This story is AU, there are certain events that will not happen and others that will occur at different times to fit the overall idea of the story. So there are things that in the real Hobbit book don't happen when I'm writing that they happen. This is purely an idea I had, and my first legit AU.
Tolkien owns everything.
Chapter One
He was the son of a Prince. Grandson of a King. He was the brother of an heir. Every dwarf wanted to be him, and every dwarf envied him. There were those that wanted him dead because of this. He had everything any good respecting dwarf wanted. He was the pride of his mother, the confidant of his elder brother, and the trusted son of his father.
But he was so unhappy. It was easy to forget that there was another son beside the power of his elder brother.
He was unhappy. Unhappy that this was his lot.
The is the story of Frerin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and how he found his happiness.
The steady tapping against stone didn't normally drive Frerin insane, but today it did. His temper was extremely short as his brother drummed his fingers against the table. The polished green stone underneath Thorin's fingers reflecting his tense reflection. Frerin didn't smile, like he usually would. He too sat stiffly in his chair, waiting in the almost silent study while in another room their father and grandfather met with the council.
Erebor itself was in an uproar, outside the royal apartments.
Moria had been overrun. The news was a blow to the proud dwarves, priding themselves in their great kingdoms and wealth. Everyone knew that for Moria to fall, something terrible must have happened. Only that morning had the news arrived. The ravens said that the survivors were coming, a good fortnight from Erebor.
Now the debate was held whether or not to retake the dwarven kingdom. Whether or not it was worth the risk of sending an army against the orcs that now were running rampant in their sacred halls. Whether or not they wanted to face the wrath of a fire demon, known to elves as a Balrog.
Thorin rose to his feet impatiently, taking to pacing the length of the room while staring off into space. Frerin watched him do this before turning his gaze to the fire. It was winter, the season being one of the worst in many long years. He could only imagine how miserable the survivors traveling towards them felt. The dwarflings would not take well to the weather, and he worried for their safety. Dwarflings were so hard to come by, cherished along with their women.
"I cannot believe that they are not sending our army to reclaim our halls before the enemy becomes too far entrenched in city!" Thorin finally growled. He had always been the more passionate one, while he sat calmly, watching his brother fume.
"You know what lies in the halls now," Frerin murmured impatiently. "Would you risk the lives of our soldiers against a demon of fire that so few are able to kill?"
Thorin shot him an annoyed look, but remained silent, a sign that Frerin had made a point. Frerin's eyes landed on the door, waiting for their father and grandfather to sweep in and declare the verdict. Still, they were left in silence, left to the torture of their own thoughts. Frerin, despite not wanting to work himself up over the whole thing, found his mind drifting to the survivor's again. He could not help but worry about their welfare. They were now homeless, all their possessions lost, and probably many had died.
"When the dwarves of Khazad-dum reach Erebor, they will need places to stay," he mumbled. But Thorin heard him and nodded as well.
"They can always be housed in the unfinished halls near the supply rooms," Thorin said. "I will mention it to father."
Frerin hummed under his breath. "Do you think the Lord of Moria still yet lives?"
Thorin stopped pacing and stared at him, brows pulling together in deep thought. Slowly he sank into his previously vacated chair with a sigh. "If I know Lord Nargeam, he would not willingly leave his halls if it was attacked."
Frerin nodded. Silence settled over them again. Thorin began to drum his fingers in the table and Frerin twitched in annoyance.
By the time their father and grandfather had returned, both brothers had bloody noses and black eyes. Frerin was the more level headed one, but it never stopped him from punching his brother.
For seven days they waited. No army was sent, and Thorin was furious. Along with several members of the council. Yet it was a good thing when the bitterest of storms came to the mountain. There were no empty fireplaces, all blazing brightly as the storm raged outside. Dwarves were hardy, yes, but not untouchable from the cold.
Already several reports had come from Dale of deaths due to the cold weather.
Frerin leaned against the fireplace in his mothers sitting room. The heat from the fire bathing him in blessed warmth, his hands frozen from his time guarding the wall. A duty every dwarf that was part of the army had to fulfill.
"Mahal, boy, step away from those flames before you light your beard aflame!" his mother admonished. Lalin, his mother, gave him a stern look as she lifted her eyes from the report in her hands. Her embroidery laying forgotten at her side. She was a beautiful dwarrowdam. Her dark ebony hair gleamed in the light of the fire, braided elegantly with deep blue sapphires. Lalin groomed her beard so that it was braided with many twists, adding to her looks in a way that was admired and envied.
On the floor beside Lalin was his younger sister, Dis, lazily playing with a small cat he had bought for her from Dale. Dis adored the little animal.
Frerin stepped away from the warmth of the fireplace, sinking into the chair beside it. The heat was not nearly as great and he instantly missed it. Perhaps he would go down to the forges that afternoon and work, while at the same time remaining in a heat filled room.
"Has Thorin finished with his meetings for the day?" she asked, not looking up from the report.
"No. Grandfather is insisting that he sit through all of them," Frerin replied. He did not envy his brother today. Meetings were tedious. Should he ever be king, which was not a chance, he would get down to the point of matters, and get them over with as soon as possible. Dwarven etiquette be damned. At least he never fell asleep in the ones he attended.
Unlike Thorin.
Lalin tutted. "He's going to regret that," she said, speaking of Thror. "Thorin will surely go and let off steam in some destructive manner later."
"Aye, that he will."
Frerin smiled when her eyes landed predictably on him. "Don't you go egging him on. I won't have my sons brawling in the taverns again."
"Why, amad, you speak as though you do not trust us!" he replied in a mocked hurt voice. Lalin sniffed, raising her chin.
"I don't."
"Amad?" Dis said looking up. "Can I go with them?"
"Of course not!" she murmured adamantly. "I'll not have my daughter running off with her brothers to pick fights in taverns. Mahal, it's unheard of. You are a Princess."
Dis's face went from hopeful to scowling before Lalin was even finished speaking. She pouted. Frerin smirked. Though she was their little sister, she caused nearly as much trouble as he and Thorin had when they were but young dwarflings.
Banging on the door interrupted his thoughts and he called for whomever it was to enter. A breathless dwarf entered, bowing to Lalin and Dis respectively before bowing to him.
"Yes?" he asked, having risen from his chair.
"A raven made it through the storm with an urgent message," the messenger said quickly. "The survivors have been snowed in for some days now and they have all but run out of food, they will die, if no aid comes for them. Your grandfather calls for your presence."
Frerin flew from the room, brows drawn together. This was most ill news, indeed. He had worried of this. The storm was one of the longest and cruelest of the winter. By the time he entered his grandfathers study he knew what he was going to do before it was even asked of him.
"Frerin, good," his father said as he burst through the doors. Thorin was standing at the end of Thror's desk while their grandfather sat behind it, a map spread over the surface. Frerin approached them after nodding in acknowledgment to his father and brother.
"I received your message," he breathed as he stood before Thror. "Are we to send a party to their aid?"
Thror looked up, hand stroking his chin. "Only if there are those willing to brave the storm. I will not send out men needlessly-"
"Needlessly!" Frerin cut in, anger taking hold. "They are our kin-"
"Do not interrupt me, boy," Thror growled. "I will not send an army to their aid. But a small group, with supplies, a few warriors. There are children and women with them, I am not so cruel as to leave them to freeze and starve in the wilds." He sternly gazed as his youngest grandson.
Frerin looked down at the desk, slightly abashed. He nodded before looking back at his grandfather.
"I will send Gimlor, and three others. Have supplies- food, blankets, and medicine- gathered. The party will leave as soon as everything is ready."
"With your respect, grandfather," Frerin said, feeling bold despite the hardness in Thror's eyes. "I would also wish to be a part of the group sent."
Thorin made an unhappy sound. "Frerin, that is madness-"
Thrain put a hand on Thorin's arm and his brother stilled with a deep frown of disapproval on his face. Frerin was glad that his father had done that. At the same time he was slightly disappointed. They had no reason for him not to go. He was not an heir. He was just a second son, a welcome but unnecessary addition to their family. Frerin knew without being told that he would be allowed to go.
Thror nodded slowly. "Very well."
Thorin grabbed the front of Frerin's tunic the moment they were beyond the doors of their grandfathers study and slammed him into the wall. His blue eyes were blazing angrily.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?!"
Frerin shoved Thorin back, the momentum and Thorin's strong grip on him sending them rolling to the floor. They struggled for several moments before Frerin- holding Thorin's head against the ground- spoke.
"I will not sit idly by, do not ask me why, but I feel as though I must do this," he said.
Thorin threw an elbow, catching Frerin in the ribs and they rolled again, Thorin rising and pressing his booted foot on Frerin's chest. Thorin would always be the more skilled fighter.
"Why?" he demanded.
Frerin lay panting for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "It's as though I am drawn to them. I can explain it no other way, Thorin. I ask you, as my brother, to trust me in this."
"And if you get yourself hurt- or killed?"
"I will return. You have my word, brother."
Thorin's face went slack and he held out a hand for Frerin. Taking it, he rose, pulling Thorin into an embrace tightly. Before letting go he spoke.
"I will come back, Thorin. I promise."
Wind bit at every area of exposed flesh. The small party of dwarrow made their way through blowing snow and howling winds as they left the safety of the mountain. The pony's kept their heads low as they trudged through the snow, now at their shoulders. In some places the snow was so thick, and frozen that they could walk on the top of it.
Until one of them fell through and had to be dug out, of course.
The group, consisting of ten dwarrows, Frerin included, did not go towards Dale. Instead they went around the city, and deeming the lake to be frozen over good enough, used it as a shortcut towards the last known location of the survivors. Somewhere near the southern borders of Mirkwood.
It took a day to reach Laketown. By then they were all more than ready to receive the warm beds, and hot food from the people there. In the morning they set out again, pulling their fur lined coats tightly about themselves, and drawing the hoods of their cloaks well over their faces. At some point on the second day, the storm grew so bad that Frerin could not see his companions before him, and in a panic had called out to them.
They all agreed to stop for the day, huddling as close together as they could with their two pony's. Frerin couldn't think of a time where he had been more miserable. He could no longer tell what part of him was warm, and which was frozen solid. He could not imagine the state of the survivors, who had spent nearly two weeks out in this weather.
For the next three days they trudged on, nearly losing a pony to the cold, finding that they were several miles off course and so on. By the fourth day, worry turned to dread when they still had not found the party of survivors. They hoped and prayed they had not perished in the storm.
Frerin stumbled through the snow, growing frustrated with each step. They were all cold, Gimlor was sure to lose part of his nose, for it had turned a startling shade of purple, and their own rations were running low. They were honor bound not to touch the food set aside for the survivors. Raising his head he gazed at the wall of trees that made the border of Mirkwood to his right.
They had to be around, somewhere. He prayed to Mahal that they found them before it was too late.
Early the next morning the storm broke and the skies turned clear before the sun had risen. The wind still bit at their skin, but they could see. As they pressed on, the snow glittering like thousands of shining diamonds a dark shape coming from the trees drew their attention.
"Gimlor! Look!"
The shape began stumbling through the snow, waving its arms in the air frantically. The search party hurried towards the person, Frerin drawing to the front. He broke into a run as the figure collapsed in the snow, landing face first, where they lay unmoving. He stumbled, landing on his knees at their side, instantly knowing that it was a dwarf. He was cautious though, slowly turning the dwarf before taking in a sharp intake of air.
The cold air burned his lungs, and his eyes widened. The dwarf, was a dwarrowdam. Her skin, pale as the snow, lips a startling blue while her dark hair stood out starkly in contrast to the paleness of her. He noticed the burns on her skin, running over her face. Her beard was covered in snow crystals. When her eyes opened, he did not look away from the warm brown that met his own. The snow on her face and in her hair reminded him of crystals. She looked as though she were covered in thousands of tiny crystals.
"Please . . ." she rasped, her blue lips were cracked and dry. "Please . . . they're dying . . . don't let my people die."
Frerin noticed her body shake and drew her quickly into the folds of his cloak. She looked so utterly spent that he feared what he would see when they reached the others. "I will not, lady, you have my word," he vowed. "I am Frerin, son of Thrain, son of Thror."
"Neamhain, daughter of Nargeam," she breathed before giving a great shudder and stilling in his arms. Frerin panicked for but a moment before he noticed that she still breathed. He stared down at the dwarrowdam in his arms, shocked and amazed.
Though in his heart he knew that Lord Nargeam was dead, his daughter, Lady Neamhain, lived. And Frerin was determined to keep her that way.
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~filimeala