Oh, I am SO GLAD you like them. I have such massive Thorin & Frerin feelings, they’re a bit uncontrollable at times!

Here’s a little character-study snippet for you, Nonnie. I hope you enjoy it!

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Frerin is yawning into his bowl of Hrera’s soup. Beside him, Thorin is slack-faced and slouching. Both of them spoon their food into their mouths mechanically, their identical blue eyes bleary and half-lidded.

“Don’t eat and yawn at the same time, nadad,” Thorin mumbles. Frerin makes an indistinct noise of agreement, and almost nods into his bowl.

They’re both utterly exhausted. Still, it is good to see, Thráin thinks.

Even though he is himself nearly asleep, Thorin reaches out and tucks a stray braid behind Frerin’s ear before it dips into his meal. It is a gesture vaguely reminiscent of the way he treats his nephews, but not quite.

When Thorin cares for Fíli and Kíli, he looks upon them and touches them with a near-paternal love and pride. There is tenderness there, and devotion, and the remnants of Thorin’s terrible guilt. It is a love that watches with a father’s careful eye. Thráin knows that love, knows it well. He also knows how it feels to let go, to stand aside, and watch your beloved children make their own way.  

When Thorin watches Gimli, he stands tall with his chin held high. When he admires Gimli’s proficiency with words or weapons, his chest rises and he half-smiles without even realising it. His love for Gimli is one of loyalty and trust, of fellow-feeling and

camaraderie. He sees his best self in Glóin’s son, Thráin suspects. And it is heartening to see Thorin find the greatness in himself through the greatness in another.

But Thorin will reach out and touch Frerin’s lucky hair without a second thought. Thorin will clasp Frerin’s shoulder as though it is simply an extension of his own hand.

Frerin leans his chin upon his hand and absently lifts his spoon. It bumps his cheek twice before he finds his mouth. “Nadad,” Thorin chides. “Take a sip of cold water; it will wake you.”

“S’good though,” Frerin says, but he picks up his cup and does as he is bid. Thráin covers his smile.

Frerin has always turned to his brother. Like the sun, Frerin shines brightest when he has someone to warm.

“You have soup on your chin,” Thorin says, and thumbs it away from Frerin’s short beard. Frerin grins at him.

“So do you.”

Thorin’s rare smile flashes over his face. “Well, we are a pair, aren’t we?”

A matching set, the court had called them. Though Thorin was tall and dark and Frerin was slight and golden, they had been inseparable since the day Frerin was born. Thráin can still remember a small Thorin dragging his baby brother around underneath the armpits, Frerin’s stockinged feet dangling in the air.

“Hold still,” Frerin says, and he pats at Thorin’s face with his small hands. Thorin holds still, letting immature fingers card through his beard.

Frerin sits back. “Got it. Shame I can’t do anything about the rest of your face, though.”

Thorin huffs, and his free hand reaches out once more and scruffs the bright mess on Frerin’s head. Frerin squawks, but his tired eyes dance for a moment.

“Finish your soup, and go to bed,” Thráin tells them, and two heads bob in acknowledgement just as in long-gone days.

But Thorin is older than Thráin now, careworn and world-weary, and Frerin is still teetering between childhood and adulthood forever. They are not who they were. Frerin taught himself not to matter, to disappear. Thorin taught himself to stand alone and not to reach for a small shoulder.

Yet still Frerin follows, and Thorin leads.

Frerin yawns again, and leans against Thorin’s side. His spoon misses his mouth once more.

“You are determined to wear it, aren’t you,” Thorin murmurs, and Frerin wrinkles his nose.

“Oh, you can talk. You’re the one who rubbed porridge in my hair.”

“Oh come now, I was eleven!”

Frerin laughs, and for a brief moment he shines. Thorin hesitates, and then his deep chuckle joins in. For a brief moment the two lads live again: the leader of their pranks and his lieutenant.

It is good to see, Thráin thinks.