AN: I can't believe the reviews and subs for this fic. Thank you guys so much ;) I finally got around to finishing and posting this chapter. Lemme know what you think? I'm going for a canon-compliant fic with some elements of the movies.

Chapter 4

The tiny metallic rings made regular chinking sounds - it would take all winter to make enough chainmail, plated armour and weaponry for a prolonged siege on Moria. Frerin was quite good at making chainmail, he could go at it for hours with his nimble fingers. After some time, of course, his skin blistered and roughened, his neck cramped and his eyes blurred.

It was night now, and Thorin came stumbling in from the forge, smelling heavily of sweat. Frerin looked up with a smile and a greeting ready.

"I should help you," Thorin mumbled incoherently, obviously deathly tired and pale.

Frerin shook his head

"Sleep," Frerin insisted, "I have only an hour or two left to finish this one. It is no hardship. You must drink some tonic, though. I won't have you.."

"You sound like our grandmother," Thorin complained, but there was no resistance in his voice.

"Someone should take her place," Frerin replied obstinately, and his brother smiled a small, waning smile.

"There," Frerin pointed to a bottle on the shelf, a shelf that was nothing more than a board propped up on bricks.

Thorin obediently poured himself a cup and examined Frerin's work from afar.

"I thought you started this at noon," he noted, "And it is near done."

"Ah... Making maille for Groin is perhaps a penance in himself," Frerin rubbed his hands together ruefully, "He is wide as he is tall."

"Have you made one for me?" Thorin sank into the mess of cloaks and straw in the room corner that served as their shared 'bed'.

"Aye," Frerin nodded, "Though you are growing tall."

Thorin grunted a reply... he was already falling asleep, dead-tired and weary to the bone.

Frerin hummed a tune, dimming the lamp continuing to fit each ring into the chain. Months of practice had left him with mechanical reflexes - he did not need the light to work.

"No!" Thror hollered, struggling to escape his son's grasp, "We cannot leave now. We stand on the very threshold of Khazad-Dum!"

Thrain exchanged a worried glance with Fundin, his distant cousin and treasured friend.

"There are more orcs than expected..." Fundin began, though he knew it was useless to reason with the fallen king.

"Traitors, all of you!" Thror snapped, "Cowards! We have come so far, and none with to continue."

"We cannot!" Thrain exploded at his father in weary protestation, "We cannot expect to defeat legions of Moria orcs. We have little but our blood and our lives to spend, with almost no chance of success."

"I'm going," Thror glared daggers, bitterness seeping from his voice, "Those who are yet loyal, who have not betrayed their king, will they not stand with me?"

Fundin and Thrain looked at each other in exasperation.

"I have sent a raven for Gror, yes," Thror mumbled with rising, insane excitement, "My brother will come with his army of iron... they will vanquish the orcs and I will sit upon Durin's throne. We will..."

Thror raved to himself in the corner of the tent. Fundin shook his head regretfully at Thrain - they both knew Thror was beyond foolish, but what could either of them do?

"FRERIN!" Thrain outside the tent to his waiting son, "Give him his supper."

Then Thrain turned, continuing his whispered discussion with Fundin. They left Thror's tent and Frerin entered quietly with a tray of soup and bread. He did glance out into the night at the retreating figure of Thrain, his father. Few words had Thrain for either of his sons, Frerin especially. It was "Frerin do this" or "Frerin do that". Always so busy, always so tired...

Nevertheless, he had to attend to the matter at hand -

"Grandfather..." began Frerin gently and hesitantly, "I've brought supper."

Thror did not seem to hear. He merely continued gesticulating with his hands, smiling to himself and mumbling something about "mithril."

"Grandfather..." Frerin bowed his head, trying to balance the tray and approach his grandfather, making no sudden movements and proceeding slowly.

"Mmmph..." Thror said, not to him. He was staring ahead of him with a blank stare now, his lips moving with no sounds coming out.

"Bread and soup," Frerin stepped even closer to the throne-like chair, trying to smile and be cheerful, "The cook makes much of our rations... it used to be your favourite, grandfather, soup..."

Thror began muttering to himself again, and Frerin scooted down next to him on a chair and offered,

"I will bring in ale, after you eat..."

Suddenly, he nearly jumped out of his skin, for Thror suddenly turned to Frerin and smiled.

"Frerin!" he gazed into his grandson's eyes, and Frerin tried very hard not to flinch. Thror was not beyond striking out at anyone or anything, real or imagined.

Suddenly a well-worn hand rested on Frerin's, causing his hands to shake and the soup to stir dangerously.

"My dear Frerin," Thror continued, looking down at his hands and back at Frerin again, a soft smile creeping on his face, "Prince of Durin's Folk."

"Aye," Frerin nodded, "Aye... would you like some soup?"

Thror reached out and touched Frerin's simple cloak,

"You should be dressed in gold, in mithril, in silver," Thror swayed a little as he said in a low, haunting voice. He glanced at the food, "Not eating a poor man's rations and striding about with patches in your clothes..."

Frerin blushed. He quickly set the tray aside on a low stool and patted his grandfather's outstretched arm before taking the bowl of soup and a crudely carved steel spoon. He dished a spoonful of the overcooked barley and peas to prod into the king's mouth.

But Thror would have none of it. A tear slid down his cheek. He ignored the food, and instead began to touch Frerin's hair and clothes, and bawl. From silent cries and shaking it turned to loud wordless wails, and Frerin was paralyzed. He dropped the spoon back into the soup, and could do nothing but awkwardly attempt to embrace Thror with his free hand.

"What is the matter?" Thorin burst into the tent, and Frerin had to keep himself from dropping the bowl of soup altogether.

"S-s-soup," Frerin stammered above the noise, looking at his brother from the embarassing position of having his formerly stately grandfather bawling over his lap.

"Thorin..." Thror looked up at well, recognition and coherance crossing over his face, "Come here, my child."

Thorin, disheveled and cloaked in sweat, stepped forward slowly in concern and hope. Thror let go of Frerin, who promptly started to arrange the bowl of food back on the tray, and reached out his hand.

There was a ring on it, a ring of immeasurable value. Both princes recognized it as a symbol, a vestige of King Thror's wealth and power.

Thorin approached, knelt down and kissed Thror's outstretched hand, his lips touching the cold ring.

"My heir," Thror looked down fondly, his eyes glazing over. He started to touch Thorin's ragged raven-locks, "Look at me."

"I am here, grandfather," Thorin replied gravely.

Thror took Thorin's hands,

"Stand before me. Look at me."

"I am your servant, O King Thror, King of Durin's Folk."

Thror looked at the tent entrance, and then lowered his voice,

"They will not stand with me. They stand against me... they conspire to remove me from the throne, to steal my wealth. Don't you see, Thorin? We have come so far. Your father does not intend to invade Moria, but I will. Tomorrow, Thorin, we will slay each and every one of those filthy scum... goblins... we will claim back Moria, we will win the throne of Durin, and once again..."

"Grandfather," protested Thorin, "We cannot possibly..."

"Listen to me!" Thror began, "The wealth of mithril is far more than gold. I see it now, I truly do. Gold is of no value when compared to the vast treasures of mithril, the treasures of Khazad-Dum! I will have you installed as my son and heir instead of that traitor, do you not see?"

"No," Thorin's voice was hoarse, "I cannot do as you say. My father is right; we will reclaim our home if need be, but in time..."

There was silence, and Thror lowered his face.

Thorin waited, silently, tensely.

"Sha!" Thror exploded, "Leave me, both of you! Back-stabbing vipers, the filthy bastard spawn of a..."

The princes bowed and left the destitute king to his rantings. Thror did not notice their absence.

"We journey south," Thrain announced, "There are cities of men in which we can find work for the coming year."

He glanced at his father's tent where Thror had been forcibly drugged into unconsciousness.

"Nar," Thrain ordered one of the generals, "See that the king is readied for the journey ahead."