Okay, so I've never done this before. I have no idea what in Middle Earth I'm doing, but we'll give it a try. Bear with me. Now I love Tolkien, and while I would love to be able to spend hours in his works so I can get everything in this story correct to the merest detail, I just don't have that kind of time. I would much rather spend it writing than doing research.
Enjoy!
"Get out of here, Dwarf scum! You think you're a Prince, do you? You're nothing more than a beggar!" The children hurled rotten fruit along with their insults, but the young dwarf ignored it all. He put a protective arm around his sister and continued on down the road, resisting the urge to even look at their tormentors. A large, lanky lad, braver than the rest, gave chase, still tossing insults and tomatoes. "Is that your little sissy brother?" the boy called, his voice a sickly sing-song. "Did he cry when the dragon took your home? You should have turned to fight instead of run! I thought Dwarves were brave warriors, not weak old women!"
That did it. Frerin spun around, his eyes dangerously hot. "You call us cowards one more time, and it'll be the last thing you ever say," he warned, trying to keep his voice calm and even.
"What are you going to do to me? Run me through with your butter knife? Stab me with your garden rake? You have no weapons!" Obviously, this mortal had no fear, though he should know better than to insult a Dwarf if he valued his life.
Frerin hesitated, but just for a moment. Yes, he didn't have a sword or an axe at his side, but he had any amount of knives. Before he could act, however, his sister grabbed one such weapon from his belt and charged at the teen, roaring, "How dare you call me a sissy little boy!" Her face, livid with rage, could have scared a Nazgul and sent it quaking away. "Say that one more time, why don't you!"
The boy swallowed, unsure if he liked how far this game had gone. "Fine," he said, glancing around the empty town road. "I'm...sorry..."
"Sorry for?" She narrowed her eyes, dragging out the punishment, intending to teach a well-deserved lesson.
"Sorry...for...delaying you so my brothers could sneak around and get their hands on you!" he finished with a grin. Frerin glanced over his shoulder, only to find himself in the shadow of three large brothers, all tall and very strong. They carried crude, possibly handmade, swords, yet the blades were still sharp, if not perfectly balanced. "What are you doing to our little Grim?" one, possibly the eldest (if height was any indication), asked, his lips twisted in a sneer. "It's not very nice of you to torment children smaller than you, dwarfie. That's just not nice at all. And you, little vixen, you were going to tear him apart with a knife?"
Frerin put an arm around his sister, ready to protect her with his fists if need be. "I believe it was your brother who started the fight." He made a mental note never to leave his bed again without at least a sword and a long knife.
"What? Grim? You would never...!"
Grim, like the little beast that he was, nodded sadly. "They're going to cut me up into tiny pieces!" he proclaimed.
"Well, we'll just have to teach these nasty Dwarves a lesson," the oldest brother said, grinning from ear to ear.
Frerin swallowed, pushed Dis behind him, and rolled up his sleeves. "Come and take the beating, you..." he dodged the first sweep of the sword, his dark brown hair swirling around his face. Someone kicked him in the back, and he stumbled forward, desperate to keep his balance. Dis screamed. "Leave her alone!" Frerin roared, spinning around in time to see the flat of a sword blade come to meet his face. It hurt, but what hurt more was the ground when he fell backwards. Someone stepped on his wrist, a booted toe kicked his ribs, and another boy screamed. Frerin roared in pain and struggled to stand.
Wait...was that one of the blasted boys screaming? And metal against metal? Frerin heard movement behind him, but he couldn't see what was going on. The boy standing on his hand was looking at the fight, his eyes wide. He pointed his sword at Frerin's chest, and the dwarf didn't want to see just how far the boy would go. But he couldn't just stay down and wait. The youth wasn't looking at him, so he took the opportunity to put the flat of the blade away and twist his body around, kicking out. As soon as the pressure was gone from off his wrist he stood up to see a black-haired dwarf engaging the other brothers. The newcomer was a skilled swordsman, and it wasn't long before he had disarmed his opponents and sent them fleeing, small cuts dotting their skin - enough to sting and bleed, but not badly enough to scar or cause further damage.
"Thorin!" Frerin cried, scrambling to his feet. "About time you showed up! Where've you been?"
The oldest of the three siblings sheathed his sword and wiped his forehead. "Helping Yurgen in the smithy. What are you two doing here?"
"We wanted to come and see you," Dis stepped closer, looking at her toes. "Grandpapa said we could walk home with you."
Thorin snorted. "I thought Grandpapa would have more sense than that. The townsfolk have no love for Dwarves, and he knows it." At the distress in his sister's face, however, he softened his tone. "But they should leave you alone once they know that you are with me. Come, let's go home. Tomorrow I will buy some tarts for everyone. I have a little extra coin to spend after today's work."
"Oh, good!" Dis danced a little, resting her hands on Frerin's shoulders and jumping up and down.
Laughing, the three-some strolled down the road, leaving a number of crude swords behind them. An old woman sitting outside her house in the sun shook her head at them, but she was the only one who had seen the fight.
"Why do men hate us so much?" Dis asked, her feminine face bright and innocent.
"Because they're too tall, that's why!" Frerin retorted. "They don't like having to stoop down to talk to us. It hurts their back and makes them cranky!"
Thorin opened his mouth to contribute to the situation, but a look from Frerin silenced him. His younger brother knew well how much hate Thorin harbored, and Dis was not a good choice to pour it out upon. With a frown, Thorin bit his tongue lest he begin upon a tirade against men, elves, dragons, orcs, or anyone else who had done his family wrong. In time to come, Dis would realize the injustice they lived under.
On the edge of town, far past the dwellings of men, a small Dwarven settlement could be found. The homes were small, built of rock, grass, wood, and whatever else could be salvaged. It was a poor place, with only about twenty or so little homes dotting the landscape. Small corrals contained shaggy ponies and goats, the occasional chicken, and maybe a cow or two. The dwellings of the remnant of the Dwarves of Erebor, a once mighty people, now brought low.
A small, insignificant house, surrounded by other bland dwellings, marked the home of the King and his family. Nothing distinguished it from the others, no mark of splendor upon the filthy rug that made up the door. And Thror himself did not sit upon a throne inside. Instead, he sat upon a pile of blankets, peering over maps by the light of a small candle. He looked up as his grandchildren entered, a small smile on his face. "Glad to see you are back. Dis, the soup is close to boiling. Better see to it."
With a nod, Dis took off her muddy boots moved into the section of the hut that could barely be called a kitchen. A black pot of stew bubbled over a small fire, and a basket of dirty carrots lay nearby. "Thorin, would you please take these out and wash them?" Dis gestured to the vegetables.
"Yes," Thorin said. "Frerin, you'd better change. Your coat is filthy."
Frerin twisted around to look at his back, which was covered in mud. His forehead wrinkled. "But I don't have another coat!"
"Wear my other one," Thorin sighed, hanging his head as he stepped outside with the basket. Stomping down the muddy road to the nearby creek, he tried to remember when life hadn't been this way. Yes, there once had been wealth and splendor for all. His clothes had once been rich and beautiful, and his family had been happy. But now...now they had sunk to the mud, with no possibility of rising again. And all because of the Dragon. All because the Elven King had refused to help them. Now they were on their own.
Scrubbing the carrots a bit harder than needed, Thorin again repeated his promise. When I am older, I will save my people from this awful place. I will bring them into great halls once more. Someday.
As he hunched over the rippling creek, scrubbing the dirt and grime off the carrots as best he could, Thorin was so deep in his thoughts that he didn't notice the shadows moving along the trees, just across the water. An evil face with gleefully sparkling eyes, peered out at him. The horrible gaze swept over the young dwarf prince, then flickered up to the encampment.
"Ah, well, that's as clean as they'll get," Thorin said softly, shaking water off his hands and trudging back to the house. He never knew he was watched. Thus he was unsuspecting when he woke in the middle of the night to frantic wails and a war cry.