AN: I started anew with this fic, trying to explore psychology and family-feels, so do start with the brand new Chapter 1 if you're interested ;)
Chapter 2: Frerin's Shame
"I cannot protect you always! One day you will just have to stand up for yourself."
Frerin felt his eyes swell painfully with tears but he bit his lip and hung his head. All the other dwarves in the training arena were watching.
"Look at you, can't even hold your head up," scolded Thorin, "Now pick up that sword and try again."
Thorin was furious. He hated his brother being so weak and helpless and was determined to change it. Ten years of weapons training, and yet, Frerin's best tactic was still running and hiding.
The other dwarves soon discovered Frerin was an easy target for teasing, especially when Thorin wasn't around. They loved to torment him, knowing that there were no consequences. A particularly nasty female, Tria, always took pleasure in rubbing in the fact she was so much better than him, despite being extremely short.
Frerin spent most of his weapons training hiding, and, consequently, learned very little. Thorin had been shocked that when Durin's Day came, Frerin spent the whole class demonstration sitting at the sidelines, and discovered to his horror that Frerin couldn't hold a broadsword with a stance correctly, let alone shoot an arrow.
Thorin took it upon himself to teach Frerin in his spare time, and improvement was made. But Thrain soon found out and put a stop to it.
"Leave it to the weapons masters," Thrain shook his head at Thorin, "Let your brother be on his own, don't interfere."
"He was seriously neglected, adad..." Thorin began, but bowed his head when Thrain motioned for silence.
"You are a prince, not a teacher," Thrain reminded him, "Enough of this. I do not want to hear of any more uncalled-for sessions with Frerin."
Thorin nodded.
And so, Frerin continued to fail at weapons training. No one noticed, no one cared (except Thorin, but he wasn't allowed to do anything about it.) He was always in the shadows. Years passed, and he "graduated", but still couldn't fight to save his life, not that he needed to. Even their young cousins Dwalin and Gloin surpassed the second prince, excelling at all the things he failed in.
Frerin was ignored.
He saw Balin, Dwalin, and all their cousins promoted to positions of leadership and responsibility, treated like grown-up dwarves. But what did he do? Potter about with nothing to do, told dismissively to "go off and play".
And then, one day, the dragon came.
The shaking in the roofs told Frerin something was wrong - stone did not shake. Frerin was with their grandmother in the the healing rooms, in the quietest, most isolated corner of the mountain, deep inside the solitude of stone, and there was no way anyone could have known of the dragon.
"Something is wrong," said a healer, and glanced at Frerin, "Would you go outside and find out what? Perhaps the miners have really gone too far with the explosives."
A couple of healers rolled their eyes.
Frerin ran off obediently, and soon found himself in the thick of what must be Erebor's entire battalion of shoulders.
"Frerin!" called Balin.
Balin looked pale, and definitely unwound.
Frerin ran up to him.
Balin panted,
"Our defenses are shattering," he said desperately, "We must evacuate the mountain but will not do so until the King or Prince Thrain orders..."
"Defenses against what?"
"A dragon," gasped Balin.
Frerin's face showed disbelief. He had heard tales of dragons, but never thought them more than children's tales.
'"I saw him with my own eyes," Balin mourned, "We are lost."
"What am I to do?" Frerin choked, suddenly pale with worry.
"RUN!" came a booming order from the front hall, where the breach had begun.
Chaos erupted.
Frerin wanted to make it back to the healing rooms, but Balin caught Frerin and dragged the protesting lad away, down into the tunnels where there was a small exit. In the suffocating combination of crowds, screams, and smoke, Frerin found himself pushed out of the mountain.
"Grandmother!" he shouted, "Dis! Amad!"
Females came first- they were so few, that they had to be kept alive at all costs. Frerin knew he was useless and a negligible loss, but Dis, Dis could...
There she was, the pretty stout lass looking as fierce as ever despite the madness about them. And their mother. And their grandmother, who had somehow made it out alive at well.
He felt overwhelmed with relief, but also fear. They were still too near the mountain. They had to get as far away as possible.
All that awful gold, Frerin thought in disgust. He would miss his home, of course, but he would not miss the dank, depressing mountain with its unhealthy air. Let the dragon have it all, I don't want to see it again.
Many feelings washed over Frerin and he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Having grown out of the habit of crying, he hardened his countenance.
The needs of the people came first, Frerin knew. He busied himself, running about and trying to make sense of the senseless situation. There was no order, turmoil. Desolation and deprivation sunk into the small group of suddenly bereaved dwarf survivors. It was a losing battle, for they were at a complete loss. He had to be there to help keep the people together, warm and feed as many as possible, tend as many wounds with what crude skill he had, and numbly follow the orders of those who had the gravity to even think in such dire circumstances.
Frerin wasn't a leader, he was a follower.
He wasn't made to be in the forefront, but in the background.
For many days yet their lives were as dark as the pits of Khazad Dum, and it would be years before Frerin thought he could emerge from fortress from which Frerin had shut out his ability to feel and to care.
