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She wakes with a deep pain in her belly. She thinks it might be hunger--she always seems to feel hungry these days--and rolls over, curling up beneath her blankets. The walls of the tent are all shadows of trees, cast by moonlight, and she watches the shadows move, slippery-smooth, over the walls of the tent. Her stomach is aching and her bladder is full, and she just wants to go back to sleep. She lies there for long minutes, trying to fall asleep but just feeling her full bladder, and finally she sighs and groans and makes herself sit up.
“Dis?”
It’s Frerin, propping himself up on his elbows. She must’ve woken him. She sighs again, and says, “I need to pee.”
Dis pulls on her boots, then waits as patiently as she can as Frerin yanks on his own boots, then crouches over Thorin’s blankets, shaking Thorin awake.
“Thorin,” Frerin whispers, “Dis needs to piss.”
Thorin always sleeps on his stomach, smashing his face into whatever he can find to use as a pillow; when he talks, his voice is gravely and muffled by his blankets and arms. “Take your sword,” Thorin says, sounding more asleep than awake.
Frerin grabs his sword, and a blanket, too, before he finally slips out through the tent flap that Dis is still holding open. Dis is nearly bouncing on her feet now, the need to piss stronger now that she’s up and moving.
“Come on,” she hisses, and she grabs Frerin’s hand, dragging him behind her as she cuts through the camp.
The tents are all dark, and the only sound is that of snoring. There are a few fires banked low scattered between the tents, and Dis can see the silhouettes of the night’s lookouts like black rock against the pearled blue of the night sky. She and Frerin pass between two of the lookouts, heading towards the copse she’d spied the evening before. It’s not far, only a stone’s throw away--when she looks back, she can still see the lookouts. It gives the illusion of privacy, though, so she lets go of Frerin’s hand and says, “Wait here.”
“Alright,” Frerin says, always so amiable and unconcerned. If it was Thorin, Thorin would probably demand to hold her hand while she peed, and she would probably let him, his paranoia feeding into her own fear of the wide open world.
It’s Frerin, though, so she leaves him and ducks in through the trees, going far enough in that she doesn’t think he’ll hear her tinkle. She undoes her trousers then squats, leaning back against a tree trunk as she pisses.
Her stomach still hurts, but the relieving of her bladder feels heavenly. She can’t help but drop her head back, shivering and sighing in relief. When her bladder is empty and she goes to pull up her trousers, the fabric feels warm and wet and sticky. Her breath catches in her throat and she stumbles away from the tree, trying to twist and pull her trousers so she can see them properly. The seat of her trousers, when she can properly see it, is dark and all covered in blood.
She doesn’t curse, because this is a blessing, but she does feel the prick of tears in her eyes, because these things are supposed to happen properly, not in a copse in the wilderness. And her trousers are probably ruined.
She kicks off her boots, then drags her trousers off, trying not to get the blood all over her fingers. Then she hesitates, standing there in the leaves, not sure what she should do; she can’t sit on the ground, because she’ll get dirty, and the leaves will stick to the blood, and she isn’t sure if--well, if the leaves will somehow get inside her--and she can’t sit on her trousers, because she only has one other pair and she can’t stain these ones any more than she already has. She can feel her mouth quivering, like she’s about to cry, and she doesn’t want to cry, this is supposed to be a good thing, but Mahal, why did it have to happen now, like this.
She settles for sitting gingerly on a smooth, fallen log, and crumpling her trousers in her lap in some bid for modesty. She takes a few deep, shaking breaths, and wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands. Then, feeling a little more put together, she calls for Frerin.
“Dis?” Frerin calls back. She can hear him walking into the trees, snapping twigs and branches underneath his boots.
“Frerin,” she calls, and she tries to think quickly, a little desperately. These things are supposed to be done properly, but she’s not sure how. Her cousins will know, but Rindr will be sleeping in her tent with her husband and son, and Finnra is always so patronizing to Dis. Sindri, Dis decides, would be best, and so she says, as soon as Frerin has come around the tree, “Frerin, go and get Sindri.”
She thinks she says it calmly enough, but Frerin looks at her face, then at her naked legs, and asks, in a horrible sounding voice, “What’s happened?”
Frerin has the blanket around his shoulders, wrapped up like a child, but he’s gripping his sword like he’s ready to defend Dis from whatever creatures he’s undoubtably imagining. He looks ridiculous and brave, all at once, and Dis can feel her mouth quivering all over again.
“Nothing, Frerin,” she says, and curses the tears she can feel building in the back of her throat and the back of her eyes. “Just go and fetch Sindri.”
“Dis,” Frerin starts to argue, as much of a soldier as Thorin, and Dis clenches her fists and snaps at him,
“I am bleeding, Frerin, so go and get Sindri.” Her words must be as incomprehensible as her sitting half-naked amongst the trees, though, because Frerin looks even more confused and worried, and Dis says, feeling strangled and like she could strangle Frerin, “I am bleeding, Frerin.”
Something in her voice, or words, or her body must finally make sense to Frerin, because he hisses in a breath, then says, “Right, of course, I’ll just--” He fumbles with his sword, then yanks the blanket from around his shoulders. He throws the blanket around Dis’s shoulders, then tucks it in around her body, around her naked legs. “Wait here,” he says, as though Dis is going to wander the wilderlands with blood streaking down her thighs. How stupid, and how utterly Frerin. She loves him for it.
Frerin crashes out of the trees, far louder than he had come when Dis had called for him, and she listens for as long as she can hear him, heading back to camp. Eventually the sounds fade, and she is left sitting on the tree trunk alone, cold and tired and aware of how small she truly is. She begins to draw her legs up, but then she thinks she can feel blood between her thighs and on the tree trunk, and so she sits still instead, her toes digging into the soft earth and rotting leaves, her fingers wrapped tightly around the blanket.
It seems to take a very long time for Sindri to come, and Dis can’t help but think that if her mother was here--if her mother was alive--if her mother had survived Smaug, then everything would be much better. She wouldn’t be here, and she wouldn’t be cold, and she wouldn’t be crying like a child, alone and bleeding in the trees.
When Sindri comes, Dis tries to stop crying and only manages to take a few shuddering breaths before crumpling back into the blanket. Sindri is holding her in a moment, wrapping her thick arms around Dis and pressing Dis’s head against Sindri’s breast.
“Oh, sweetling,” Sindri murmurs, already rocking Dis like a child, “don’t cry, this is a happy thing. Shh, sweetling, this is a happy thing.”
She holds Dis until Dis falls quiet, tired and feverish and run dry of tears. Then Sindri kisses Dis’s hair and Dis’s nose and Dis’s cheeks, and says, “That’s better. We’ll have this done properly.”
Sindri’s brought another pair of trousers, ones that must belong to her, because they look far too large for Dis. The trousers are clean, though, and dry, and warm from being held between Sindri and Dis’s bodies. Sindri helps Dis wipe the blood from her thighs, then shows Dis how to tuck rags into her trousers to catch the blood. When Sindri is folding up Frerin’s blanket, Dis bundles up her bloodied trousers.
“I ruined my trousers,” she says, holding out her trousers to Sindri. Sindri doesn’t say anything, just takes the trousers, and then takes Dis, too, tucking Dis under her arm, up against Sindri’s warm, thick body. They leave the copse like that, Sindri’s arm hooked around Dis’s body, Dis’s fingers hooked into the rough fabric of Sindri’s tunic.
Frerin is waiting just beyond the trees, pacing back and forth, and when Sindri takes Dis back to the camp, Frerin follows close behind. When they reach the camp, Sindri tells Frerin, “Dis will sleep in our tent tonight.”
Sindri shares a tent with Finnra; they’re nieces and cousins of the king, as protected and cherished as Dis, and their tent is clustered with the tents of the king’s household, in the center of the camp. The tent that Dis shares with Frerin and Thorin is still dark, and she thinks she can hear Thorin’s snoring. The tent of Thror and Thrain, though, is illuminated, and Dis can see a figure, broad and strong, walking in the tent, the shape thrown up by the light inside the tent. Dis has just enough time to decide that the figure is her father before Sindri pulls her into the women’s tent, ducking them both beneath the tent flap.
This tent is lit, too, with a lamp hanging from the center of the tent, and Finnra is awake and sitting on a pile of blankets. She is tending to a little kettle and a cup, and she looks up at Sindri and Dis, smiling broadly.
“Congratulations, cousin,” Finnra says, “on your first bleeding.”
“Thank you,” Dis stammers. She is suddenly, painfully aware of her face, red and blotchy and tear-streaked, and her clothes, dirty and mussed; she is certain that Finnra knows Dis was weeping in the trees, and she’s humiliated and embarrassed, ashamed for acting like a child when given a gift.
Finnra’s smile broadens and Sindri pushes on Dis’s shoulders, sitting Dis on the floor next to Finnra, on another pile of blankets.
“What a time to receive such a gift,” Finnra says, in that shrewd voice she so often has; she’s still smiling, though, and for once it doesn’t seem very patronizing at all. “In the middle of the night? I think that means you’ll be a fierce lover.”
Dis feels a blush burn on her face and throat, which only grows when Sindri says, “Don’t tell her such nonsense, Finnra.”
Finnra laughs at Sindri, and maybe at Dis, too; Dis isn’t sure, and she can’t help but feel young and foolish compared to her cousins. She fidgets where she’s sitting, and grimaces as her belly aches with pain, a pain that seems to cut through the middle of her.
Finnra’s eyes are sharp, because she lifts her chin at Dis and asks, rather imperiously, “You’re having pains, then?”
“Yes,” Dis says obediently, because there’s little point in trying to put on a brave face. Finnra always sees through Dis, and laughs at each of Dis’s falsehoods.
“I thought you might.” Finnra picks up the cup, swishing it in her hand. “We’re daughters of Durin. Our pains are always greater, because our blood is stronger. Here,” she says, and she holds the cup out to Dis. “Only sips, it’s poppy tea.”
The tea is horribly bitter on Dis’s tongue, and she grimaces at the taste. This time even Sindri chuckles, and Dis makes a face before taking another sip of the tea.
“That’s enough,” Sindri says, and Finnra takes the cup away from Dis, setting it to the side.
“It will ease the pains, and it should make you sleep.” Finnra nods at the blankets that Dis is sitting on, and Dis shifts over, dragging the blankets over her legs. “Lie quietly and you’ll fall asleep soon enough. We’ll wake you in the morning.”
Dis does as Finnra says, cocooning herself in the blankets. She curls up on her side, but the rags in her trousers twist strangely, foreign and unwieldy between her thighs, and she is increasingly paranoid of bleeding through these trousers, too, and ruining the blankets. She twists, and turns, and settles onto her back, lying as still and straight as she can.
She doesn’t dare make a sound, because Finnra is always sharp-tongued when she’s disobeyed. When she lies there, still and silent, she begins to think about her body, and as she thinks about it, she thinks she might feel different after all, swollen and hot and not the same dwarf she was yesterday. Her belly is clenching tight in pain, but when she lies still enough, she can feel how the pain is radiating into her belly from deeper and lower; from the dark warmth of her sex, she thinks, and the pain is horrible but the warmth is comforting, and she thinks that being an adult may be a very confusing thing.
The opium of the poppy is clouding her head, turning the tent into a bizarre atmosphere of colors and sounds. When Dis blinks, the sloping roof of the tent seems to spin in lazy loops, turning purple and orange and pink from the light of the lantern. She can hear her cousins’ voices, too, soft and murmuring and gentle, but she can’t hear the words.
She falls asleep like that, while her cousins sing her songs and pet her hair.
It’s full daylight when she wakes up. The tent is illuminated by the sunlight, and Dis can hear the sounds of the camp beyond the tent. Rindr is kneeling beside her, touching Dis’s arm, and she is saying, “Finnra told me the good news. Congratulations, little cousin.”
Dis must have slept a long time, because the blur of the tea is mostly gone from her mind and her body. She yawns, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn, and asks Rindr, “What time is it?”
“Late morning.” Rindr sits back on her heels but she leaves her hands on Dis’s arm, rubbing Dis’s arm soothingly. “I’ve told your father and grandfather, and we’ll remain here until your time is done.” A smile flashes across Rindr’s face, bright and broad, and Rindr adds, “Your father has already left for the hunt. Your brothers have both gone with him.”
“It would be nice if he killed a stag,” Sindri says; when Dis looks, Sindri is on the other side of the tent, folding up blankets and straightening bags. Sindri smiles when she sees Dis looking at her, and says, “Good morning, Dis.”
“Good morning,” Dis says back, and she lets Sindri and Rindr prod her further awake. They give her privacy to clean herself, and then they sit with her in the tent. They give her sips of poppy tea and bits of meat and honeyed bread; they tell her stories of their kin in the east. When the poppy clouds Dis’s head, Rindr lays Dis’s head in her lap and runs cold fingers through Dis’s beard.
She dozes in Rindr’s lap, waking and sleeping as Sindri and Finnra come and go from the tent. The tent’s flap is pinned up and the sun comes streaming in, pouring across Dis’s legs and belly. The cramping in her belly fades to a dull ache, and the ache for her mother fades to a dull memory. She feels warm and protected with Rindr holding her, something she thought she lost when Erebor fell.
“Dis,” Rindr murmurs against her ear in the afternoon. The opening of the tent faces west, and the sun is nearly directly in Dis’s eyes, leaving Dis feeling sun-struck. “Dis, wake up. Your father’s returned from his hunt.”
Thrain bows when he comes into the tent, lower than the tent flap makes necessary. “I would speak with my daughter,” he says, as formal as always, and voice as distant as always, and Dis struggles to sit up as Rindr helps her. As soon as Dis is upright, Rindr squeezes Dis’s hand, then leaves the tent, bowing to Thrain as she goes.
The tent flap remains open, but it feels as though the camp is very far away now, the noises of the camp diminished. It seems like there is always an emptiness around Thrain, formality and maybe loneliness, and Dis finds herself sucked into now, sitting silently in the women’s tent while Thrain looks down at her.
“You’ve grown,” he says finally, and she thinks he means her blood. He gestures at his face, though, at his own massive beard, and says, “I hadn’t realized how thick your beard had become.”
It startles her and she touches her beard, the soft, curling whiskers that run down her jaw, nearly to her chin. “Thank you,” she says, because any notice from him is a treasure, but it must displease him somehow, because he sighs heavily, then sinks down to sit beside her, like his body is a burden.
“This is not how,” he begins to say, but then he stops with another heavy sigh. After a moment he opens his arms and says, “I have not held you since you were a child.”
It isn’t an apology, because Thrain doesn’t apologize, but Dis thinks it might be an explanation, or maybe even a regret. She doesn’t care, because her father is here, speaking to her, and it has been a long time since he’s done so. She moves, settling herself in his arms, and he swings her body so she’s sitting nearly in his lap, like he used to when she was a little child, when he would let her sit on his lap at feasts and eat from his plate sweetmeats.
“In Erebor,” her father says, “I would have draped you in gold. Your mother would have picked out rubies and tourmaline and red beryl, and her women would have braided the gems into your beard. They would have put perfume in your hair and gold on your skin.” He sighs heavily and tightens his arm around her, tucking her closer to his body. She goes willing, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head on his chest. She can hear the slow beating of his heart beneath the wool and leather of his clothes. “You would have worn a veil woven out of mithril and silk,” he whispers against her hair, “and your grandfather would have had a hundred cattle slaughtered for the feast.”
“And boars?” she asks, because she remembers the taste of boar-meat.
“And boars,” Thrain says. “We would have sent hunters out at dawn, for wild boars and stags and swans.”
She’s never eaten swan, has never even thought of it, but she thinks of it now, how delicate its flesh might be, how delicious. Then she thinks of delicate pastries, cakes and pies and cunning little sweetmeats, sugar spun into arching fantasies.
“And cakes?” she asks, because she wants to hear Thrain’s voice, the things he would have given her.
“All that Dale would have to offer,” Thrain tells her. “And you would have been given gifts. Silks and brocades and jewelry.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s remembering the splendor of Erebor, and Dis closes her eyes, trying to remember it with him. “Armor,” he says, “plated in gold and traced with silver. And swords.”
And she aches for all of this, her inheritance that the dragon stole from her. She aches for Erebor, and for her birthright, and for her mother.
“And Mother,” she says, but Thrain says nothing about her, no memories or promises. His arm goes loose around Dis’s body, then he pushes her gently away.
“Your women will prepare you for the feast,” he says, already so distant again, and he leaves the tent without looking back at her.
When her cousins come into the tent, they bring heavy pots full of steaming water and soft, thick towels. They strip her of her clothes, the rough wool tunic and trousers, and they wash her body, wiping her limbs with hot, wet cloths, then wrapping her in more towels than Dis knew the camp had. They wash her hair, too, taking down the braids and tilting Dis’s head back, pouring handfuls of hot water over Dis’s scalp. It feels utterly luxurious, hot and comforting, and Dis can feel the opium in her body, like a sleepy, heavy feeling spreading up her spine.
Her cousins murmur over her, calling her beautiful and perfect, telling her, you will be the mother of kings. They whisper to her the secrets that dwarvish women hold close, the things her mother would have told her, had Erebor not fallen.
“Your hair,” they tell her, “will be the chain of our throne.”
“Your eyes,” they tell her, “will find Erebor.”
“Your mouth,” they tell her, “will rule our people.”
“Your breasts,” they tell her, “will grow heavy.”
“Your belly,” they tell her, “will bear kings.”
“Your legs,” they tell her, “will be the pillars of our kingdom.”
“You are,” they tell her, “the greatest treasure of our people,” and she, opium-dazed and earth-sure, believes them.
They crush flowers in hot water, then smear the petals over her skin, dying her body red and gold; they part her hair and twist it into long, thick braids that lay heavy on her breasts, and they twine gold ribbon through her hair and beards, a pauper’s chain. They brush charcoal around her eyes, and stain her lips with berries and oil. They drape her in silk and linen robes, the last treasures of Erebor, and they gird a belt of silver and gold around her waist.
“Our greatest treasure,” they call her, and she feels powerful.
When the sun sets, her cousins lead her from the tent, into the center of the camp. There are dozens of fires spread through the center of the camp, with spits and pots. The largest fire has an entire stag suspended over it, the meat sizzling and the skin crisping. Hunger punches through Dis’s belly, stronger than her fading opium daze, and she looks longingly at the stag. There are bowls and platters of food scattered across the center of the camp, like a feast that had lost its tables. It is more food than Dis has seen in months, perhaps even years. There is meat and fish, fresh panfried bread, and even dried fruits candied with sugar.
Near the largest fire is a cushion, a proper floor pillow, thick and sturdy. It is Thror’s, she knows, one of his few indulgences, and Dis’s cousins lead her to it, and push her down to sit upon it. When she’s sitting cross-legged, the robes smoothed over her legs, her cousins bend low enough to kiss her, and then they sit, too, to either side of her.
“Welcome to your feast, Dis,” Rindr says, and Finnra says, “A celebration for your fertility.”
The camp comes alive them, women singing and laughing as men talk loudly over one another. She holds court there, like the princess her mother was, and her father and brothers serve her. Thrain brings her the choicest bits of the stag, the heart and kidneys and liver and tongue, and he sits by her side, cutting the meat into little pieces that he drops, one-by-one, into her bowl. Frerin and Thorin stand behind her, one at each shoulder, and they compete to see which one brings her what she wants the most: the delicate flesh of fish, the honeyed bread, the candied fruits. She feels spoiled and loved, surrounded by her cousins and the men of her family, and she laughs and sings and lets everyone feed her, lets them put ale-dipped bread and bits of dried fruit into her mouth.
The feast goes on and on, like the food will never run out and like the night will never end. Dis eats until she thinks she may be sick, and she has to push Frerin and Thorin away when they try to feed her more, always pushing another bite of fruit or meat onto her. Rindr finally takes pity on her, pulling Dis away from the feast so Dis can wash her face and her hands and her thighs, and change the rags.
When she comes back to the feast, Thorin takes her hands and pulls her next to the fire, and the dancing begins. The dancing is all heavy footwork, stomping and clapping and turning in slow circles, and she feels beautiful when she does it. The robes she has been lent flow like a dress, and she can see her silhouette when she spins, the way the robes snap and twirl like fire and smoke.
Frerin comes then, taking her hands and pulling her away from Thorin, and he spins her until she is shrieking with laughter. She’s passed from dwarf to dwarf, to men and women, and they spin her around, clapping and singing and stomping their feet. Dis feels light, like ash caught on an updraft of air, and she trusts them all, letting the dwarves spin her and let her go, letting her fall into one dwarf’s arms, then another’s, and another’s. They never let her fall, never let her feet go still, and the world whips around her, a blur of tents and fires and stars in the wide open sky.
Thror is the last to spin her, and he does so slowly, slowly, slowly, until Dis’s heart has calmed and her breathing is easy. He doesn’t smile at her, but he looks at her with what must be pride. He spins her one last time, then lets go of her hands, claps and stomps his feet for her. Dis stumbles as she returns to her cushion, her head heavy and dizzy from the dancing. She sinks down onto the cushion gratefully, and watches the end of the dancing.
The dwarves end their dancing around the largest fire, and they all collapse onto the ground, turned toward Dis like supplicants before a throne. It is the gift-giving, and Thror comes to Dis first, being grandfather and king.
“My granddaughter,” Thror says. His voice is loud and strong, carries over the camp, and when he holds out his hands, Dis lays her hands in his. He pulls her to her feet, his hands warm and dry and strong, and he leans down, kissing her gently on the mouth. “You will be a mother to our people.”
“May I be so blessed,” Dis says fervently. Thror lifts her hands and kisses those, too, and says,
“A treasure of our people. May you be a mother and a warrior, a queen in your own right.”
He hands her back down to the cushion, and when she’s seated, he lays a sword in her lap. It’s a beautiful thing, the blade etched with blessings, and Dis touches it reverently.
“May your heart be as sharp and your back as straight,” Thror says. “Be proud, granddaughter.” Then he bows to her, a king to a daughter of kings.
Thrain’s gift comes next. He doesn’t pull her to her feet--instead, he kneels on the ground before her, putting them nearly at a height, and he ducks his head close to her, to whisper into her ear.
“I would have given you Erebor,” he whispers, “and your mother, and the world, but I have lost all that I had, and I am sorry for it.” He kisses her then, as gently as Thror did, and leans back to sit on his heels.
Thrain lays a velvet pouch in her lap, next to the sword, and Dis plucks at the strings with her fingers, then turns the pouch over. Precious metals tumble out onto her robes: silver and gold coins, heavy silver hair clasps, and a delicate golden ring inlaid with emeralds. It is, she is certain, the last remnants of Thrain’s vast wealth.
“Until I return to you your inheritance,” Thrain says in a low voice, and he kisses her hands, her palms and her thumbs and her fingertips. Dis can feel tears in her eyes and she blinks them back, bites her cheek until she knows she won’t cry, because she is a dwarf and a daughter of kings.
“I will wait for it, Father,” she says, and Thrain clenches her hands hard and tight before he returns to Thror’s side.
Thorin and Frerin gives Dis a shirt of steel links and a heavy leather belt with a silver buckle. The shirt was Frerin’s and the belt was Thorin’s, and they look ashamed as they lay their gifts in her lap.
“We’ll make you better,” Frerin says. Thorin is silent, staring at the ground, or perhaps Dis’s knees. “Better, more beautiful armor,” Frerin promises, and her brothers kiss her hair.
She is showered with what gifts the camp can give her: a coat that has been cut down to her size, a new pair of leather boots, a beautifully tooled leather pack. She receives a handful of pieces of jewelry, rings and bracelets and a chain that hangs nearly to her navel. A scarf, a dozen handkerchiefs, a thin shawl to cover her hair on rainy days. The gifts pile up, on her lap and at her feet, and by the time the gift-giving has ended, she is about to weep.
Finnra notices, because Finnra always notices these things, always sees what Dis doesn’t want her to see. Finnra bends low, like she’s righting the pair of boots, and asks, “What is wrong, Dis?”
Dis can hear the tears in her own voice when she says, “I don’t know how I’ll carry all of it.”
“We’re Durin’s folk,” Finnra tells Dis, and her voice is gentle, more gentle than Dis has ever heard before. “We will find a way.”
x
Thror leaves first, moving south and west toward Khazad-dum. Thrain and Thorin and Frerin remain behind, settling Dis into a human town near the Great River. There is no one else left--Rindr left years ago, taking her family with her, and Thror sent Sindri and Finnra to the Iron Hills before he left. Now there is only Dis and her brothers and her father, and they are leaving her, too.
“It won’t be long,” Thorin says, because Thrain will say nothing. Thorin’s face looks as grim as Thrain’s, as cold and as determined. “The other nations are already gathering, and we’ll begin to march within a week.”
“And I’ll wait here?” Dis asks, angry and hurt and frightened. There is a family of dwarves here, but they aren’t from Erebor--they’re eastern dwarves, Stonefoots or Blacklocks. They’re strangers, foreigners, and her family is abandoning her to their care.
“Dis,” Thorin says as though she’s being unreasonable, and Dis wants to hit him with her fists, wants to pull his hair and scream in his face and make him take her with him.
“Dis,” Frerin repeats after Thorin, and Frerin at least looks upset, Frerin at least looks like it pains him to leave her behind. “You are the treasure of our people--”
“The mother of kings,” Thrain murmurs, his only words, and Dis closes her eyes, takes in a shuddering breath.
She doesn’t cry, because she is a daughter of Durin, as burdened as the rest of her royal family. She bites her tongue, and she lifts her chin, and she says nothing at all.
“We’ll build you a kingdom,” Frerin promises, “one greater than any before.”
They say their goodbyes, and they kiss her gently, and they promise her a kingdom of gold and silver and mithril. They kiss her, and they leave her, and she watches them go, her legs the pillars of the earth.