A/N: I had orignally planned to write these in order of birth (according to me) but since it's been months and I've written exactly 10 words for Dwalin and this chapter has been written since before Thorin's, I figure I'll post it now and if by some miracle I find the inspiration for the other chapters I might move them to be in order. So...here is Frerin.
Frerin is so very young. He is washed by a midwife but is still purple-faced, deafening, and evidently devastated to have been thrust out into this dark, cold hall but he is just about as precious a thing as Balin has ever seen. Frerin does not know gold, nor jewel, nor even silk as it is wrapped about his writhing body and he is placed in his king's arms for the first time. His are huge, pale eyes that blink sleepily at the fireside and soft, golden hair that ripples in the wake of his pillow's snoring. He is stamping feet and a scowl worse than Thror's, but he is also trembling lips and apologies that are muffled by another's shoulder. Frerin is an unyielding and self-pitying lump to be found after hours of searching, beneath furs and inside cupboards, who can only be tempted out by promises of stories and cuddles by the fireside. Frerin is badly sung lullabies and formidable pouting should his infant sister's attention be drawn away from him. Frerin is a child's laughter hurriedly stifled by small hands as his prey walk so unwittingly into his trap. He is cut fingers and banged knees requiring endless sympathy lest he die from his injuries.
Frerin is all arms and legs, and all things point towards his achieving a height as great, if not surpassing that of his brother and cousin. He does not care for lore or diplomacy. Frerin is filthy jokes and insolently raised eyebrows that speak a challenge to all who see them be they dwarf, man, or beast. He is angry curses that are ruined by his helpless giggling from underneath merciless assailants with no compassion whatsoever for ticklish younger cousins or brothers. Frerin is impossibly wide-eyes, and shaking hands that cling to his small sister's shoulders as they search for their kin in the wake of the dragon.
Frerin is a silent, exhausted passenger who holds obediently fast to Balin's back as they make their slow way from Erebor to the Iron Hills and then on to Mahal knows where. He is a shadow with nervous, ever watchful eyes who does not move from its place at their side for many months. He is their ever-present companion, only lulled into sleep by quietly told stories of his lost mother whom he had barely known but for whom he had so desperately searched as they escaped Erebor. Frerin, along with his brother, is an interruption to an already fitful sleep – a furious, half-mad hurricane of gnashing teeth and flying limbs that retreats in resentful silence to tend his wounds alone. He is a mess of dirt and blood who later trembles in Balin's embrace and leaves damp patches on his shoulder and neck.
Frerin does not understand his grandfather's actions, nor does he feign any sympathy when Thror bemoans the loss of gold over that of his daughter-in-law. Frerin has yet to comprehend how gold and power may turn a dwarf to madness, and he, like so many of his fellows, does not understand why a kingdom of men should refuse them shelter. Frerin is the indignant rage of a prince and, like his father and grandfather expects no less than total adulation from the strangers he encounters. Frerin is proud, but not so proud that he will not beg food for his siblings or cousins. Frerin is resentful glares and spat out words, but does his share and then some when the inevitable fighting comes. Frerin is a figure up ahead who pauses only for his sister's sake and does not sit up into the nights with any of them anymore except when it is his turn on watch. Frerin is hacking coughs that wake Balin from his slumber, and nigh on blue lips because he would rather freeze than ask them to share theirs furs with him and risk being refused. Frerin is a lonely fortnight's wait in some deserted outbuildings on the borders of Dunland, the lad half-dead from a fever that rips screams from his throat and leaves Balin near weeping from fear of losing him. Frerin is the joy upon his sister's face, coupled with his elder brother's overwhelming relief as they are all reunited in the next town.
As they settle there, and fate seems for once to smile upon them, Frerin appears once more as musical laughter and teasing comments. But Frerin does not voluntarily seek company with any but his sister; he is a watchful gaze glimpsed through cracks in doorways, and hurried footsteps retreating around corners as their meetings adjourn. Frerin is biting accusations of abandonment, and is victorious in fights simply because they no longer have the energy with which to indulge his adolescent fury; his combat training, though hardly necessary, serves him well and they no longer worry for him when they talk of leaving the two of them in favour of reclaiming their old domain in Moria. He is overheard words of half-hearted comfort murmured over his sister's stifled weeping as his ascension to king-in-waiting becomes ever more likely. He is Thorin bellowing curses at their kingand each of them in turn trying to reason with their elders to halt the madness that would cause Thror to lead all three of his heirs – two of them decades short of adulthood – into battle at once. He is hushed arguments on the eve of battle as they attempt in vain to persuade him into disobeying Thror's orders to join them. Frerin is the badly concealed fear that darkens his eyes and pales his face as they march on Azanulbizar.
Frerin is his signature blade embedded in the skull of an orc who would otherwise have cleaved Thorin in two as he stood frozen by their king's death. His is the petrified scream of a child cornered by monsters that they had once been told were imaginary. Frerin is each of them slashing apart foe after foe in their efforts to get to him only for more to block their path. Frerin is his brother and cousins' names, screamed first in terror, in helpless agony, then in begging condemnation and finally, in childlike resignations as his pleas go unanswered. Frerin's is a guttural cry, cut short by its owner's throat being ripped out by foul hands that throw great globules of precious carrion as Frerin had once thrown snow. He is Thorin's sudden roar, inarticulate with grief as he single-handedly destroys The Pale Orc before rallying their forces once more and leading them on to a hollow victory.
Frerin is a gauntlet that is recognisable only by the rings adorning its occupant's fingers and lies ten feet from its body. He is eyes that would be open and staring were one of them not gaping and bloodied. His is a body that ought to have been protected by armour no blade could have pierced had it not been sold many moons ago in favour of food for their people. Frerin is their having to watch Thorin reach out with shaking fingers to caress a face that is near unrecognisable. Having to watch Dwalin lay one enormous hand upon hair that had only recently begun to grow thick. Frerin is watching Thorin clutch his broken brother to his chest and howl for their father.
Frerin is young. He is washed by Thorin's own hand and lies pale, silent and still. He does not know pain, nor grief, nor even does he feel as he is gathered into his brother's arms for the last time. Frerin is a child subjected to a rushed funeral that they would not usually have given even to a criminal for all are equal at the gates of Aüle's halls. But he is placed atop a pyre of his own for they will none of them see him burn amongst the bodies of those who condemned him to his fate in the first place, whether they be kin or no.
Frerin is Dwalin's silent support and Thorin's trying so hard to be brave and do what he knows must be done. Frerin is the acrid, cloying smell that will stick in Balin's throat for the rest of his days as it eventually falls to him to light the fires when Thorin falters. He is the memory of a heat upon Balin's face that is more emotive, and more devastating than any dragon fire. He is Dwalin's seeking comfort in his elder brother as he has not done in a decade, and Thorin's outright refusal to do so even when it is offered him. His is a horror that they have all sworn without words that they will never speak of. He is Thorin's silently standing his ground and allowing Dís to beat her fists against him until she falls to the earth and screams herself hoarse for Frerin and the love that they had shared. It is a loss that Balin cannot ever allow himself to forget, that he does not even try to forgive.
Frerin was so very young, and he is still one of the most precious things Balin ever set eyes upon.
