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Dís is the first daughter born to the line of Durin in four generations. The last was Princess Hallgrim, daughter of Queen Halldis and sister to King Nain II. She was a fierce warrior of the Longbeards, and had led many a raid on dragon nests and orc lairs to secure the safety of their halls in the Grey Mountains. Dís hears of her ancestor in the bedside tales her mother entertains her with, and when she is taught to read the same stories are some of the first she can fully understand. She is enthralled with the idea of being a warrior, of battling dreaded dragons and monstrous orcs. Her brother Frerin teases her one day, after he finds her in the library reading, and challenges her to combat.
Later, her mother finds her crying in a dark corner, mottled bruises painted in pain across her skin. Princess Dalla, wife and mother of royalty, offers no empty words of comfort, but offers the strength of her arms as shelter. Dís presses her face to her mother’s shoulder and continues to weep.
She tries to speak between trembling gasps. “I’m sorry mother. I’m –” she clings tighter to her mother’s frame. “I know it’s weak to cry.” She says nothing after that, and is not sure if her mother even hears her. She wishes for the library, for the smell of old paper and the whisper of pages turning. She wishes she had never met her brother there.
“It is not weakness to cry.” Dalla says. Dís does not reply, does not know what words she could use. “Dwarves are ever full of strong emotions. Some must be curtailed and controlled, but sorrow? No, my child, never believe that it is weak to be sorrowful.” Dalla presses her nose into Dís’ hair, and Dís can feel her mother’s braided beard on her forehead, hear her breath as it passes her ears.
“To have sorrow is to be alive.” Dalla says. “To share it is to share life, the memory of life. My daughter, my radiant one, share your sorrow with me.”
So Dís tells of the story of Hallgrim, of her brother’s seemingly benign offer of competition. Of small wooden axes. Dís did not think wood would hurt so. She did not think it would be so hard to parry.
Her mother is silent as she finishes, and Dís cannot guess at her thoughts. Dalla looks her in the eye, fierce and firm. “You have shared with me Dís, so I shall share with you. You have my word, nay, my oath, that I shall share with you all I know of war-craft! So you may one day be as stalwart as Hallgrim Wormwreaker.”
Dís laughs at that, unfathomably glad, and her mother laughs with her, their voices echoing down the hall.
Later, she sees her brother. Frerin looks cowed, and his hair has been un-braided, his jewels removed. She wonders if this is her mother’s punishment for him, a subtle badge of shame. He glares at her, but when her father scowls at him he crumples and shuffles over meekly to offer apologies that sound at least a little sincere. She remembers her mother’s fiery gaze, Hallgrim’s bravery, and lets him know exactly what she thinks of stupid dwarven boys who attack the untrained. If her voice quavers a bit, he doesn’t seem to notice, and stares at her with shock and something that might be edging towards respect.
The next time he hands her a wooden axe, they both leave with bruises, and she doesn’t cry.
They have been summoned into the King’s presence. Dalla’s training of Dís has been discovered and, as her father tells her, she is not expected to be able to fight, which Dís hears as not wanted, and frowns heavily. There are times when she does not understand her grandfather. They walk toward the assembly together: Thráin, Dalla and their three children. Dalla is unapologetic, and Thrór upbraids her. Dís can only listen.
When Thrór tells Dalla that a Princess has no business learning of war, that she should learn of politics and trade to aid her future husband and her people, Dalla does not respond. Nor does she respond when Thrór speaks of duty, tradition and the honour of the line of Durin; war-craft, he says, is all very well for other women, but a Princess has other priorities. While Thrór begins to grow frustrated and shouts Dalla merely watches, eyes locked with his and her face as firm as stone.
Dalla is quiet, steadfast, and weathers the storm that is the rage of the King under the Mountain.
Finally Thrór stands and bellows at her. “Well, what say you?”
There is a moment of silence. Dís is trembling, and many in the hall dare not lift their gaze from the floor. Thrór breathes deeply, as if he will start to shout again, then suddenly stumbles as a flash of silver hits his beard. It is a knife, and it pins the beard of the King to his throne, shearing a few hairs to float to the floor. Every eye is the hall is now raised, and fixed on Princess Dalla and her outstretched arm. Dís cannot breathe. Thráin’s skin has turned a deathly pale as he stares at his wife, his father, and Dís fears he will never regain his colour.
Her mother has just assaulted the King. Her mother has just assaulted the King.
“We are not a people of peace,” her mother says into the wretched silence, “Thrór, son of Dáin, son of Náin, King under the Mountain. We are not a people of soft words and limp actions.” Dalla pauses for a moment as her King and father-in-law tries in vain to remove the knife from his beard and throne. “We are a people of shouts, of passioned deeds, of sift axes bathed in blood. War is ever seeking our doorstep, and you ask that I do not teach my child to meet it?”
Dís slips her hand into her father’s to try and give him strength, and waits for the King’s response.
Thrór has one hand still clasped around the knife, and still looks regal for all he looks ridiculous. He turns to regard his wife as she places a hand upon his shoulder, and his expression shifts from fury to contemplation. He must see something on her face, Dís thinks. Her grandfather does not easily bank his rage. Snaehrafn grasps the knife with her husband, and together they pull it free. She turns to gaze upon the gathered nobles.
“Leave us,” she says, and she is obeyed. Soon only the royal family is left. Dís shivers in the wide space, and breathes deep of the metallic scent of her father’s clothes.
Snaehrafn examines the knife in her hand. “Tis a fine blade.” Thrór waits, seeming content to let her say her piece. “I have many of a similar kind. My father taught me to hunt, when we still lived in the Grey Mountains.”
Thrór huffs. “You cannot equate it. That was a skill taught to a noble, not a Princess –”
“And yet I have served you well as Queen and wife, have I not? Despite preferring hunts to trade talks with the men of Dale?”
Thrór has no answer for this except quiet acquiescence.
“Husband, my King,” Dís hears a tenderness in her words, and at once begins to feel as if they may all leave this unscathed, “we chose our son’s wife well, we knew her wisdom, her strong heart. Trust her in this. I would not have us as the daughters of men, coddled and defenceless.”
Thrór considers her, then looks to Dís. He steps down from the throne with a slow and measured tread, and Dís clutches at his hauberk as he scoops her up, pressing his forehead to hers. Something in his eyes clears, and their foreheads bump a little, a gentle mimic of the boisterous dwarven greeting. Dís holds her breath.
She is granted permission to learn war-craft, and within an hour a tutor has been found who is skilled enough to teach one of the line of Durin. Dalla smiles the whole time, a fierce thing with too many teeth and Dís feels her own cheeks pull up in response.
Two years pass, and Dís grows closer to her older brothers. Frerin has lost his cruel streak, and the pair of them often spend the time they are not in lessons following Thorin and helping him with the small duties he has been given. If Thorin huffs and scowls at them, at least he knows better than to tell them to leave him be. They know he is nervous with this responsibility, and he is not a fool that he will refuse assistance.
Thráin smiles when they see him, and tells them he is glad they are working together. Dalla smiles, and says nothing, but they all know she is proud.
They do not see their grandfather so much. There is a strange gleam about him now that they are not sure of.
“We are dwarves,” Snaehrafn whispers one day, watching her husband sift diamonds through his fingers, “and we are greedy.” Thorin’s face is hard, and they pretend they have not heard her. Her voice is too weary for her to have been talking to them.
Then the dragon comes.
Dís is with her grandmother when they hear shouts, and she reaches for the small axe on her hip. Snaehrafn goes to pick her up, but Dís moves to the hall. There is battle; she will not be a burden.
Screams echo from somewhere ahead, and a scrap of metal has Dís looking back into the room. Snaehrafn has hefted a war-hammer from its perch, and though Dís has never been on a hunt with her she can see something of it in her grandmother’s eyes.
Snaehrafn moves to the door. “Come Dis. We will be looked for, and we shall not be found unprepared!”
Their flight is a blur, full of blood and flame, and when Dís finally leaves Erebor’s halls she is missing a considerable amount of her dress and wishing she were a hundred feet taller. They help the wounded away from the mountain, and Dís does not cry. There is a time for sorrow, but not now. Now is for anger, for speed.
She does not find the rest of her family until they are past Dale, and they turn to look at their mountain.
Frerin grasps her hand. “The pines. The pines, look at them. Everything is...”
“Roaring,” Dís finishes for him, “it is all roaring with flame.”
Kíli toddles on unsteady feet, and Dís watches warily.
“Do not fret so.” Dalla is quilting by the fire, her aging hands still agile. “Fíli found his feet well enough, and so shall Kíli.” Fíli smiles to hear his name, and holds out his hands to his younger brother. Kíli squeals, and rushes forward with all the grace of a newborn duck.
“See.” Dalla smiles as her grandchildren become a tangle of energetic limbs. “He can walk, he can run. Before you know it he shall be getting into mischief and climbing things you did not think were scalable.”
“Mother, please.” Dís remembers all too well hanging off statues of her ancestors, Thráin below her yelling at people to get a cloth, a rope, something! The memory startles her, and the gentle grip of her husband’s hands on her arms is all that prevents her from leaping out the chair.
“Calm my love.” Amundi’s beard is soft against her neck, and she relaxes into him. Fíli tries to get his younger brother to say his name, again, without success. Kili just babbles at him. Amundi chuckles. “Try saying it slower Fíli. You must go slowly with babes.”
Fíli nods. “F-eeeeeee-leeeeeee.”
There is a snort from the corner of the room, and Dís looks up to see Thorin trying in vain to stifle a laugh with his fist. Amundi is shaking behind her, and soon the room is full of laughter. Kíli mimics, as babes do, and Fíli smiles at everyone, glad he has made them happy.
Dís is proud of her sons, though they are both so young. “One day Fíli,” she tells him, “he will be able to do everything with you. We must simply be patient.”
“Will he be able to share all my food?” Her son is serious in his question, so she does not laugh, but answers it in kind.
“Of course he will.”
“And share in my games?”
“Yes.”
“And in my lessons? Will we be able to spar?”
Dís hesitates. Amundi runs soothing hands over her arms, and the room waits for her answer. She does not want to allow this. She wants her children to be apart from war. But it is a thing that ever seeks their doorstep, and she will teach her children to meet it.
She tells her son so, and he nods solemnly, whispering promises to his younger brother.
“We shall never be apart Kíli, you will see. We shall be together, always.” Kíli laughs, and Dís watches her children warily.