There are times when Dís truly hates that she was born a dwarrow-dam, to be protected because she was among such a slender sliver of the population. There were times she reveled in it, in the way her father held her aloft like she was feather-light and more precious than gold. Or when her mother would braid the thick hair that tumbled to her waist and murmur into large ears how Dís would bring honor and life in the pitter patter of young feet.
When Dís was a child, the future seemed so far off and rosy as if hidden behind the gauzy fabric veils older women wore sometimes.
Now though, now Dís waits in the shamble of a home that they've cobbled together and remembers the whispering pools and high reaching arches of Erebor, even as she murmurs her thanks to even have a roof over her head. It's quiet and far too big for a young dwarrow of only 39, and maybe that's how she hears the murmurs, hears the exact moment the excitement fades into screams and hysterical tears and her heart leaps up into her throat.
She flings herself to her feet, nearly ripping door from hinges in her hurry to see. And when Dís looks up and spots the tiny twinned figures against the dispersing army (to small, it was too small where was everyone?), her heart seizes where it lays. It's a blank littany in the back of her mind, a dull wave that rises and crests until everything is just no nononononono--.
Thorin peels away, into the arms of the court, tarnished crown craddled in his hand and she keens with grief.
By the time Frerin struggles up the path, Dís flings herself out to meet him, tears pooling in her eyes and falling like raindrops, catching in the sideburns slowly growing into a beard. Her arms curl around him, careful but needing touch, needing reassurance he's there, and guides him back into their home that was too small for six but too big for three.
AU where he comes back from azanulbizar???
When Dís was a child, the future seemed so far off and rosy as if hidden behind the gauzy fabric veils older women wore sometimes.
Now though, now Dís waits in the shamble of a home that they've cobbled together and remembers the whispering pools and high reaching arches of Erebor, even as she murmurs her thanks to even have a roof over her head. It's quiet and far too big for a young dwarrow of only 39, and maybe that's how she hears the murmurs, hears the exact moment the excitement fades into screams and hysterical tears and her heart leaps up into her throat.
She flings herself to her feet, nearly ripping door from hinges in her hurry to see. And when Dís looks up and spots the tiny twinned figures against the dispersing army (to small, it was too small where was everyone?), her heart seizes where it lays. It's a blank littany in the back of her mind, a dull wave that rises and crests until everything is just no nononononono--.
Thorin peels away, into the arms of the court, tarnished crown craddled in his hand and she keens with grief.
By the time Frerin struggles up the path, Dís flings herself out to meet him, tears pooling in her eyes and falling like raindrops, catching in the sideburns slowly growing into a beard. Her arms curl around him, careful but needing touch, needing reassurance he's there, and guides him back into their home that was too small for six but too big for three.