Chapter 5
Thrain now ruled a pauper throne in the hills of Dunland. The few families left followed his word, and they respected the prince for standing up at last to a father who was... for all intents and purposes, quite insane. Still, there were nothing more than a pitiful community of dwarf stragglers who eked out their living amongst men who mocked them.
It was obvious that the dwarves were unwelcome, they presence only just tolerated. Dwarves were seen as a necessary evil. Men complained that the dwarves put them out of work, but employers like mine-owners were quite willing to employ the hardy, diminutive creatures who were willing to almost kill themselves for a few meager coins and who were incredibly skilled.
"You are in need," sneered Greim, "Poor, needy little dwarf. I could withhold your wages and watch you lot starve, but I choose not to."
Thorin did not even curse under his breath in Khuzdul, but silently continued to toil by the forge for the useless smith-owner who grew wealthy from his toil. Greim was uneducated, having inherited the smithy from his father without the skill to carry on the work.
Thorin suffered great abuse. When Greim had found out from gossip that Thorin had once been the prince of the richest kingdom in Arda, he had made great jest about it and took every opportunity to humiliate the dwarf over his reduced state.
It had been months since he had seen or heard from his family, but when Thorin stepped down from the anvil, Frerin came rushing in.
"Thorin! I've found you!"
"Nadadith, what is your business in these parts?" Thorin rushed to embrace him, the first familiar face in the long, lonely isolation of exile.
They considered each other for a moment. Frerin was disheveled from a long journey on horseback, but he was well-built. Thorin was rugged, drenched in sweat, coated with grime and obviously weary with labour.
"Are you prepared for war, brother?"
"What do you mean," Thorin gasped.
"I will tell you, but father has sent for you now. There is no time to lose. Take your wages and leave."
"Master Greim will not give me my wages except at the end of a month."
Thorin stood to lose three weeks of wages.
Frerin winced, "But war is coming. You must come."
Thorin sighed,
"I will speak to Master Greim," Thorin hurried splashed his face with the cool water, "And then we leave."
Frerin stepped outside to take care of the horse.
Frerin was waiting outside, and Thorin jumped on the pony behind him. They never have had to burden a pony with two bodies, not in their early lives. Horses were considered of great value and it had been drummed into birth to treat them with respect.
"I take it Master Greim was not pleased," Frerin got pony to start on a gallop, "There is bread in my satchel; I am not hungry."
"No, but he was dismayed to find that his business will no longer profit the way it once has. I did get my repayment," Thorin felt the coins jingle where he had hidden them under his tattered coat away from thieving eyes, "Not all of it, but still."
"The bread," Frerin reminded him.
"Only if you will take your share," Thorin pressed, "You look thin, nadadith."
"You will not believe where I work."
"Not as a tavern wench, though one can hardly joke about such things."
"No," Frerin shook his head, "It would pay well. I would do it if necessary. You see how those men stare at us, longing to feast our flesh."
"Watch your mouth! Thorin growled.
"I know more of the world, filthy though it is," Frerin said, "Men would pay a pretty price, women, even."
"Speak no more," Thorin was bristling, thinking about the times he had nearly been assaulted. He also thought of Mina, the young dwarrowdam with whom he had been close to what seemed like a lifetime ago. Was she alive? Was she safe? Had she been assaulted? The thought made him sick.
"I am a farmer," Frerin shook his head, "It's near enough to father, the wages are decent and the perks include wasted food."
"I trust you are not scrambling for swine swill."
"No. Bread, carrots, wheat," Frerin shook his head, "The farmer is kind. His wife is a menace... but he is kind."
"I hope you do not take charity."
"As if I would!"
"But tell me of the business at hand. Why the haste? Has father changed his mind?"
"Thorin, father wishes to attack Moria."
"When did this come about? Tell it all to me, now."
One week ago,
"Where is he?" Thrain growled in annoyance, pounding on their front door, "Nár! Open the door a once!"
"Grandfather has no doubt been taken for a walk. Nár does that occasionally." Frerin wiped the sweat off his brow as he clutched the sack of half-spoiled carrots like it was the most precious thing in the world."
There were pacing outside of the shack that served as a family residence. Thrain worked as a blacksmith, and Nár was a very young guard who looked after Thror and guarded Dis while the rest worked. He had lost his entire family.
Dis opened the door from inside and snatched the carrots from Frerin. She was peaky and thin, and spent the days watching after her grandfather, cleaning and cooking for the family. She was never left alone, as dwarf women had become targets for the most depraved of souls. She was trembling, and clung to Frerin.
"Namadith, what is it? What troubles you?"
"They are gone," wept Dis, "Grandfather took Nár and left, and all our coin. I could not stop them."
Thrain stormed past them, inside, furious that his daughter had been left alone.
"He will come back, I'm sure," Frerin assured her, "Let us have supper."
"He will not," Thrain emerged from inside, pale and shaken.
He held up Thror's ring,
"He left this. He left for Moria."
Frerin's eyes went wide as Thrain commanded, "Watch your sister and bar the door."
Thrain then stormed past them, out into the town, mostly likely to consult Fundin.
Frerin proceeded to make dinner, but it stood cold for a long time. When Fundin and Thrain returned hours later, it had been decided. They would not go after them.