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Erebor haunted Dís from the moment she first left its golden halls. Dreams of dragon fire consuming jade corridors never allowed her rest, and never was Erebor anything but a symbol of sorrow to her. Where Thorin shared their father’s desperate desire to reclaim that kingdom, Dís harbored a secret hope that they might never return.

The loss she learned during the campaign for Moria only solidified her position. Like any dwarf, she could set her mind and her feet with ferocity. Though her sons grew up devouring Thorin’s dream of returning to the halls of their fathers, Dís was as content in their home in the Blue Mountains as she had been during the Wandering Years. To her mind, there was nothing to be gained in the conquest of Erebor that was worth what it would cost her people, and more importantly her family.

Of course, she had also learned that Thorin was not to be dissuaded. For a time it seemed as though he had put the question of Erebor to rest. He led their people and helped her raise her family, and a century passed in what was as close to peace as Dís had ever known. She began to hope that it had passed from his mind and that he had turned to the sensible business of leading their people from the new beginnings they had forged. Life in the Blue Mountains was good: trade flowed and their people thrived. Families were being rebuilt, homes established. New life had been breathed into Durin’s people.

Whispers of Thrain—so long lost to them—reached the mountains, and Dís’ heart grew heavy with fear. She already feared and hated the mountain, hated the drive for reclaiming it that had stolen her grandfather, her father, and her brother. Thorin again began to talk of quests and their rightful kingdom. It was only a matter of time before he left again. It was only a matter of time before she lost him.

Dís had accepted long ago that Erebor would not let her brother rest. When he returned from Moria, she had known that eventually she would lose Thorin like she had lost everything else. What she had not prepared for was the realization that his mad quest would claim her sons as well. She could not surrender them to dragon fire and war. Her nightmares could not be given such life.

And yet, she could not stop their going. Who was she to deny their birthright? She, their mother? She, who had raised them to be clever and caring and strong? To be so keenly aware of their people and their heritage?

Once they had left her, what was she to do? Sit upon her workbench and carve their crest into leather armor while she waited for word of their deaths? She could not be so passive, not with all her world in peril. The dwarven princess rode to the Iron Hills, and then she rode to war. Dís would not allow the mountain to rob her again, not of this. Not of her last and most cherished treasure.

Thorin had always believed their family’s treasure to be buried beneath the feet of a dragon. He had not understood, not really, that gems and jewels have only earthly value. Cold and unfeeling, gold was not nearly as precious as the embrace of a brother, of a son. Dís would let him march for what he loved, but she would not let his greed steal from her. She must do what she could to safeguard that which she loved most in the world.

In the end, her efforts were in vain. Erebor took all from her that it ever could. Dragon fire did not take her sons, but war did. War for gold. War for a single white gem. War for a kingdom long lost. War, that had killed her grandfather and Frerin.

The madness that haunted her family finally touched Dís at the end of her days. When her sons were entombed beneath the treasure they died for, Dís surrendered to the mountain. Erebor had won. There was nothing in the world that could ease her sorrow, despite the joy her people felt at reclaiming their kingdom. The throne her cousin ascended was her grandfather’s, her brother’s, her son’s, but they had bled out upon the stone.

Alone among her family, Dís had never cared to conquer anything. Alone among her family, Dís had valued what they had built more than what they had lost. And she wept alone over their graves, begging the stone of their tombs to tell her why they could not simply have been happy with what they had, because what they had had always been enough for her.

Dís and Foir had been married for two uncomfortable years when Fíli was born. The child was the image of his father, handsome from the day of his birth with large and loving brown eyes. Dís named the child according to dwarvish traditions, and the whole kingdom celebrated the birth of Durin’s next heir.

From the beginning, Foir was distant with the child. Though he knew that Dís had married him with the intention of raising a family he seemed to have no interest in immersing himself in that task. He missed many of Fíli’s milestones, from his first word to his first wobbling steps, despite Dís’ begging him to linger and watch his son grow.

As often happens in such arrangements, Fíli starved for his father’s attention and nothing Dís did could fill that gap. She recognized in her son the loneliness and resentment she had felt when Thorin and Thrain had become distant to her, and her heart ached. Often she wondered if she had brought this upon herself, upon her son. Perhaps she did not know how to co-exist with another. Perhaps she had never learned to be a mother, to be a wife.

As Fíli aged, Dís strove to play the role of father as well as mother, and by the time Kíli was born she had completely shouldered the affairs of their house. Foir was little more than a visitor who came bearing simple presents and a distracted kiss atop his son’s head.

Foir was not present at Kíli’s birth. The child was nearly a month old when his father returned from a visit to another’s bed, far away in the Iron Hills. That was the event that Dís could not forgive, and Foir did not bother to meet the child before he left their home forever.

Without a husband, Dís looked to her brother and her friends to help raise her children. Much the way she had grown, so did her sons. Sometimes, it seemed as though the whole kingdom was responsible for their upbringing. They learned to forge, to fight, to negotiate. They wanted for nothing, for she would not let them know hunger or cold or pain so long as she could bear it herself. Their family prospered in Ered Luin, and Thorin’s kingdom was their kingdom. Fíli grew quickly, developing a quick and sober mind. He had the strength of Durin in his arm, and Thorin began to tutor him in the ruling of their kingdom. Dís was proud of her son, knowing he would become the man to lead their people when her brother passed along the throne.

It was apparent early that along with his strong mind and sturdy arm, Fíli was gifted with a generous heart. He deeply felt the burden of their people, and from a young age began to see his role as one who would lighten their suffering. He began with his mother, doing his best even as a child to bring joy to her face and song to her lips. Dís taught her children the same love of music and poetry that Frerin had given her, and many nights Fíli took it upon himself to sing his brother to sleep while his mother softly played her mandolin. He never spoke of his father. Whether or not he remembered the man, Dís never knew.

Kíli, taking perhaps after his brother’s cue, also never asked about his father. At least, he never asked Dís. The younger Durin seemed content to live without a father—what need had he? Thorin and Fíli and his mother were always there for him. Where Fíli was Dís’ pride, Kíli was Dís’ joy. The child was full of life and laughter from the moment of his birth, and so often reminded her of her lost Frerin, who would seek laughter and music even in the darkest nights. Without the weight of kingship on his shoulders, he grew up easy and unburdened. Dís worried that perhaps he was a little too irresponsible. He was wild and reckless, finding caution too difficult and too encumbering when there was fun to be had. All the same, Dís doted upon him, and found herself unwilling to repress reckless behavior, because she lived only for his smile.

As younger siblings do, Kíli idolized his brother. Everything that Fíli learned, Kíli learned as well, following so close to his elder’s boots as to be a shadow. When Fíli was summoned to join Thorin on the quest to reclaim Erebor, it was this closeness that allowed for Kíli to go as well. Dís knew that nothing she said or did would separate the brothers from each other, and though she was not certain her youngest was yet of an age to go to war, the brothers promised her that they would look after each other. They would return to her. Fíli would let nothing happen to Kíli, and Kíli left with a token in his pocket. Her babies left her with worry in her heart, and that night she sat up long past moonrise, cradling the blankets she had once swathed them in as infants, praying that the promise was strong enough to protect them.

When it came to picking a husband, Dís approached the matter very practically. Thorin had made it plain that he was probably never going to be able to pull himself away from duty long enough to maintain a marriage, despite the ease he’d have in finding a willing wife.

Dís, though she did not enjoy the idea of a marriage and the responsibilities that came along with it, knew that it was important that their line continue. She and Thorin were the last of Durin’s direct line, and though she took few things regarding her heritage as seriously as Thorin was wont, she could not ignore that duty. If Thorin was not going to father heirs, then she would have to find a husband.

It was not difficult to find a willing man—she was a princess, after all, and quite beautiful—but it wasn’t enough for Dís that the man be available. This was to be the father of Durin’s heirs, and he must have qualities worthy of that. So she looked at the success of her suitors, their good name and their fortune. She assessed them physically, wanting someone handsome of face and body and strong of arm.

She found these things in Foir. He was handsome, capable, and wealthy. He came from a secure fortune, and had added to his family’s wealth with shrewd business and skill at his craft. Theirs was a brief courtship, lasting less than a year before they were married. Thorin was never overly pleased with her choice of husband, but Dís challenged him to find a better match, or find a wife for himself.

What Dís failed to understand is that marriage is not a business arrangement. She and Foir were not friends, though they got along well enough at first. As time progressed, however, they argued more frequently and more loudly, each giving as good as was got.

Dís hoped that the birth of their sons would put an end to Foir’s infidelity and encourage him to stay home more often. Unfortunately, the opposite seemed to be the case, and it became a rare thing for Foir to be around at all. He began to travel, and even when he was in Ered Luin, he spent more nights asleep on barstools than in Dís’ bed.

Shortly after Kíli’s birth, Dís had to make a decision. Fíli was growing quickly, and Foir was setting a poor example. She did not wish for her sons to grow up without a father, and while she could tolerate her husband’s neglect for her own sake, her sons deserved better of the man.

Despite her anger, however, she was unwilling to simply turn her husband out. Waiting up late for him one night, she gave him a choice: clean up his act and do better by his sons, or leave Ered Luin. Foir didn’t bother to pack his things; he was gone within the hour. Their marriage lasted only seven years, and Dís did not remarry.

T.A. 2800-2845

When Thráin finally surrendered Moria and the kingdoms of the Misty Mountains, his people briefly returned to their settlement in Dunland, where they nursed their hurt and began to seek alternatives to the lost kingdoms. Thráin refused to surrender hope of providing his people with a kingdom, and eventually led them to a new home in the Blue Mountains.

Thorin’s Halls, as their kingdom in Ered Luin came to be called, were not so wealthy as the halls of Erebor, and Thráin’s rule was a period of great adjustment for their people. The Blue Mountains were rich with iron ore, however, and despite the lack of precious jewels there was plenty of work to be had and most could ply their trade. Their people would prosper again.

The transition from wanderer to princess was not one that Dís handled with grace, however. She had no interest in the politics of her father’s hall, still bitterly angry with him for the war that had cost so much and won them nothing, and she had no patience for the intricacies of the court. She busied herself with her leatherworking, but it was not enough to fill her days.

The young princess was prone to bouts of wanderlust, leaving the mountain to spend weeks away, traveling alone or with companions, generally with the excuse that she needed to rid herself of the smothering influence of her brother. Thorin meant well, but Dís found him irritating and meddlesome, and resented the approach he took to telling her how to behave. Though she was not yet considered mature, she was of age and felt that she deserved more than to be treated like a simple dwarfling; she had spent enough time on her own while her brothers and father and grandfather played at war to know that she could not rely on him to care for her, and she did not feel that she needed his help either way.

Dís was certain that it was only a matter of time before he and her father would leave again.

Dís spent the forty-odd years her father ruled in Ered Luin as something of a terror, fond of pranks and rowdy behavior. Her father was far too distracted—the power of his Ring had begun to plague his mind—to pay her any mind, and she cared little for Thorin’s opinion on her conduct.

When Dís was 85, her nightmares again became reality as Thráin moved to rally his people, intending to slay the dragon and regain the Lonely Mountain, ignoring his daughter’s pleas to leave it well enough be. Shortly after their departure, Thráin disappeared and his quest disbanded. Once again, Erebor had stolen something Dís treasured. She wept for her lost father, and she began to hate the mountain.

And she dreamed of dragonfire.

T.A. 2845-2940

Thorin’s rule was a prosperous time for Durin’s Folk. Their numbers increased as children again were born, and dwarves that had scattered during the wandering years came to join them in the halls of Ered Luin, drawn by tales of Thorin’s conquest and the success of the iron mines.

Dís mellowed somewhat during this time, maturing with time and the responsibilities that she could no longer push aside. With their father gone and Thorin assuming kingship over their people, Dís had to take a more active role in their people’s wellbeing, assisting Thorin with matters of state and trade.

It was during these years that Dís began to understand her brother better. Though she still felt ignored and neglected by his prioritizing, she could somewhat see that his dedication to their people was an all-encompassing duty for him, and something he took very seriously. The well-being of their people was more important to him than even his own, why should he care for her needs?

The near-century of peace under Thorin’s reign was a time of somewhat hazy peace for the last of Thrain’s children as well. Though Thorin was still inclined to inquire after Dís’ business, he allowed her more of a freedom than she had experienced before their father’s death, mostly because he had less time than ever to intercede in her affairs. For her own part, Dís did her best to keep from giving him reason to intercede.

T.A. 2793-2799

When one considers that reaching the age of 250 is not unheard of for the Khazâd, six years seems an inconsequential time. For Dís, however, the years her family spent campaigning to reclaim Moria were the longest of her young life, and instrumental in teaching her about life and loss. It was the long, fruitless war to reclaim those ancient halls that helped concrete her personality and properly ordered the priorities that would guide her through the rest of her life.

Thorin’s role in the campaign allowed him to return to her more frequently than her father or Frerin, and Dís relied on him for news, as she rarely was able to leave their settlement in Dunland. Though Dís saw her eldest brother less now than ever previously, these brief visits did much to strengthen their relationship, and while their dynamic would never be as easy or as jovial as the bond she shared with Frerin, Dís found herself anxiously anticipating Thorin’s homecomings. With her family away and left to her own devices, Dís quickly matured into a capable and independent woman, doing her best to hold their people together in the absence of their King.

But the war tore at the heart of the dwarves and the campaign was brutal and bloody. Dís’ lessons in loss began in these days, watching mothers mourn the sons who would not return to them and wives mourn their husbands. There were few dwarf children in the Wandering Clans, but seeing them orphaned was not something anyone bore easily. Possessions of the dead were sometimes recovered and returned to loved ones, and it never failed to shake Dís when she recognized one of her intricate patterns on a piece of armor that had not satisfactorily served its purpose, despite her mastery of the craft.

The Moria campaign offered a different kind of education than what her brothers had given her, for it was during this time that Dís first began to learn what she could and could not live without. These were the years where she learned to categorize her life, separating the things that merely mattered from the things that were important, the things that were necessary from the things that were critical. Dís learned hunger and fear in ways she’d never known them, and more than anything she learned anger and sorrow.

When Thorin returned from Azanulbizar, bearing the name Oakenshield and news of their brother’s fall, Dís wept into his shoulder. Everything she had feared when her father announced his intent to conquer Moria had come to pass, and she felt no satisfaction in being right. What Smaug had taken from her people, Azanulbizar took from Dís, leaving her bereft of her grandfather and of Frerin.

Six years does not seem like much when a life can span centuries, but for the princess in exile, those six years changed everything. She laughed less, and she smiled less, and she cried less. Six years of war left her a harder woman than she had ever been.