Chapter Text
The wagon bounced up and down over rocks and potholes, Dain along with it, his tiny form lying on the Warg pelt his mother had strewn across the wagon floor. He gazed up at the dirtied canvas stretched above him, the harsh sun cutting through the fabric and warming the dwarfling’s face.
He sighed, clutching the small axe his Da had gifted him for his twentieth birthday.
It had been weeks and Dain couldn’t stand the boredom. The young prince was eager to play with the ponies and run through the woods, whooping and hollering as he went, but he was forbidden. He wasn’t even allowed to sit at the front of the wagon, afraid that he’d whip the ponies to go faster.
“What if you get hurt?” his Amad had scolded when he asked. “Or we lose you? You’ll stay here where you belong and catch up on your studies.”
Studies. Dain blanched. He didn’t care for learning how to read a contract or talk to his advisors. He wanted to explore the mines under his Grand-Uncle’s care. He wanted to feed the boars grazing just outside the Iron Hills.
He wanted to have fun.
“How much longer?’ he groaned.
“We’re nearly there,” his mother repeated, not for the first time that day, nor their trip.
Dain frowned, wiggling his toes in his boots. “I hate Erebor,” he said.
“You’ve never been,” Arala told him, eyes focused on her needle work, Dain’s torn coat on her lap. The boy was as rambunctious as ever and she blamed her husband’s family for his wildness.
“I miss Rkeuk,” he mumbled.
“He’s with the other hogs,” Arala said.
Dain pouted. “She’s a boar, not a hog.”
“Ghivashel,” she sighed. “They’re all pigs. Now, how do you greet a foreign dignitary?”
“No running,” Freya called after Thorin, Frerin at his heels, Dis in his arms, the tiny dwarfling drooling on her brother’s new tunic. Not that he minded, it was far too itchy for his taste.
“Yes, Amad,” he conceded, breaking his run into a light jog, Frerin tripping over his boots at the speed change. Thorin grabbed him by his arm, catching him before he could face plant and cry like the heavens.
When Thorin was told his cousins from the Iron Hills would be visiting, he couldn’t help but be excited.
There were only so many dwarves his age, let alone dwarves that his father approved of. That honestly only left Dwalin.
And while Dwalin was his best friend, said friend was beginning his training as a member of the royal guard and only had so much time left to terrorize the maids or Balin, Dwalin’s older brother.
But his Uncle Nain, Lord of the Iron Hills, had a son just about his age. And that meant he’d have someone he could have a decent conversation with, unlike Frerin, who was a pain in the butt on the best of days.
“Name the Lords of the Iron Hills,” Thrain said, causing Thorin to groan.
How was he supposed to remember that? Wasn’t it good enough he remembered the name of the of the current lord of the Iron Hills?
“You know as well as I that there have only been two,” Freya scolded her husband.
“Gror and Nain!” Thorin exclaimed, pleased that he hadn’t actually forgotten, but was tricked.
They padded quietly the rest of the way to the gates, Thorin bursting with excitement as the wagons and ponies climbed up their mountain and across the bridge, stopping in the huge entrance hall, giant gold statues of his forefathers watching the procession with approving eyes.
“Thrain, you fat boot licker!” came a shout and Thrain lit up like a forge.
“Nain, you old tree shagger!”
The two dwarves knocked their foreheads together, the thump echoing across the hall as Freya covered her children’s ears. This was not appropriate language, and Thrain knew he’d get a scolding soon enough.
“Watch your tongues,” she scolded as Thorin giggled at his father and uncle.
“This must be wee Thorin!” Nain boomed, letting go of Thrain and taking in the sight of Thorin who stood at attention, his sister now standing on her own two feet, back ramrod straight as he greeted, “At your service.”
He bowed low and Frerin copied him, almost tipping over, only for Thorin to put a hand on his shoulder to keep him upright.
“And yours and your family’s, young prince,” Nain replied.
Then off he was, introducing his wife and Freya looked relieved that she had someone to speak to that wasn’t her husband or her children. Finally, someone who understood what it was like to marry into a royal family.
Through it all, Thorin waited patiently, hoping to get a glance of Uncle Nain’s son, but there was no dwarfling in sight. Perhaps he had misheard? Perhaps they didn’t have a son at all.
“And where’s Dain?” Freya asked, voicing Thorin’s concerns.
Aralia sighed, “He’s with the pigs,” disappointment lacing every word.
Screams echoed in the hall and Thorin spied a boar running through the crowd of dwarrows, a small, red headed dwarfling on its back.
“Dain!” Aralia shouted, Nain guffawing beside her, no help whatsoever. “Get here this instant!”
Dain looked nothing more than willing to comply, but this steed cared little for his interests, and galloped on.
Now both Nain and Thrain were bent over in laughter as Freya and Aralia shouted after Dain, dwarves jumping out of the way of the runaway pig.
Thorin watched in horror as Dain was flung here and there, while still keeping a strong hold on the wild beast.
He spotted a bag of oats in the back of a wagon and ran to it, hauling it free and ripping the bag open, gathering the oats in his hands and sprinkling it across the floor. He made pig noises, oinking away as he pleased, until one of the dwarves caught on and called, “Sooey!”
Off shot the boar, Dain bouncing on its back, towards Thorin and the oats, sliding to a stop until her nose was in the bag.
Dain rolled off, red hair in a tangle, braids in his mouth. He gave Thorin a dazed look as he spat out his hair, stumbling onto his booted feet, crunching the oats beneath.
“Dain!” Aralia shouted, hurrying to her boy and finding him more or less intact. She pulled at his large ear, concern easily morphed into anger.
“Amad!” he whined, trying to wriggle free, but his mother had an iron grip.
The boar poked he head out of the bag of oats, only to snort at the scene and resume eating, not caring that she had put her master into a world of trouble.
Thorin patted her head, watching Dain’s scolding in fascination.
“He’s… different than I thought,” Thorin told his mother as she tucked him into bed. He had moved out of the nursery only the year before, his parents agreeing that he was too old to bunk with his siblings, something Thorin was eternally grateful for.
Freya undid Thorin’s braids, tucking the loose hair behind his ears. “Not every dwarfling is as well behaved as you,” she said, gently knocking their foreheads together. “Now sleep.”
She closed the door and Thorin stared up at the crystals embedded into the ceiling.
Dain was loud and boisterous, with hair matching his personality. They had also only exchanged about two words, seeing as his Aunt Aralia had hauled his cousin away, yelling at him as they went.
He hadn’t even appeared at dinner.
Thorin felt that they weren’t going to get along at all and frowned. And he had been so excited, too.
It was incredibly unfair.
Rkeuk needed to get some air. She wanted to explore! It wasn’t his fault that she went on a rampage. She was still a baby, after all.
He kicked at his blankets, crawling out of bed and towards his parents adjoining bedroom. He put his ear to the door and heard his father’s snores.
Perfect. They were asleep.
Dain pulled on his boots and a thicker tunic, grabbing a small dagger and shoving it into his boot, just in case. He ran a comb through his wild hair, blowing the curls out of his eyes.
He snuck out of their guest chambers, silent as could be, boots barely squeaking as he tiptoed past his parents, hand over mouth so as not to wake them with his deep breaths.
It was early morning and Dain had all the energy afforded a twenty six year old, out of bed before was deemed proper. He smiled as he found the hallways empty, no one there to scold him or ask what he was doing.
Or so he thought.
He heard them before he saw them, a troop of servants, giggling and yawning, ready to warm fireplaces and dust rooms. Dain had forgotten he was in the royal wing; it was never empty for long.
Afraid he’d be sent back to his room, Dain opened the first door he could find, and prayed it wasn’t King Thror’s.
It was nearly dark, the only light twinkling down from the gems encrusted in the ceiling. But there were no snores and Dain breathed a sigh of relief. No dwarf king here.
“Move, and you shall die before you can so much as beg for mercy,” someone snarled in the dark, a knife pressed into Dain’s neck.
Oh no! He was going to die. He was too young to die! He hadn’t even grown a proper beard yet!
“Speak, villan.”
“My amad’s going to kill me!” Dain wailed, fighting tears. He was going to be murdered, and then his mother was going to find out and ground him until his coming of age.
The knife was pulled away and Dain breathed a sigh of relief, light suddenly filling the room – the gems turning just so, to reflect light into the room – revealing the young prince as his attacker.
“Dain,” Thorin huffed, a small, sharp dagger with the Durin crest on its hilt in his hand.
Thorin was several inches taller than Dain himself, his long black hair a crow’s nest, his scruff of a beard barely worth notice, but he had a hard look in his eye and a regal bearing that astounded Dain.
He was about five years older, but he was already so much more refined; more kingly than Dain could ever hope to achieve.
“At your service,” Dain piped up, bowing as he was taught, a bright grin on his face, near death experience forgotten.
“What are you doing here?” Thorin yawned, crawling back into bed, hair curtaining his face. “It’s early yet. And we haven’t had proper introduction.”
“We met yesterday,” Dain pointed out, jumping into Thorin’s bed, jostling the other boy.
“Go away,” Thorin growled, covering his head with a pillow.
Dain bounced up and down, not ready to leave his new friend just yet. “Thanks for stopping Rkeuk,” he said. “She gets excited easily.”
“Why were you riding a boar?” Thorin asked into his pillow.
“Why not?” Dain fumed. “Erebor’s got rams, we’ve got boars.”
“You do not,” Thorin replied, sitting up to challenge his cousin. “The Iron Hills have rams, same as us.”
Dain pouted. “Well I’m going to be the first dwarf to ride a boar. Right into battle.”
“You’ll be laughed right back off.”
“You’re so mean,” Dain replied.
Thorin snorted, uncaring. He hopped out of bed and began to dress, grumbling all the while how Dain woke him up. Once properly dressed, boots on, and hair braided, he gave his cousin an expectant look.
“What?”
“Do you want to see your pig, or don’t you?”
Dain perked up, jumping off the bed and grabbing Thorin’s shoulders, smiling wide. “You know where she is?”
Thorin nodded, slapping Dain’s hands away. “Why’d you name her Rkeuk?” Thorin asked.
“Because Da wouldn’t let me name her Makhaggûna,” Dain explained.
Thorin blinked in astonishment before throwing his head back and laughing, his laughter bouncing around the room until it delved into pleased snorts.