Chapter 3
"Please, grandfather, eat," begged Frerin softly.
They had found shelter, temporary shelter but shelter nonetheless. Fleeing north to the Grey Mountains, they found the settlement unprepared for them in the midst of winter, and, consequently, unwilling to shelter or be hospitable to the refugees. It had been their grandmother's idea to salvage the situation but digging out every single piece of jewelry they wore amongst themselves, and paying the Grey Mountain folk. It was a rather extravagant price, but it bought some goodwill.
"Nothing sways a dwarf more than some pretty trinkets," she snorted derisively, shrewd as she always was.
Thrain, Fundin, and other dwarves nodded in agreement.
"We will earn back some coin in labour," she continued determinedly, "And then, we will make our way east."
"Moria," mumbled Thror, "We will regain our strength and make an attempt on Moria."
"Khazad-dum is out of reach," she snorted coldly in reply, "We head to Ered Luin where there is room. The Grey Mountains are overcrowded. In spring, your brother Gror will likely lend us some coin for the journey."
They didn't want charity. No dwarf would accept charity... but they could borrow what they needed.
They had fought, grandmother and grandfather. Grandmother was infinitely more practical, but she was sharp-tongued. After years of scolding Thror, she felt her husband had gotten his comeuppance and blamed the entire situation on him. Thrain was silent, but busy.
After awhile, Thror had gotten so difficult that he refused food. Even Thorin had lost patience with him, and it fell to Frerin. Frerin would sit with Thror for hours, patiently listening to his ramblings, calming his rages, and attempting to feed him.
Meanwhile, Thorin had found employment in a forge, and was earning some coin to feed their people. Many others followed his example and did the same.
Lost. That's what they were.
Grandmother had succumbed the dreaded fever. Within three days she was laid in stone. The worst part was that Thror seemed to register none of this.
Her last words had been bitter, angry. She hated for husband for all that he had done, and she told her son, Thrain, to lead the people onwards and "do what he must to control the old miser", as she had taken to calling him.
It was heartbreaking, for as young dwarves they had been much in love, much attached. They used to mean the world to each other, until the madness started.
It nearly killed Izhrain when the dreadful day came that she realized her place in his heart was gone forever. She had been replaced by his growing hunger for gold. Lost to her, he grew violent, his words hurtful. She came to hate the gold. Her anger grew and secluded herself from the rest of the family, ignoring Thror and hiding in parts of the mountain where she knew he would not come to look for her. Now she was dead. The life that had once been so beautiful, so blessed, was reduced to nothing.
She was buried, away from home, in a cold grave. She was not laid amongst her kin, and they scrambled together what they could to purchase a place in the common grave.
Thror grew worse and worse, becoming more and more disconnected with reality. He assaulted Frerin, once, and soon had to be restrained. But with Izhrain gone, no one dared to speak up against Thror, and when spring (and Gror's lendings) came, they equipped themselves for war.
Frerin had literally slaved to earn pennies as a mine-grader - anyone of them from Erebor could easily distinguish one kind of rock or gem or precious metal from another. Thorin and Dwalin were low-paid miners, Balin a scribe. They put together every scrap of gold they could for their people, to feed the hungry and clothe the ragged, and presented it to Thrain who defected to Thror's decision - instead of rebuilding the lives of their people, they would arm for battle.
No one would follow Thror's word, not a single dwarf would come, except Gror of the Iron Hills, of course. Without the Arkenstone and the weight of gold behind his word, Thror's influence was reduced to nothing.
Frerin's heart sank at their dismal state, but he couldn't allow himself to stop working. They would work and they would plan for battle. They would move to the entrance of Khazad Dum; most of the women and children would have to come as well, having no place to go and no guarantee of safety in the
Hopefully, hopefully they could regain a kingdom, a royal and ancient kingdom, at little cost. Hopefully losing Erebor would make sense and finally be worth it if they could have back Moria with its mithril riches. Hopefully. That was all they had, really, hope. It was a fool's hope, the imaginations of delusional, fallen king.