Prologue:

Many a tale has been told of Thorin Oakenshield and his company on the quest to reclaim Erebor, but many unknown accounts have yet to be told. The fate of the dwarves of Erebor lay solely on this quest's success…or failure. This tale proves that even in a state of stubbornness, tempers, and greed…love proves stronger.

In the great city of Dale, there lived a young dwarf by the name of Fozmur. Born to a long line of blacksmiths that he had called The House of Nizin (though many were unfamiliar with this line until Fozmur came about) and they were most faithful to Thrór who ruled as King Under the Mountain. Fozmur was the only son and eldest, followed by his younger sister, Naza. He reached his prime height of 4'9" and was taller than his own father. Both children inherited dark brunette hair that fell in waves and kind brown eyes that were filled with compassion that their parents had taught them. Life by the mountain was very well for them.

Fozmur became his father's apprentice at a young dwarf age, soaking in the knowledge that was given to him. His father had become a very renowned dwarf smith living in Dale and would even occasionally receive requests of great weapons to present to the Line of Durin itself. Smithing came so naturally to their line that it almost seemed unnatural and as the kingdom of Erebor prospered, their family did also, for they not only created weaponry for the Royal Family, but to their guard as well. Fozmur would spend all day with his father, and then late at night return to the smith to practice what was taught, constantly looking for perfection in his craft. But as summers passed, the dwarf boy grew and he at last reached his coming of age.

The night of Fozmur's coming of age celebration, his father Nomur took him aside.

"My son. Now that you are old enough, it is time you know the truth." He took a deep breath.

"The Seven Dwarf Lords of Middle-earth were very powerful and each had a ring of power given to them by Sauron the Deceiver…Only a few remain, and one of them sits upon Thrain's finger."

"Yes, Da. Everyone knows this."

Nomur folded his arms and cockily grinned. He laughed heartily and ran his left hand over his dark brown mohawk.

"Very well, son. Tell me. Who are the Seven Lines that were given rings of power?"

"The Longbeards, The Firebeards, The Broadbeams, The Stiffbeards, The Blacklocks, The Stonefoots and…"

"The Ironfists." Nomur finished and opened his hand in cradled in it was an iron ring with a large golden topaz gem. Fozmur stared at it, curiously.

"We are the heir of Sindri's folk, my son. We have the great dwarf ring of Smithing. It is yours now." He placed the ring in Fozmur's hand.

"What about the Line of Nizin?"

"That is for our protection, son. A once dark power ruled over Middle-earth and we do not want that power to return and know we still have this. The Line of Nizin is but a cover...we are the Line of Sindri's Folk."

"Da, why is this so secretive?"

"I asked the same thing at my coming of age. All the rings have either been lost, or consumed by dragon fire. The only other I know that is in existence is Thrain's."

"This is sign of royalty, isn't it Da?"

"Yes, Fozmur. Our dominion is over the Iron Hills, if you so choose to take it."

"Why didn't you take the throne?" Fozmur asked his father.

"I would make such a lesser Lord, my son." He bowed his head, humbly. "I know not one thing of ruling, let alone such a powerful people such as the Ironfists."

Fozmur nodded in understanding.

"Da, I would not make a good Lord…I know nothing of leadership."

"That, my son, is why I'm giving you this heirloom. Many who do not want power are the ones who should have it."

With a last glance, he said goodbye to his father's house and started for Lake-Town in hopes to earn his right as a Master Smith. As he began his life in Lake-Town, Fozmur was taken aback at how tedious and difficult earning his right would be. He was offered positions of low class, and had to work hard for long hours, all the while using inane amounts of strength on his tasks. That first summer would prove most demanding for him. He would slave on farms and shops, his tough dwarf skin bronzing in the summer sun and his arms growing stronger by the day. Yet he never complained. The only thought in his mind was, "I will someday be the greatest smith from my house."

Our tale now turns a little more somber. In Lake-Town there lived a young woman just coming of age. Her name was Sigrid and she was one of seven daughters who were born to a poor pig keeper. She was second oldest, just behind Saga. The other five were younger starting with Solwen, Sona, Sori, Sivle, and the youngest being Seila. Their father was a cold, lazy, cruel man who cared nothing for his daughters or anything else other than his immediate satisfaction through drink. He once was not this terrible, but turned so when his wife, Silanna, passed. Sigrid had no memory of her mother, and her father refused to tell her or her sisters what had happened to her. He would not and cared not to take care of his girls, seeing as they all looked and acted like his late wife. Each had amber eyes of their mother, and shimmering golden brown hair that reached their backs. And the eldest did not grow over 5 foot tall, just like Silanna. As time progressed, their father slipped further away, and the girls would often sleep hungry. The older daughters chose not to leave the house in fear that the youngest would die of neglect. But despite their best efforts, Sigrid lost four of her youngest sisters. As she held a trembling Seila in her arms, she comforted her as she passed from this life. Sigrid could no longer bear it. All that she had left was Saga, who had grown bitter and moved far away, and Solwen who had luckily escaped the home for marriage and left Lake-Town not long after her twentieth birthday. Sigrid stayed behind though knowing the fever that consumed her younger sisters would surely contaminate herself, and with no money, no family, and no husband…she could not seek out a healer. The night of Seila's death, Sigrid awoke in the dead of night feeling weak. She knew that she had to leave. Right that moment.

Sigrid's fever raged as she wandered the streets, hidden by the hood of her worn brown woolen cloak. She was too late, she had begun to tremble and realized if she didn't reach a healer by morning, her life would end. Her vision began to blur, but she managed to make her way to a smith who still had his light on down the way.

Fozmur had reached his fifth year as a resident in Lake-Town. Many had become familiar with him, for he had worked his way up to a Smith's assitant, for he was too old to be an apprentice. He had worked for Tagor, the well-respected smith of Lake-Town. Tagor sought out Fozmur to watch him from a distance as soon as he had arrived in Lake-Town since he was from a long line of dwarven smiths. Tagor watched as Fozmur swallowed his dwarvish pride and accepted the dirtiest and hardest jobs that no one wanted to take on. Fozmur still continued on with no complain which impressed Tagor even more. After two years, Tagor had finally approached him and offered him the position, which Fozmur accepted with no hesitation. His hard work paid off; he knew it would. Instantly Fozmur and Tagor developed a deep bond, like a father and son. Fozmur watched without a blink as Tagor continued Fozmur's blacksmith training. Many of Lake-Town came to watch Fozmur and Tagor forge magnificent work together, combining both the skill of Men and Dwarves. Coincidently, because of his hard work, Fozmur grew a reputation amongst the young Lake-Town girls as being the most handsome dwarf they had ever seen. His beard was not as profound as the dwarf lords they had seen before, but more subtle, with two braids in his coffee colored moustache that went into two more braids down his chin. In spite of his stature, he was considered physically powerful dwarf and the girls claimed he was stronger than two soldiers from the race of Men combined. For three years the two forged powerful weapons that Fozmur often instilled runes of his house on combined with Tagor's name. At the end of his third year as the Smith's assitant, Fozmur was doing trade in Dale when Smaug came. Fozmur lost everything. He lost his entire family with the exception of his sister's husband, Dain Ironfoot. Fozmur narrowly escaped with his life and made his way back to Lake-Town and him and Tagor helped refugees through a few months. But Tagor began to work less. He was growing old and he knew his end was near. One midsummer's night, Tagor called for Fozmur and gave him his will. Fozmur was given Tagor's house, a comfortable amount of wealth, but more importantly the smith, for Tagor had no family save for Fozmur. Tagor peacefully accepted death in his sleep that night with no pain. Fozmur shed a single tear for his dear friend and partner, held a quiet service in which many a townsman came to, and then proceeded to get back to work. He had to prove to everyone that Tagor made the right choice in trusting him to claim his right as a Master Smith.

Fozmur never forgot that cold, foggy, winter night; it was just a few short years after the passing of Tagor. Fozmur had been spending that whole night with his anvil and hammer. He had officially received his first request from none other than Prince Thorin. Fozmur was to create a valiant battle axe for Thorin's best friend Dwalin of Erebor. He had hoped to create a unique weapon in which he combined his dwarvish knowledge of crafting with what he had learned from Tagor. It was two hours before dawn when the rain began to pour harder than before and a cloaked figure fell through the doors to his smith. Fozmur jumped at the intrusion, but noticed the intruder's small stature and assumed she was either a tall dwarf, or a very small woman. The woman, Sigrid, straightened herself out and looked to Fozmur.

"Master Smith?" Her voice quivered yet called to him.

With no hesitation, Fozmur found himself running towards her. The pain in her voice made his chest tense. Who was this young maid in pain?

Sigrid tried to take a step towards Fozmur but staggered and fell to her left knee. Fozmur gently reached his arm out to steady her. With a trembling hand, she removed her hood and he took her soaking, ripped cloak. As he gazed upon the face of Sigrid, time stood still. He had yet to meet anyone or see anything that would cause him to hold his breath as he was doing. Even in her fevered state, she was the most beautiful thing he had seen. Her face was flushed with sickness and her amber eyes were bloodshot and clouded. However, she firmly looked into Fozmur's kind eyes that were full of concern and mustered all her strength.

"Master Smith," she stated again, "I am Sigrid from the house of…oh what's that matter my house is shattered. I have no house. Please I beg this of you Master Smith, please could you spare my life and heal me for death is close…and I feel his cold grip…"

Fozmur's heart lurched as her eyes fluttered shut. He had to save her, he had to save this forgotten angel. Sigrid had completely captured his heart.

Sigrid's dreams were full of wonder; some with terror. She could see the dwarf's face. She almost felt his hand brush her hair off her head that was covered in a cold sweat. He would smile at her and she felt whole. Then it would turn black as the fever burned, bringing images of her father and dead sisters. Their faces were dark and unforgiving as they pulled her to Death's door. She continued to fight, trying to make her way back to the handsome dwarf smith who called her name. She fought for her life all through the morning, until midday she finally opened her eyes. Two strong arms embraced her and she could feel the dwarf's arms wrap around her.

"Thank Mahal you have returned to me. I would have rather died than to not have told you this truth. Never have I seen anything on this earth that is equivalent to your beauty, Lady Sigrid." He whispered.

Sigrid pulled away and smiled. She softly placed her delicate hand on his cheek, which was soft despite his beard. He turned into her palm and placed a soft kiss there. Her hands were no longer shaking and her fever was broken. "My beloved, what is your name? It matters not, but I want to know who to thank for my life." She questioned, knowing that no matter who this dwarf was, she would be his wife. He proudly looked her in the eye with a sparkle to his own. "I am Fozmur, son of Nomur and I will never leave you nor cease to strive for your happiness, everyday, for the rest of my life."

Sigrid's heart flew. She leaned forward, her lips slightly parted and placed a gentle, tender kiss upon his lips. Their love was so pure and so true from the moment they saw each other and as she pulled away from him, he cradled her in his arms and she spoke.

"What you say is a good thing, Fozmur son of Nomur, for I would never want to be anywhere but your side."

After a few months of planning, Fozmur and Sigrid were wed in Dale before his whole household. He did not regret his decision, even though some of his kin were outraged he married a woman and not a Dwarf lady of Erebor. His immediate family knew of his happiness and were pleased for him with no question. They returned to Lake-Town after their wedding but after a year, Sigrid's health never recovered fully. Her life of neglect before Fozmur had begun to catch up with her. She was often more sick than not, but Fozmur cared for her and showed her his love everyday. She would go periods of time with no sickness, and then periods of time where she was back to that door of Death. It wasn't until their second year of marriage that Sigrid informed her beloved husband that she was pregnant. Fozmur grew worried for his wife and the baby, so he continued to work late hours at night in the Smith and tended his wife whenever she needed.

At long last the day arrived for the delivery of their child, but as Fozmur feared Sigrid was slowly fading. He leaned down and kissed his wife one last time and then after a few moments, birthed their child. Fozmur knew his wife would want to see their baby, so he quickly took the wide-eyed baby girl in his arms. He couldn't begin to describe the feeling. Those eyes that looked upon him were just like Sigrid's. They stunned him. Only once had he been stunned to silence and that was the day he met his wife.

"She will be a beacon. She is the first half-dwarf with the blood of Men." he whispered to his wife and showed her the new born daughter as she was about to pass through Death's door.

"Our little star," Sigrid whispered, "Our Zinlaza…." And with that she passed on. Sigrid named her a Khuzdul name with the quality of Man. Zinlaza literally translated to "One piece of an element, broken into fragments and scattered." Zinlaza. His daughter. He had only known of one other half-dwarf in existance and she was a daughter of a companion of his. But Zinlaza was the first born with the blood of Dwarf and Man.

Fozmur knew of his wife's background, he knew of her father's neglect. He softly placed a kiss on his wife's forehead as she died then looked to his daughter.

"You have your Mother's eyes little one. I hope you are just like her. I will forever protect you, my beacon. You are my blessing amidst my grief, and I will not break. Whatever you want, it's yours. I will be your guiding light until you are able to lift up your head and shine YOUR light to others, my beautiful Zinlaza."