Sansûkh (Bagginshield & Gigolas)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Frerin was waiting in Thorin's room when he returned, his arms folded and a ferocious scowl on his young face. Thorin paused as he opened his door and took in his younger brother. Then he sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand, his beard ruffling under his palm.

"Hullo, nadad," he said.

"Thorin," Frerin greeted him flatly. Then his eyebrows lifted. "Are you all right?"

"I am tired," Thorin admitted, and he sat down on his bed and pushed back his hair. His arms felt heavy and sluggish. "It has been a rather long day."

"Watching all those things that I am apparently too young to see," Frerin said rather snippily, and his lips flattened into a straight line.

Thorin looked up. "I am sorry if I hurt you, but I could not allow..."

"Thorin, even if I was truly the adolescent I was when I died, I was old enough to fight in a war," Frerin pointed out, and a little of his hurt seeped into his face. Despite his words, Frerin seemed younger than ever, and so open, so emotionally unguarded it made Thorin ache from all the could-have-beens. Frerin lifted his chin, his blue eyes flashing. "I think I'm old enough to decide what I can see and not see."

True. "I am sorry," Thorin said again, and he held out his arm. "It is... a compulsion with me. I must always protect you, no matter what. You are my nadadith."

"I know, I know," grumbled Frerin, but he sat down beside Thorin and allowed him to wrap his arm around his smaller shoulders. "I wasn't going to look at the stupid Elf anyway. I wanted to see if Aragorn had any markings. Did he?"

"No," Thorin said. "The Men of the West do not practice the custom, though I seem to remember that the Haradrim learned it from the Blacklocks and Stiffbeards centuries ago. I cannot recall where I read that."

"Probably one of Balin's boring etiquette books."

"Probably." Thorin squeezed Frerin's shoulders, and then looked down at Frerin's face. His brother was no longer looking quite so annoyed, and a pensive light had crept into his eyes. "I will endeavor to restrain my impulses where you are concerned, though I cannot promise I can contain them completely."

"That's the most honest answer I've heard from you in a long time," Frerin replied with wry resignation. "Thank you, I think."

Thorin smiled.

"Now, back to you." Frerin turned in the circle of Thorin's arm and fixed him with a serious look. "Talk to me."

Thorin's first thought was to deflect, to pull up a haughty demeanor and ignore the question, or to answer that he was talking to Frerin already. But that was no answer at all, and his brother deserved better from him. He sighed again, and his free hand began to clench upon his knee. "It... is difficult," he said slowly. "Everywhere I turn, everywhere I look, there is something to bring back the memories of the madness. I know how Father and Grandfather feel, now. It is a shameful thing to remember what you became."

Frerin did not answer, but sat and listened. His blue eyes did not judge at all, and that gave Thorin heart.

"I..." Thorin swallowed. "That time, that madness – it was me. No matter how you interpret it, Frerin, the Dwarrow who was cruel and vicious and full of pride was still me. I can remember holding my Hobbit over the battlements and shaking him until his teeth rattled. I remember throwing every chance of peace away in my arrogance. No sacrifice was too much and no word too strong. I knew beyond all doubt that my actions were right. I thought that all I needed was the will to see them through."

He stared at the grate in which no fire burned. "What a fool I was."

"Don't take all the blame for yourself," said Frerin softly. "I watched the whole thing, remember? Not a single person acted perfectly. Not a single one. You did offer to negotiate, but Bard would not address your concerns about our heritage and inheritance. He simply brushed away your questions without answering them. The Elvenking would not put away his weapons or soldiers. Even your Bilbo didn't exactly cover himself with glory – when he first pocketed the Arkenstone he meant to keep it, not trade it away to buy peace. He wanted it even though he knew what it meant to the Dwarves of Erebor. He knew. You weren't the only one acting foolishly, Thorin. There's enough blame to go around – and that's not even counting the bloody dragon."