Apologies for the delay! Things have been a bit challenging for me lately, but I hope there will still be somebody reading. If one person enjoys this chapter, that's at least one achievement for me this week which means it has all been worth it! At least that's what I've been telling myself ;)

I have also recently posted a little one shot called "Farewell" about Thorin and Dís' goodbye. That just really wanted to be written. Have a gander at that little scene and please tell me what you think!


So this was it. Dwalin was opening the doors to the hall. Beyond those doors her future would be decided. A future that she would spend in the Ered Luin or in Erebor, as an ordinary widow or as Queen under the Mountain. Dís straightened her shoulders and drew herself up to her full height. She had no idea which of these paths she even wanted to tread. She could not yet fully grasp which options would even be available to her. But whatever was to happen in this meeting, she would not be cowed by an assortment of warriors and councillors. She would decide her own future.

Eight figures stood in the hall. When she entered, Balin was talking to Thorin, a nervous looking Ori at his side. Two dwarves in full armour were shadowing Thorin, undoubtedly the bodyguards Dáin had felt were necessary to mind his son. Glóin stood in a small group with the two other visitors from the Iron Hills, one very large, with a beard that rivalled Glóin's in its bushiness, the other elderly, almost frail looking with a white beard and moustache. Dís did not recognise them.

They turned around sharply at the intrusion. All eyes were on Dís. Appraising. She let them have a good look before she moved forward. Tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed she knew she looked the part of the heir of Durin. She had carefully chosen her clothes to accentuate her status as a member of the royal line, even though she had precious little interest in great formal robes and usually dressed no richer than any other dwarf, mainly concerned with the practicality of her garments. She was confident that she needed neither jewels nor weapons to show that she was not going to quietly crawl away and leave the fortunes of the Longbeards in the hands of whoever thought they had a right to be sitting on the throne or to be standing beside it. If this was to end in battle, it would not be one that could be won by axe, sword or bow.

"Ah, Lady Dís. It is truly good to see you."

Balin strode towards her. He was looking at her intently, concern in his eyes, searching for whatever it was he hoped to see in her – Strength or weakness? Defiance or resignation? Insanity maybe? Whatever it was, his tone was warm and polite. He too was robed in particularly fine garments. Dís was glad to see that she was not the only one who thought it an occasion worth dressing up for then. After all it was not only her future, but that of all the Longbeards, their allies and their enemies as well.

They clasped arms. "Welcome back to the Ered Luin, Balin. Thank you for coming in person."

"It is an honour. I just wish I would not have returned bearing such news."

Dís nodded in acknowledgement and agreement, but she quickly moved on. This was not a time to dwell on her grief. It had been difficult enough to face the mourning people out on the streets. She could not allow the emotion to well up here, where she was supposed to be strong, decisive and in control.

Balin introduced the visitors from the Iron Hills. She knew Thorin, of course, even though she had not seen him since he had been a small child. She had not been impressed with him then, a weak boy, too pampered to join in with her own sons' games, too aware of his status to want to play with children he considered to be of lower rank than him. If anything, she was less impressed with him now. His handshake was weak. Obviously, Dáin had not seen it fit for his precious princeling to spend time in the forge. His eyes were blue, but seemed unnaturally small in his featureless face. He looked disinterested and his tone was flat as he rattled off greetings from his parents and their condolences. It was obvious that he had been forced to memorise the words. He was richly dressed and his fingers had been squeezed into a multitude of heavy rings. Dís noted the fine workmanship of the ornamental breastplate he wore. He found herself musing that an armoured back might serve him better for he seemed unlikely to face a foe, but even less likely to be fast enough to run away.

Next in line was the elderly councillor, who went by the name of Svigur. He looked even frailer up close, probably quickly approaching his third century. It seemed a miracle that he had been able to brave the long journey through the wild in such inclement weather, but he looked quite hale. Svigur sported a truly magnificent white beard and moustache that were arranged in three sweeping curves on either side of his face, all combining and ending in a perfectly circular curl. His dark eyes were kind and full of warmth as they clasped arms. "It is the greatest pain to bury our own children. I would not wish this upon anyone," he said and something in his tone told Dís that he spoke from experience. A father who had had the misfortune of surviving his child. Svigur, son of Svidrir, a kindred spirit.[1]

Next in line was Hrungnir. Dís had to control her thoughts very carefully when she laid eyes upon him. Otherwise they would have turned to the sort of unhelpful and certainly not kind descriptions that she had always chided her boys for. But she certainly had to concede that Hrungnir had never known hunger. His girth truly was impressive. What little was visible of his face behind his bushy beard was red and there were pearls of sweat on his forehead. As soon as he introduced himself as the son of Motsognir, Dís knew that she would have to be careful around him. She had never seen him. She had never seen his father, but she certainly knew of him. A rich merchant whose greatest bargain had been the wedding of his daughter to Dáin Ironfoot. Hrungnir was here on a special mission and she would have to be careful not to make him her foe, for Thorin was his sister-son.

The two warriors, Ivladi and An, were quiet and polite. They bowed deeply, offering their services, and returned swiftly to their spots on either side of Thorin. They seemed to keep a wary eye on Dís, which made her aware of Dwalin, who had apparently appointed himself her own bodyguard and was hovering slightly behind her, no doubt glowering at the two warriors. A bodyguard was probably quite appropriate now that she was a contender for the throne of Erebor, but she would have to have a word with him about not intimidating those who could be her potential allies. While her brother had without doubt appreciated Dwalin's help in alienating all those around him, her approach to diplomacy was slightly different.

After introductions had been made, Dís also welcomed the remaining members of her brother's company. She had often worked with Glóin, yet another cousin, who was an excellent trader with an uncanny sense for finances. She suspected that he had returned to ensure that the transfer of assets from the Blue Mountains to Erebor would go smoothly. She was surprised, therefore, at the depth of emotion in the usually brusque dwarf's face when he offered his condolences. "No parent should have to bury their child," he grumbled and Dís could see him swallow hard. She was about to offer him the same rebuke she had given Dwalin the night before, but stopped herself when she realised why Fíli and Kíli's deaths had such a profoun effect on her. Gimli. His own son and close friend to the young Durins. Gimli, who had been devastated when Thorin would not allow him in his company. Gimli, whose youth might have rescued from meeting a fate similar to that of her own sons. She caught Glóin in a tight embrace. Parents did bury their children. They made those who did not have to suffer that fate uncomfortably aware of their privilege. Glóin might have returned to the Ered Luin to supervise the transfer of assets, but Dís now doubted that it was just gold and silver that he had in mind.

Last in line was Ori. He probably would not have approached Dís at all if Balin had not gently pushed him towards her. The young scribe reminded her of an oversized squirrel, his eyes wide, the slender body shaking with anticipation. It pained Dís to see him so nervous. She had been friends with his mother and had always been fond of her youngest. He was close in age to her own sons, but had only recently joined their circle of friends as Fíli had become more interested in academic subjects and made sure that the studious boy was no longer constantly at the receiving end of pranks. She made sure to welcome Ori back with particular warmth. He mumbled his greetings and offered his condolences. There was no doubting his sincerity, but his anxiousness was evident, as he shuffled his feet and tugged at the sleeves of his knitted jumper. With a squeeze of his arm, Dís released him, but he turned back at the last moment.

"It should have been me. I'm so sorry. They were all warriors, and I'm… I'm not… and it really should have been me who died. I'm sorry," Ori whispered so low she could hardly understand him. An alarming blush spread across his features.

"It's not always the best warriors who escape death, Ori," she said. "I for one am glad you did not die."

"But…," his voice was so high now, he sounded like a small child. "I should have… I'm not… your sons…"

"I grieve for them. And I would have grieved for you, Ori. You have no less to live for than they did."

Dís could tell her words were not making a difference. Ori slunk away defeated. One more name to add to the list of those who blamed themselves for Fíli and Kíli's deaths. She was relieved to see Dwalin put a hand on the young scribe's shoulder, even though Ori jumped in surprise.

After everyone had been welcomed, they settled down for a light lunch along the big table in the middle of the chamber. As there were only ten of them, they only occupied two sides, the parties from the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains facing each other over the food presented to them. On the South side, Thorin occupied the middle, flanked by Svigur and Hrungnir, as his two guards took the outermost seats. Dís settled opposite him. On her right side sat Balin and next to him Glóin took his seat. On her left, Dwalin found his place before dragging Ori down on his other side. The armies were assembled, her diplomatic warriors all heroes of the reclamation of Erebor, but more importantly utterly loyal to her deceased brother. Dís could only hope that they would prove to be equally loyal to her.

They took their lunch mostly in silence. There were a few compliments on the food, but conversation did not come easily. A young boy was pouring tea for everyone, only to be brushed aside brusquely when he got to Thorin.

"Is there no proper ale in this molehill?"

The serving boy was startled and looked at Dís in alarm.

"It is not customary for us to consume ale before the start of a meeting," Dís replied with measured politeness. "But I can have some brought for you, if you desire."

Judging by the looks Svigur cast at his young charge, alcoholic beverages while discussing important matters were no more customary in the Iron Hills than they were in the Blue Mountains.

"You seem to think me a common miner," Thorin sneered. "I would have expected more from your hospitality than a piece of bread and a cup of chamomile."

Dís took a deep breath and smiled politely. It was a rather obvious attempt to irritate her and she would not give him that satisfaction. True, towards the end of winter their stores would often run low, but this year they had been doing well and the meal Rúna had prepared was more than nourishing enough with butter, cheese and ham, as well as some pickled vegetables to go along with the bread.

"Travellers are always made welcome here, no matter their occupation," she said. "Particularly when they are family members… cousin."

He scowled. "I can see why they wanted to escape this place. Even a dragon must be better than squatting in these hovels. Most of your people don't even live in the mountain!"

Hrungnir snorted in amusement and agreement at his nephew's outburst, but Dís found it difficult to control her anger. They had worked tirelessly for many decades to ensure everyone had a good life in the Ered Luin. She remembered this place as a collection of tents surrounding a mineshaft. This spoiled little snob had no right to discredit the achievements of her people!

"Now, now, laddie, there's no need…," Balin said, but Thorin interrupted him, hissing "You will address me properly!" Balin feigned deafness at that and concluded, "None of our current homes are Khazad-dûm, but hopefully we will soon be able to work together to restore to its former glory a home that should be fit for all of us – Erebor!"

And with that, it had been mentioned, the real reason they were all here together. Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. Matters of state were to be discussed, matters of succession. A succession that Dís dreaded.

The plates were cleared away and Dís sent away the boys who had been serving them. Then she requested a complete retelling of the events leading up to the reclamation of Erebor and from that point until the departure of the dwarves around her a few weeks ago. Dwalin had told her about some aspects, but she wanted to gain a full understanding of everything that had happened since her brother and his company had left the Ered Luin. Balin and Glóin took turns recounting their adventures, with Ori occasionally adding details. The longer they spoke, the more amazed Dís was that the company had ever managed to reach the mountain in time. Hobbits and wizards, trolls and spiders, orcs and wargs, woodelves and lakemen, so many creatures made an appearance in the tale and most of them seemed to harbour no friendly intentions towards Thorin Oakenshield and his quest. Dís listened intently, asking for clarification of some of the more intricate points. Much of the events seemed to be new to their visitors as well. Svigur was paying careful attention and raised questions at several points and while Hrungnir was not taking active part in the conversation, his eyes rarely left the speakers. Thorin on the other hand made no attempts to conceal his boredom, picking either his teeth or his fingernails.

The dwarves from the Iron Hills started contributing to the report very late, just before the retelling of the battle started. At least Dáin had headed Thorin's call for aid that time, unlike his refusal to support the quest when there was still a chance of a dragon guarding Erebor. Old alliances seemed to be less fickle when there was no dragon involved.

Once again, Dís heard about the battle, the death of her sons whose corpses were carried back to the mountain. The death of her brother who succumbed to his wounds shortly afterwards. Her already battered heart felt like it was being beaten on an anvil. To hear it all again amounted to torture. There were fewer details this time around, but the fact remained that this was the story of the end of her family. Even her brother had left her, after all these decades of facing the evil of this world together. All of this for a long abandoned mountain. All of them dead for this wretched crown.

"At least he was himself in the end. The dragon sickness had no power over him. He was at peace," Balin concluded.

"The madness had been upon him. The gold had driven him into insanity by the time we arrived. Just like Thráin and Thrór before him, he could not handle the power of the gold," Svigur said.

Dís could well imagine the rage with which Thorin would have greeted that assessment of his mental state. Alas, he was not here now, he had succumbed to the curse that lay on their line. Only his little sister was here. His little sister who could not feel whole without him by her side, who could not attempt to copy him. She was not Thorin. She had never been determined to reclaim their ancient homeland. She had no need of it, even less now that it had claimed the last of her family. But she would not let this pass without comment.

"In sickness or in health… he died King under the Mountain. I am glad of it!," she said. Might as well cut straight to the heart of this mountain. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. At some point she would have to face it, the question of the crown. "Who was left in charge of Erebor when you left the Mountain?"

"Dáin Ironfoot, as the commander of the dwarvish forces took over management of Erebor after Thorin's death," Balin said. Obviously. But she might as well state where Dáin's rightful place was for all that it was worth. Might as well see where alliances lay in this question of succession.

"I shall thank him for his service. I'm sure that Dáin makes a fine steward."

"Steward? How dare you, despicable dam?" Thorin shouted, but his voice was just about drowned out by Hrungnir thundering, "He's no steward! Dáin is King under the Mountain!"

Dís watched their rage with some amusement. Both had jumped up and their faces had turned red. Hrungnir was crashing his fist on to the table to accentuate his words. The two guards had jumped to attention at the sudden turn in the formerly sombre mood. Ori emitted a little astonished squeak. Dwalin stood as well, crossing his arms and towering over all those present.

"Calm yourselves," he snarled, "You are in the presence of a lady."

Dís was by no means uncomfortable. She just watched the scene unfold. It was incredible how much discontent one small word could bring after so much tiptoeing around the topic. Balin and Svigur attempted to calm the others.

"Now, lads, let are all just settle down. There is no need…"

"I will not have her insult my father!"

"There was no insult intended…"

"How dare she!"

"Enough!," Dwalin roared in a voice Dís had only ever heard him use when he was breaking up a tavern brawl. Or a fight between her sons. "Sit!" They did so, albeit hesitantly, eventually shrinking under his fierce glance. Last of all, Dwalin resumed his seat and nodded towards his brother to continue. Balin cleared his throat.

"Of course Dáin cannot assume kingship by default. It would be against our most ancient laws. We have always considered the direct line of Durin first and foremost. However… in the aftermath of the battle, in the chaos that reigned and the confusion that Thorin's death had created… A council of elders in the dwarven forces dealt with the matter. We were concerned with keeping order in our own army and to maintain the links with our new allies. We judged it wise to not divulge the secrets of our rules of succession to outsiders. There has been no coronation and Dáin does not sit upon the throne, although he is called king at the moment. We were in need of a signal of stability and continuity to all those assembled at Erebor."

"Do not concern yourself with these matters unduly, Lady Dís," Svigur said, "It is merely a formality."

"A formality?" asked Dís sharply.

"Aye," said Svigur, producing a scroll from one of his wide sleeves. "All has been prepared. Your full statement indicating that you lay down all claim to the throne of Erebor, swear never to claim your birthright and gladly pass the crown to Dáin, son of Náin, for him and his line to rule from now on until the end of the race of dwarves. It is for the best of the Longbeards that you do not burden yourself with the crown, especially not in your current grief."

Dís looked at him and the parchment he held in astonishment. She had expected a fight, a battle of wits and words, but she had not expected to be presented with her own abdication in quite so brusque a manner. Had not expected to have the words written out for her as if she was a child. That seemed to show little regard for her as a person, or, for that matter, for the direct line of Durin. They seemed to simply expect her to meekly go along with whatever fate their council had decided for her. This was confirmed when Svigur put quill and inkwell in front of her.

"Simply sign here, if you would, please," he instructed, bowing politely and pointing at the space at the bottom of the scroll. Balin and Svigur had already signed as witnesses.

Dís took a breath to steady herself, then looked up at the old dwarf across from her. His smile was kind and genuine, but withered under her glare. Next to him, Thorin was gloating openly, his teeth bared in a wide grin. Hrungnir was leaning back in his chair, smiling, hands folded atop his bulging middle. The guards at least had the courtesy to look slightly on edge. Letting her gaze drift to those on her own side of the table, she encountered a terrified looking Ori next to a furious Dwalin who appeared to have crushed his mug between his fingers, every muscle taunt and ready for whatever fight he might imagine there could be. On her far right, Glóin's eyes were fixed on her, imploringly. Last, she looked at Balin, her cousin, and undersigned witness of her abdication. He at least had the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed as he lowered his head and spoke softly.

"Please, Dís. Just sign it, lass."

She let her eyes wander around the table again and then stood, grasping the quill. She watched Thorin lean forwards eagerly while the older dwarves relaxed in their seats.

"No," she said, snapping the quill between her fingers and watching their eyes widen. "I will not. I will not sign anything until I am convinced that it is for the best of our people."


[1]Dwarf names, once again, are all Nordic names keeping with Thorin's tradition. Svigur = wise, Svidrir = calmer, Motsognir = battle roarer, Hrungnir = brawler, Ivladi = bowman, An = sword