The Lost Prince

3. The Queen & The Bard

Freya heard her daughter shift her feet, saw she was slouching, turning her bracelet on her wrist, her attention wandering during the long eulogy.

"Do not fidget," she whispered to her. "Stand up straight. Remember who you are."

She saw Enya draw herself up, her face composed. As Thror finished his speech the heavy lid of the intricately carved tomb was placed over her husband's body. Freya felt the weight of that stone as if it had landed on her own shoulders. With her husband laid to rest, now the fight would begin. It had not been lost on her that the Seven Families had met first in Erebor to consider the succession before even coming to the Iron Hills. She was not about to hand the throne to some unknown cousin, not when her son might still be alive, and if it was proved he was dead she planned to rule herself. The thought made her smile, she would show the families that a woman could rule as well as any man.

Freya felt a hand on her arm and looked up to meet her brother Durin's eyes. He had arrived just before the service and they had not had time to speak. The sight of him always gave her a bit of a turn, he looked so much like their father. The same eyes, the shape of his face. Except for his hair, which he wore shorn short on the sides, and the long beard tucked into his belt, it could be Thorin himself standing before her.

"We need to talk," he said quietly.

"We have a few hours before the wake," she replied, keeping her voice low.

The King of Moria nodded. "Your apartments, in an hour. I will tell Thror." He moved off to greet the representatives from the other families.

Freya and her daughter began the long walk up from the crypt to the palace above. Lining the passages were many citizens of the city, all bowed soberly as she passed. King Borin had been popular with his people; he had been a hard man, uncompromising, but a just and skillful ruler who had brought much prosperity to the Iron Hills. Today had made her remember him when they had first met, so handsome and gentlemanly. When they were courting he was always bringing her little favors and complimenting her dresses. He had quite swept her off her feet, and her father had thought it an excellent match. Now it made her sad to think about. She had dreamed of being loved the way her father loved his warrior Woman – absolute, unwavering, a love that only grew stronger as the years passed. Kaylea Wolf warned her that this King of the Iron Hills could never love her that way, but Freya had been young, and headstrong, and thought her father's mistress was wrong. It was many years before she finally admitted to herself Kaylea had been right.

As they came to her daughter's door, the girl suddenly turned and embraced her, sobbing quietly into her dress. Freya hugged her and let her cry. Her daughter had been very close to Borin, in the same way she had been close to her own father. Having fallen out of love with her husband years ago, her own eyes remained dry.

"Shush now," she told her, after a long moment. "You must put on a brave face tonight, do your family proud."

When she approached her own apartments Freya saw a familiar figure step out of an archway and bow to her: Tivan, the King's Bard. While Borin had never been a great lover of music, Freya could sit and listen to the bard sing for hours; he had such a beautiful voice. She also never tired of looking at him, so young and handsome, with his sparkling green eyes and mane of yellow hair. He had become a good friend and confidant over the years, always ready to cheer her with a smile or a happy tune when she was feeling low. Sometimes the looks he gave her made her heart flutter, and she had to remind herself she was far too old for girlish crushes.

"Tivan, have you come to play me a tune?" She asked, acknowledging his bow with a nod.

"I will certainly play if you ask it, your majesty," the bard replied. "I know today was a hard one, I came to offer you my shoulder, if you have need of one."