Chapter Text
“You need more control over your blade,” Dwalin corrected, tapping the underside of Bilbo’s sword with his own. The hobbit’s eyes went wide as his blade swung high and he fought to regain control, mouth tight as if he could hide his struggle through sheer determination.
“Why d’you bother teaching him when he can barely even lift your lightest training blade? What’re you expecting for him t’use?”
Frerin watched as Bilbo glared over at Dáin who was, in turn, sparring with Thorin. Frerin knew quite well that Bilbo would love it if Thrór decided to end his training, but that wasn’t what his cousin was actually insinuating. Frerin loved all his cousins, of course he did, but there was no denying that those from the Iron Hills held a certain amount of animosity toward hobbits, Dáin being outright dismissive, all the more problematic with how much Glóin looked up to him.
Frerin put it down to the fact that those dwarfs from the Iron Hills didn’t get to see hobbits except when visiting Erebor. It was true that perhaps Bilbo didn’t make the best first impression when it came to a dwarf’s expectations (especially not with how today’s training was going), but they’d come around soon enough.
Taking his eyes off Dwalin to glare at Dáin was a mistake though. Frerin watched as Dwalin landed a blow near the hilt of Bilbo’s blade to knock it from his hands. The blade glanced across the surface of the packed dirt they were practicing on and onto the cobblestone surrounding it as Dwalin addressed him.
“Eyes on your opponent, pundurith,” he admonished.
“I wish you would stop calling me that,” Bilbo admonished with an exasperated huff. The blow must have been jarring to his wrists; Bilbo shook them out before he turned his glare over to Dwalin instead. “Frerin told me it’s not a compliment in your language.” Frerin winced into his smile, but still couldn’t help but laugh a little. Bilbo had been more upset than need be when he found out, but it had definitely been an entertaining conversation nonetheless.
Dwalin smirked back toward Bilbo, caught in his omission but unapologetic. Frerin could hear snickering coming from Dáin and a marked silence from Thorin as their blades continued clashing and grating against each other. Frerin didn’t like that.
Dáin didn't know that Bilbo would laugh and tell them their language was unduly nuanced and filled with far too many consonants. He hadn't been there for all of the times that they'd laughed with Bilbo over translational misunderstandings; it rankled when he was forced to see that his Iron Hills cousins saw Bilbo in so less of an affectionate light.
The fact that Thorin was keeping silent on the matter entirely, his shoulders all of a sudden tensed and gaze trained with an unnatural strength to Dáin did not bode well.
“Lazy nicknaming is what it is,” Frerin interjected, turning his attention back to the other sparring circle. “Bilbo’s not clumsy. Have you ever seen a hobbit stumble even once? Sturdy little things, they are.”
“But is that even a compliment in any language?” Glóin scoffed from where he was sitting on the sidelines next to Frerin. “It’s certainly not in Westron. At least not in the Iron Hills, it’s not.”
Frerin didn’t bother holding back a roll of his eyes. One summer spent visiting their cousins and all the sudden it was all he could talk about. Glóin was at the age when he would want to join in on any type of joke, the novelty of being included with the adults a bigger draw than anything else, but wasn’t yet old enough to parse the nuances of the conversations. Frerin himself wasn’t so much older than him, Gloin's beard no fuller than his even though it had come in at least two years before.
Frerin could remember the feeling well enough though, how strong that desire could be to be included in... anything with your older sibling, but that didn’t mean it rankled him any less than it did the others.
“It may not be a compliment many places, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have to be an insult either,” Frerin settled on. He was silent a moment, listening to the renewed clanging of dulled steel against steel, before he leaned back over to speak to Glóin. “I imagine it’d be difficult for you to understand that it would be an insult if you were called mugr in Sindarin,” he explained. “Elves see bears as clumsy and lazy instead of strong and fierce,” Frerin told him, miming ferocious bear claws, but he only received a scowl in return. He sat back on his side of the bench with an easy grin and let Glóin pout. “Bilbo taught me that, actually” he added as an afterthought. “Knows quite a lot about elves.”
“As if I would care what an elf thought of me anyway,” Glóin retorted. “You all spend too much time with men and elves and hobbits here. I don’t understand why you bother when you have such rich mines.”
“It is for trade, Glóin. Do you think we would be able to support half our people, allow them to live with such riches if we didn't open ourselves to the outside peoples? We are lucky to have such relations with them.” Glóin just shook his head and turned back to watch the two pairs as they continued to spar, but that was alright. At least he had listened at all.
Frerin watched Bilbo pick up the hilt of his sword, the tip dragging an uneven line through the dust; Bilbo always complained that the practice swords were too heavy and ungainly. He was usually able to get through Dwalin’s training reasonably well, but the sight of sweat soaked curls so early in the day belied the fact that spending the summer in the relative relaxation of the Shire had not helped to uphold his strength or endurance.
“But look at those feet,” Glóin objected again. “How could they not trip over them? I’m surprised he hasn’t sliced one of those things open yet, wandering around barefoot, of all things.”
They both looked back over at Bilbo as he interjected from the edge of the training ring. “I’ll have you know, hobbits are very nimble on their feet-“
“Show us then, halfling,” Dwalin growled, “you were idle during your time away.”
They watched Bilbo make his way back into the training ring where Dwalin was waiting. “It was rather difficult to find a sparring partner back in the Shire, Master Dwalin,” he objected with a nervous, but annoyed huff. “Hobbits don’t make a habit of learning swordplay. And it’s not as if I was there for a mere social visit- You know I was on business on behalf of this kingdom,” he added with an impatient flap of his hand. “You would think-”
“Doesn’t matter, Master Hobbit;. You fell behind and now you need to catch up,” Dwalin retorted.
Bilbo scowled and made a show of adjusting the overlarge leather vest. Dwarves were so much more broad-shouldered than hobbits. Before preparations for the wedding had begun, Dís had been considering having a more hobbit-sized one commissioned for Bilbo. Frerin was sure that it would be appreciated.
“Maybe I should head in early,” Bilbo tried. “I did promise Dís I would help her get ready-“
“It’s not even midday yet,” Thorin interjected. “She didn’t ask for your help until after lunch.”
“And you know she’s got to be with Víli right now anyway,” Frerin added with a grin.
“Fine, then,” Bilbo sighed with a grimace, positioning himself on one side of the practice court. “But isn’t it bad luck for the bride and groom to be spending so much time together before the ceremony?”
Dwalin raised his sword and Bilbo hefted his into a defensive position.
“Bad luck?” Frerin asked. Bilbo couldn’t look over at him with Dwalin advancing, but he managed an affirmative grunt as he defended against the first swing. “No, not for dwarves. That sounds like a distinctly hobbit tradition,” he answered.
“No, um-” Clash. Bilbo stumbled back a few steps before continuing. “The men of Bree, right near the Shire, uhm,” Clang, “they do it too.”
“Can you imagine trying to keep Víli and Dís away from each other that long?” Frerin asked with a laugh, “I’ve never seen a pair closer joined than those two.”
“It’s disgusting,” Dwalin agreed. “Lovestruck idiots.”
He just laughed, but Bilbo wrinkled his nose at Dwalin. “They’ve found their soulmates. I think it’s terribly romantic.”
Frerin heard a snort from Dáin and immediately wished Bilbo had kept his mouth shut. “Yes, just like how terribly romantic yours is?” Dáin asked.
As long as he’d known him, Frerin’s cousin had been just as blunt as Dís, but without any of the well-meaning intentions. He said what was on his mind and that was the end of it. Frerin heard a grunt and heavy thud, and winced as he saw Thorin hit the ground from the corner of his eye. Frerin had enough experience removing attention from his brother thanks to their sister, so he knew just what he could say, even if he also knew it was far from a perfect solution.
“Dwalin is just jealous that he’s not Dís’ One,” Frerin distracted, and he winced even as the words came out of his mouth. He knew that Bilbo likely wouldn’t appreciate swinging a bad temper onto his training instructor, but it was the best Frerin could think of on such short notice. The alternative was letting the attention stay on Thorin, and he’d already been overly sensitive when it came to mentions of Bilbo in the week preceding his return. Today of all days they did not need one of Thorin’s tempers to take over.
Surely enough, Frerin could see where Bilbo’s eyes had widened under a sweaty brow, carefully watching an expression on Dwalin’s face that Frerin couldn’t see himself, but could certainly imagine quite well. “That crush was over a decade ago,” Dwalin argued before swinging a particularly hard blow at Bilbo. “It was a child’s infatuation, let it go!”
“That’s right,” Glóin mused. “I’d almost forgotten that Dwalin thought he could fall in love back then.” Frerin elbowed him in the ribs, resulting in a retaliatory punch to his arm, but the damage was already done even before Glóin had opened his mouth.
On the other training circle, Thorin and Dáin were brushing themselves off as they headed to the benches where Frerin and Glóin were sitting. Thorin gave his brother a rough shove to his already sore arm as he reached past him for the pitcher of water, leading Frerin to hunch forward in an effort to not spill water from his cup all over himself. He was not successful.
“I still think she’s rushing things,” Thorin groused. “Her beard’s not even fully grown in yet.”
Dwalin, seemingly still irritated with the prince’s accusations shot back, “You only think that because it makes you feel rushed.”
Bilbo fumbled his sword at the accusation, and Frerin stood halfway up off the bench in case he needed to intervene, knowing full-well that Dwalin was itching for a fight now. He hadn’t meant to make things go quite so far; surely Dwalin didn’t actually still have feelings for their sister?
Frerin watched the ring and was startled to see that while Bilbo was crouched to pick up his fallen sword and Dwalin was distracted, Bilbo braced his arm and shot up, elbowing him between the knees.
Dwalin crumpled to the ground, clutching his groin and spouting strained obscenities. Bilbo quickly picked up the sword and skittered away, huffing breath as he made his way out of the circle. When Frerin looked over to the others, he was met with shocked expressions from Dáin and Glóin, while Thorin was doing a poor job of hiding a grin, even if he had still yet to look at Bilbo. Well, at least he wasn’t too angry.
Frerin, on the other hand, was putting no such effort into suppressing his pleasantly surprised expression, openly beaming at Bilbo’s underhanded move as he declared practice finished early. Bilbo took the proffered cup from Frerin and gulped down the water, before shucking the leather vest.
When he chanced a look back at the training ring, he could see that Dwalin was getting up and would likely be making his way toward them very soon. Time to leave.
“I think I shall be heading back to my rooms now,” Bilbo hedged, looking between Dwalin and the rest of the group. “I am in need of a bath before lunchtime.”
As Bilbo made his way out of the private training rooms and back toward the central atrium, Frerin scrambled to gather his things and rushed to follow.
“I figured I wasn’t going to be very safe back there,” he said when he arrived at Bilbo’s side.
“You did manage to offend both Thorin and Master Dwalin-“
“You have got to stop calling him that,” Frerin interrupted.
“Master Dwalin?” he asked.
“Yes!” Frerin answered. “It sounds like you’re afraid of him when you call him that-“
“I am most certainly not afraid, it’s only polite!”
Frerin only had to give his an unbelieving look before Bilbo looked behind himself to make sure nobody else was following, and lowered his voice.
“Perhaps he still makes me a bit nervous. But that’s hardly the same thing, and it’s hardly my fault!” he objected. “Dwalin is quite... gruff and grumbly toward me, isn’t he? And just because he is a rude character doesn’t mean that I must be as well. I am a Baggins of Bag End, after all. Top notch manner, we have.”
Frerin huffed and shook his head at the ceiling far above them, putting only the smallest effort into hiding his smile at the reminder. Whenever Bilbo came back from the Shire there was no doubt in anyone’s mind what family he was from, even if it didn’t mean much in the mountain aside from his relationship to his mother. “He isn’t a rude character,” Frerin replied.
But Dwalin was rougher toward people outside of their group. And Bilbo at times. Frerin grimaced. He needed to backtrack.
“Perhaps he is. But it’s only because he can tell that he makes you nervous. He’s never liked it when people were afraid of him. I swear he wouldn’t be nearly so growly if you didn’t act so skittish around him.”
“Well,” Bilbo added, raising his voice as they stepped into the din of the main atrium, “that seems entirely his own fault if you ask me.”
Frerin shook his head in lieu of replying. They refrained from talking anymore as they made their way through Erebor’s main entrance. This was by far the busiest and loudest area of the city, save for the mines, and the only area open to visitors without a special escort.
The hall was, in true Erebor fashion, immensely extravagant with vast open space stretching several stories high and held up by imposing dwarven figures carved into the rock, enduring as the mountain itself; a testament to Mahal’s gifts of wealth and craftsmanship. There were vendors set up by the dwarves to trade with travelers from surrounding cities, the clattering sounds of hundreds of voices blending together into a nearly indecipherable cacophony of of noise.
The two weaved their way among the crowd of men and dwarves and the occasional elf, the room even more packed than usual due to the upcoming nuptials of the Raydûna. When they had made their way to the opposite end of the hall, they navigated to the next available cart of the harâzgund.
Bilbo had never liked this dwarven contraption, insisting that even with the sturdy pulley system, he feared it would fail and that they would be hurtled toward the ground to their inevitable deaths. But dwarves didn't have the same compunction about heights, building walkways over empty space and dangling themselves from deceivingly complex harnesses while working in the mines. Bilbo didn’t have much choice but to use them, though, unless he wished to navigate twenty-six flights of stairs (they had counted one year after a particularly bumpy ride up to their rooms) and the series of hallways connecting them.
Frerin hopped into the cart first, balancing himself against the tilt. Bilbo didn’t quite offset his weight, but the slant was not severe as when his brother was in the cart, the towering bastard. Bilbo climbed in after him and sat at the opposite end of the cart, gripping tightly to the sides and shutting his eyes against the sight of open air beneath them.
“Thank you for looking after my brother,” Frerin spoke after the cart made its initial upward lurch. Bilbo peeked an eye open at Frerin and let a hint of a smile tease the edge of his mouth.
“Ahh… It was more that I was looking out for myself, if I’m honest.” Bilbo closed his eye again before he managed an accidental peek at the ground below them and then continued. “You know how Thorin gets when people make insinuations about that sort of thing,” he murmured. Bilbo’s face scrunched together, lines of annoyance forming at the left corner of his mouth. “Dwalin knows how Thorin gets,” he added with a scoff. “If he wants to taunt Thorin like that, he deserves what he gets. He knows better.”
“Ruthless,” Frerin complimented. “These dwarves always underestimate you, but I know to keep my eyes on you.”
Bilbo snorted through his nose, a habit he liked to blame on his time with the dwarves, before chewing on the inside of his lip. Bilbo may disagree, but there really was much more going on in the hobbit’s mind than many of the dwarves in the kingdom gave him credit for.
“When I was younger, I always thought Master Dwalin would be the one to end up with Dís,” Bilbo eventually confided. “They were always so close. I remember being so shocked when she finally met Víli.”
“Mm,” Frerin agreed. He drew in a deep breath and released it again with a considering air above the groaning and clanking sounds of the rising cart. He reclined himself over the back of his seat, head hanging comfortably over empty space in a way he knew would make Bilbo cringe if he were to open his eyes. “I don’t think my sister ever felt that way about him,” he finally admitted, “but I can’t be sure how deep Dwalin’s feelings ran. I’m tempted to say it was deeper than he would have us believe, though.”
Frerin had never particularly looked forward to having a soulmate like his siblings had, whether it turned out to be a romantic sanze or platonic sanbah. The line of Durin was especially rich in such bonds, but at his age it seemed that Mahal had not blessed Frerin with one. Even so, it wasn’t as though he begrudged those who had been given such a One. Not at all. He was resolute, however, in his belief that those relationships forged outside of a One were capable of being just as close and loyal and strong as those bestowed by Mahal, even if there were few who shared his belief.
It felt incredibly wrong that Thorin had for so long considered himself cursed by the very gift that many dwarfs wanted so desperately. No matter how often he spoke of it, his brother had no idea what an incredible gift he wasted.
Their ascent slowed and Frerin swung his head back into the cart, hopping out with a practiced grace before it had the time to stop, and then waited for Bilbo a few steps down the hall, just past a familiar pair of guards. When Bilbo had grappled his way out of the cart and caught up to Frerin, they continued down the lightly decorated stone floors indicative of the outer sections of the royal wing.
“They were always so close. You don’t think that will change because of the wedding, do you?” Bilbo asked as they neared his room.
It was true that there had been some tension between the two in the past year or so, but it wasn’t as if the two didn’t have a strong foundation in their friendship. It may take time, but things would surely work out. “I don’t think they’ll have much of a choice but to learn how to become friends again considering how close Dwalin and my brother are. I wouldn’t worry about it, though,” Frerin continued. “Dwalin has his own feelings to work through but he is an honorable dwarf. He would not hold my sister’s Sanze against him, just as my sister would not hold Dwalin’s feelings against him.”
“You make it sound as though everything will work itself out so cleanly,” Bilbo objected.
“In this case, I think you’ll find that I am completely right. There is nothing to worry about between those two. You on the other hand,” he added, swinging to a stop in front of the distinctly round door to Bilbo’s suites, “need to hurry if you are planning on sneaking some food from the kitchens for your midday meal.”
“Don’t be foolish,” he said, searching his pockets for his key. “I have plenty of time to stop down there now that we’ve ended practice so early. I’ll hardly be late for a quick luncheon even if I take an extra-long soak.”
“Oh, you’ve forgotten, then,” Frerin stated with teasing tone to his voice. Bilbo raised his brows in an expectant expression; he didn’t play these games with Frerin. As usual in their exchange, Frerin just cracked a smile before continuing, “How you’re to help each other with your plaits?”
Bilbo groaned and swung his head back in exasperation. He had forgotten. Frerin almost felt bad for teasing him.
On almost any other day it wouldn’t have been a problem for them. In the beginning, Thorin may not have been overly enthused about Mahal’s choice of his One, but he and Bilbo had long ago learned how to be friends. Most days, they actually got along well enough that no one would doubt they were the other’s sanbah.
It was only on days of formal ceremonies in the mountain, of which there were thankfully few, that Bilbo and Thorin were actually expected to braid each others’ hair. For a normal bond pair, it was common the two would not only help prepare the other’s hair regularly, but would want to do so. Maybe even yearn to; it certainly seemed that way for his sister. It was a dwarven tradition that gave plenty of chances for close touches and proximity to a pair that would supposedly enjoy such things.
Balin, and even Thrór after a time, had given up on enforcing such traditions back before Thorin and Bilbo had learned how to interact with each other, only insisting upon them on the most important of occasions. Even so, these holidays and events caused enough stress on their own that both Bilbo and Thorin tended to have rather shortened fuses before anything else was even added to the mix.
“You’re lucky he doesn’t wear his hair in such an elaborate pattern, that could take you hours,” Frerin attempted to tease. Bilbo would need all of his patience today. The best way they’d found to deal with Thorin in one of these moods was simply to restrain from engaging him in arguments. “And you know how he’d grump if you were late.”
Bilbo sent him a sour glare as he turned the key in the lock. “I’ll never understand why dwarves choose to spend so much time on their hair. It works just as well to keep it short, and it is so much more practical,” he groused. “Now, go, get ready yourself. You’re slowing me down and I’m apparently in a rush, as you’ve so kindly informed me.”
“Now see, it’s moments like this that reaffirm to me that you two are destined to be together. I’ve never seen a grumpier pair under the age of a hundred and fifty,” he teased.
“Shut up, Frerin!”
Bilbo shut the door, perhaps a bit too firmly, and Frerin let out a huff of breath. No matter how much he would like to pretend that things wouldn’t be so bad between Thorin and Bilbo, he’d seen enough of his brother’s temper that week to assure him otherwise.