Thorin made sure the children were safely asleep with full bellies and heads full of adventurous stories before he looked at the journals. One was newer, filled with hand writing that looked much like his sister's. He set it aside in favor for the oldest one. To know the full truth he knew he had to start at the beginning. How far that beginning stretched was a staggering feat to comprehend.

The oldest book did not have parchment, instead it was etched leather, cared for with oils and replenished inks over time to keep it as well preserved as possible. Ancient designs scrolled around the margins colored in reds, greens, and golds. Long since extinct animals twined with runes and depictions of rock framed large letters. This was possibly the eldest book he had ever held in his hands, that he had ever seen. It was thin, the words distinct in a long since forgotten dialect. The only reason why he could read some of it was from the fact that he was of royal blood and had been taught some as a requirement for him to shoulder the history of his kin. To remember those long since past.

He read it slowly, having to go back and reread some parts as the translations he made to some semblance to an understandable khuzdul. Eventually he had to get up from his seat at the table to search for some sort of parchment and ink. When he found what he needed he lit two more candles and applied himself. Writing every word down as the hours waxed well into night. It was when those very hours started to wane into morning that he put the book down.

Thorin took a moment before he picked up the translations. They were choppy, but complete enough to make sense for the given time period.

He felt his stomach twist with sickness as he covered his mouth. Fingers ran through his beard numbly trying to sooth the thoughts that grew in his head like vines with the most terrible thorns as he read the completion of this new discovery.

Be this to the daughters of Aulë, fealty owed Arda.
Preservation upon the waking dream of the darkening of Valinor.
The golden light, promised upon the dwarven children the power of the gods. But it was corrupt. Black was the city without the lamps.
Twisted within the Sleep of Yavanna, a cursed existence.
Morgoth did not answer. Remained silent upon the pleas of those who followed.
The light was cursed, pushed well into the belly of the First.
Death must follow the child of golden light, through birth or through battle.
Perseverance must be found within for the gods do not answer.
The gods have no ears.

This spoke of before the First Age. A curse... for following Morgoth? But they were children of Aulë, Mahal, they have never strayed from his path.

Something twisted in the dark...

Death of newborn children...

This wasn't right. None of this made any sense. It just made him feel uneasy with its babbling madness of some superstitious ancestor. Ravings of a lunatic from so long ago that they could have been the first in their line to succumb to derangement for all Thorin knew.

He pushed the translations to the side and picked up the second book. He vaguely remembered this one. It was his great grandmother's. She was very old when he first found it.

His fingers went over the detailed leather fixed with metal and jewels creating a magnificent picture of Yavanna and Mahal together. If he remembered correctly she had struck him hard, the first real pain he had ever felt in his life. She had been furious, shouting at him as she threw him out of the room they had been in, her toothless mouth spitting the whole time. His grandfather explained she always kept the book close. Told him that the journal had been a wedding gift showing how Thorin's great grandmother belonged with his great grandfather just as Mahal and Yavanna belonged together.

The memory made his heart heavy with longing. He looked to Fili and Kili who slept tangled together. Thorin never thought upon it but he did wish that Thror had been able to see his great grandchildren. He would have loved them. Insisting on taking them out on long walks even if his knees and old back were about to give. Thror would have sat in bed with them reading story after story, hugging them to his sides, repeating everything he had done for Thorin, Dis, and Frerin.

"Udâd." Fili shifted in his sleep, pulling Kili closer to his chest like a cat hugging a kitten. He looked around with sleepy eyes.

"I'm right here." Thorin said softly from where he sat.

"You should sleep." Fili's words were thick since his tongue was heavy from sleep, some drool spilling out of his mouth onto the mattress. He made a little slurping noise too tired to properly wipe at his lips.

"I must finish something first."

Fili made a little noise of acknowledgement before tucking his head down into a mess of Kili's hair and promptly falling back to sleep.

Thorin smiled softly. Fili was a sweet thing. He usually thought of others before himself, and he forgave much. Kili's jealousy, Thorin's own neglect of him, which made whatever Dis had done or what Fili thought Dis had done more the worrying. For him to hold a grudge... what had happened?

The question nagged him. It pushed and pulled, nibbled and gnawed, at his brain until he put down his great grandmother's journal and picked up Dis'.

Her handwriting was much easier to read. It grew from messy childish penmanship to strong bold marks that designated her individuality among other female dwarves that tended to try to place more of a soft touch to their writing. He smiled at some entries that were as simple as; Thorin is stupid! And Frerin is a thug who keeps taking my toys away! Then there were enduring ones; Frerin was sweet today. He gave me an apple, first ripe one of the year. I miss going outside to walk but my duties are compelling. I must stay inside. I must learn.

Then something made his heart beat slow.

-
I learned of Frerin today. I refuse to believe it. He has always been good to all of us, always so sweet and gentle. I simply cannot believe it.
-

Thorin's brow creased. He skimmed over the normal entries. Eyes flitting from page to page going back to read the full entry when Frerin's name was mentioned.

-
The more I am taught by mother the more it makes sense. Frerin... I do not think ill of you. You are just a poor soul that was given a bad life... I understand why mother could not do what needed to be done. I do not believe I have the ability to do so either...
I'll keep it secret. I will keep you secret.
-

-
It happened again today. Mother's fits. This time, she did not survive. My duties now fall hard upon my head. Mahal shield me with your hammer, I do not have the strength.
-

He remembered that. Mother would become sad quickly. She would be so depressed she could not see anyone when they stood in front of her. Frerin was the one that tried his best to take care of her. The healers dubbed it a sickness of the heart. There was nothing they could do, it was up to their family to try and keep her happy.

As heir to the throne, Thorin, did not have time to spare to be with her often. He tried, but most nights when he was too tired to drag himself down the hallway to her room he would be woken in the middle of the night by a tired Frerin that crawled into bed with Thorin and hugged him tight.

He would hold onto his brother, clutching him tight, giving Frerin the relief of sobbing into his night shirt. Since he could not be there for their mother he had been there for his brother. Frerin went through so much. He watched as mother lost her senses little by little each day. Some times she had fits and would hurt him.

"Get the knife away!" Thorin grabbed Frerin and pulled him back behind Thorin.

"Don't hurt her!" Frerin pleaded. "She doesn't know what she's doing."

"Does it matter? She stabbed you!"

Frerin turned his brown eyes away from Thorin. Both of their hands pressed against his side that seeped red between their fingers. Still, Frerin was trying to protect the woman that birthed them. He already had a black eye, he had scars that littered up his forearms from where she would stab at him with her forks and knives if he got too close at meal time. Now she had hidden a blade away and waited to strike at him. Her most gentle child. She was getting worse. Soon it would be either her death or Frerin's and Thorin cursed himself because he did not want a life without his brother.

Thorin felt his eyes sting at the memory. He remembered so well that following night, how his brother felt against him as he slept. His head tucked under Thorin's chin in his fitful slumber. Gold and black hair mixed together over the pillows. He kissed his brother many times that night trying to sooth him. He wanted to protect his brother but he was not sure how. He could not kill their mother, she had been a good woman. But he could not... would not... live without his brother.

He had been wrong. He lived, only barely. The only spark in his life had been Kili after the child had been born and had started to smile. The smile so much like Frerin's, and now he had Fili.

Sweet, lovely Fili who looked so much like the brother he had lost.

Thorin took a deep breath, watching the children sleep. He silently prayed to Mahal to protect the children from Frerin's fate. Then, slowly, went back to reading.

One particular page was warped. Lines of ink and drops made it hard to read, it was as if Dis had written it when she had been crying.

-
I slipped it into his drink... It had done the job. It made him too slow in battle.

Frerin, my dear sweet brother... Mahal hold you close since I cannot.

I hope that Thorin may never find out, I know how close they had been. I have little wonder as to why I did not poison Thorin as well. Slowed them both into a death together. I did not do it for I am selfish. I may be married but I still crave for my family. To know I am not the only Durin remaining.
-

Thorin was still.

There was a faint sound. A tapping. It was steadily growing louder, more frequent. Something tried to push out of his throat but it stopped. Causing him to cough. He blinked rapidly, large tears falling onto the journal page making the tapping sound.

Thorin.

Son of Thrain, son of Thror, sat in the dark. Like a small child lost in a battle field he leaned forward, dropping the journal from his hands. He curled in on himself and silently cried, trying not to wake the children.

He had just learned a horrid truth.

The brother he loved so much, had wanted to protect with all his heart and soul, had been sentenced to death by their sister who they had trusted with their lives.