A Shot in the dark (Bagginshield)

Chapter Thirty-Six

There was a saying that his father used to tell him.

"Real Dwarves never cry for themselves, Dáin," his father—broad shouldered and scarred but always smiling in his memories—said as he gripped his shoulder. "They cry for others and keep their own tears inside."

He recalled those words often growing up because he found himself never able to cry for anyone. Not for his oldest brother who died in an Orc raid when he was still a babe; nor for his second brother who died in an accident in the mines. He didn't even cry for himself even when he injured his hand in a training match that sent his mother raving.

Frerin had cried a lot. Big, hiccupping sobs that rattled his shoulders and made his breath hitch, and turned his eyes red and puffy. He used to watch Frerin cry with a great fascination because when Frerin did something, he never did it halfway. His tears were always a spectacle that never failed to rouse the palace into a frenzy because even as children Frerin had always been the beloved one.

It was not until after he died that Dáin realized that Frerin had never cried for himself.

He and Frerin had always been close growing up. It was natural as they were close in age, and were both the youngest sons in their family. They had been grouped together before they had a chance to choose, but that was fine because he would have chosen Frerin eventually. He had been close to Thorin as well, of course, but that was a different bond from the one he shared with Frerin. Thorin he had always seen as an equal; someone he could share his problems and troubles with. But Frerin... Frerin had been something else. Someone he admired and followed around like a puppy because the golden prince had been everything Dáin had aspired to be.

Frerin had been sunny smiles and easy laughter and flashing blues eyes. He was a mess of contradictions; choosing the bow as his main weapon not because it was easy, but because he was so horrible at it. He insisted on becoming a stone mason because it seemed to him the most important job a Dwarf could have. He never braided his hair and had worn it loose and free because he liked it best that way, even though it went against every tradition of their people. When Dáin closed his eyes, he could still see Frerin running through the halls, laughing, with his golden hair billowing out behind him like a flag.

"One day I will carve out a name for myself outside of the Durin legacy," his cousin had boasted one night as they hid away from a feast on a flight of stairs. He remembered that the marble floor had been cold, but he had been willing to endure it for the honey wine they had swiped.

"People will remember me for more than just a son of Durin," the blond had promised, his blue eyes bright against the darkness around them. "They will remember me for being Frerin."

Dáin had never thought of him as just another son of Durin. He had always been just Frerin in his mind.

In Azanulbizar, he had not been there when his cousin had died in Thorin's arms. Instead, he had been fighting at the gates; avenging his fallen father and his people after they had been slaughtered by the Orcs. It was not until later—after he had seen to his father and took command of the remaining forces—that he learned of Frerin's fate.

"Died with a smile on his face and a horde of dead Orcs around him," they had whispered in the camps. "The Golden Prince, the Greatest Treasure of Erebor."

Died with a smile on his face... It was something Frerin would have done. Frerin hated being sad, but he hated it more when others were sad over him. He would have spent his final breath reassuring Thorin because he never wanted to see his big brother upset. And the rumors had not lied either. When he finally saw Frerin's body for the last time, the prince was still smiling even in death.