Thorin told his mother and father when he was very small, perhaps 15 or so. Thrain wept. It was adorable.
Frerin told his mother, after they had both died. Fris wept. It was awful.
Dis has only ever told her husband. She has never truly felt safe enough in her living memory – though not through any fault of her parents. She was only 10 years old when the dragon came and her mother died.
(For comparison’s sake, during the War of the Ring Gimizh is 25.)
(Thanks, Nonnie! She’s very proud of her new hardware!)
…
“Well, it’s not unheard of,” said Fris, examining the baby’s mouth with her finger. Little Dis scowled up at her, and gummed enthusiasically upon it in retaliation.
“I’m sure they’ll grow in their own good time,” Thrain said, and smoothed back the baby’s fine, downy-soft hair.
“Both the boys had their first teeth by ten months,” Fris fretted, and she wiped her finger absently upon her dress and bounced the little girl up and down with her other arm. Dis squealed, open-mouthed, and waved chubby fists in the air.
Thrain wasn’t sure what to say to that. Both the lads had been as textbook as they come, hitting each milestone as though ticking off a list. Thorin had been through the food-fussy stage right on cue, and Frerin had dropped his morning naps right on his first birthday.
Their little girl was proving to be made of a different metal altogether. She wasn’t interested in crawling at all, and preferred to pull herself up using her parents’ hands, the furniture, skirts, trousers, or whatever was closest. Then she would stumble around, holding tightly to whatever she’d found, until she sat down – bonk! onto her bottom.
Then she would holler.
“Well, she won’t grow teeth for our wishing it,” sighed Fris, and put Dis down upon her rug. The baby immediately scooted around on her bottom to face them and lifted her hands, an imperious expression on her tiny face.
Thrain half-smiled, half-sighed. “I’ve got it, dearest,” he said, and bent his (aching) back once more so that his daughter could move about the room on faltering feet.
…
“Ow!”
Fris was woken out of her sleep by a yelp from the childrens’ rooms, and she rubbed her bleary eyes as she sat up. “What in Mahal’s name,” she growled, under her breath.
Beside her, Thrain mumbled something that sounded very like, “lookitthedolly” and rolled over.
Fris resigned herself to being the one to get up this time, and put on her housecoat and slippers and padded down the corridor to where Dis’ door was slightly ajar.
Pushing it open, she found her middle child kneeling upon the floor, his hand cradled in his lap and tears in his eyes. In the crib, Dis was glaring, red-faced. She looked like she was getting up the energy for a really satisfying scream.
“Frerin, why are you in your sister’s room?” Fris asked, trying very hard to keep the weariness from her voice.
“I always come in,” Frerin sniffed, still rubbing at his hand. “She wakes up around now, I c’n hear her from next door. She likes it when I pat her hair. But she bit me this time!”
“Frerin, it is my job, mine and your father’s, to comfort your sister,” Fris said, kneeling down by him. “It’s your job to be her brother.”
Frerin pouted, big blue eyes watering. “But I c’d hear her!”
“Oh, my summer sunshine,” Fris said, running her hand over his sweet little face. He sniffled. “You’re a little boy, Frerin. I know you want to help her, but this isn’t the way. No wonder you’re so tired in the mornings. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Frerin looked away, and Fris stifled another sigh. Of course he would think of caring for his family before he thought of himself at all. “Show me your hand?”
He held out his hand, lower lip quivering. There was a bloody little indentation in the meat of the palm.
“Does that hurt?” Fris asked him, and he nodded vigorously.
“It’s all sharp! She’s never been sharp before!”
Fris blinked. “Sharp?”
In the crib, Dis finally opened her mouth and began to let out a truly victorious howl. In the centre of her lower gum was a tiny, barely-noticeable white line.
If he was fifteen/sixteen years old or so – hells yeah!
Tillis and Var are utterly in love with them. They’d forgive them anything. Ever. They laugh at their pranks, sigh fondly at their mischief. Tillis fusses over Fili and tries to lessen his self-appointed guardianship and responsibilities, and Var jokes and tussles about with Kili.
Hrera huffs quite a bit. She pretends utter horror over Kili’s hair, but actually adores getting her paws on him and combing it. It’s such fine hair, why does he never take decent care of it? He’s nearly as bad as that Gimli. Such disarray. Tch.
She is hugely proud of both of them, but will not take any of their ‘nonsense’ as she calls it. She is not above resorting to bribes to get them to behave around her (Broadbeam Dumpling Soup, oh yes!). Now and then she wonders how stern, steely-eyed Dis ever produced such ruffians – and then she glances at merry-faced, laughing Vili, and wonders no more.
Thror is a constant but unobtrusive presence for both the boys. They were very apprehensive at first: Thror is a mighty figure, and everything he did, both the good and the bad, changed the face of the world forever. But this quiet, self-deprecating Dwarrow with the sad eyes isn’t quite what they were expecting. Thror provides a quiet haven for them. He loves them dearly, and wishes he could have seen them grow up, grow old.
Frerin – well <3. Frerin at first resents the heck out of them. He waited so long for his brother, so so long. And these two Dwarrows (and Thorin turns to them before he turns to Frerin, that is unfair) are who Thorin thinks of before anyone else. They are taller than him, and older than him, and will not call him uncle. He doesn’t know where he fits in. He doesn’t know his role for a long time. This time is investigated in more depth in Twelve Months and Fifty Years.
Eventually, as we see, Frerin connects with his brother again. He finds his place in Thorin’s life (death?) again. And he discovers that he and Fili have a lot more in common than their similar looks. Fili becomes a mentor and a sounding-board for Frerin, and Frerin becomes Fili’s ‘little uncle’. Frerin will eventually find a connection with Kili as well.
Fris is carefully mothering of the lads. When she looks at them, she sees her little girl, her Dis, her sweet sparrow. She sees Dis in the set of Fili’s chin, in the flash of Kili’s dark eyes. She is careful not to usurp that place, however. She (Fris is an instrument-maker) brings her lap-harp or her gittern along when they drag out their fiddles, and they play together. She makes sure that Fili eats, and that Kili does not sulk (Fris is good at stopping people from sulking – plenty of practice!).
Thrain, on his good days, is an amused observer of the boys. He comments now and then, but doesn’t really step in to chastise them or curtail their antics. He leaves that to Thorin or Hrera. He finds them hilarious. He’s warm and totally nonjudgmental, and so the boys both find it very easy to confide in him – to complain, or to speak about difficult things. Thrain is a good listener, and will always put down his tools and get out a jug of ale to sit with them as they whine or exclaim or groan.
Hrera was rather cool. She isn’t a Dragonish or shrewish MIL, but she is rather intimidating.
Over time, however, she began to realise: Fris is clever. VERY clever. And sensible, and compassionate. Fris is, in fact, the perfect counterbalance to her sometimes-impulsive, brave, passionate son. She began to approve heartily of Fris, and even to love her (though for years Fris had no idea, and wondered sometimes if Hrera liked her at all).
Fris didn’t understand why her family goggled at her when Hrera gave her a set of silver clasps for her nameday, made by the Queen’s own hand… and then proceeded to braid them into Fris’ fine, wheat-blond hair. That’s Hrera’s preferred show of soft affection, after all. At the time, Fris had no idea, and sat quietly and slightly nervous as Hrera bound her hair and beard with silver and sapphires.
Hrera adores her grandchildren. ADORES THEM. She was a very doting grandmother. She was absolutely astonished that Fris was able to have three kids within so few years – three children would be quite a large family by Dwarven standards Bombur is an outlier and should not have been counted 😉. And with each little baby she fell deeper in love with being a grandmother. Thorin and Dis were both very like the Durin side of the family – they held grudges, they were headstrong and stubborn, with dark looks and reserved expressions that concealed an absolute whirlwind of passionate emotion. But Frerin was more like Fris in spirit – and more like the warm, generous, demonstrative Broadbeams she remembered from her youth.
*sniffle* I knowwwwwww. That whole family needs a hug. I love them all so much.
Badly.
At first, there was a certain astonished horror, mingled with unspoken hope: it is a suicidal undertaking! Thirteen and a hobbit! Against Smaug the Tremendous! But also: could it be Thorin that succeeds where we all failed? Could our people finally come home? But after Erebor was reclaimed, hope slowly dwindled and crumbled into ashes.
Thror raged – a lot. Hrera was the only one to brave that storm. He raged at Thranduil, he raged at Thorin, he raged at Gandalf – and he raged at himself. Thror is even more wracked with guilt than Thorin is. He is slowly healing, but his levels of self-hatred are still pretty dire. Eventually he could not watch Thorin standing spellbound in the treasury any longer. His whole heart was screaming.
Thrain was sorrowful. He loves his children: Thrain is a good and attentive and loving dad. It was the desire to recapture Erebor that had led him to set off on his own, only to be captured and tortured. He couldn’t bear the idea of Thorin, his firstborn, his brave son, going through such horrors in search of the same dream. So he was full of desperation and grief as he watched it all play out. Eventually, it all became too near and he had to retreat as well.
Fris was worried. Constantly worried. She doesn’t do ‘worried’ very well. She much prefers to act, to comfort. The utter helplessness of watching is agony to her. She bit her nails down to the quick. She cried into Thrain’s beard in their bed. She held Frerin close and kissed his face wordlessly.
Hrera watched with stony face and anguished eyes, and never said what she was thinking. If she braided her family’s hair and beards a bit more often and with a suspicious glimmer in her eyes, nobody objected – or dared to comment on it.
Frerin saw everything. He spent hour after hour, day after day in the starpool. His face grew wan and his eyes grew huge, and he never spoke above a hoarse whisper – but he never left his brother’s side, not even for a moment.
The hobbity bits I have answered here.
Thank you, Nonnie! I am so glad you enjoy it! Awwww, you are amazing too! *blush*
WHY DOES THE WORLD HATE THE LINE OF DURIN OH MY FUCKING GOD
Ahhh!
Well, life in the Halls is not TRUE life. Everyone is sort of… paused. They’re all on hold until the Second Song, when the world is renewed.
So, their bodies remain static, frozen, suspended. They are real bodies, so they need food and rest and warmth, they can be harmed and will heal, but they won’t really.. change.
This is why Frerin is stuck as an adolescent. Poor little mite.
Aw Yiss 