Chapter Text
"DRAGON!"
Frerin hears his brother's voice over the bustle of the Craftsman's Hall, where his tutor, Hori, halts in his explanation of jewelry-making. Frerin had just been wishing for a distraction - something to free him from the tedium of learning a craft (as per his father's instructions) - but this is not what he had in mind.
The various Dwarves and Dwarrowdams in the Hall freeze for one long second, the ringing of hammers and plinking of refining tools turning into complete, unnatural silence. From the Gates of Erebor, a cacophony of noises can be heard: Dwarves shouting, wind howling, weapons clanging, and, most notably, the unfamiliar roar of some huge creature announcing its agenda with Erebor's inhabitants. The noise easily reaches Frerin's ears, a remarkable feat, he thinks, when one considers that the Craftsman's Hall is two levels below the entrance to Erebor. The sounds from the ground level fade into the background as the Hall erupts into a burst of activity, but never disappear.
His grandfather's subjects move around him in blurs, the colors of their robes, which signify their trade, combining with the glint of iron, steel, silver, gold, and other metals, as well as leathers from the tanners and bolts of fabric from the tailors and seamstresses. From his elevated view at the single-person Royal Forge, he can see more than a hundred Dwarves of all vocations rushing about and shouting at each other. Many reach for weapons (most made only minutes ago), while others attempt to gather their crafting tools and materials (some races may find it strange that a Dwarf would try to save his embroidery or leatherwork in the event of an attack, but the phrase "married to one's craft" is no exaggeration among Mahal's children).
Despite the impending threat and chaos in the Mountain, Frerin is calm. It's alright, he thinks. The doors are strong, and our warriors many. The panic in the Hall seems unnecessary to him; it is unlikely that the dragon will make it past the Gates before either giving up or being shot down.
Hori, apparently, does not share Frerin's surety. "We must get you to safety, young Prince," he urges, his insistent, forge-strengthened hand pulling Frerin down the steps and towards the massive staircase that allows passage between all seven levels of Erebor. Frerin stumbles along behind him, the bruising grip on his elbow and the confusion of colors and sound distracting him while Hori's single-minded focus drags him faster.
Hori leads him up the stairs, taking them two at a time and forcing Frerin to do the same. Neither Dwarf is accustomed to running up the gargantuan staircase, but while Hori likely attends the required training sessions, Frerin spends his youthful energy avoiding Fundin and running down stairs. He has plenty of upper body strength from climbing up every available surface, but dislikes using his legs any more than necessary. It would be easier and less painful to breathe, he thinks now, if he did not skip out on his lessons.
By the time they reach the floor below ground level (often called Sub-Floor One), Frerin can hardly stand. He leans against the wall and bends forward, spots dancing across the gold-streaked green floor as he tries to catch his breath. Hori urges him again, trying to get the third-in-line for the throne to keep moving, but Frerin ignores him in favor of taking painful, heaving gasps.
"How...is going...up...safe?" he wheezes, wondering if he can persuade his tutor to go to the lower levels for protection.
"If you do not get out of the mountain, you will be trapped here," Hori says darkly, reaching again for his pupil. "Come, we have lingered long enough."
Frerin releases one last gust of air before standing up and following Hori. By now, the staircase is swarming with Dwarves going up, the trample of boots on stone mingling with the increasing noise of a rampaging dragon. Frerin focuses on breathing, making sure he inhales deeply before exhaling, as Fundin once instructed him to do. It turns his attention away from the burn in his legs, and the impossible distance to the top of the stairs.
They just reach the final steps on the ground level when a terrific rumble shudders through the Mountain. Frerin looks up as dust and tiny rocks shake free from the ceiling high above. "Come ON, Prince Frerin," Hori shouts, tugging at his sleeves with panicked exasperation. Frerin just starts to run again when an even bigger shudder shakes the ground beneath his feet. Frerin sways, trying to regain his balance on the suddenly rocking ground. From above, a loud crack is audible, an Frerin looks up in time to see a chunk of rock the size of a balrog hurtling towards him. He stumbles backward, nearly tripping over the uneven breaks in the floor that have appeared beneath his feet. Somehow, he manages to escape the shadow of the mass coming toward him, and he shouts a warning to the other Dwarrows. Some get out of the way in time, but several are crushed beneath the stone, the crunch of bones inaudible above the shrieks and din of the aftershocks.
The hall he stands in has several similar chunks of rock resting in the floor, leaving craters and spider web cracks radiating from the point of impact. More boulders fall from the ceiling, with Dwarves looking like tiny ants as they try to dodge the falling debris. The scene looks more like the effects of an earthquake than the coming of a dragon.
His attention falls of Hori, who beckons him from a raised piece of the floor. Frerin carefully makes his way across the ground, trying to keep one eye on the falling ceiling and the other eye on the widening cracks in the floor. Just as he reaches for Hori's hand to climb up on the broken chunk his instructor stands on, a large boulder falls directly behind the tutor. The piece of floor tilts, and Hori's arms flail as he tried to maintain his balance. Another loud crack turns Frerin's attention upward, where he sees several more boulders break off.
He is pushed backward as Hori attempts to keep the prince away from the deadly missiles. As Frerin regains his balance, he watches in horror as a Man-sized boulder lands directly on his tutor. Frerin does not see the form crumble beneath the weight of the stone - instead, it is as if Hori stands there with a rock poised above his head in one second; in the next, the rock lies on the ground, and only a boot and a soot-covered hand are visible beneath it.
Frerin feels bile rise in his throat as he stares, dumbstruck, at the sight. Instead of throwing up, though, the breath is knocked out of him as an arm wraps tight around his ribcage and drags him backward, causing him to fall into the Dwarf that grabbed him. Another piece of ceiling, only slightly smaller than the one that had...hit...Hori (not dead, can't be dead, not possible he was trying to save me), lands where Frerin had stood only a moment before. The near-death experience snaps him out of his daze, and he scrambles to stand upright.
His savior is a chestnut-haired Dwarrowdam with a neatly braided beard outlining her jawbone. "Beggin' yer pardon, Yer 'ighness, but back is safer'n forward, a' this poin'." She steps to the side, indicating the staircase he had crawled up only minutes ago. He looks at her, assessing her calm demeanor, and nods. They run down the staircase, hoping only to get away from the deadly, rocky rain.
They pass the first sub-floor and are halfway down to the second when the biggest rumble yet quakes the mountain. Frerin and the Dwarrowdam grasp the handrails in an attempt to keep themselves upright while the floor shakes and sways beneath their feet. A crackling sound turns both their heads up, and they see underside of the ground floor giving way to the broken ceiling pieces. Another rumble, and the first boulder that fell crashes through the floor to land on the level above them.
"Yer 'ighness, look!" The Dwarrowdam points to the staircase above them, which has a large crack at the top.
"RUN!" Frerin shouts, grabbing her wrist and yanking her down. She stumbles behind him, but he does not halt for fear of the stairs bearing down on both their heads. He flies by the second sub-level, releasing the Dwarrowdam's hand as she regains her footing, and keeps going, focusing on keeping his feet from slipping. They do just that as an ominous crack sounds above them, and he rolls painfully down several steps. He manages to catch his foot on a rail post, causing the joint to yank him to a painful stop. He shouts as his ankle burns in protest, but he forces himself to stand up. His eyes catch on the staircase as it gives way, and he hurtles himself down the stairs, catching the Dwarrowdam by her outer robes from where she had rolled to a stop and hauling her back on her feet.
The floor shakes and shifts beneath them as the staircase rains stone from above. His companion goes down as a shield-sized rock catches her on the head, and the weight of her momentum takes him down as well. They roll and roll and roll, Frerin losing his grip on the unconscious Dwarrowdam, and the shaking and crumbling of the mountain aiding in their descent. He finally rolls to a halt as he reaches the third sub-level - only one above the lowest level before the mines. Moving causes him to feel every freshly-acquired bruise, but he grits his teeth and forces himself up, staggering and groaning like a two-hundred-and-something grandpa. Fear and worry urge him faster while his injuries slow him down, causing him to move jerkily across the somewhat more stable floor while rocks continue to tumble down from above.
He finds the Dwarrowdam and drags her away from the stairs by the armpits, his back and legs screaming in protest at hauling someone while injured. As soon as they are away from the stairs, a crashing sound accompanies the sight of hundreds of tons of stone crumbling down as the staircase finally gives way. Forcing his sweaty and dirty blond hair away from his face, he wedges his hands beneath the Dwarrowdam and lifts her, grunting and straining and cursing himself for avoiding training practice - perhaps Father and Thorin had had a point when they said he would never know when he might need to be strong.
After a lot of shifting and swearing, he manages to balance the woman over his right shoulder. His first step has him staggering to the right, and his feet almost trip him as he tries to readjust. Planting his feet widely apart, he focuses his attention on the feel of the Dwarrowdam's weight, and carefully takes a step forward and to the right, maintaining a firm grip on his cargo. When his knees do not immediately buckle, he takes another step, then another, all attention on calculating each step. His eyes are on the ground, looking for anything he may trip over, and the sound of the slow, staggering shuffle of his feet on the stone fills the dark, silent, empty floor. The rumbles of stone and shouts of his people are far above him, the battle seemingly coming to a close as the mountain slowly settles. His breathing is loud in his ear, and his muscles feel as if they will collapse at any moment, but he walks with determined steps until he finds a rocky overhang. The idea of sheltering beneath more stone unnerves him, but this wall climbs high up into the mountain, giving it much more support than the staircases or ceiling.
He lowers himself carefully, unable to keep from dropping the last few inches. He moves the Dwarrowdam to lean against the wall, her head lolling to one side. She is covered in stony dust, and blood dries from several tiny cuts on her face, a large gash on her forehead, and the bump he finds after carefully searching through her hair (while praying to Mahal that she does not wake up while he does so). Her skin is pale in the odd light that comes from Aule-knows-where, but he feels warm breath against his hand when he holds it under her nose, and her pulse is strong beneath his fingertips.
He leans back, exhausted, against the stone. A bone-deep weariness comes over him, as if he had been training with Fundin all day. Whatever had kept him running seems to drain out of his body, leaving his nerves frayed and allowing questions to begin creeping into his mind - questions, and doubts. As the rumbles above fade more and more into silence, a thousand concerns voice themselves in his head. What happened? Was the dragon defeated? It seems impossible to him, that after so much damage was wrought, the Dwarves of Erebor had come out victorious. Yet even more impossible is the idea that they were defeated - that even now, the survivors of their kingdom, if any, are shuffling and stumbling out of the mountain, bruised, bloodied and burned. Had anyone survived? Or is it that Frerin and his injured savior are the only ones left alive? If this is so, how long before they, too, perish? Or perhaps the dragon had been defeated - would anyone come looking for them? Could anyone even reach them in time?
The events of the past - hour? Had it only been an hour? It MUST have been longer - run through his head. Two Dwarrows had endangered themselves to see him safe; one had paid for it with his life. "Your Highness"? He thinks bitterly. He is no prince. He is the brother of the son of the son of the King, the third-in-line, even worse than the "spare heir". While his father and brother attend meetings and hold their roles with the grace and majesty befitting the line of Durin, he runs around like a wild boar, preferring to hide from tutors and play with other children than learn how to be a prince. Even his little sister is more suited to her role as royalty than he. That Hori had given his life to save him - Frerin's fists clench, bitten nails digging into his palm. His eyes screw tight - he does not deserve to cry. He does not even deserve to breathe.
He turns his head to look at the Dwarrowdam. Her clothes mark her as a wireworker, a craft that requires steady, nimble fingers to twist beautiful metals and thread gems into glorious decorative shapes. Frerin would place her age around a hundred and ten, maybe fifteen. Her even breathing soothes him slightly, and he realizes that he did rescue one person. He cannot lead to save his life, and he knows nothing of healing, but maybe, when she wakes - if she wakes - they can find a way out together.
The thought is not half as comforting as he had hoped it would be, but he forces himself to ignore the churning doubts in his brain. He settles back against the stone, trying to find a comfortable position, and concentrates on the gentle inhale and exhale (and the tiny accompanying snore) of his companion. Though he intends to stay awake, the physical and emotional toll of the day catches him unawares, and he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.