A/N: I apologize for the wait on this chapter! I had a 15 page final draft due and a 10 page rough draft due last weekend. There may be another delay. I have the final draft of the rough draft and another 15 page final draft due this upcoming weekend along with a presentation. We're also getting close to the end of the plan I wrote out when I started writing, I have until chapter 16 to write more but I just want to give you a heads up about any disturbances in the regularity of updates.
I apologize for typos and grammatical error that riddle this chapter. I wanted – I needed – to get this chapter done and posted.
His Brother's Maker
Chapter 12
I'm not their hero
But that doesn't mean that I wasn't brave
I never walked the party line
Doesn't mean that I was never afraid
I'm not your hero
But that doesn't mean we're not one and the same
2786 Third Age, Late Spring – Dunland
Thorin wakes up with an explosive sneeze. He pulls back to see what had tickled his nose. At first he cannot see. His vision is all blurry from sleep and his startled and unexpected awakening. He rubs his eyes furiously to clear away the fuzz and cobwebs of sleep. His vision is full of the copper and crimson of his younger brother's hair. He becomes aware that not only was it Frerin's hair up his nose that woke him, but Thorin is also way too warm. Frerin's back is pressed to his chest and he is damp, sweaty, and at the same time freezing as his presence raises Thorin's body temperature into the uncomfortable and irritable range.
His mind is only half awake and he is confused as to why he and Frerin are sleeping the same bed. He props himself up onto one elbow ready to shove Frerin out of his bed and onto the floor, his mouth is open ready to say, "Get off, Frer, you're too hot," but then he remembers. He remembers why they are sharing a bed. He remembers why they have pushed their bed together to make one large bed. He remembers . . . and he does not want to. They had returned home the day before. Everything was in a state of suspense, things were neither here nor there. The night before neither of the brothers could sleep alone and they no longer fit in the same bed.
Thorin flops back onto the mattress and covers his eyes with his arm. The back of his throat burns and his eyes sting. He realizes that he is on his way to crying; he tries to take deep breathes to calm himself down only to find that his throat is constricted. He opens his mouth to try and fill his lungs with air only to make a sobbing sound as he tries to breathe. He rolls away from Frerin as he feels that gasping sob turn into much more. He presses his fist to his mouth to muffle and noise that he makes. The tears begin and he can feel the sobs shake his body with growing intensity as he tries to contain his roiling emotions. He still cannot breathe. He feels as if his chest is going to explode if he does not get a lungful of air.
Thorin glances once at his sleeping brother before all but throwing himself from the bed. He pauses only to pull a shirt on before rushing down the stairs and out the front door. The sun has not yet risen, but it is close. Thorin can see the strip of growing orange above the tree line. He turns to the woods and stumbles into the deeper darkness under the trees. He falls to his hands and knees in the pre-dawn light. He digs his fingers into the moist earth beneath his fingers as the sobs return. Only this time he does not try to hold them in; he allows the wracking sbogs to control his body. They hurt; these tears hurt his entire body. They are not like the tears that are shed in anger or in shame. They are far different from the tears that come from pain. The tears burn through his entire body. The cool soil grounds him. He hangs his head; his tears roll down his cheeks and they drip off the end of his nose into the dirt by his hands.
Thorin cannot believe that his mother is gone. Today they will bury her in the fells above the town. They are going to return her to the stone that gave birth to the dwarves. He groans as the tears come to an end. His mother . . . he falls forward. His forehead rests on the ground. "Oh, amâd," he whispers. "I should have come with you. I shouldn't have argued with father. I could have come with you to protect you."
Thorin shifts his weight to sit back on his heels. His head falls back. He looks up into the green canopy of leaves. The leaves are beginning to grow a deep green as the sun rises behind them. He feels the tracks that the tears left drying on his face. They are uncomfortable, but he cannot find the will to raise his hands to clean his face of his grief. Grief that consumes him. He just wants to be able to fall asleep and forget about her death. Those moments when he woke and did not remember the tragedy were the best moments he has had since they had discovered Frís' body.
Thorin wishes that he had obeyed his father's orders. He wishes that he had stayed in the camp. As soon as Frerin returned the followed the rest of the group, much to their regret. He had seen his mother, but she was no longer his mother. Every time he closes his eyes he sees what he wishes he had never seen. He cannot even picture her without the blue tinge of death on her skin. He feels sick when he closes his eyes. While he may forget that Frís is dead while he sleeps his dreams are not much comfort. The only comfort is Frerin's warm living body next to his own. He is comforted that he prevented Frerin from living through those nightmares as well.
Her hands had been mangled and broken. His dreams are filled with scenarios that may have resulted in such damage. Thorin's dreams are filled with screams and darkness. He shudders at his memories of the dreams.
The light under the trees has increased considerably since he wandered out of his front door earlier. He sighs as he pushes himself to his feet. He scrubs over his face with the sleeve of his shirt. The wind coming out of the north is cold this morning. His shirt billows out around him; it is caught in the wind. He shivers. He turns to walk back into the community that is beginning to wake up and prepare for the day's somber and sobering events.
This time while walking through the common rooms of their home Thorin pays attention to his surroundings. He stops when he sees his father stretched out on one of the couches. Thráin's feet stick out from under a knit blanket. His arm hangs off the couch; his fingers trail on the floor. Dís is sleeping on the floor next to the couch. Her fingers are wrapped around her father's. Thorin feels a weight rest on his chest when he sees the tear streaks on his father's face. They are on Dís' face as well, but he expects to see them there.
Frís' death has shaken Thráin to his core. That instability has shaken the small family as much as their mother's death. Thorin has never seen his father afraid or incapable. But, yesterday, that had changed. He saw his father's firm mask crack. Yesterday was proof that his father could be broken. That was not something that Thorin was willing to face yet. That was not something anyone in the royal family was willing to face. As long as the crack in Thráin's composure was kept among the family things may turn out to be okay.
-O-
The sun has risen to its peak when the funeral begins in the high fells in the mountains above their village. Thorin and his siblings stand behind their father and grandfather. Thorin shifts uncomfortably. He cannot help but remember the last time that he wore this outfit of clothing. He was wearing the same suit of clothing that he had gotten for his maturity ceremony. That day was so much happier than today. That day feels like it happened over a lifetime away. Frís had hugged him that day and told him that she was proud of him.
The burning prickle of tears stings his eyes again. He swipes at them. I will NOT cry. Not here, not in front of everyone. I WILL be strong for them. Thorin is flanked by his young siblings. Dís grabbed Thorin's hand on the walk up the mountain and she has not released it. Thorin's palms are sweating, but he will not release his younger sister's hand if that is what she need from him.
Thorin looks to his left where Frerin stands. The copper-haired youth stands with his back straight and his eyes dry. His face is screwed up in a grimace as he fights for control over the emotions that war over his face. Thorin frowns before he puts his arm around his brother's shoulders. Frerin leans towards his elder brother by a small amount.
Thorin turns his eyes forward once he is sure that his siblings are taken care of. The rest of those who were attending the funeral stand behind the royal family. They all face the stone cairns and mausoleums that are arranged in orderly lines on the plateau. They stand in front of the mausoleum that has been prepared for Frís. Thrór wears a large fur cloak that hangs majestically from his shoulders. He stands at the head of Frís' stone tomb.
The king looks out over the gather crowd with his pale blue eyes. His eyes are hard and his expression sad. He grieves, but not as much as the rest of his family. "My people, we are gathered here today to return one of our own to the stone from whence we came. Frís, daughter of Ulir, the wife of our melhekhaz rayadûn, has passed from our world before her time. She returns to Mahal, the Maker, to dwell with him until the unmaking of the world. From stone we came and to stone we will return." Thrór bows his head when he finishes speaking.
Thráin steps forward to begin the processional. Everyone will pass by Frís' final resting place. They will all say their piece – wishing the wife, mother, and daughter – wishing her a swift return to Mahal. Thorin follows his father closely. He pauses at the head of the mausoleum. He reaches forward with a trembling hand to touch the engraving on the face of the tomb. He traces the runes absently as he holds back his tears that threaten once more.
Frís Ulirul
Yâsith Thráin Thrórul
(Frís, daughter of Ulir
Wife of Thráin, son of Thrór)
He steps past his grandfather before returning to his place behind his father. Dís still holds his hand. He squeezes her hand twice. It was something their mother had taught them. She told them that if they were ever scared and squeezed her hand she would squeeze their hand twice to tell them that she loved them.
Dís refuses to look up. She stares down at the toes of her shoes. She is wearing a dress and no one had to wrestle her into it. She has not spoken since her father broke the news to her. She has refused to look at or speak to anyone. She does not know what to say and she fears that if she does try to speak she will end up screaming. Thorin squeezes her hand again to let her know that he is there.
The procession is over with quickly, the community is small and those who were close to Frís or the royal family was even smaller. Thráin had not wanted everyone to be present during the private ceremony. Thrór returns to his spot beside his son and in front of the rest of his family. After a moment Thráin steps forward; he turns to face the crowd. Fundin stands directly behind the royal family. He brings out his wooden flute and plays a solitary note to begin a song that they all know all too well after their years of loss and wandering. Thráin begins to sing; his rich baritone covering the warm tones of the wooden flute:
Sing me a song of a lass that is gone
Say, could that lass be you?
Merry of soul she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Aulë
Billow and breeze, mountains and stone
Mountains of rain and sun
All that was good, all that was fair
All that was me is gone
Loud the wind howls
loud the waves roar
Thunderclaps rend the air
Baffled our foes
stand by the shore
Follow they will not dare
Sing me a song of a lass that is gone
Say, could that lass be you?
Merry of soul she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Aulë
-O-
Much later that evening the entire family sits around the fire in the common room of Thráin's home. The family is one smaller than it was at the last time that they sat here. The last time they were all together had been one of anger. Thorin regrets his actions of that night for a great number of reasons. Tonight no one is quickly bickering; no one is reading; no one is knitting. Thorin's heart aches when he remembers that he and his mother will never sit side-by-side on the couch while she knits and he reads. The sound of the wooden knitting needles is one that he never thought he would miss; it was a noise that he had never thought he would miss. The click-clack had annoyed him on more than one occasion.
Tonight Thráin is stretched out on one of the couches. His arms are crossed over his chest and his eyes are half closed. Thrór sits on a couch on his own, he is smoking his pipe and blowing smoke rings. The rings break apart and fill the air with hazy smoke that gives the entire room a surreal feeling.
The three siblings sit together. They are all in physical contact with one another. They seek comfort through the warm of each other's skin and indelible aliveness. Dís is curled on her side with her head resting in Thorin's lap. She fiddles with the hem of his tunic absently. Thorin is ignored the wet spot that he can feel growing on his thigh from her tears. His left hand rests on her side where he rubs her gently with his thumb. Frerin sits on Thorin's other side. He is leaning against his elder brother for physical and emotional support. He has not been further than ten feet away from the elder while awake since they found their mother's body. He seeks comfort through his brother's physical presence. Thorin's right arm is draped around Frerin's neck; he holds him close. Frerin's left hand rests on Dís' hair. He works his fingers through her tangled hair. He slowly works out any knots that he encounters.
No one in the room has moved since they assumed their positions. No one in the room has spoken. They have sat in silence as the fire has burned low and darkness encroached on the room.
Thrór clears his throat. They all turn to look at the king even if it is just though changing the direction of their gaze.
Thráin makes a discontented noise in the back of his throat as he glares at his father.
"This is exactly why we need to reclaim, Khazad-dûm," Thrór states quietly but firmly.
Thráin groans his displeasure. Thorin looks from his father to his grandfather. 'Not this again . . . This caused nothing but trouble last time. It cannot possibly bring about anything good this time around.'
"If we were living in the halls of our fathers this would never have happened," Thrór continues. "If we were living in stone – the way we should be – Frís would still be alive."
"Adâd, not today," Thráin says firmly as he sits up. He plants his feet firmly on the ground. His boots thud loudly on the wooden floors.
"What better day than today?" Thrór demands. "Today would have never happened if you just listened to me."
Thráin turns his hard hazel eyes on his father. "Today would have never happened?" he snarls sarcastically. "Today would have never happened?! But other days would have happened!" As he speaks Thráin's voice increases in volume.
"Can you tell me that, adâd? Can you? What other days would we have? Would I be dead? How many of our people would be bury during that suicidal mission?" Thráin rises to his feet as he begins to shout. Thrór rises as well so that his son does not tower over him. "Tell me, adâd, since you are so wise, would I have buried my sons? My daughter? Would Thorin be resting in stone today if I listened to you? What about Frerin? What about Dís? Hmmm? What about you or me? Would any of us be left alive to enjoy those forsaken halls of the fathers?" Thráin's face has grown red with his shouting. He steps closer to Thrór before quietly spitting out, "Tell me, oh wise father, would I be dead?"
Thrór meets his sons hazel eyes with his own icy blue ones. "None of us, inùdoy. None of us would be dead. We would be feasting in the magnificent halls of Durin. I can tell you, at the very least, that your wife would still live. She would not be dead. Your decisions killed her. Those orcs just were the means."
Thráin's mouth droops open at the king's audacity. He whispers, "Get out."
"No."
"Get. Out. Of. My. Home," Thráin bites out.
Thrór does not reply this time, but he does not move.
"GET OUT!" Thráin roars. He grabs his father's arm and shoves him toward the door. "Get out! I do not want to see you anymore!" Thráin shoves Thrór up against the wall by the door; his fists are wrapped in Thrór's tunic. He rips open the door. "Get out," he snarls. He shoves his father and king out the door before slamming the door.
A/N: The lyrics for the song that Thráin sings are from Skye Boat Song, which was altered for Outlander by Bear McCreary and from the traditional Skye Boat Song. I altered some of the lyrics for the purposes of this tale. Karliene does a breathtaking rendition on YouTube if you would like to listen to it.
I did write a one-shot between this Thorin in the future as a way of unclogging the creative pipes. If you're interested its Unexpected Cuddles.
Reviews are always appreciated! Any suggestions on story direction are welcome while I write out the plan for future chapters!
