A/N: I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. I was trying to finish off a scene from the final chapter (it helps me keep focused if I have a scene that everything is working towards). I've also had a little plot bunny running around. That oneshot is over 3000 words and it is not finished yet. It should be done soon and it will be out of the way and I can get back to focusing on our dear king. This chapter is the longest so far to make up for the delay in posting. I've also been cleaning up my outline for this story.

His Brother's Maker

Chapter 4

2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland

The brothers returned home late at night several days later. Thorin was relaxed and happy. He had enjoyed his freedom to just be with his brother. Thorin slowly opens the door into their home. He lifts the door on its hinges to keep the squealing of the metal to a minimum.

"Shhh . . . Thorin. We don't want to wake amâd," Frerin whispered in Thorin's ear as he followed his brother. Frerin was following his brother too closely; Thorin could feel his younger brother's breath on his neck.

Thorin hissed something unintelligible in return. He crashes to the floor when Frerin's feet become tangled with his. Frerin lands hard on top of his elder brother.

Thorin swears, "Mahal, Frerin."

Before he could clamber to his feet footsteps approached. "Boys? What are you doing? Your father is sleeping."

"Sorry, amâd," Frerin mumbles. "It's my fault we tripped."

"Oh, Frer," Frís sighs. She pulls her youngest son close and kisses the side of his head.

Frerin squirms uncomfortably. His mother and brother both know that it is nothing more than an act. The youngest son of Thrór wanted everyone to believe that he was strong and stoic, but it was only an act.

"Off to bed with you," Frís orders her youngest son.

Frerin glances at his brother who has not yet risen from the floor where he had fallen. Frerin stares at his brother with confusion on his face. He turns away and mounts the stairs that lead to the second story.

After Frerin's heavy footfalls disappear up the stairs Frís turns her warm brown eyes to her firstborn. Thorin still lays where he fell with his weight propped up on his elbows. His brilliant blue eyes meet her deep brown ones. Frís offers her son a hand and he takes the proffered hand. She pulls her son into an embrace. He has been taller than her since his twenty-sixth year. She pulls him down so that their foreheads touch.

"Thorin." Frís said nothing else. She did not need to say anything else. Thorin knew what she was telling him. Mother and son stand there for several moments.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

Thorin stepped back before answering his mother's question. "Aye, we had a good time." Thorin sits down on one of the table benches. "Not just because it was a break from work, chores, and responsibilities."

"I am glad to hear that, dear," Frís tells her son. She sits down next to her son. She pauses. "I spoke to your father," she says with a weary sigh.

"It went that well, did it," Thorin replies with a sad chuckle. "I did not expect it to go well. He would never agree. He wants so much more from me than I am willing to give." Thorin hangs his head. His dark, unbound hair hangs around his face effectively obscuring it from his mother.

"Ii am sorry." Frís takes her son's face in her hands and raises his somber face so that their eyes are level. "You are his heir. He just wants you to be ready. He wants what is best for you. He, himself, does not feel ready to rule when your grandfather passes."

Thorin grumbles under his breath. Knowing this about his father makes it more difficult for him to be as angry with his strict, overbearing father. Thorin does not wish to do everything that his father desires. His father chose his weapons, his profession, his father will choose the braids that his son will wear for the rest of his life. Everything else might be a lost cause, but there was one thing that his mother might be able to get him. "If I could just have some time for myself each day . . . That would be helpful," Thorin says quietly.

"I can try to get him to allow you more time away from your duties. He should understand that. He takes a great number of breaks himself," Frís' mouth quirks in a smile when she says the last part.

Thorin nods. His hair sways with his movement.

Frís kisses her son's forehead. She runs her fingers through his hair. A smile crosses her lips. "You'll look regal with your braids and beads," she says as she brushes Thorin's hair back from his face; there is pride in her voice. "You should get to bed as well. I will make sure that you get to sleep in past the sun's rising."

"Thank you, amâd," Thorin says with a small smile.

Thorin climbs the stairs slowly. His feet automatically skip the spaces that he knows will creak and groan under his weight. The day after tomorrow was the day. He would turn forty and his braiding ceremony would take place.

Thorin pauses at the top of the stairs to peek into Dis' room. She was curled up in a ball. Her dark hair was spread out spilling all over her pillow. Her hair was the only part of her that was visible. A smile crosses Thorin's face. She was so innocent. He wishes that she could forever remain that way. He wanted her to know none of the fear and grief that the rest of her family remembered all too well. She had only been ten at the time, too young to form lasting memories of Erebor and the day of Smaug's fire.

Frerin was already sleeping soundly when Thorin shut the door to their bedroom. His two siblings slept so differently from one another. Dís slept curled into a ball while Frerin seemed like he could not stand to have any part of his body touching another part. He was sprawled on his bed with an arm and a foot hanging off the edge. His blankets were never large enough to cover his spread-eagled form. Thorin had learned a while back that trying to tuck those errant feet and arms back under their covers was not a pleasant experience. When he had been thirty or so when he had tried. Frerin's toes had looked cold and blue to his elder brother. He had received a nasty black eye for his attempted kindness.

-O-

Thorin stands in the middle of a tailor's home trying not to yawn as holds his arms out to his sides. He does not know why his father and grandfather insist on so much fanfare for the ceremony. He groans inwardly. It was not like anyone was going to be there to see the ceremony. Their community here in Dunland, at the foot of the Hithaeglir, was a small one. Many of their kin had travelled east to the Iron Hills when they had left Rohan. All that was left of the former kingdom of Erebor was Thrór, his family, and perhaps two hundred or so dwarves that remained with their king in exile. Even with such a small company it was insisted that Thorin have a new suit of clothing for the event. He had chosen blues and greys since he was given a choice. He shifts uncomfortably.

"Stop moving," orders the elderly grey-haired dwarf who is pinning the fabric to ensure a proper fit.

"Are you almost done?" Thorin demands. He has other things that he would prefer to be doing on this day.

"I would be," the tailor snaps, "if you would stop fidgeting and moving."

Thorin heaves a large sign and tried his hardest to stand still. He just wanted this day to be over. He was not a fan of any official ceremonies. His father said that it was due to the way that they had been living; 'If we were in Erebor there would be official events often and you would know how to behave.' His father never needed to add on the insult that was fully implied by his words. He was not proud of his eldest son. Frerin was the favorite. The younger sun fulfilled the behaviors and duties that were expected of him. Thorin was the disappointment.

"If I'm such a disappointment then why make such a big deal about this stupid ceremony," Thorin grumbles under his breath to himself. He looks over at Frerin who is seated on the bench beside the door.

The younger brother was picking dirt from underneath his nails with a small knife. He looked beyond bored. 'At least he has the option of leaving,' Thorin thought to himself. He could not leave. He would get in trouble if he did not get this new set of clothes.

The tailor finished. "Come back in a few hours and the final alterations will be finished," the tailor told Thorin.

Thorin simply grunts in response. He wants to be out of the stuffy room that doubled as a family's primary living and a place of business. When Thorin and Frerin had arrived the dwarf had sent his children outside to play so they would not disturb his customers.

Frerin grinned as he followed his brother out of the small, one story building. Thorin glared over at his young brother. "What has you so happy today?"

Frerin shrugs.

"Everyone else is more excited about this than me," Thorin grumbles loudly.

"Dís isn't," Frerin countered. "She has to have her hair brushed and wear a dress. I am also sure that she will be just as unhappy when her day comes. She'll be expected to have her hair in braids every day after that."

Thorin smiled when his brother said the last part. His wild younger sister wearing braids and beads every day seemed an impossible and far-off dream. Right now he doubted their mother would be able to get a brush through the tangled, matted mass that Dis' hair was wont to be.

-O-

Dusk was falling over the open field outside of their settlement. Thorin fidgets nervously. He was wearing the silly new clothes. Blue shirt, grey pants, patterned leather jerkin, vambraces, and boots; Thorin feels ridiculous. His mother had brushed his hair until it shone. It shines now in the firelight. His grandfather is speaking. Thorin has to put effort into paying attention. He is waiting for a queue. If he missed the verbal queue he would surely be in trouble.

"Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór is at a milestone of his life. Today my grandson has reached his maturity. IT has been forty years since his mother, Frís, daughter of Ulir, brought him into this world. He is an heir of Durin and of the throne of Erebor. During his years on this earth he has proven to be a blessing from Mahal . . ." This speech was typical for this ceremony. Nothing was all that tailored to the individual dwarf. The speech would go on for some time.

Thorin did wish that his grandfather would hurry up. Darkness had fully fallen and the field was lit only with torches. Thorin was picking at his fingernails and peeling the skin around them. The sensitive skin burned painfully. Finally, he heard his grandfather's queue.

Thorin steps forward into the firelight. He tried to take a deep breath so as to calm his nerves. His chest is too tight to allow for that. It feels as if Frerin and Dís are sitting on his chest restricting his breathing. Thorin had never liked being the center of attention; he had never liked feeling everyone's eyes on him. 'Calm yourself!' he orders himself silently.

Firelight glistens on Frerin's bronze hair; it glows red in the torchlight. Thorin focuses on his brother. Thorin's blue eyes lock onto Frerin's brown eyes. The corner of Frerin's mouth quirks upwards in an amused smile before he is able to regain control over his stoic, serious expression. Dís stands close to her brother's side. She frowns and tugs at hair. She ignores all the pomp and ceremony in her displeasure and discomfort. Thorin cannot help but smile at her behavior. If their places were traded he would have been acting in the same way.

Thorin reaches his family. He has managed to ignore the crowds that he had walked through to reach the well-lit platform where his family stands. He stands in front of his grandfather. Thrór is much larger than Thorin. His physical presence intimidates. His grey hair flows over his broad shoulders and mingles and blends into his voluminous grey beard that his heavily decorated for the occasion. Here, in Dunland, these decorations of precious metals are only used for special events.

Thrór raises his hand above his head drawing all attention to him. Any sound of whispering ceases. Thrór turns to the small table to his right. He picks up a large glass vial and empties its contents into a shallow bowl. He raises the bowl as he speaks, "This water is from Kheled-zâram and today it anoints the head of one of Durin's sons."

Thorin bows his head. Thrór slowly pours the clear water over his grandson's loose, dark hair. The bowl is placed on the table when it is empty. Thorin raises his head to meet his grandfather's hard blue eyes. Thrór places a hand behind Thorin's ear and touches their foreheads together. Thrór's face is as hard as stone.

Thorin steps to the side to face his father's hazel eyes. His eyes shine, with something that Thorin thinks may be pride. Thráin pulls his eldest son in and knocks their foreheads together roughly. Frís is next. Tears glisten in her wide eyes. She beams up at her son. Her smile proves to be infectious and Thorin feels a smile spreading on his own face. He bends to touch his forehead to hers. When he goes to pull back she pulls him into a hug.

"My darling boy," she whispers.

Thorin' hears Frerin's chuckle and he shoots the younger brother a look that says 'you just wait'. She finally releases him and he moves on to his younger brother. "Wait until its your turn, brother," Thorin whispers as they touch foreheads, "You're the baby. She will probably cry over you."

Dís' eyebrows are furrowed in a frown when her brother kneels in front of her – so they are the same height. Thorin raises one eyebrow at her as a response. Her frown deepens, then she steps forward and awkwardly knocks her forehead against her eldest brother's.

Thorin rises and returns to stand in front of his mother. "Amâd," he says stiffly. He kneels in front of his elegant mother. His back is the crowd of people. Frís steps forward. Thrór places silver patterned beads in her palm when she holds out her hand. She faces her son. Frís carefully takes up a portion of his hair and begins to plait the strands carefully.

Before she even finishes the first one of the braids Thorin's knees begin to ache. He shifts minutely so as not to disturb his mother's concentration. Frís finishes the first braid and secures it with a singular silver bead. She gave him a second braid that was identical to the first. Both hand down in front of his ears. She places a gentle kiss on his forehead and pulls Thorin to his feet. Thorin gazes as his mother's face; it is streaked with happy tears. Thorin smiles at her and gives her a cheeky wink to cover the prickling of tears in his own eyes.

Thrór places his hand on his grandson's shoulder and turns him to face the crowd. Thorin focuses on a few faces, taking note of their features before he ignores the individual faces. His grandfather is speaking again but he does not hear the words.

". . . Thorin Thráinul!" There is applause and Thrór firmly squeezes Thorin's shoulder.

Frís hugs her son again. "You are so handsome today. You have become such a fine young dwarf. I am proud of you, inùdoy."

"Amâd, does that means that I look like a troll every other day?" Thorin teases.

Frís shakes her head and lightly smacks her eldest son's chest in reprimand.

The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin's Halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

A/N:

Kheled-zâram = Mirrormere

The song at the end is the property of the Tolkien Estate. It is the Song of Durin's Awakening.

And I swear that we are almost to the first real tragedy.

Reviews are really appreciated as always.