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Chapter Text

Dís of Durin's Line is 14 by the reckoning of men when Erebor falls. She is by her mother's side, deep inside the mountain when the gate crashes open under the weight of a dragon. Naturally, the first person she thinks of is Thorin. Rounding on her mother, she gasps, “Thorin? Ama -!”

If Freya, Fárla's daughter hears her youngest call for her, she does not show it. The initial shake of the earth beneath their feet calls for very little concern. To feel a slight tremour in this part of the mountain is a very normal thing to feel. And yet Dís is concerned anyways as she asks again, “Ama? Ama, I -” A gentle hand to the girl's mouth silences her almost immediately.

“Quiet please, my child,” Erebor's queen requests as she pulls a spyglass out of her belt. She does not know if the spy glass will be useful, but she holds it to her eye anyways. Through it, Freya sees very little, except several balconies that she knows are a set of stairs that lead up to the Great Hall. Something flies over a terrace. Freya follows it with the spy glass, but it is moving too fast for her to see clearly. When it clangs against another terrace half a mile away, it only confirms her suspicions.

Uneasiness settles in the marketplace and Freya takes note of the nervous glances the people throw her way. “There is something wrong,” Freya murmurs to herself as she slips the spyglass into a spare pocket. “Ama?” Dís asks as her mother scoops the princess up into her arms and hurries to the nearest formation of rock.

Her heart is pounding in her chest as she presses a hand to the stone. Across the room, Fundin settles by one of the many stair cases leading into central Erebor as a deafening roar echoes in the distance. The roar is faint still, but it is there and Freya can feel the roll of the rock beneath her hands and feet long before its physical attributes reach the walls around her.

It is a moment before the rock finally trembles. Meters away from Freya, heads turn as dust and a few rocks clatter to the ground. Silence ripples through the market place as the rumble of the earth beneath their feet grows ever larger and larger.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. The roar echoes through the market place again. It is closer this time. And louder too. Freya tightens her grip on her daughter and removes her trembling hand from the rock formation.

“Ama?” Dís enquires softly. The queen doesn't hear. The dragon's third roar is wild and fierce this time as he booms; “No blade can pierce me, Thráin, Prince under the Mountain! It will take more than your petty arrows to kill me!” It is then, that Freya's people finally panic, the market place erupting in chaos around her.

“Silence!” Freya's voice rings out over the shouts and screams of her people. She may not have her husband's thundering voice, but she can make her presence felt if she wants to. The Queen of Erebor commands her people to move towards two sets of stairways and to move as quickly, quietly and as orderly as they can. The stairways that she points them to, does not lead to the Gallery of Kings, but to a different door leading out. It will not lead them completely out of the way of the dragon either, but if she can save some of them...

Freya tries not to think about what would happen if she can only save some of them. There is a dragon in Erebor. And as much as Erebor's Tactician may try, she will not be able to save all of them from the dragon's wrath.

“Follow Fundin,” is her last order before the dragon crashes through several balconies at the far end of the marketplace. The crowd does not even wait. They surge forwards, taking their princess and queen with them as the dragon opens up its mouth to roar again. What noise comes out of the dragon's snout is part screech, part scream this time and is far too dreadfully close for Freya's ears.

“Mama!” Dís cries as the queen resorts to dangling the girl over her right shoulder. “I see you,” the creature rumbles, “I will eat you as I have eaten every other dwarf in this city.” Freya does not look back, not even when she turns a corner with the crowd and sees the stone around them glow orange with the reflection of the dragon fire.

She does not stop either, not until Thorin appears in front of her, his sword 'Deathless,' limp in his hand. There are more dwarves here and though there are fewer than what she has expected, it is enough for her to think, 'We are going to make it.'

“Thorin,” Freya croaks as she shoves his sister at him, “Thorin, take your sister.” (“Mama,” Dís cries desperately as she reaches out for her mother, “Mama!”) “Ama -” Thorin rasps. His voice - like Dís' – is desperate.

There is a monstrous stomp some several thousand feet behind them. (The crunch of Erebor's dwarves underneath Smaug's feet has Freya screaming like a banshee as she turns towards him.) But by some miraculous turn of events, the dragon then slinks left down another corridor.

Thráin's name has just barely left Freya's mouth when he appears next to her. “Thráin,” Freya gasps as her husband murmurs, “Thrór.” The realization on Thorin's face is scary. “Follow Fundin,” Thráin's voice is hoarse as he commands – no, requests – his wife to depart the mountain, “Thorin, fetch your grandfather. I shall wait here for stragglers.”

Thorin pauses, his voice low and gutteral as he responds, “If I'm not back in an hour -” 'If you're not back in an hour -' Freya thinks. No. She will not think about what will happen if he does not return to them in an hour. 'Take care,' Freya signs to her broken family, 'I love you.'

'Come back to me,' she thinks also, but the words do not leave her lips. Thorin is hurling down the hallway like a madman now and Thráin is hustling his wife and daughter out the door onto the open plain.

Freya does not look back. Dís does not look either. But when they do, it is to see Dale and their home go up in flames.

_

Miraculously, Thorin, Thráin and Thrór live. Frerin is with Fundin when they finally wander into a valley some kilometres away from the mountain. Relieved, Freya finally allows herself to cry as she takes in what she can of her surroundings. There are hundreds of dwarves out here, but it does not compare to the number of dwarves that she knows dwell inside the mountain.

“So few,” she murmurs to Fundin as she treats what little bruises he has. He is the first she attends after seeing to her family. “So few of us left now,” she continues after a moment's pause. His silence, is almost comforting.

His voice, on the other hand, is hoarse and full of regret, “I am sorry, my Queen. That we were not able to rescue everyone.” “Do not be,” she murmurs, “We did what we could. And there is not much that we could have done against the likes of a dragon.”

The look that Fundin gives her is part incredulous, part sad as he ponders, “Not even you, Queen Tactician?” Freya only shakes her head, her beads and plaits clattering gently against each other as she does so, “Even if I could forsee the arrival of a dragon, there is not much I could do in terms of stopping it. I am a battle tactician, not a wizard.”

They remain silent for a moment longer as Freya tends to the scratches on his arm. “I meant nothing by it, my Queen,” he finally says. She nods, her eyes downcast in order to avoid seeing pity in his eyes, “I know.”

“How fares your husband?” Fundin wonders, eager to change the subject. Freya, is almost grateful. Anything, anything to avoid talking about that dragon. She spares a glance towards her husband. Dís is speaking to him, her head tilted back as they share a quiet conversation. Frerin is with them, his head lowered so he can listen in on the exchange.

Freya looks away with a grim smile, “Alive. How fares yours?” Fundin shakes his head, his voice weary as he replies, “They are fine. I have not seen Halldóra, yet. And she would've been in the library.”

'Trying to save the books, no doubt,' Freya thinks and her concern must show on her face because the Captain of the Guard, then murmurs, “But I'm sure she's alright. Now, away with you, lass. Your daughter's calling.”

The howl of pain that comes not two minutes later is enough to break Freya's heart in two. Dís' quiet sobbing only breaks it even more. “Oh Mahal,” she murmurs as she wraps her arms around her daughter, “What do we do now?”

Chapter Text

"Ama," Dis' voice is low and quiet as Freya hammers detail into another sword, "Ama, they're not coming back."

The pounding of Freya's hammer against the sword is SO loud that Dis can barely hear herself think. Freya, of course, does not respond. She is still far too absorbed in her work to pay attention to her daughter.

"Ama," Dis says again, "Ama." It is only when her voice cracks, that she step forward and snap, “AMA.”

Her voice rings out just as her mother raises her hammer for another blow to the sword. Freya, who has finally heard her daughter speak, pauses with her hammer still raised in the air above the sword.

The weapon is beautiful. It is very dwarves, with a hint of elvish flare. Dis squints at it with a distasteful eye. For a moment, she shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot before turning to her mother with an amused look.

"This is an elvish blade," she murmurs as she runs a finger down the hilt of the still cooling blade.

Her mother's smile is grim, "No lass. It's a dwarfish blade. Just with a hint of elvish." Freya motions to the hilt of the blade, which is lined with leaves and curved lines, "Your brother would've loved it."

Dis does not realize that her mouth is open until it closes with a clack of her teeth. She does not need to ask which brother Freya is referring to. Frerin has always been fond of elves.

Her eldest brother (Oakenshield, they call him now), has not. Dis can see why, even if she is more open to talking to them.

Tall, prissy things, elves.

The pang of pain that comes after is so strong that she cannot help but sigh in lieu of tears. She has shed enough tears for her people and family both. Any more and it might just feel like betrayal. She has come so far already. More tears would only impede on her current happiness.

"Do you miss them?"

Freya's voice is soft, even if her hands are calloused and her soul hardened from the loss of so many.

"Yes, ama. Yes I do - " The hands on her tighten and suddenly Dis is looking up at her brother Thorin, his eyes bloodshot and his hair matted with blood.

He opens his mouth to speak and Dis can only squeak as his grip on her wrists tighten.

It is only then that she walks up with a pounding heart and with her eldest brother's name on her lips.

"...The dreams again?" Balin rasps.

Now recognizing her surroundings as her living quarters in Ered Luin, Dis takes in a deep breath and sighs, "Yes, the dreams again."

The dreams are very nearly always the same. Usually, it is often Thorin and her grandfather, going up in flame as they stand on a mountainside of dead dwarves. Thorin's oakenshield is clutched in his left hand, 'Deathless' in the other. Frerin is often among the dead, his body broken and battered as it lies limply at the top of the pile.

Sometimes, like tonight, it is of her mother as she mourned. Freya never did take her family's death well.

But Dis is not one to linger on memories. She has a future to look forward to, after all.

Sighing, she traces her fingers over her ever growing belly and wonders: “Did you ever tell me how they died?”
The intake of breath that comes from Balin's lips is enough to prompt Dwalin to speak first, “Frerin died scared, my lady. Your eldest brother died fighting with determination on his face.”

Dis frowns. Why her friend chooses not to say his name, she does not know. Perhaps he is still healing. Perhaps they all are. “Thorin,” she says softly, “His name was Thorin.”

Dwalin's smile is grim, “I know, m'lady. It's just you flinch every time I say it.” Her whole face hardens, “I didn't think you'd notice.”

She just about misses the sparkle in his eyes as he says, “Milady, I notice everything.”

Startled, Dis laughs. But it is over almost as soon as she begins.

Shivering, she pulls the blanket (cloak, Dwalin's, she notes) and murmurs, “And what of my father?”

At that, Dwalin's eyes snap back up again before he pulls his hand away from his axe with a hiss. Not looking up, he replies gruffly, “Your father -” “We couldn't find him,” Balin butts in, “He was with Thorin, the last I checked. We couldn't find him after that.”

“Missing, we fear,” Dwalin grumbles after another moment's pause, “Dead, at the worst. My lady, you must understand, we could not search through all those bodies.”

Sadness is framed in Dis' usually bright and cheerful brown eyes, “Thank you for telling me. It is better to know, than not at all.”

Dwalin's smile lights up his whole entire face. “For you?” he says as he slides his whetstone over his axe again, “Anything.”

Dis smiles warmly at that. Dwalin was very nearly always willing to help, willing to serve. She lets her eyes flutter shut, before she pops awake again, Balin's name on her lips. Without looking up from his book, Balin responds, “Yes, m'lady?”

“Just 'Dis,' please,” she breathes, “I've had enough 'my lady's for one day.”

“Well then, 'Just Dis.' What do you need?” Balin's voice is soothing and Dis finds she has to look up wondering suddenly when he had appeared next to her.

“Do you think that goat of Ari's is still producing milk?” looking up at her brother's advisor, she smiles grimly.

“Perhaps,” Balin smiled, “I will check on the morrow.” Sighing again, Dis placed a trembling hand on Balin's. He only clutches at it in response, hoping that his presence is enough to comfort her. As of right now, it isn't. Not quite, anyways.

“I miss my brother.” she says.

Those words alone shoots waves of a dulled heartache through Balin. 'Which one?' he almost voices. He doesn't.

“Me too, my lady. Me too.”

Chapter Text

“Must you go? Can't you take me with you?” 

At least Dis would not throw a public tantrum now that she knows she is to be left behind. She is frustrated, yes, but she would do as she was asked. Their dwarrowdams are few and far between as it is and the Line of Durin could not afford to send anymore heirs out into the battlefields of war. It was bad enough that Fundin knew that Frerin would find a way out of his mother's grip eventually, but to leave the last child of Durin's line behind when everyone else would be fighting... 

As if it wasn't heartbreaking enough already. 

“I cannae let you love. Your father'd sooner have my head - .” Fundin, Farin's son smiled down at the princess as he slid his axe down onto a nearby table, “ - As would the orcs if I spent all of the battle watching your backside.” 

“But – Mother says you must stay and that father and grandfather must stay and father says that mother is to help command the armies and that Frerin and I are to stay with irak-adad Oin who is with the healers and I don't know where Thorin stands - " 

Fundin is already shaking his head by the time she finishes. 

"You throw tantrums like your mother," he teases, crouching down to look her in the eye better, "Now come here. Your braids have come undone." 

Dis tenses as he offers her a hand and a stool to sit on. 'She's furious,' Fundin notes. Her mouth is tight and pursed and her usually bright brown eyes are unreadable. It's a face Fundin knows well. Too well. Her mother Freya has carried it so often that it pains him to see it on his Princess too. 

"You didn't answer my question cousin Fundin." 

The elder dwarf chuckled as he ran his fingers through his hair, "Oh, but you are your mother's daughter aren't you?" 

Dis has always been the image of her mother with her round face and her bright brown eyes. But the comparison that would usually make her smile falls short. The princess now looks like she is going to scream. 
 

She doesn't - instead, she sighs and steps forward to sit before him. 'She's shaking, desperate' - she's too  young for all this, Fundin realizes as he runs his fingers through her hair. Though she's doing her best to hide it, her fingers are clenched and whatever braids she had already put into her hair are messy and coming out. Her eyes are wide and dilated too and Fundin has to shake the image of Queen Freya with hysteria in her eyes out of his head. Mahal forbid he see that look on Dis' face again. Desperation does not look good on the children of his King and Queen. 

"Scared?" He wonders quietly as he pulls her hair into order. 

"Yes," she says, "You?" 

"Yes," he replies, "I fear for your family my lady. All of them save you and Frerin are heading onto the battlefield and I cannae watch all of them at once." 

"So Thorin is going," Dis confirms as she turns to face him. There is so much emotion on her face that Fundin's stomach clenches at the sight of it. It's bad enough that he's following through with this battle. Any thought of fighting here of all places, makes him want to throw up, as well as makes him only wish harder for his wife. If Halldora was still here, then maybe he'd have a chance of convincing Thror that this was a terrible idea. They had already lost enough of their people to Smaug – there was no use risking any more of the Longbeards to this, nor was there any use risking the lives of their kinsmen for a homeland that was lost to them centuries ago. 

"I thought cousin Dwalin was attending Thorin though," Dis says softly, her voice cutting through the ever growing doubt in his mind.

"He is," Fundin said with a nod as he tied her hair off, "And I must attend your father and grandfather. But still, a battlefield is a battlefield and I will do my best to keep your family alive, as well as mine." 

"Ah," Dis says, "And I cannot come. Is war so cruel?" 

"Aye, love," he confirms, drawing her into a hug, "War is cruel." 

And crueller it became, after that. 

Chapter Text

Nearly eight decades later, there is a forge.

The forge is nice and warm and the heat is rolling over Dis’ skin like a blanket and it doesn’t burn, it doesn’t sting and it’s so warm and nice and then the table and her work swims and everything tilts and there’s a low drum in her head and chest and everything is dark.

Everything is light.

Everything is light and the space where Dis of the Line of Durin should be is empty.

“Dis?” Dwalin wonders and moves before he thinks. Dis is on the floor, convulsing, mouth open and eyes rolling back into her head. His heart leaps and he gathers her up into her arms and takes off. “Watch the forge,” he says to a gaping and worried Kili and to Fili he says “Find your father, and then go tell Balin.”

Everything is grey.

Everything is grey and her stomach is lurching with every bounce and there is a steady warmth cradling her left side.

“Balin – someone get - !”

“ – Here – “

“Dis, stay with me, stay – “

The voices are muffled.

Everything is dark.

Everything is grey.

Everything is grey and there is a cool cloth against her temple and Dis coughs as she is moved into a seated position against the wall.

The room goes white and then Oin swims into view.

“Huh,” he says as he pulls back one of her eyelids. “Dazed.” He finally confirms, “Heart racing.” He pauses as he looks down at her thoughtfully, “Having the nightmares again lassie?”

She rolls her head back to learn against the wall, her eyes still partially glazed over as she gazes up at Oin, licking her dry lips with a sign. She rasped, “I’m always having nightmares Master Oin.:

“How bad are they of late?” he wonders aloud as he packs away his smelling salts.

“Bad,” she murmurs and Oin only looks at her sharply.

“I see dead people.”

“Dead people lass?”

She shrugs, “At least I think I see them.”

 “Nothing can bring back the dead lass,” he says as he shoulders his pack, “Now you know the drill, no work for the rest of the day and rest.”

“You can’t hide it from me anymore,” she says as he stomps out the door. Oin doesn’t turn to face her completely, but only enough to stare at Balin who raises his eyebrows in retaliation.

“You didn’t tell her,” the doctor says flatly.

“Princess – “ Balin starts, but Dis only shakes her head.

“I know,” she croaks, “The rumours about my father being alive. He was spotted on the outskirts of Dunland last week, southwest of Bree.”

To Balin, Oin says “You’re on your own,” and then he’s gone.

“You’re not thinking of going are you?” Balin wonders as he shuts the door behind their resident medic.

She raises her eyebrows at him as she slips down from the table, “I made my decision weeks ago. Fili is coming and Vili knows. That’s it.”

“And if anybody else finds out?” Balin wonders.

She shakes her head, “Tell them I’m on a business trip.”

The elder dwarf sighs as he pulls a rucksack out of a nearby chest and tosses it to her, “Of course. Fili will meet you by the Fardowns in two days hence. He’ll be heading out as soon as the forge closes down.”

Dis laughs as she catches the rucksack, “I can never thank you enough, Balin.”

His smile as she saunters out the door is quiet.

“Just come home safe.”

_

Fili meets her, like Balin says he will, at the Far Downs just west of the Shire. “Did you get away okay?” Dis asks her eldest son as she comes across his little campfire. Fili nods as he takes a bite out of his sausage, “Got away fine Ma. Sausage?”

“Please, she says as she pinches at the sausage in his hand, “Let’s go?” Her golden haired son’s mouth twitches slightly and then he nods, “Ladies first.”

She answers him with a shit eating grin that matches Kili’s and steps forward into the unknown.

“So how are we doing this?” Fili wonders as he steps forward to keep pace with his mother.

“Doing what?” Dis says as she considers their surroundings. They are on the edges of the Shire now and as much as Dis would like the short cut, she also has a mission to accomplish.

“Are we cutting through or are we going south?”

“Southeast,” Dis says, “My father was last seen on the borders of Dunland – he might yet still be alive.”

“But your father’s dead,” Fili muses, “You told me that stories ages ago, Ma.”

“I know,” she calls after him as she turns their path south, south east, “But something’s come up!”

For a moment there is a hint of a ghostly form out of the corner of his right eye that Fili turns to address, before pausing, “Fre – “

“Fili, come ON!” his mother shouts out after him and the thought remains unfinished.

_

They found no ghosts in Dunland.

What they find is a band of rangers who bid them turn to Bree – there is something in Dunland that they are searching for and Dis has no wish to disrupt them.

“There are no dwarves here, my lady. No more since your generation moved to Ered Luin a day and an age ago,” one of the younger ones said, “No signs of any dwarves wandering alone either. My apologies.”

Dis can only nod her agreement and murmur her thanks.

_

“No luck?” Fili wonders as they begin to make their way to Bree. They have spent 2 days amongst the Dunadain and Dis does not wish to impede further, even if she is grateful. Their company was well appreciated.

“No luck,” she tells her son, “We’ll stay in Bree for the time being. Maybe the dwarves there have heard some news.”

“You seemed to trust the men well enough,” Fili observed quietly, and Dis turns to smile at her son fondly.

“I have learned that to trust only once source of information is to put myself at a disadvantage, my son. To have sources among Dwarves, Men and Elves is a useful thing to have.”

Fili huffed before hurrying to catch up to her, “I thought we didn’t like Elves.” His mother laughs at them, turning briefly to squeeze his arm, “There’s a long history behind that, my dear. It’s time we change, don’t you think?”

_

Bree is chaotic, as usual. For Fili, it is a brief business trip. For his mother, it is something far more personal, but she is more than happy to stay and help out where she can. She sells Oin’s small remedies to those who need it and makes more what small supplies she has found in her journey here.

There is still no news of her long lost father and she is almost afraid to ask the dwarves who dwell there. “I heard there was a dwarf wandering around here,” she finally says when she makes brief use of the forge in Bree.

The dwarves she is making business with shake their heads and say: “Just ghosts and rumours dear. There are no dwarves wandering alone here.”

_

She has finally made her peace with her father’s disappearance and death when Gandalf the Grey approaches her at the Prancing Pony.

“Whatever are you doing here, my lady?” Gandalf asks, “Bit dangerous for a dwarf like you to be out in Bree on her own.”

Dis looks up at the wizard, suddenly torn between frightened and insulted. She chooses to be insulted.

She puts her hand on her sword, tilts her head back and glowers at the wizard, “I’m not alone, wizard.”

 Gandalf leaned to his right, tilting his head down at her with a sigh, “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, master dwarf. Is an old man not allowed to worry for the safety of a friend?”

‘Don’t trust him,’ Thorin whispers in her ear. ‘Trust him,’ Frerin whispers and motions to a table to her right. Her eyes follow her ghost of a brother’s hand and spies the scruff of a man sitting at the table.

“So you’ve spotted them,” Gandalf prompts. Dis snaps back to attention, staring up at Gandalf with wide eyes. “Sit,” she croaks, “It hurts to look at you.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice before m-master dwarf,” The wizard sighs as he takes a seat. Dis pouts slightly and croaks again, “Just Dis please. I can’t bear to hear ‘master dwarf’ or ‘my lady’ right now. Though, I thank you for changing pronouns. I can’t have anyone knowing I’m here see…”

She looks up at him again, his eyes solemn as he eats and says, “Why are you here?”

“To see you Master Dwarf,” the wizard insists, “There is a dragon to speak of and a mountain to retake. Surely Oin – “

“Oin has spoken of little else but portents, Gandalf,” Dis sighed, “But that still does not tell me why you are here.”

Gandalf’s face falls as he pulls out a cloth. Dis does not recognize the writing. She spares a glance to the wizard and frowns, “I – I don’t understand.”

“It’s in the Black Speech,” Gandalf explains, “A reward. For your head.” The last word is spat out. The wizard is clearly disgusted.

Next to her, Thorin growls back into existance. “You have to go back,” Gandalf implores, “The mountain calls. The Line of Durin must have a home. They cannot wander forever.”

“I cannot,” Dis whispers, “I’m not my father. Gandalf – “

“What does your brother say?” is the gentle murmur. Behind them, the men who were watching Dis, leave. Frerin watches them go with a keen eye.

Dis only stares, “My brothers are dead, Gandalf. And I have no reason to go back to a mountain that is already gone.”

“And what will you do then – if the ones hunting you follow you to Ered Luin? What of your sons?”

‘No,’ Thorin whispers. Frerin echoes that silently, watching as the humiliation shoots through his sister

The idea of her people being slaughtered again sickens her. The implication that her sons may die on her watch is disgusting.

“Never,” she whispers and Gandalf only raises an eyebrow at her as he pushes the cloth towards her.

That reminder is enough and Dis croaks, “What must I do?”

“Gather your company,” Gandalf suggests, “Leave your burglar to me.”

Chapter Text

Half a world away, there is a whistling of an arrow through the air, the dying scream of a spider and the thud of an unknown corpse crashing through the branches.

There is no one around to hear it.

Hidden away, there is a tall, broad-shouldered orc who rides a dark haired warg and carries spiked armor down his shoulders.  As the elves walk through the dead, he turns his warg the other way.

Not too far away, there is a sorcerer shifting underneath the darkness of Dol Goldur, in frustration. “When?” wonders a white orc as the darkness shifts. “Soon,” the darkness says, “The prize has not yet moved – “ There is a growl of disdain from the orc but he stays put as the darkness leaps up to briefly overwhelm him.

_

The rumours come and go and Dis keeps busy. She is avoiding them actually. And she is doing it well. Oin, son of Groin may be deaf but he is not stupid. He has eyes that function. He sees the Iglishmêk. He sees the birds heading west. And most of all, he remembers his history. He asks questions where he can and does it under the guise of his healer’s work. This is how he gets his information.

He rambles to Gloin, who brushes him off but at least Gimli listens. He is not quite his royal cousin’s age, but he remembers the stories he is told and he gossips and gossips until Dis comes to call.

“Little Gimli says that you’re telling stories of a dwarf that goes to re-take Erebor.”

“Does he now?” the healer wonders aloud, as he organizes his belongings but he knows she’s caught on.

“He keeps asking when I’ll be going back and that I should take him with me,” Dis snaps and –

“Well are you?” Oin demands, “Going back I mean. You can’t keep avoiding the rumours and the portents princess.”

Dis sucks in a breath, thinks of Gandalf’s warning and her dead brothers’ persistence and sighs, “I haven’t decided yet.”

“You’ll need funding,” OIn says and Dis raises her eyebrows at him.

“I was hoping your brother would if the 7 refuse me.”

“Who says Gloin will do it?” Oin wonders and Dis only smiles.

“Just a feeling,” she says and then, “You’ll coming along, won’t you? No one else will do it.”

_

“You’re the only one crazy enough to do it, you mean,” Gloin says later as he stomps across the room with disbelief in his eyes.

“It’s time,” OIn says, “The portants. There’s no better time and we’ll be waiting for years other wise.”

“She’s made it, if she thinks Dain will fund her –“

“She’s not counting on it,” Oin argues, “So are you coming or not?”

“I’m – “ Gloin starts and the argument starts up all over again.

_

The rumours spreads and Dwalin has to hold her back when the first dwarf calls her crazy.

 He does start a bar fight later though and by the time the heads of each clan come by for a discussion - Fili and Kili have gotten into several fights each and Dis has long since made up her mind.

_

“Yer crazy, ye know that right?”

Dain Ironfoot, in all his red headed, iron footed glory knows that he can not intimidate his cousin Dis of Durin’s line, but at least he can startle her.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” his brogue-ishness says from over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry I’m going,” Dis replies with a nod, “It’s a suicide mission and yet here I am.”

The smile that tugs at the corners of his lips most seem so pitying to her because she rolls her eyes and turns away from him.

“Well, someone’s got to do it,” Dain prompts and watches patiently as she nods in response.

“You sure you won’t change your mind about coming?” she wonders and Dain blinks.

Frowning, he lifts his chin upwards for a brief moment before returning her determined gaze, “I cannae say, dear cousin. If I had more time to prepare, then maybe. But I cannae say.”

‘Thanks anyways,’ she wants to say, but doesn’t.

Dain reads her well enough. And there is a mountain still to retake.

Chapter Text

A million miles away, there is an ache in Galadriel's wrists and she cannot tell if it is from her charcoaled art or from the sudden wash of nausea rolling through her chest.

The elven queen's work is nothing like the work of the Ages long past of what her kinsmen were maybe capable of, but it will do. The art made by her kinsmen is few and far between these days and Galadriel is far more prone to wandering than managing artwork these days anyway.

 Elf-kind is drawing away from this world, Galadriel knows.

Already, her people are choosing to sail away.

Already, the world is filling with the ambitions of men. 

So she chooses to value what is left of the ever-changing world, and to focus on the hopes and dreams she has for it.

But then, a voice so angelic pierces her thoughts and takes the elder elf by surprise; "I dreamt the land was destroyed by fire."

Galadriel turns with a vision of a young elf with dark blonde hair and laughter in her eyes and it takes her a second to push back through the blue-tinged vision to gaze upon the she-elf before her.

"It may not yet come to pass," she tells her beloved granddaughter with a frown.

"I dreamt of the boy again," Arwen says in answer.

At this, Galadriel smiles. The young Estel, she knows, is destined for great things.

"Was he a boy, or a man this time?"

Arwen shakes her head softly at her royal grandmother, "A boy still, I dreamt he was crying."

"Do not worry for him," Galadriel says, "He is in good hands with your father. And I am sure your brothers will provide the comfort he needs to grow."

Arwen bobs her head at the elder elf again, and leans forward to peer at the art piece, "It's beautiful."

"Thank you," Galadriel says serenely, "I have a long ways to go yet."

"Ah," Arwen responds in kind and the meekness showers gently over her like a soft mist.

"Restless?" Galadriel wonders as she sweeps Arwen's arm up with her own.

Despite all the dignity that the two-thousand-year-old elf could muster, Arwen shrugs, "There is only so much walking that I can do. And the air feels too calm. Like there's something waiting to happen."

'Nothing too big, I hope,' says the part of the elder that has spent too much time with humanity, but she cannot help but agree. It is far too calm to not suspect anything.

Galadriel can only squeeze her granddaughter's hands in response.

Silence indeed.

_
 

Several miles away, there is a dwarf with black and bloody matted hair, and with a sword hanging limply from his hand. He is dressed in the traditional hauberk and brigandine that his kinsmen wear to battle, but without the extra cuirass that most wear to war.

Not that the famous Thorin Oakenshield wore cuirasses to war. Not often, anyway. He had almost always shed his, shedding it for the last time during the Battle of Azanulbizar.

But, this ghost, this dwarrow is only a shadow of the former son of Thrain. What once was a prideful, handsome young dwarf, is now exhausted, decrepit and unemotional as he stands in the wreck of Dol Guldor, underneath the shadow of a powerful darkness that knows no bounds.

"Why?" whispers the ghost of Thorin Oakenshield.

"We have need of the mountain," booms the darkness, "You must get there before your kinsmen do."

"Kinsmen?" wonders the former shell of the Prince Under the Mountain.

"Who they are, does not concern you," the darkness replies, "What matters is the mountain, and the dragon."

"But why?" wonders Thorin again, "Why am I alive?"

"Why you are alive does not concern you either. I will send the Defiler to accompany you eastwards. Now  go. I will send word when it is time."

"Yes, my lord," the dwarf says as the darkness dissapates into nothing.

"Is this a good idea, brother?" wonders the shimmer of another dwarf. The shadow that was once Thorin Oakenshield only stares blankly at the ghost of a blond dwarf standing next to him. This dwarf is actually a ghost, and if the former Heir to Erebor was himself, he would have recognized that this dwarf was actually his brother, for all that they resembled each other.

"You know - " the other dwarf continued, "Going back?"

"I - ? What - ?"

Then the shadow that was one Thorin Oakenshield is as blank, dark and unmoving as he was in the days following the fall of Erebor. And then he is gone - dead eyed and wandering off to the depths of Dol Guldur.

_

A million miles west, the same blonde dwarf ripples into existance next to another similar in looks to the one wandering the depths of Dol Guldur.

"...Frerin?" murmurs Dis, of Durin's Line, "I'm dreaming."

"Beware the Defiler, sister dearest," Frerin says as his sister turns over in her sleep, "Beware him and those who come afterwards."

And then he is gone and Dis is awake and groggy and on the floor, instead of in her bed.

"You alright?" murmurs the warmth that is her husband as he helps her back into the bed.

"I had the strangest dream, Vili," she murmurs as she wraps her arms around him.

As Vili responds with a curious grunt, the dwarf called Frerin ripples into view next to the fire.

"I dreamt that Frerin was with me today. 'Beware the Defiler' he said. And something about a necromancer," Dis says, ignoring the vision of a brother that was supposed to be long dead.

"The Defiler?" Vili wonders, "But he's long gone, is he not? Slain by uh...Dain was it?"

"Yes," Dis confirms, "And that was a century or so ago."

"Then why would your brother warn you of an orc long gone?"

"I don't know," Dis sighs as she threads her fingers through his, "They're both dead."

'Dead indeed,'  Frerin thinks as his sister and her husband slowly drift back to sleep, 'If only you knew."

Chapter Text

Fili is sure that his mother does not mean to isolate herself, but he is concerned. She is suspiciously late to the Gathering of the company, and to get lost is incredibly unlike her.

Dis of Durin's Line has very rarely gotten lost in her travels. But then there is a shadow attached to her that looks nothing like what a regular shadow would look like. The shadow is taller and far more broad shouldered than his mother.  The shadow will - on occasion - ripple into clear view, and Fili will catch glimpses of a strange dwarf with greying hair, a shortened beard and with more brood in his face than any dwarf he's ever met in his life.

He could have been Dis' twin, had he been alive, though Fili never quite knew how much similarities there was - at least, until he saw Thorin in his mother's shadow.  The momentary confusion is over quickly enough - his mother is flashing him and Kili a smile and he is bowing his head in response. She's awfully quiet, during the duration of the Gathering. Balin does much of the talking as she eats.  Dis hardly seems to be paying attention at all, actually - at least until, Gandalf produces a key.

It's not like any key that Fili's seen before, and his mother doesn't recognize it.

"It was given to me by your father. By Thrain. For safekeeping. It is yours now," Gandalf insists as Dis takes it gingerly.  Behind her, the ghost-dwarf is hovering and he is so dark and shadowy that it is disconcerting.

"If there's a key," his mother starts, "Then there must be another door."

"So -" say multiple dwarves at once,

"Where's the door?" Dis finishes.

Motioning to something on the map that Fili can't see, Gandalf says: "These runes speak of a hidden passage to the Lower Halls - however I do not need have the skills to find, or read it on this map."

The darkness flickers angrily behind his mother.

"So - " Bilbo starts as he motions to the map, " This is why you need a burglar? To find a door? "

His eyes are hard and amused and his entire face is furrowed in disbelief as he points to himself and goes: " I'm not a burglar! I've never stolen a thing in my life! "

"Well, I'll have to agree with Mr. Baggins - He's hardly burglar material!" Balin agrees.

"The Wild is no place for gentle folk who cannot fight nor fend for themselves," Dwalin says at the same time.

"En ough, " Gandalf interrupts and continues over all of them, "If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burgler, then a burglar he is! "

Fili is far too focused on the darkness behind his mother to listen in, for it (him?) seems to be filling up so much of the space around her that it looks like he wants to possess her.

"Very well," his mother says reluctantly, "We'll do it your way." And then the darkness shrinks back from around her shoulders. Frowning, Dis reaches for the spare contract that Balin is holding for her and shoves it into Bilbo's chest with a look of regret so mournful that Fili's heart breaks just a little.

"We're in!" Gloin says cheerfully, "We're off!"

And Fili can only close his eyes in despair.

_

Dis watches the hobbit with such curiousity that Balin can not see any other emotion there until the hobbit faints. Concern crosses her face and it is the first emotion he sees all night.

"That is the first emotion I have seen you express since dinner ended, my lady," Balin says later with a smile. Her response is a half hearted smile of her own.

"Thank you," she says at the smile fades.

Sighing, Balin settles down next to her, "Are you talking to him?"

She grunts, nibbling on her thumbnail.

Balin simply stares, curious as to what she is thinking. "You know, I can't help you if I don't know what you're thinking," he says softly.

Dis gives her advisor and friend a soft smile, "Thorin doesn't like him. Thinks him soft and unfit for this journey."

"Course he does," Balin smiles, the corner of his lips tilting upwards, "Bilbo's different. Not like us."

"Doesn't seem like a burglar to me," Dis smiles, "An awfully docile creature, don't you think?"

Balin grunts as they watch the halfling wander off, clearly trying to clear his head.

"Do you think he'll come along?" Dis wonders, "The halfling. He seemed intrigued."

"Yes," Balin replied after a moment, "Though, he doesn't seem the type."

"You don't have to do this." There is a cool sadness in his eyes now, "Go back, I mean."

Dis considers him for a moment, "Would Thorin have done it?"

"Aye, I think so," Balin said after a moment, "But it doesn't mean you have to."

"Father left behind a key."

"Your father left Gandalf a key."

"There is still no choice," she murmurs, "Not for me. There is a dragon between me and that mountain. If there is a chance that we will succeed, then I will take it."

Balin's smile seems to grow sadder as he sighs, "Then we are with you lassie. We will see it done."