They winter Under the Mountain, and spend long nights deep in conversation. Around them, a kingdom is rebuilt and glory is restored, but it stirs neither of their hearts the way it might have, had things gone otherwise. Dwalin fears at first that there will be whispers; that they do not help, that they keep to themselves too much, but Dís's reputation, as his own as one of the Company, stills most wagging tongues, and stifles murmurs before they can become thoroughly voiced.

They sit before the hearth at arm's length as he tells her of their adventures in the Wild, close enough to brush shoulders as he tells her of the Battle, and together, together as she tells him of the years that he had missed.

"I had thought to tell them," she says, at length, when the winter has almost passed them by. "Had Thorin won the day. Would you have given your leave?"

"It was never mine to give," he says.

"It wasn't then," she admits, "But you are also of the House of Durin. As I recall, it was one of arguments. It would not have lessened either of their claims, had they chosen to make it known to all our people."

"I left them, Dís," he says, after a long moment. "I left all of you."

"And we missed you," she says. "There were times when you supported us more than Thorin could. The halls they grew up in weren't built by your hands, but they may as well have been."

"It's not the same," he says. "Better they think of their Uncle than of me."

"They thought of you, in any case," she says.

"Aye, you've told me," he huffs the ghost of a laugh, one of few since Thorin fell. "I have a whole playroom to call my own."

"It was more than that," Dís says. "They would play at fighting, and they would always make Gimli be the accursed Defiler so that they could be Thorin and you."

The laughter rumbles in both of them, now, warm underneath the fur, and echoes off the hard walls of the chamber. They have neither of them turned to stone.

"They used to argue, too," she continues, "after Kíli turned to the bow, that he couldn't be you, because you'd never be caught with so elvish a weapon."

"I might have changed my tune on that," he says. "That bow kept us fed for a goodly portion of our travels. It's difficult to hunt with hammer and axe."

"It kept us fed too," Dís says. "Even as the halls began to prosper and we could afford more meat in trade. It did them good, the pair of them, to contribute."

She wanders into memory then, he can tell by the cant of her head. The firelight gleams off of her rings, and catches the silver in her hair. Her beard is growing in, but she will never hang finery from it again. She will carrying her rank differently now.

"Did Thorin know?" he asks. It is the one question that has haunted him throughout the years and his time away. That perhaps his King and friend had known, and while he could not disapprove of his sister or the son she'd borne, he could disapprove of the father. Dwalin was too recognizable a warrior and loyal hammer to dismiss entirely, but he could be removed from the situation, had Thorin desired it.

"No," she says, and his heart is eased. "He never asked. Never presumed to judge. When they were badgers, the boys would ask, now and then. Especially after Gimli was born. But as they grew, they understood. It was our family, and it was Erebor, and it was bigger than them."

"And still you might have told them?" he asks.

"No," she says, and, "Never. But I did like to dream." His breath catches. He will not ask. It has been too long, and they have missed too much.

"We're not elves, with nothing but long years to deliberate," she says. He cannot disagree. "We are makers. We must make decisions and live with them. And then we must make more."

"Then we shall," he says, stirring under the furs, and feeling, for the first time in months, the call to move. "The River Running is frozen still, in Dale, but every day the ice grows thinner."

"When the water runs clear to the Lake, we will be ready," she says. "I will speak to Dáin, and you to your brother. There is no call for a large party, I think?"

"Gandalf and the Halfling seemed to think they would do well enough in the Wild," Dwalin says. "And we can take the path through Mirkwood, if you don't mind traveling with elves."

"How times have changed," she says, and laughs.

"How indeed," he replies, though he cannot say that he minds.

"I will not marry," she says, when, at last, they stand outside the doors. The hall is bright, and there is a feast laid out to welcome them home. "And there will be no more badgers to bite at your ankles. But there will be a fire and a place to sleep, and my company, for however long you wish it."

"That has always been enough," he says.

"Liar," she tells him, and he does not correct her. "But we are older now. And it may be that you are right."

And so Dwalin, son of Fundin, came to the Blue Mountains and took up Thorin's seat in the halls there. And there did he dwell, and live full years beyond that which is usually given to his kind.

And the Lady Dís consented to her addition to the Line of the Dwarves or Erebor to honour her sons, for their fathers' lines remain unknown, and she would have them remembered by her people, and by those who seek to learn the Histories of Middle Earth. And of her life and legacy, no more can be said.
-An addendum, from Gimli, son of Glóin, to The Latter Days of the House of Éorl (translation)

finis

NOTES:

Yes, I messed around with most people's ages. It seems to be stylish. Fíli and Kíli are basically their canonical ages, but Dwalin and Dís are closer in age to Thorin. I also messed a bit with when Dwalin left Erebor, since Gloin says he's still there at the Council of Elrond.

Dis has no listed husband, and if she had, theoretically her sons would have been listed by their father's house instead of hers. So that's the opening I took. I have no idea who Fíli's father is, but the Dwalin-as-Kíli's-father idea came to be largely because of the scene in the movie where Kíli is all "Mister Dwalin!" and claps him on the shoulder. That is the first time they've seen each other in half a century.

The Latter Days of the House of Éorl is a half-written history I've been working on for about half a decade, chronicling the lives of the children of Éomer and Lothíriel. It is written predominantly by their third son, Éodoc the Blackfingered, but additions of Dwarvish History were made by Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves, at the behest of King Elessar. Éodoc served primarily as a translator for Gimli's writings having been…you know what? I should totally write that story.

Gravity_Not_Included, January 31, 2013