This author does not own the Hobbit or anything related to Tolkein's works. If Neocolai did own the Hobbit, it would include tiny!Frerin and he would be so adorable he would live forever.

Dark hair spills over Thorin's shoulder, soft, sleepy mumbles breaking the stillness as a child drifts on the verge of sleep. A soft, newly broken toy falls from limp fingers and plops into Thorin's waiting hand. Frerin smiles faintly and tucks his nose into his big brother's collar, safe and warm and comfortable as he should be. He is tuckered out already. It is only early evening, but it has been a big day for such a small child. His first trip down to the market: new toys and running on his thin, wiry legs so that Thorin has to chase him under three stalls before he can hoist the child onto his shoulders and apologize to those who's wares had been vandalized.

Smacking contentedly, Frerin yawns and makes a small sound that might have been words for any other child. He has his own language that only his brother can understand, and Thorin does not intend to teach it to anyone. This is their secret way of communication, and he guards it jealously.

"Fundabah?"

"Yes, we had fun today." He admits it gruffly, with a faint smile. He would never say so to anyone else, but ... the day was fun. More so than he had had in a long while.

"Susapah?"

"Yes, supper will be ready by the time we return ... provided you do not fall asleep in it like yesterday."

"Hm." Another tiny yawn, and then Frerin cuddles his face into the fur of Thorin's coat, happy and safe and warm as he is supposed to be. He is a small child. Insecure. Helpless. He should have someone to watch out for him. Someone to love him. Someone to make him feel like he belongs in his own home.

"He's asleep again?"

Dis is standing at the door, watching them with moist blue eyes as she holds out her arms for her littlest one. Reluctantly Thorin hands Kili over to her, ignoring the tears that have trickled onto tiny, chubby hands. Dis' hand ghosts over his cheek and her fingers come away damp. Understanding glimmers in her own eyes and she shakes her head, swallowing down a sob.

"He ... he had a good day," Thorin says with an effort.

"Supper is ready when you want it."

He nods, and Dis retreats inside. They both know he will not follow behind her. Thorin lingers outside and searches the heavens, as though the stars could offer peace and solace for his turmoil. His fingers tap against a lump in his pocket and he pulls it out, biting his lip as he unfolds a small, battered stuffed rabbit. One ear is missing and the other is not far behind, gnawed almost in half by a child with anxious, tremulous brown eyes. For an instant he sees Frerin, hands stretched up expectantly, eyes imploring as he begs for one moment of his brother's attention. Warm tears spill down wane, thin cheeks and the child hugs his rabbit close, knowing that once more he has proved unworthy of his brother's affection. He does not know how to win it, but he will try. Over and over, until he has earned the right to sit on his brother's shoulders for a single journey into Dale on marketday.

Thorin bites down hard and muffles a sob, clenching the stuffed toy in his large hands and begging the heavens for forgiveness. He thinks of Frerin: a child turned warrior too soon, with no one but the grave to welcome him with open arms. Thorin wonders if his brother will still look to him with hope and adoration when he finally joins him.

I am trying, Thorin yearns to tell him. He cannot change the past, but he can carve a beautiful life for another child too small and uncertain to find his own path.

Was this enough to earn forgiveness, or had he forever lost that bright glimmer of love in Frerin's eyes that he had never returned with anything but scorn?

"Forgive me, brother," Thorin whispers, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks.

He cannot change the past. He can never say the words Frerin desperately wanted to hear. He can only weep, unable to offer the love he never had time for in the past. Knowing that Frerin will never again look up to him, dark eyes shining with that unshakable devotion reserved for his older brother.

Why do I do this to myself?