His Brother's Maker
Cruel is the strife of brothers.
– Aristotle
We are not only our brother's keeper; in countless large
and small ways we are our brother's maker.
– Bonaro Overstreet
Chapter 1
2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland
Thorin sits outside of his forge gazing into the clear blue sky. A sky that reminds him of a day fifteen years ago. He had been but a small lad at the time, but he remembers it well. He remembers the smoke, the wind, the fire, and, eventually, the screams. He had been out and about that day with his younger brother. They had been forced to drag along their younger cousin, Balin. Balin's mother was convinced that the boy was in need for more fresh air and exercise. That probably saved them on that dreadful day.
2770 Third Age, Spring – Erebor
Balin clung to his legs. The smaller boy was crying. He was too young to truly understand what the three of them were witnessing. Thorin rests his hand on the small dwarfling's wavy, brown hair. The older boy did not begrudge the smaller boy his tears. Thorin could only watch in horror as the golden-red beast roared. The dragon screamed its fury as it flew over Dale before it unleashed more deadly, devastating flames from its massive gullet.
Balin's tears were leaving a wet patch on Thorin's tunic. He could feel Frerin walk up beside him. The two brothers do not look at each other. There is nothing to say. They both know that they cannot go back; there is nothing to go back to.
Thorin places his hand on Frerin's shoulder and squeezes gently. Frerin turns to face his elder brother at that moment. Frerin's blue eyes are wide with fear; his eyes are begging his brother to say that everything will be okay. Thorin just squeezes his shoulder more firmly. Thorin can promise him nothing. He does not want to give his brother hope where there might be none, nor could Thorin speak. His throat was tight with fear. He feared that any attempt to speak would emerge as a quiet squawk or a sob.
The three dwarflings stood there for quite some time. They watch Dale burn. They watch the fell beast enter the halls of their grandfather and king. Smoke, the smell of burning and of death fills the air. The acrid smell burns Thorin's nose and curled his toes.
"Let us go," Thorin says to Frerin, pulling Balin with him as he turns to walk back into the shady shelter of the forest. To walk away from the ledge and all the destruction visible from it.
"We cannot just leave, Thorin!" Frerin shouts.
Turning back Thorin sees his brother's visage full of outrage, shock, and fear.. Tears cling to his lashes and Thorin is struck by how young he was, how very young they both are despite all of our pretending to be grown. They are naught but children and they were meant to stay as such for many more long years. Today, though, Thorin was certain, marked the end of childhood for many of their people. He presses Balin closer to his leg to reassure himself that the small lad was still there and that he was safe..
"We are not leaving, brother. We are simply moving. We must go to where any survivors will go."
Frerin gazes at Thorin skeptically. "And where would that be?" he demands of the elder with a wide-eyed stare.
Thorin thinks quickly. Where would our families likely go as a time like this? If he guesses wrong they might assume that the children had been killed in the dragon fire which was consuming the green pines that grew on the sides of their mountain. "Down the River Running to the Long Lake." That is Thorin's best guess. The river has smooth banks and the lake has boats that will allow the homeless dwarves to flee the area. The boats would allow them to seek shelter further down the River Running, maybe with their ally, Thranduil, in his woodland halls of stone.
With a sigh Frerin joins his elder brother. They walk into the twilight of the trees as smoke filters into the woods. Thorin casts a glance behind. His heart is heavy with worry and he feels distracted. What if nobody escapes the dragon's wrath? What if we are alone and I must care for what is left of my kin? Where will I take them? Can I even keep myself safe? Probably not, much less take care of two other dwarflings. It is about six leagues to the place where the River Running and the Long Lake meet. Thorin hopes that they will find other survivors on the path.
-O-
The walk was uneventful excluding Balin's sullen refusal to walk any further. After that not unexpected development. Frerin and Thorin took turns carrying the tired and upset dwarfling. Balin's fingers are tangled in Thorin's hair and his break was soft, warm, sweet, and even against my ear and neck. Thorin knows that they will have to stop soon. The light is failing and, even though the moon promises to be bright, he cannot force my brother to walk much further today.
"Here," Thorin says, stopping and looking about.
Frerin gave him a puzzled look.
"We stop here," he repeats. "We light a fire so that others can find us, we drink some water, and we sleep."
Frerin simply nods in response. He is too tired to argue with his elder brother, especially if winning means that he has to walk further before he gets to rest.
"Can you light a fire?" Thorin asks his brother. He needs something to do to break that haunted look in his eyes.
Frerin begins doing as his brother asked. Thorin paces rubbing Balin's back while he sleeps. He does not want to risk putting Balin down on the ground lest he wake up. He murmurs softly in Khuzdul. He hopes that they come across others tonight, 'He cannot do this. I cannot take care of others for extended periods of time. I cannot take care of others.' He feels much too young to even care for himself properly even though he is twenty-four.
When the fire is lite Frerin throws himself on the ground by his fledging fire. He groans dramatically before rolling up into a sitting position.
"Stay here, Frerin," Thorin orders as he places a sleeping Balin into Frerin's arms.
"What?! Where are you going?" he demands, glaring up at his brother with his piercing brown eyes.
Thorin wants to be alone. He also wants to walk back up the river. He can walk faster without his brother and cousin. Thorin will be able to see if he can find anyone faster on his own without Frerin and Balin. Frerin's lack of deep concern and worry tells Thorin that he has not yet realized that they might be alone, utterly and completely alone.
Alone. It was the balmy days of summer now. But winter always comes far too soon. The moon is bright as he walks away from the fire that Frerin had built. Now that he is alone he did not need to strong. As soon as Thorin is out of earshot – he can no longer hear his brother's singing – he sits down on a fallen tree. He can hear the sound of the swift flowing river to his right, even without sight the sound is comforting.
Thorin's eyes burn as he begins to cry. He knows that there is hope. He knows that it is likely that some people survived the devastation. There is no guarantee that their families are among them. Hot tears fall and roll silently down Thorin's red cheeks. The events of the day have finally caught up with him. He is just as scared as his younger cousin.
Thorin do not keep track of the time. He just lets time pass until his tears stop flowing. He rises to my feet and wipes his running nose on his sleeve. He feels better and more able to continue walking back towards the only home that he has ever known. The sky to the north glows orange. He can only assume that Dale and her good citizens are still burning.
After only a short time of walking Thorin sees a light through the trees in front of him. Frerin's fire had long since disappeared through the trees. He quickens his pace. Even if they are not family they will be friendly and he might be relieved of my position as leader. Soon the orange glow of fire was bright enough to see who carried the front torch. I broke into a run.
"Fundin!" Thorin shouts, overjoyed to see Balin's father.
Fundin stops were he is standing and peers into the darkness. Thorin runs into him, almost sobbing in relief. If Fundin has made it then the rest of Thorin's family has likely made it out of the doomed mountain.
"Thorin," he says in surprise once he realizes who dwarfling is.
The young dwarf quickly releases his elder. "Is my mother with you? My father? Dís?" the words fall all over each other as Thorin asks.
"Yes, yes, and yes. Your grandfather is with us as well. What of my Balin?" Fundin's words tumble as much as Thorin's just had, his voice cracking on his question.
"He is with Frerin about half a league further down the river." Thorin is busy looking for his mother to take much notice of the relief that registers on his older cousin's countenance.
"Thorin!?"
Thorin turns as he hears his mother's voice. She is shoving her way to her eldest with her daughter in tow. Thorin finds himself enveloped in her embrace which would surely have been tighter if she had not been holding an infant in her arms. Thorin recognizes, belatedly, that she is carrying Dwalin. He briefly wonder where Balin and Dwalin's mother was before those around the young dwarf bombard him with questions.
"Quiet!" Thráin shouts. "Leave my boy be."
The throng of people immediately becomes silent at the authority in my father's voice. Thorin stares up into his father's face when his hand drops heavily on his shoulder.
"My son."
"Adâd."
He squeezes his son's shoulder gently. The same gesture of reassurance and comfort that Thorin had given to Frerin that afternoon.
"Frerin and Balin are further along the river," Thorin tells his father. "They have a fire and are safe."
Thráin gives his son a sad smile and ruffles his hair. "Onward we go! Not much further and we will rest." He strides ahead to join Fundin at the front the party.
Thorin starts to join him, but his mother's hand on his wrist stops him. Neither of them speak, yet, Thorin understands. He scoops up his little sister and joins the parade of dwarves that follow his father. There was no laughter, no stories, and very little talk. All talk was hushed and hurried if it occurred at all.
A cloud of melancholy and sorry hangs over everyone. Thorin desperately wants to ask his mother what happened at the mountain. He even starts to ask a few times; she silences him each time. There are many who he do not see, and just as many who are wounded. Curiosity burns inside his chest, but he will obey his mother's wishes. He will not hear the story tonight and he will just have to deal with that.
2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland
Thorin's leg is jerked from his body and he almost falls from the bench where he is seated. The person who kicked Thorin's leg is swearing at him. Thorin stares up into the face of the man who has done these things. The man is tall, dark, his beard is wild and unkempt so much unlike the beards of my people. Thorin can smell his stench from where he sits. 'A Dunlending.'
"Do you have my order read?" he demands in a thick accent.
Thorin glares up at him. He is sorely tempted to tell him that his order will never be ready and that he can just bugger off. It was embarrassing making farming implements when they are capable of so much more. Thorin holds his tongue – something he has learned since we lived in Erebor all those ages ago.
Thorin rises and returns to his forge. If he makes our position here any more precarious his grandfather might send him away from the family for the safety of our people. The man receives his petty order. Thorin stares into the flames of the coals and remembers dragon fire.
A/N:
In 2786 T.A. where this story begins Thorin is 39, Frerin is 24, Balin is 22, and Dis is 25. During the flashback they are 24, 19, 7, and 10 respectively. There is an equation I found that gives the human age equivalents for Dwarves.
Before the age of Human age of 40 (40 years) Dwarf Age = Human Age / 2. This makes Thorin 19.5 and 12. For adult dwarves – over the age of 40 – the formula is Dwarf Age = (Human Age * 4.2) – 44. A dwarf who is 61 years old is comparable to the human age of 25.
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