Frerin's body in his arms.

Frerin had frozen in confusion at Thorin's sudden display of affection. He returned the hug hesitantly, utterly confused as to why his usually so emotionally repressed older brother was clinging to him in public. Thorin's arms only tightened around Frerin as he felt his brother hug him back. Frerin was warm, he could feel his chest rise and fall with every breath he took. His little brother was alive. He felt tears gather. As he buried his face in his brother's shoulder, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

"Nadad? Thorin?" Frerin asked softly, worry evident in his voice but Thorin was in no state to offer any sort of reassurance. Instead he only clung onto Frerin tighter. With horror Frerin realized that Thorin was trembling and that he could feel a wetness spreading on his shoulder. Thorin was crying. His big brother never cried. He had not been seen shedding tears at their mother's deathbed, nor after they had lost their home. He had not wept when their grandfather's head had been presented to them with the name 'Azog' craved into his forehead. Dís and him were the ones who cried and leaned on Thorin when they did. Thorin was their safety and comfort, their safe harbour in the storm. Now Thorin was the one crying and Frerin didn't know what to do, except returning the hug as tightly as he could and glaring at anybody who looked at them.

"It's all right. Everything's fine, nadad. You're all right." Helplessly, Frerin started to murmur reassurances hoping that somehow they would work. Thorin clung to him for what felt like hours but could have been no more than a few minutes. When Thorin finally stopped trembling, he took a reluctant step back as if he didn't want to let go of him. His hands were curling around Frerin's arms as he gently rested his forehead against him. Thorin's eyes were closed and Frerin could see the tear-tracks on his brother's cheeks where they disappeared into his beard.

"What happened, nadad?" Frerin asked. He was shaken as well. He had never before seen his brother break down this way. The worried feeling he had felt like swallowing a cartload of iron ore. Then Thorin's eyes opened and Frerin was horrified by the pain and sadness he could see in them. His big brother's eyes were bloodshot as if it had not been the first time he had cried today.

"It's nothing, Tahel." Thorin's lips twitched slightly as the nickname left his lips. There was a disbelieving kind of wonder on his face that Frerin couldn't explain to himself. Still, Frerin was not sure who Thorin was trying to fool but it was not going to work on him.

"If that was nothing then I'm an elf." Frerin deadpanned and, as expected, Thorin scowled at the mention of Elves. A small bit of weight left Frerin at the clear expression of dislike for anything elfish.

"Tell me, nadad." Frerin reached out and tucked sharply on one of Thorin's braids.

"It was just a dream." Thorin said after a moment of silence. Now it was Frerin's time to scowl.

"That was not just a dream, stop acting like such an Abanjable and tell me." Thorin arched an eyebrow at the insult but otherwise held his tongue. Frerin sighed and then looked at Thorin with his most pleading expression. Huge eyes and pouting lips. It had helped him escape quite a few punishments over the years and had often gotten him his will in the past.

"That hasn't worked in years, Tahel." Thorin said with a small chuckle. Frerin pouted all the more and then added in his most pleading and vulnerable voice: "Please?"

Thorin groaned at the sight and spoke, "Fine, it was a nightmare."

"That is not a clarification." Frerin said dryly as he watched his brother closely. Thorin's posture was stiff and, though his eyes were guarded now, Frerin could still see the pain in them. He raised his hand and laid it on his brothers shoulder.

"Please, nadad." Frerin asked softly. Thorin closed his eyes and pressed his forehead harder against Frerin's before he took a single step backwards. With their foreheads no longer touching, Thorin turned his head to the side, eyes distant. He saw his brother take a deep breath.

"You died." Thorin had to force himself to say the words and they felt as if they were torn from his throat. It hurt to say them out loud. Just as it had hurt when he had to tell Dís that their brother had fallen. He could still remember her cries when he had held her in his arms. Trying to comfort her had been near impossible with his own heart shattered as it had been.

"Thorin, please look at me." Frerin asked gently. Thorin kept his head turned unable to look into his brother's face without risking another breakdown. Careful fingers, rough from the hard work at the forges, softly touched the side of his face. With barely any force at all, they turned Thorin's head so that he had to meet Frerin's eyes. Gently Frerin rested his forehead against Thorin's.

"I won't die." Thorin nearly could not resisted the urge to either start crying or laughing at the unfairness of it all. Frerin had died. He had been wounded by an Orc and left to bleed out on the blood drenched battlefield.

"Nadad, I promise I won't. By Mahal's silver beard, I swear to you that I will not die." Frerin swore earnestly. A promise to be so easily broken by an orcish blade and a single moment of distraction. Frerin frowned as he noticed that the pain still had not left his brothers eyes.

"I won't die, after all you wouldn't let me die before you've gotten payback for the frog, right?" Frerin stated with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. But Thorin nearly did not notice as the words resonated within him. He would not let Frerin die. Not a second time. He would not be able bear losing him again. He would do everything in his power to ensure that his brother lived to see many more sunrises after the battle.
"Right. I will not let you die." Thorin stated grimly as his hands gripped Frerin's shoulders tightly.
Thorin took a step back before asking, "Where is father?" He would not let his little brother die, even if it took going against their father's, the king's orders.

"Um- In his tent? Why?" Frerin answered, slightly befuddled at the sudden change of topic. But before he could ask another question, Thorin had already whirled around and resolutely walked away into the direction of the king's tent. Frerin calling his name behind him was resolutely ignored.
"Thorin, I hope you are not planning to do what I think you are planning to do!" He called after him but again received no answer.

"Mahal help us! You're not planning on just walking right up there and storming into his tent, are you? Thorin!" Frerin exclaimed as he hastily followed after his elder brother. "He is in the middle of a meeting you can't just barge in there! Are you listening to me?! Thorin!"

Frerin threw his hands up in surrender as Thorin simply continue to ignore him and briskly walked on. His ridiculous brother would have to deal with Thrain's shouting on his own. He would not get involved. He had already been shouted at yesterday for the arrow-to-the-king's-advisor's-butt incident. Neither Fundin nor Thrain had been exactly pleased with him. He had no intention to get shouted at again. The guards outside the King's tent shared a confused glance as the crown prince rushed towards them. Before they even had a chance to react, Thorin had already stormed past them and into the tent. Frerin sent them an apologetic glance before walking around the tent. He made himself comfortable on the ground in a positon that allowed him to peek through a hole in the back of the tent.

oOo

A.N: Khuzdul translation - Nadad: Brother - Tahel: laugh of all laughs - Naddith: little brother - Ibrizinlêkh: sunshine - Abanjable: Stonehead