The Halls of Erebor

Into the Future

The following week was lonely. Thorin was absent, attending to political matters while Frin tried to survive. Their relationship was different. A part of her wondered if he was ashamed of her, visiting only at night. Already too emotionally exhausted, she pushed those thoughts and feelings aside. The fact was, he was busy but he was giving her all the time he could. Anyway, she needed to focus on living.

Her new bow provided a steady source of income. Every morning she would head out into the forest and hunt. Usually by mid afternoon she returned with a modest collection of prey to sell to the butcher, who she came to learn was called Anil. The elderly dwarf always greeted her merrily and praised the quality of the meat and precision of her kill. When she wasn't hunting she was in the tavern with Balin and Dwalin, which grew to be daily.

"It would be wise to find some permanent accommodation." Balin frowned at her one evening. Frin gave him a half hearted nod into her fourth or fifth pint. "You can't stay in a tavern forever."

"True." She mumbled in between gulps. "Are we actually staying here? It's been a week and there are so many rumours going around."

"Scouts have been sent West." Dwalin grumbled.

"Thror is set on retaking Erebor." Balin interjected. "But Thrain is reasonable."

"Are they looking for a new kingdom?" Frin asked.

"It's likely." Balin answered.

"And Thorin?"

"He intends to go out on his own."

"What!?" Frin choked. "He's leaving?"

"Aye, that's what the lad said." Dwalin shrugged.

Frin stood up teetering slightly, her jacket falling around her. It was new to her, a deep blue with dwarven style embroidery around it's trim. With a deep groan she marched off, ignoring the brothers' protests. A little dizzy, she marched towards the building which had been housing Thorin and his family.

The winding streets gave way to large stone structures embedded in the hillside. When she came to the house she was greeted by perfectly carved pillars of white stone lined against a grand visage. In the centre between two of the pillars stood a grey door, intricately carven with boars and swords. The door was open wide, allowing in the warm evening air.

After hesitantly entering the grand house, Frin was immediately in awe of her surroundings. She stood in the centre of an enormous room. In it's centre stood a vast fire, golden flames cast warm rays of light on the cool interior. On either side of her were two staircases, resembling the open stairs of Erebor. Along each step's edge were carven runes, which seemed to speak of the Line of Durin.

Just when she was able to take in the room a stocky old dwarf approached her. His enormous white beard hung below his knees, swaying as he approached.

"How can I help?" His voice was surprisingly smooth and gentle.

"I...." She stumbled over her words, realizing she'd been standing with her mouth open. "I am here to my Lord Thoirn." She finally said, slurring the words slightly.

"And who do I say is calling?" He asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"Frin, daughter of Farin." She bowed her head, trying to be polite.

"Wait here." He said sternly before moving up the right side of the stairs.

She waited for a few minutes, uneasily shuffling her feet. Internally, she scolded herself for rushing away after drinking a little too much. Perhaps she should've laid down and slept off the alcohol. When a heavy hand hit her abruptly on the shoulder, almost causing her to lose her balance, an involuntary squawk escaped her mouth. Turning, she was greeted by Dwalin, with Balin close behind.