I. Daybreak
He was fifteen when his father one day announced they would go to see the Mirrormere. They departed in a pack of ten dwarves on ten laden ponies. Behind them waved an unsmiling woman, her countenance noble and grave, her belly a soft swell beneath midnight robes of velvet. Tugging at her arm was a young girl with black locks tumbling over her eyes. She begged her mother loudly to join the two, only to be sharply tutted into silence.
The journey took less than a month, but it was a long month, full of silent meals and twanging nerves and jolts of fright when the occasional shrill howl was heard in the distance. No lords welcomed father and son into the halls; rather, the party slipped around the entrance like thieves and traveled over the peaks. Out of the mountains slipped cackles like paper-thin blades to their ears. Son noticed father's tightened fists whenever they could hear the vile occupants beneath their feet, and felt that he should be angry too. On the third morning since arriving at Moria, before the sun had even thought to wake, his father called upon him. Off they dashed to a silent glade, tucked like a secret in the mountains' crock. At its heart, a lake long and oval, its surface preternaturally smooth like a polished sapphire.
His father strode assuredly to its edge while the boy walked with tentative steps behind. He secretly feared that their approach would violate some ancient, unspoken law that demanded such stillness upon the vale. His father, unperturbed by such worries apparently, knelt down on one knee by its glassy edge, and son followed suit on gawky legs.
"Thorin."
"M'lord Thrain?"
His father's mouth cracked as a thin smile snuck upon his lips. "You may call me 'father' when there is naught but us."
"Right," mumbled Thorin, his cheeks flashing warm. "…Father."
With a thick finger studded with gold rings, Thrain pointed at the unruffled waters. "This," he explained, "is Kheled-zâram, the Mirrormere. Long, long ago, when Durin awoke in Mount Gundabad, the northmost of the Misty Mountains, he came across this very lake. Entranced by its smoothness and deep blue hue, he knelt down by its edge and peered into its depths. There he saw the stars, glimmering as bright as diamonds, even though it was midday and there were no stars in the sky. Seven stars had formed a circle around his head, like a crown. This, he realized, was a sign, a sign of his sacred right to rule. And so he followed the waters that fed this sanctified lake and declared those lands the site of his great halls; Khazad-dûm, the glorious dwarven city. It is now desecrated by goblins and dark terrors too great to imagine, denigrated to Moria, the Black Pit."
Thrain's shoulders shook at the thought, and Thorin, despite his limited understanding at the time, felt furious with him.
"Now my son." A heavy hand suddenly rested itself on Thorin's shoulder. His father pointed hard at the midnight blue depths. "What do you see?"
With a gulp, Thorin looked, unconsciously holding his breath so as to not disturb the sacred waters. He squinted his eyes, looking hard into the mystical blue and ...
There it was: seven twinkling stars, like pearls beneath the watery glass. Abashedly, he glanced up and confirmed that in fact the sky was starless, a pale yellow-blue as the sun broke above the black silhouettes of mountain peaks into the still vale.
"I see the stars," Thorin said breathlessly, staring back down at the Mirrormere. "The crown, too." Indeed, there lay the seven stars forming a circle in the midnight depths.
"Ah, isn't it marvelous," Thrain replied, his eyes gleaming like his son's at the wonder they beheld. "Do you happen to see anything else?"
"I see the night sky," said Thorin. "The stars above, even though it is dawn."
"Do you happen to see your reflection?"
Thorin frowned then looked into the depths. His eyes widened. "No, I do not see my reflection, father."
"Ah." His father smiled kindly at him. "Another wonder of the lake; only Durin himself could see his reflection. It is believed that his reincarnation would be able to as well." With that, he gave two heavy pats on Thorin's back. "No matter, no matter at all," he mumbled low, as if to himself.
Thorin wondered if his father's voice did not hold a slight twinge of sadness. As Thrain stood up and made to return to camp, Thorin snuck one final peek into the lake. The stars twinkled not as bright as before, perhaps because of the dawning day, or perhaps due to his imagination. And still no reflection, he thought, a tad disappointed.
Disappointed? Why? Could he expect himself to be a reincarnation of Durin the Deathless? But yet, looking at his father's back, his heart ever so slightly sank in his chest, and for no good reason at all.
II. Midday
He was forty-four and his rugged pony trotted determinedly through the Dunland towards the refugee camp. A waft of dust flew into his eyes, but he brushed it away. The dust was eternal, as perpetual as the air itself. It coated the gray tents, wore at the threadbare travel clothes, blew into the food, and coated the weathered faces and tight-lipped mouths of his people. Its constant presence served as a relentless reminder of how far his people had fallen, how much had been lost, and (this was the part that truly boiled his blood) how little Thorin could do about it.
And so the prince of Erebor held back his cries of rage while he slowly watched the last of their pride slip like sand into the breeze, his people turn to dust.
The sun glowed high overhead as he entered the camp. As soon as Thorin dismounted, a blonde-haired dwarf seized him in an enthusiastic hug.
"Brother!" cried the blonde dwarf, releasing a slightly shell-shocked Thorin from his grasp. He had a glow about him that no amount of dust could dull.
"Frerin," said Thorin, smiling beside himself once he had recovered. "How goes it, little brother?"
They exchanged pleasantries and news about each with the other. Frerin gave a far brighter report of conditions in the camp than Thorin could believe, but he did not deny his brother aloud.
After finishing his report, Frerin asked eagerly, "Did ya' come across any orcs or wargs along your way?"
"No," was Thorin's terse reply. "And I'm glad of it."
"Aw, c'mon, you're no fun." Frerin licked his lips and a chill unexpectedly slipped through Thorin's bones.
"War isn't fun," Thorin growled.
"Neither is kicking your boots idly about the badlands with nothing to do," replied Frerin. He ran a finger over the blade of a bone-hilted knife. "I've been dying to give this its first taste of goblin blood." Before Thorin could reprimand him, Frerin added, "Ah! I nearly forgot; Father wanted you to see him as soon as it was convenient."
A grumble from the elder brother's lips as the blonde-haired dwarf all but skipped away. Then Thorin stalked towards the largest tent of the camp, the seal of Durin emblazoned in faded color on its side. Inside, a gray-haired dwarf stood erect with his hands clasped behind his back. He still bore the noble robes of the Erebor court, despite the layer of dust clinging to the thick fur coat and gold thread trim. Meanwhile, a squat, frazzled-face dwarf wrote furiously at a desk blanketed by rolls of parchment.
"Thorin." Thrain flashed his son a warm, but unsmiling look.
"Fa- M'lord, I've returned." Thorin quickly bowed his head in respect to the steward king (appointed so after Thror's hasty departure on a mission to parts unknown).
"Leave us," commanded the steward king, turning his gaze at the dwarf scribbling at the messy desk. The scribe let out a little squeak of fright before hurrying out of the room. The two guards by the entrance hesitated, but at Thrain's nod also strode outside.
"Now," pronounced his father once they were alone, "how goes the work abroad?"
Thorin stiffened instantly, even though this was nothing but ordinary procedure for each work mission. "Well enough," he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "The men may not be the fairest employers" – they spit and sneer at us as if we were dogs, no, less than dogs – "but there is work to be found" – for half the pay we deserve. "It is…harder than I had expected." To grit your teeth when innkeepers rob you blind. To hold back the fire on your tongue the hundredth time a man, woman, or child taunts your race. To be a prince of a mountain filled with gold, now forced to serve dogs and swine.
Thorin looked up and found his father's eyes boring into his skull, scouring his face with a fiery intensity that Thorin made himself withstand.
A while later, the steward king whispered, "Would you rather work or beg?"
The question jolted Thorin, rendering him speechless. Not that he needed to answer, because there was only one answer. Begging was never an option, not even a fathomable one. But still… "How long must this go on though?" asked Thorin, his eyes fixed upon the dusty rug at his father's feet. How long must I degrade myself to these low-life knaves?
He knew the answer before it passed through Thrain's stern mouth: "As long as necessary, my son." He rested a rough hand on Thorin's shoulder; father and son were now of the same height. "There is no shame in the work, however humble, you and your comrades do, for it is to serve your people; and that is your lifelong responsibility, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, descended from Durin the Deathless himself." The swell of pride in his voice was unmistakable. "It is your duty to lead them, today by blacksmith's mallet, and someday by kingly scepter." And with that Thrain gave him a rare, fatherly smile and a small warmth enveloped Thorin's chest, as if the sun had chosen to shine on him.
Which then turned into flames licking his cheeks with shame. His father could have, should have reprimanded him for his pettiness. Of course he was not above this work; it was not a matter of personal dignity in working for the menfolk, it was a matter of his people and their pride, a matter of lifting them to their feet after having fallen so hard since Smaug and the fa- not fall, loss of Erebor. For it would be regained, he was stubbornly sure of it; it had to be. And until that day (and ever after) he would be at the service of his people.
For that was his birthright, and also his burden.
Thrain crossed the room towards the desk in measured steps, fingering the pile of parchment with a frown.
"M'lord." Thorin suddenly remembered something he wanted to say.
The steward king looked about at his son patiently. "Mhm?"
The words stuck like sandpaper in Thorin's throat. "If it is decided," he said slowly, "that another orc raid party is necessary, please do not let Frerin join it."
Thrain shot a quizzical eyebrow up and Thorin felt himself gulp. "Frerin is older than you were when your sword first tasted goblin blood, older than I was."
"But m'lord," Thorin was careful to say, "that doesn't mean he needs to-"
"It's admirable how you've looked out for your brother since your mother died." Thorin's jaw twitched. The pain of the queen-to-be's death had long since dulled, but not disappeared; imagining his mother screaming as dark dragon fire turned her to a puff of smoke, a pile of ash…. "But you and I must both let him go. In the end, I cannot control his actions."
Wrong. It would be a snap of his fingers to command Frerin not to go. Thorin was not trying to mother his little brother, and of course he would have to learn of the pains of the world someday. But in his mind's eye, he saw the eternal smile Frerin bore, never pulled down by burdens and memories of suffering. And there was a dark, wriggling feeling in his gut about Frerin going into battle…
"I will talk with him," assured his father, then proceeding to give Thorin the gesture of dismissal. Thorin opened his mouth, then closed it with a frown. He turned on his heel towards the tent entrance, trying to quell the anger boiling in his throat. Hi brother and his father both took a small relish in war. They saw the glory and honor in blood and battle while quiet, bookish Thorin only saw the screams and squelching flesh. If they are to talk, Thorin thought with an edge of bitterness, it would not be of what should be talked about.
Just as he reached the tent flap, but a small, black-haired figure nearly bowled him over, instead stalking briskly towards the steward king.
"Dis!" Thrain barked at the wild mass of black hair. "What have I told you about barging in without ann- oh Mahal, what's the matter?" It was then Thorin noticed his sister's shaking shoulders, her pale, stricken face.
"Father it's…it's…" Dis' spoke in choked whispers. "The king is dead."
III. Dusk
He was fifty-three and his hands were soaked in black-red blood. The earth reeked of death and rot beneath the clear winter sky. Its wintry soil choked with the blood seeping from countless limbs, countless mangled bodies, countless mouths contorted in horror, dwarf and orc alike, stretching for miles and miles towards the gates of Moria, battered and desecrated.
It was like a dream when Balin quietly called him to "come"; his limbs felt like granite, yet somehow he managed to float like a ghost above the carpet of torn flesh and twisted faces. It was all so surreal; nothing felt right, none of it could be real. In due time he would wake up, he would wake up…
The blonde-haired body lying at his feet was fake, too. It looked all wrong. First of all, the body here was a pale yellow-blue marble, while Frerin glowed like golden flax. The eyes were foggy glass, while Frerin's eyes sparkled, full of wonder at the world whose pains he knew little of. And the face did not smile – fear distorted its mangled mouth – while Frerin, he knew, never stopped smiling, was never afraid.
Thorin told Balin this, about the mistake that must have been made. But the warrior only shook his gray mane, closing his eyes tight as if the air would sear his vision, saying over and over again, "I'm sorry, Thorin. I'm so sorry."
But it's a lie! he wanted to shout. It wasn't his brother whose torso was flung apart like a young doe ravaged by wolves, it wasn't his brother whose face was missing chunks of flesh, whose legs were sprawled so ignobly about a bed of mauled orcs, whose golden hair was matted with blood and muck and no longer shined. It wasn't Frerin that he collapsed to his knees beside, it wasn't Frerin that he reached out with dumb hands to touch, whose cold shoulder he gripped tight and pulled into his own body, it wasn't it wasn't it couldn't be it can't no no no please oh Mahal no no he can't be no…
The sickening smell of sun-rotted corpse filled his nose as Thorin thrust his face into the dwarf's bloody shoulder. His tongue tasted foul goblin blood as he ground his teeth into the mail coal that muffled his screams and set his eyes ablaze.
Minutes became hours.
What was light became heavy, and heavy light.
The world was a collection of puddles twisting and muddling together.
All the while, Thorin slowly rocked back and forth, back and forth, just him and his dead baby brother while the world around him could burn and freeze and collapse in on itself for all he cared.
Brother…
Oh brother, I'm sorry. I failed you….
Brother, please…
Take me with you.
Heavy footsteps treading beside him. Lifting his aching head, Thorin felt unsurprised to see the shadow of Thrain against the burning winter sun. Unsurprised; perhaps because Balin had told him a moment ago, or had it been a hundred years. It didn't matter. Nothing matters. My brother. Oh my dear brother. Menu tessu; you are everything to me…
"Oh Mahal," Thorin heard his father whisper. "No, this cannot be…" His voice was so soft, so broken that it sent another shard of glass through Thorin's already battered heart. A soft thump as the king bent down on one knee. His eyes were enveloped with what was left of the blonde dwarf in Thorin's arms. "Gajut men, my son, gajut men…"
"He is dead," Thorin managed to choke out.
His father looked up, seeming to finally realize that Thorin was there. "I am so sorry, Thorin, I am…"
"He didn't have to be here," Thorin whispered. His insides began burning red-hot.
"There was nothing you could do, I could do, nothing anyone-" The king's head dropped with a loll, shaking slowly. Thorin saw a flash of something he had never seen; then broken man beneath the thick iron shell of his father. For a moment, pity gripped his heart. But then he remembered whose limp body he was clutching and up boiled the fury once again.
He rubbed his wrinkled face, wincing as it passed over the blotchy-red bandage on his left-eye. "Thorin, get up."
Thorin's head snapped up in astonishment. Before him knelt the king, calm and collected, commanding his subject. Somehow the coolness in Thrain stirred the boiling red sea inside Thorin even more. But the faithful son did obey, letting the waxen weight slip from his shaking arms, not even wincing as the body thumped gracelessly to the ground, and faced his king.
"Your brother has fallen," declared the king stonily, "as an honorable dwarf; in battle, fighting for his people." The words were stiff and hollow; it was as if he were addressing a royal court on a matter like taxes. "He sacrificed himself for-"
"For what?" All eyes whipped towards Thorin in horror. He ignored them, fixing his eyes upon the king.
Thrain's eyes became fiery slits at the blatant defiance shown by his son. "For the good," he said threateningly, "of our people."
"Pity," spat Thorin, "that so few will be able to see it."
The words fell like a thunderclap. Never had he so openly challenged his father, but the red sea of anger churning in his stomach drove him on.
"Thorin." The king's brow darkened like storm clouds. "You forget your place; there is no excuse for-"
"Frerin was thirty-eight, and yet here he was." Thorin realized then he was shaking. "Now here he lies! You could've stopped him. You could've ordered him not to come!"
"Thorin, you forget your place!" The king was close to losing his temper.
Thorin, meanwhile, had already lost it. "If you loved him, you never would've let him go! You killed my brother! You killed hi-"
Smack.
Thorin staggered back, more shocked by the slap itself than the actual pain. He reached up a shaking hand to his cheek; the blow stung, flaring sharp on his jaw. He blinked, unable to move, unable to comprehend what had happened.
Thrain was also stunned, his eyes wide and bewildered as he gazed dumbly at the hand that had cuffed his son across the face. "Thorin-"
"No." It came out in a strangled whisper, and Thorin sunk further into humiliation. His eyes riveted themselves to the blood-stained earth, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, and certainly not Thrain. He suddenly felt empty, his insides hollow like paper boxes, as if his eruption had wrung him dry and now he had nothing left in his heart to give
"Son," An shard of ice into his wilted chest. The hard, cold king disappeared and out emerged the father. He reached a trembling hand out to Thorin with a heart-wrenchingly pitiable gaze. "Son, I didn't mean t-"
"Don't. Touch me." He glared coldly at his father. He had no more pity to give. He felt as dead and cold inside as the bodies lying about his feet.
Thrain hesitated, his lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but ultimately he gave a tiny nod, retracting his hand slowly as if Thorin had whipped it.
But Thorin had no more pity to give. And before the king could ask what he was doing, Thorin knelt down, scooped up the mangled remains of his brother, and stalked off into the woods with a huff.
Not one look back did he give, and not one word did the dwarves nearby say as the prince walked off to bury his brother.
Notes:
I was nearly in tears writing about Thorin mourning Frerin; that was really hard. Good god, I am unable to not write angst.
1. The story about Durin and the Mirrormere is an ancient dwarven legend. Everyone is able to see the stars, but only Durin could see his reflection. I used LOTR Wikia and Tolkien Gateway for most of the details about it, so forgive me if I fucked that up terribly.
2. Everything about Thorin's mother (including when she was pregnant with Frerin) was made up.
3. Everything about Frerin's characterization was made up.
4. Menu tessu means "you are everything." Gajut men means "forgive me".
Thank you very much for reading this drabble. It is already finished on my ao3 account, but I decided to cross post it here. Comments, critiques, and messages are totally welcomed!