He was perfect: a pink, squalling bundle of infant perfection. The tears which spilled over Dís' cheeks and wet the fine hairs of her jaw held both infinite joy and a world of sorrow as she cradled her newborn son. At first glance the babe seemed to favor his mother, a son of Durin with a dark shock of hair atop his tiny head, yet Dís saw another face within those little rounded features. While her firstborn bore her late husband's lighter coloring—a blessing and a pain to daily behold, to be sure—in feature he already began to favor his maternal kin at the tender age of five years. The squirming child in Dís' arms would bear his father's face; she knew it as surely as she knew that she would never look upon her beloved again. He had been a warrior deemed worthy of Thráin's daughter and a lover Dís herself had set eyes upon as soon as she had come of age. He possessed loyalty to the line of Durin and honor which earned the respect of all who knew him. He was strong, and he was brave. Strong, and brave, and dead too soon.
Dís whispered soothingly to her newborn son and lifted him in her arms, his cries ceasing only as he latched onto her breast and began to feed. She stroked the downy hair atop his head and hummed a song of her people, the pain of labor utterly forgotten as she became captivated by her child. She scarce noticed the midwives clearing away soiled rags from the small room and paid no mind to their gossip and murmurings. The news of the birth of a new heir had already been sent out, feasting and celebrations doubtless already beginning. Durin's folk needed occasions to celebrate during such dark days, and no event had given such a grand excuse since the birth of Fíli half a decade before. Thorin would arrive soon, bringing her eldest child with him. Dís stifled the ache within her as she thought of those who ought to have been coming to see the newest successor in the line of Durin as well: brother, father, grandfather, and husband. She could not allow herself to wallow in the despair the thoughts of such great losses brought. She was a king's daughter, as strong in spirit as any other among her people, male or female; yet in the depths of her heart Dís felt the crushing weight of all that had been lost. Worse still, she feared for all that remained to be ripped away. She had long ago lost all delusions of the glories of war, battles for home and honor and glory which were praised so highly in song among her people. The songs now left a bitter taste in her mouth, for she saw only the graves of warriors held dear and the ashes of dreams scattered to the winds. Dís was afraid, and the joy of holding a newborn babe in her arms only heightened that fear to an unspoken terror.
Drawn from the depths of her mind by the sound of the door being flung open, Dís smiled as Fíli scampered into the room, followed closely by his uncle.
"Come see your brother, Fíli," Dís encouraged, ceasing her gentle stroking of the baby to extend a hand towards her firstborn. Fíli stopped at the edge of the bed, his brow creasing as he strained to get a better look at the babe in his mother's arms. Thorin's deep chuckle resounded from behind as he scooped up the small child and placed him upon the bed, and Fíli's blue eyes rounded in wonder as he finally gazed upon his brother.
"He's so small, and he has wrinkles," Fíli's comment drew titters from the remaining midwives bustling about the room and widened smiles to both Thorin and Dís' lips.
"Give your mother space, lad," Thorin reprimanded his young nephew as the boy shifted in closer. "You look exhausted, Dís," the king commented quietly, a calloused hand lifting his sister's chin with surprising gentleness.
"Birthing a child is no easy task, brother," Dís returned with more energy than she felt, smiling up at Thorin before dropping her gaze to her nursing son once more.
"I want to hold him," Fíli declared adamantly, and Dís complied by easing the babe from her breast while the boy settled himself beside his mother, his arms extended expectantly for the child who once again began to cry. Dís pulled up the linen of her gown to cover herself before carefully placing the swaddled babe in her son's arms, stunned when after mere moments his lusty cries quieted to soft whimpers.
"Well, would you look at that," Thorin intoned as he watched his new nephew soon quiet completely in his older brother's arms. Fíli held the little one close to his body, his gaze fixated upon the wrinkled pink face within the bundle. "He'll look after his brother always, that much is plain." Pride filled Thorin's voice, a sentiment which echoed within Dís yet did little to comfort her. She now had two young lives to love and to care for. To fear for.
"What will you name him, sister?" Thorin's question was met with only a moment of hesitation from Dís, a name for the babe having already been decided in quiet midnight whispers between husband and wife as he stroked her blossoming belly and she dreamed of a happy future with husband and sons by her side.
"Kíli," Dís murmured. "His name is Kíli."
"Aye," Thorin nodded in approval, "A fine name for a fine lad." The king reached to softly stroke his nephew's dark hair, the babe appearing even smaller beneath his heavy hand. For a moment, an unusual tenderness crept into Thorin's gaze, and he seemed more father than uncle. More kin than king.
"Kíli will be raised at my side, Dís," Thorin asserted as he straightened. "He will be taught and trained alongside Fíli. They will be an honor to our people, warriors strong and brave."
Strong and brave.
Dís nodded wordlessly as Thorin strode from the room, remaining silent as the midwives finished their duties and finally left her in peace with her sons. Only then did she clutch her sons close, desperation she would allow no other to see pooling in her eyes and escaping her heaving chest in shortened breaths as the faceless dread once more closed in upon her, her choked answer lost to the encroaching darkness.
"That is what I fear."