Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer: All people and places are taken from Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

Dis stomped angrily through the forest. Her brother Thorin infuriated her so much! He was stubborn, and always thought that he was right. He would insult her with stinging words while wearing that self-righteous smirk on his face and no matter what she said in return; somehow Thorin would always get the last word. This time was worse than any other; more infuriating. This time Thorin had gone too far in his insults.

Dis finished singing a Dwarvish chant and glanced up from the sword she was sharpening. She listened for a moment before returning her attention to the sword. It was a magnificent sword, crafted many years before in the depths of Khazad-dûm. It had once seen much fighting in the long-forgotten battles of the Dwarves, and was again being prepared for battle. She sighed in memory. The Dwarves had seen much sorrow in the past years, beginning with the ruin of their dwelling in Erebor by Smaug, to the brutal death of their king, Thrór, at the hands of the Orcs. Because of this, the Dwarves had begun a terrible war against the Orcs in search of vengeance.

Six years had now past since that wretched war had begun. The Dwarves had fought their way down the Misty Mountains, from Gundabad to Gladden. And now, all of the Orcs were gathered in the Mines of Moria, awaiting the final battle. The Dwarves were also preparing for what could be the last march of the Dwarves.

Dis stood and grasped the sword with both hands and touched the flat of the blade to her forehead. She then lowered the sword and swung, relishing in the whoosh as it sliced through the air. After swinging several more times, she began to stab at things only she could see; then ducked her head as she swung the blade, avoiding imaginary swords of the enemy.

A voice broke her concentration. A dwarf stepped into view. It was Thorin, son of Thráin, her brother.

Dis immediately stopped swinging. She stood frozen for a moment before turning to face Thorin, who stood there with an amused expression on his face.

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Of course. And that would be why you were swinging my sword at imaginary Orcs and goblins. Not very well either, might I add. The position of your hands is all wrong. What you need to do...”

Dis mentally groaned. Whenever Thorin got started on something, stopping him was like trying to craft a sword without a fire: useless.

“Though of course,” he was saying, “better can hardly be expected. You are after all, just a woman. And as everyone knows-”

This time Dis interrupted him. “Women cannot fight as well as men. Yes, Thorin, you have stated this many times.”

Thorin continued indignantly. “Pardon me. Yes, women cannot fight as well as men. Aside from the physical limitations, the mental strain of it also makes them inferior in battle. Furthermore,” Thorin reached out and took the sword from Dis. “Furthermore,” he continued, turning the sword over in his hands, “As this recently sharpened sword is a prime example, women cannot even craft their weapons as well as men. (Or upkeep them-once again take this sword as an example.)”

Dis’ annoyance was quickly turning into anger. “What do you mean ‘prime example?’ There is nothing wrong with that sword!”

Thorin cleared his throat importantly. “I beg to differ. Now, dear sister, if you simply look closely at the edge of the blade, you will see several nicks and rough spots that you missed.”

Thorin sighed heavily and took the sword back from her. “Here,” he said, pointing at an invisible scratch.

Dis looked disgusted. “You are basing a woman’s ability to sharpen and craft weapons on a scratch that is not even there?”

Dis rolled her eyes. “And I suppose that you believe what you said is true?”

“That women cannot fight? Although you do not wish believe it, you cannot deny it!”

Dis glared at him. “We could fight well if you men would simply give us the opportunity!”

“No, you certainly could not.” Thorin said, highly amused. “You would be too afraid to even set foot onto the battle field.”

Dis stared at him with blind fury. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, clenched her teeth to refrain from saying anything that she would regret later, and shoved the sword at Thorin. She then turned away from his smirking face, and stomped off angrily into the trees.

Disclaimer: All people and places are taken from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings

Dis anger soon dissipated into sadness. She fought back tears as she walked. Thorin had unknowingly touched on something very near and dear to her. Dis knew that Thorin was right; that women could not fight as well as the men. It was something, something that Dis had vowed to erase from her mind, yet somehow it kept returning...

She had been twenty-eight years old, a mere child in the reckoning of the Dwarves. The Dwarves were well into their second year of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs. Dis could not remember where they had been fighting; she had tried her best to forget.

It had been a “normal” day. The men had left the previous day for battle, and the women had stayed behind to mind the camp. The men would return in several days, their numbers somewhat fewer, but that could not be helped. The Dwarves were at war, and death was to be expected.

Something that day, however, had gone horribly wrong. Several companies of Orcs had broken away from the battle and had somehow found the camp of the Dwarves. The women had been completely caught off guard, and although they had managed to find weapons they had not been nearly fast enough to save themselves from the slaughter that would take place that day.

Dis had panicked. She had been unable to find any weapons and was vulnerable to the deadly blades of the Orcs. She had done the only thing that she could: she had run.

But there had been nowhere to go; the camp was completely filled with Orcs. It was not long until Dis had found herself on the ground, waiting for the blow that would end her life. Except just when the Orc had swung, Dis had been pushed out of the way by her mother, who had then taken the blade and died in Dis’ place.

Dis was still unsure how she had made it through that day alive. The men had arrived just in time to rescue the women. Dis learned that day that, given the circumstances, women could not fight.

She had never told anyone what had happened. The guilt of knowing that she had caused her mother’s death was too great for words. But now, years later, as she found the men going into what would most likely be the final battle in this war, she realized that she wanted to go with them as well. Death or revenge was the only ways that she could redeem herself in her eyes, and battle was the only way that this could be achieved. Yet the men did not simply let the women onto the battlefield, which would be certain disaster. Dis needed a plan. She also would need help.

Several hours later, Dis returned from the woods into the Dwarves camp. She looked about her as she entered. The camp was about two days march from the valley of Azanulbizar. Seven thousand Dwarf men were gathered here ready to fight to the death, with more from Iron Hills arriving in several days. Fires were being lit all across the plain; they shone as beacons in the growing dark.

There were very few Dwarf women there, perhaps seventy-five or so. They were of the house of Durin, Dis’ kin. When the dragon Smaug had destroyed their dwellings in Erebor, the small company of Dwarves that had escaped was left homeless wanderers in the wilderness. Such were the women that were there now. They had no dwellings; this was their home.

Dis walked across the snow-covered ground towards her family’s fire. Her brother Frerin was there, smoking contentedly on his pipe. No one else was there.

“Hullo Frerin!” said Dis as she walked over to him. “Where are Father and Thorin?”

Frerin stopped puffing on his pipe and leaned back in thought. “They said that they were meeting with the other leaders of the army.”

Frerin sat up attentively and gave her his full attention. “What is troubling you, Sister?”

Frerin shook his head. “What he said is not true. I believe that you could fight very well if the need presented itself.”

“Thank you Frerin. But your confidence does nothing to solve my problem. I am still a woman, and we do not fight. I suppose that I will once again be left behind to tend to the camp while you fight for our home. It is my home as well as yours, Frerin! Why should I not be able to help defend it?”

“Dis, I think that my confidence is very well the solution to your problems.”

Frerin motioned her to sit down next to him. She did. “Dis, I am in a position to greatly help you. Dwarf women are so alike to us men that it can be very hard to distinguish the two. I have extra armor. If you were wearing that and a helm, I fail to see why you cannot also journey with us into battle.”

Dis stared at him. “Frerin, did I fail to mention that you are one of the wisest people that I know?”

After being equipped with armor, including a shirt of chain mail, a breastplate, a helm, and a shield, Frerin let her investigate the weapons. Choosing one was not terribly difficult. There were many extra weapons from the Dwarves that had been slain in the recent battles. Dis selected a short sword. She was not handy with the axe, nor was she particularly fond of the bow. She much preferred the straight, clean lines of the sword.

All of these things Dis stored underneath one of her blankets. When the Dwarf men left for battle, she would be going as well.

It was now the night before the march, and Dis could hardly sleep. Everything was ready for her plan to be executed, but now she was wondering: was she truly willing to go through with it?

Dis rolled over onto her back and looked up into the sky. It was a cloudy night, and the blanket of clouds blocked the light of even the moon. Dis wondered if perhaps the darkness was foreboding the fate of her journey.

“No,” Dis thought. There was no turning back. She would enter battle. She would fight alongside the men, and avenge the many deaths of her family and friends, even if the cost be her own life.

With these thoughts swirling in her head, Dis’ dark brown eyes slowly closed as she drifted into an uneasy slumber.

Author’s Note: This story is based on Appendix A “Durin’s Folk” at the end of The Return of the King.

Disclaimer: All people and places are taken from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

The morning air was filled with the noise of many Dwarves preparing for battle. The armor, food, packs, and weapons had to be made ready before they could set out. It was tedious work.

Soon all was made ready. The Dwarves had gathered in straight lines; separated into companies according to their ancestry. Then they waited. The signal was soon given, and they began their march.

The few women that were there watched the men go. No trace of fear was in their eyes; they had seen the men go into battle many times before. Sorrow was there however, and a dark shadow upon their hearts. The women watched until the glint of armor disappeared into the horizon; then they turned and began to clean and straighten the remains of the camp. They would eagerly await the return of the men, but they would also be prepared to flee from Orcs if need presented itself.

Meanwhile the men marched. None of them (save one) had noticed the silent soldier who had slipped in with Thráin’s company as they left. If they had, it would not have mattered; to them it was just another Dwarf, another body fighting on their side in this cruel war.

But it was much more than that. This soldier wanted to achieve more than simply victory. This soldier wanted revenge. Revenge for their former king, Thrór, brutally slain by the king of the Orcs, Azog. (Curse his name.) Revenge for Khazad-dûm that was, and for the world that would be. Life also, a life of freedom, for this and other generations to come.

That was the purpose that drove them all. That desire burned more strongly in the hearts of those of the house of Durin. Such as Dis. She felt as if the forger’s fire was aflame in her heart, and nothing would put it out save avenging her kin. That was her sole purpose and desire, and like fire, it was consuming her thoughts and her being.

The day was dark; the clouds oppressing. The Misty Mountains rose slowly above them as they marched; its shadow loomed over them for miles. All were uneasy, it was as if the shadow was growing, and there was no stopping it.

Soon dusk fell, and the Dwarven army halted. All the others sat down, and after setting up a makeshift camp, they started several fires. Then they sat down and began to eat their allotment of cram. Dis mentally groaned. In her haste, she had failed to bring any provisions. She glanced about at the other Dwarves near her. No one had noticed or even spoken to her. It was as if she was invisible.

Dis watched her brother Frerin hungrily devour cram. She tried to subtly catch his attention, but no avail. She groaned again, and tried to resign herself to the fact that she would be going hungry...for the next week. Than again, maybe Thorin had some extra in his pack that he would not miss. She looked over at him.

Thorin was standing some distance away, staring angrily at the tall mountains. “Father,” he said. “When shall we be arriving at Khazad-dûm?

“Frerin,” Thorin said. Frerin looked up at his brother. “Frerin, look at the mountain. It seems as if it is taunting us.”

Frerin squinted at the mountain. “It looks just like a mountain to me,” he said.

Thorin shook his head angrily. “No, Frerin, it is not just a mountain. Inside that mountain, in our ancient dwellings, in our home, Frerin, lurk our worst enemies. They sit there and wait, plotting our imminent doom. When we arrive tomorrow, they will literally pour out of that mountain, ready for battle.”

Poor Frerin looked bewildered. “What in the name of Aulë does that have to do with the mountain tormenting you?”

Thorin sighed in exasperation. “Our enemies are in the mountain; waiting. Inside Khazad-dûm; the mountain, our ancient home, therefore they are taunting us with the mountain; and-Oh! Frerin, it is too hard to explain in the simple terms necessary for you to understand!”

Frerin looked down, embarrassed. Dis felt pity for him. Far too many times had they been belittled by Thorin.

Dis turned her gaze to the mountain. As much as she hated to admit it, Thorin was right. The mountain rose tauntingly above them; as if it was telling them that victory was hopeless.

Dis bit her lower lip. Hopeless it may be, but she was willing to fight to the death.

The night fell at last. The Dwarves slept uneasily under the moonless sky of a dark winter night. The only lights were those of the torches from the few men on watch; for the darkness covered even the stars.

Dis, unable to sleep from the hunger pains in her stomach, crawled over to where Frerin was sleeping and shook him gently. He moaned softly in his sleep.

Dis ignored that remark and delved into his pack. She heard Frerin roll over, and soon the deep breathing of his sleep could be heard.

Disclaimer: All people (Except Korin, who is my own invention) and places are taken from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Direct quotes from the books are cited.

The morning came; a cold, dark, winter day. Dis awoke full of anticipation. This was the day when all would be settled: the war, and also her own internal battles.

After a hastily eaten breakfast of cram, the Dwarves gathered and set off. Their pace was brisk; and all were filled with a sense of urgency.

The mountain rose higher and higher into view as they walked, until they were almost at its base. Soon they came upon a well-worn path of old that presumably led to the gates of Moria. Dis looked in sorrow at the ruined works of stone beside the path; a memory of all that was. She squinted, longing to set her gaze on the lake of Kheled-zâram, or Mirrormere, but the fog and the absence of light on this sunless day hindered her vision.

Dis’ grandfather, Thrór, had often spoken wistfully of it, telling her and her brothers as young children that “the waters were dark: a deep blue like clear evening sky seen from a lamp-lit room.”[i] As a child, Dis had tried to imagine what this would have looked like, but the vision had always eluded her. Until now.

Just as she eagerly looked to see this beautiful lake, to behold the reflection of the mountains in its depths, it was before them. But she was not prepared for what she saw. It was a lake, yes, but not one of beauty and majesty, but one whose reflection was of darkness and shadow. The reflection in the water was black.

In the space of several seconds, Dis took all of this in. The next thing she knew, the fog had cleared enough that they could now see the gate of their ancient mansions on the hillside. The Dwarves sent up a great shout, like thunder in the valley.[ii] It was deafening, but Dis did not take notice, for she was shouting as well.

Their shout echoed on the mountains; then slowly died. Everything was silent for a few moments. The vale was still, waiting.

Suddenly, the silence of the vale erupted into a roar. Orcs poured out of the gates of Khazad-dûm and rushed into the valley. The Dwarven archers quickly notched their bows with arrows and began to shoot the Orcs.

Dis fingered her sword hilt. This was it. She swallowed against the lump in her throat and gritted her teeth. These accursed Orcs! How dare this filth invade her home!

The Orcs had now broken through the line of archers, and now the time for hand-to-hand combat had begun.

Dis pulled out her sword and readied herself. There was a shout next to her as an Orc cut down one of the Dwarves. Dis flew into action. She leapt at the Orc and swung her sword.

“Barak Khazad! Khazâd ai-mênu!”[iii] She cried. Her sword sliced neatly through the neck of the Orc, and it fell to the ground. Dis barely had time to recover before another Orc had appeared in its place.

The Orcs were still pouring out of the gates of Khazad-dûm. It did not take a wizard to see that the Dwarves were at a high disadvantage. Besides being highly outnumbered, it was difficult to see because the sun was hidden behind the heavy blanket of clouds, with no hopes of appearing anytime soon. The eyes of the Orcs were used to the dark. The Dwarves on the other hand, were stumbling around in the half-light.

The Dwarves nearby gathered around him. Dis dodged an Orc, ducked while stabbing another in the stomach, and joined the band of Dwarves near her father.

When the Dwarves had regained as much of their orderly formation as possible, they were ready.

The first assault began. They surged forward with their weapons and shields held ready. Dis glanced at her companions. Thráin had grim determination on his face, Thorin had the fire of battle in his eyes, but Frerin’s eyes were open wide with fear. Dis felt no emotion; she was simply concentrating on the task ahead.

They met the Orcs with full force. Their swords slashed with fury, and many Orcs fell in the first wave of the onslaught.

The other Orcs were already down rushing to defend their stronghold. The vanguard of the Dwarves was badly outnumbered, and the Orcs showed no signs of slowing down.

More and more Orcs came as the number of Dwarves grew less. What happened next was inevitable. Because the Orcs held the higher ground, they were slowly pushing the Dwarves back down the slope. They were losing their ground very quickly.

Thráin looked about and laughed bitterly. “And to where would we turn, my son?”

Thorin glanced quickly about. All about him there were Orcs and Dwarves locked in deadly combat. His father was right. There was nowhere to turn.

The vanguard was slowly driven back. The loss was heavy on both sides, but more so on that of the Dwarves.

Dis looked sorrowfully at her slain comrades. Such was Korin, who lay there with an arrow through his chest. She thought of the times when he used to pull her beard and tease her endlessly. That was all past now.

With each dead friend or kinsman Dis grew angrier, and her sword slashed more fiercely. Even so, Dis and the rest of Thráin’s company were driven back past Kheled-zâram into a wood of great trees.

[i] The Fellowship of the Ring, page 324, Chapter VI “Lothlórien”

[ii] The Return of the King, page 1048, Appendix A, “III Durin’s Folk”

[iii] “Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!”

Disclaimer: All people (Except Korin) and places are taken from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. The story is taken from Appendix A “Durin’s Folk”

Thráin’s company was now completely fenced in by Orcs and trees. Each Dwarf brandished his sword more carefully, knowing that one misguided stroke could cost them their lives or those of their comrades.

It was not long before Dis heard a sharp, pained cry. She turned her head to see Balin standing over the body of his father, Fundin. Pure anguish was etched onto his face. Balin collapsed onto his knees next to Fundin’s body and began to weep.

“Balin, I am deeply sorry, but it is no use. You shall mourn him properly later, but now you must fight. Fight for him.”

Balin nodded at this statement and wiped tears from his eyes. He looked down at his father and whispered in the tongue of the Dwarves.

Dis knew what it was he was saying, she herself had uttered it many times before.

That was why she was here, was it not? To avenge people like Korin and Fundin; and to fight for those who could not.

The fight in the woods raged on. It seemed to Dis that it would never end. Dwarves and Orcs alike were bring slaughtered, but no matter how many Orcs were killed, there were always more to take their place.

Dis fought with all her might. Orcs fell before her blade, for the lust of battle was upon her. Her blade shone in the darkness of the day.

A shout came from several yards away. Dis looked up to see that an Orc had cloven Thorin’s shield in two. Now he was vulnerable to the deadly sword of the Orc.

Thorin hewed at the Orc with his axe. The Orc fell with a withering cry before another jumped into its place. Thorin killed that one as well, and while he had a quick moment apart from the fight, he ran to the nearest tree. Taking up his axe, he hewed at one of the oaken branches. It fell with a loud thud to the ground.

The next Orc that challenged Thorin was soundly clubbed by Thorin’s new shield. He wielded it almost as skillfully as his axe, using it as a club and a shield.

That cry was quickly taken up among the Dwarves, encouraging them in what seemed to be an endless fight.

Suddenly, an Orc swung hard at Dis, sending her sword out of her hand, and the force of the blow knocked her to the ground. She held up her shield just in time to wield off the next incoming blow before scrambling away. She put her hand behind her to prevent herself from falling; then yanked it back with revulsion. Her hand was covered with sticky red blood.

Dis looked down in horror at the body she had touched. Her head then snapped up at the sound of the Orc approaching. She looked about frantically; then she picked up the axe of her fallen countryman. She stood up just in time to deliver a jarring blow to the neck of the Orc.

Dis brandished her axe and continued to fight. She disliked the axe immensely, not being particularly handy with it, but until she could get to a sword, this would have to do.

She heard Frerin cry her name. She turned to see an Orc ready to deliver a mighty blow to her throat. Terror chocked her, and she stood motionless.

But as the Orc swung, Dis saw Frerin running to her side. He leapt and shoved her out of the way of the blade. In that moment, the world stood still. Frerin was not the one sacrificing himself; it was her mother. History was repeating itself; and once again Dis could do nothing to stop it.

Time sped back up. The Orc’s bladed sliced through Frerin’s neck. Both head and body fell lifeless to the ground.

Dis lay on the ground in shock, heedless of the events around her. It had happened again. Another innocent had died trying to save her. She should have died; not her mother who had been her father’s right hand. Not Frerin, her sweet brother who had never done anything mean or spiteful in his life. Yet there they lay; dead, one in the past and one in the present.

She heard later what events had transpired while she lay in shock. Thorin, who had seen Frerin fall, had jumped upon a fallen tree and hewed at the neck of the Orc. The Orc had then fallen, dead.

Somewhere in the fog of her mind Dis heard Thráin call all remaining warriors to him. She somehow managed to rise and walk over to where they were gathering.

“Frerin, I’m so sorry!” she thought as she walked. She had never meant for it to be like this. Frerin had helped her, and she had gotten him killed in return. She longed for him to be alive now, to be able to laugh with her over her silly stunt.

She came at last to where the Dwarves were quickly gathering. She wanted to scream, to weep, to do anything to release the dam of emotions inside her, yet she could not. Years of training held her emotions at bay. They would properly mourn their dead when the battle was over.

The warriors were finally gathered. They had won the fight in the woods. All the Orcs were either dead or fighting in the valley of Azanulbizar.

Thráin readied his warriors, and they began to march to rejoin their comrades in the valley.

Dis took one last look over her shoulder as they left. She selfishly wished that Frerin’s death had not been so swift, that perhaps she might have begged his forgiveness as he died in her arms. Instead, she was left with the guilt and burden of his death.

Disclaimer: All people and places are taken from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings

Within minutes, Thráin and his company burst forth from the trees. They were weary with battle, yet their spirits could not be quenched.

They ran down into the vale, weapons ready and shields held upright. They were met by a multitude of Orcs. Cries of “Barak Khazad! Khazad ai-mênu!” echoed throughout the vale and off the sides of the Dimrill Dale.

They joined the others in the valley and there they fought for some time. Dis was soon near exhaustion. Looking around, it was clear to her that all the Dwarves were weary. She was beginning to come to the sick realization that the Orcs would prevail.

Just then, when all hope was lost, the sound of many marching feet came clearly to the ears of those fighting. All fighting ceased for a moment; both Dwarves and Orcs waited to see whether the new arrival was friend or foe.

Dis found herself squinting as she stared intently ay the top of the highland above the valley. The sun had broken through the clouds; and now shone brightly as if to make up for the time of darkness. Its rays of light reflected off the snow in the valley; snow that was now colored by dirt and blood.

The first line of soldiers appeared; their Dwarven-mail glinting in the sunlight. Coming late and fresh to the field were the warriors of Náin, Grór’s son; the people of the Iron Hills. A great cheer went up from the Dwarves on the battlefield.

The people of the Iron Hills sent up a great shout in reply. It seemed as if the ground was trembling from the roar of their voices, or perhaps it was the many footfalls of the newcomers. They had now broken into a run and were charging down into the vale.

The weary Dwarves in the vale slipped off to the side as Náin’s people drove through the Orcs to the very threshold of Moria, crying “Azog! Azog!” as they hewed down with their mattocks all who stood in their way.[1]

It must have been eight thousand soldiers from the Iron Hills that stormed past the soldiers of Thráin. The thousands of Orcs that were not driven forward closed in behind Náin’s people, however, the rest of Thráin’s people then closed in behind the Orcs. The unthinkable had happened, and the Orcs were trapped. Most of the people of Náin turned around to face the oncoming Orcs. The remaining people of Náin (Numbering somewhere around a thousand) continued to surge forward towards the Gate.

Dis had found herself at the Gate with Náin’s own guard. She had been running along with her people to help trap the Orcs, yet here she was at threshold of Moria, with a select few of Náin’s people. Somehow she had been swept along with them.

They halted outside the Gate. Náin walked toward it and stopped several yards away. Dis marveled at the courage on his face. She looked down at her own hands. They were trembling.

“Azog!” Náin cried with a loud voice. “If you are in come out! Or is play in the valley too rough?”

All was still at the Gate for a moment. Behind her, Dis could hear the sounds of a great fight, but she could not tell whether the sounds were of victory or defeat. A sound came from the Gate and she snapped her attention there.

Azog came forth. He was a great Orc with a huge iron-clad head, yet Dis noticed he was agile and strong. With him also came many like him, the fighters of his guard. In that moment, Dis truly knew what fear was at the sight of them. She quaked with terror she had only felt once before. The Orcs were now coming towards them with full speed. Dis barely noticed Náin locked in deadly battle with Azog before they were upon her.

Dis held her shield up in front of her face as a humongous Orcs swung down at her. The force of the blow jarred her arm and she cried out. It was like she was in a living nightmare: no matter how hard she tried, she could not move, and she could not wake up. The Orc pulled back his sword and raised it high for another blow. Dis did the only thing that she could. She ran.

She ran forward several steps. The Orc was running after her with hate in his eyes that shook her to the core. Dis stopped. Her back was to the mountain; she was trapped. There was nowhere to run.

The Orc was now only a few yards away from her. He pulled back his sword and began to swing; aiming for her neck.

The Orc’s sword flew through the air. Dis ducked her head. The sword connected with her helm. It pulled it off, exposing her head as she fell to the ground, but otherwise she was unscathed.

The Orc raised his sword for another blow. Dis saw someone running towards her out of the corner of her eye. It was Thorin. He must have come up out of the valley with Náin’s people as Dis had, and in seeing her distress had decided to help.

To Dis’ utter shock, the Orc turned away from her and swung at Thorin. He raised his oaken shield in defense. The Orc’s sword stuck in the wood for a moment before he managed to pull it free. He began to swing again.

Thorin was only several feet away. Dis knew that his shield would not withstand many more blows like the one that it had just received. Thorin’s axe was useless; his back was against the mountain and he had no room to swing. Soon the Orc would win.

Something in Dis’ mind clicked. She ran forward and leapt in front of Thorin just in time. The Orc’s blade caught her in her side. White hot pain seared through her and she cried out as she fell. She was barely aware of Thorin moving behind the Orc and hewing off its head.

Thorin knelt beside her. “Dis! How come you here? And whatever were you thinking?”

“That was for Frerin. And Mother,” she whispered. Dis then turned her head away.

“That doesn’t answer my question!” Thorin shouted at her although she was no longer looking at him.

Her gaze drifted over to the Gate, and landed on the body of Náin. His armor had protected him from the blade, but it was not strong enough to withstand the heavy blow of Azog’s weapon. Náin had fallen from a broken neck.

Azog lifted his head to let forth a great yell of triumph, but the cry died in his throat.[2] Dis realized that the Dwarves seemed to have won the day. The Orcs in the valley of Azanulbizar where flying south; shrieking as they ran.

Azog turned and fled back towards the Gate. Just then, up the steps leaped a Dwarf with a red axe. It was Dáin Ironfoot, Náin’s son. Right before the doors of Moria he caught Azog, and he slew him, and hewed off his head.

Dis was shocked. This was a great feat for one so young (She could tell just by looking that he was no older than she), Dáin being only a stripling in the reckoning of the Dwarves.

He came down from the Gate towards them. His face was grey, as one who has felt great fear.

Dis heard Thorin get up behind her. “I am going to go get some help for you,” he said. “Stay right here.”

A spasm of pain shook her body, and the tears that she had so long held at bay were set loose. She laid there, in the midst of the battlefield, with soldiers and Orcs about her, the survivors still chasing the remaining Orcs out of the valley, and cried.

It had done little good for her to be here. It had not saved Frerin, or Korin, nor had it brought back Mother. It had done no good whatsoever. She knew that she should be the one dead, not Frerin, not Mother. The burden of the guilt was heavy on her heart, and tears did little to ease it.

A horn sounded in the valley. The Orcs had all fled, and the day was won by the Dwarves.

“I have fought in this war for vengeance, and vengeance I have taken.” Dis thought. “But it is not sweet. If this is victory, then my hands are too small to hold it.”[3]

What imaginary purpose had she fulfilled? Dis laid there with tears streaming down her face until Thorin arrived with several other Dwarves to take her back to the camp.

[1] The Return of the King, page 1049, Appendix A, “III Durin’s Folk

[2] cf. 1

[3] Taken and amended from source 1

Disclaimer: All people and places are taken from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings.

Before the day was done, the head of Azog was taken and set on a stake. There were no feasts or songs that night. Their dead were beyond count or grief, and barely half their number could still stand or had hope of healing.

Night passed, and the new day dawned. The Dwarves were now faced with the great labor of the dead. First they stripped their dead, so the Orcs should not come there and so win there a great store of weapons and mail. It is said that every Dwarf that went from that battlefield was bowed under a heavy burden. Then they built many pyres and burned all the bodies of their kin. There was a great felling of trees in the valley, which remained bare ever after, and the reck of the burning was seen in Lórien.[1]

Later, when the dreadful fire was in ashes, the Dwarves began to depart to their own countries. Dáin was leading his father’s people back to the Iron Hills.

Dáin came to bid Thráin farewell. Thráin had one eye blinded beyond cure, and he was halt with a leg wound, however his spirit could not be quenched.

Dis and Thorin stood beside Thrain. Thrain had been much less upset when he saw her than Dis had expected. Dis knew it was because he was relieved that she was alive, and she suspected also that he was delighted that his daughter had come into battle, alone of all the Dwarven women.

Dis could not remember him ever having said that to her before. Several days ago, she was simply another woman, albeit the granddaughter of their former king, but yet still a woman. And now she stood in a place of honor beside her father.

“Farewell.” Dáin said. He then turned and led his father’s, and now his, people out of Azanulbizar. Dis watched until the glint of their helms disappeared.

Thráin smiled and looked with pride upon his daughter. “Well, Dis, are you ready to go back to our people?”

Thrain looked at them with the joy and pride only a father could have with his children. He thought of Frerin, and an expression of sorrow crossed his face. He sighed and smiled at his two children. “All right, be off with you then,” he said kindly.

Dis and Thorin walked together along the ancient path to the Gate of Moria. Dis could not believe that it had only been several days since she had first walked this path. It seemed like a lifetime.

Thorin offered her his arm, and she took it gratefully. They had bandaged her side wound well, yet it would take time to heal.

Thorin cleared his throat. Dis waited, knowing from experience that he was preparing to make a speech of some sort. Experience did not fail her, as he began to speak almost immediately.

Thorin sighed. “Dis, ever since we talked that day in the woods, I have felt horribly guilty. I was so...” he hesitated.

His lips twitched. “Yes, arrogant. All throughout the battle I was thinking about you and what I said and, Dis, I am afraid that I owe you an apology.”

Dis hesitated. She had two choices. One was to continue to dodge the question and invent false reasons. The other was to tell Thorin the truth, something that she had never told anyone. She looked up at Thorin. He was studying her face; waiting for her to speak. He did not look anything like the arrogant brother that she knew. War had changed him.

Dis took a deep breath. “Understand, Thorin, I have never told anyone what I am about to tell you.”

She told him everything, from how she had been the cause of Mother’s death that fateful day, entering battle in hopes of redeeming herself, Frerin’s death, and finally to saving Thorin. Throughout the whole story, he simply listened attentively.

“And that, Thorin,” she finished, “Is why I could not be he cause of another’s death.”

Thorin was quiet. Dis took a deep breath and let it out. She felt at peace. It was as if pouring her heart out to Thorin had eased her burden and taken away some of her guilt.

They walked along in silence for several more minutes before Thorin spoke. “You have a good heart, Dis. You seem to understand people and their natures fairly well. But in this you went astray. You should have realized that the sacrifices that Mother and Frerin made for you were out of love. They never would have wanted you to carry such a heavy burden of guilt.”

“Thank you,” she said in a choked whisper. She could not say more. A lump formed in her throat as she contemplated Thorin’s words. Two people had loved her so much that they had given up their lives for her, that she may live. She held back tears. She loved them both so much. So much...

She and Thorin were silent the rest of their walk to Kheled-zâram. Several minutes later, Dis cried out in delight. “Oh, Thorin, look! ‘Tis Durin’s stone!”

They ran together down the long green slope. Despite the battle that had taken place, the vale around Mirrormere had remained unmarred.

They came to a standing stone and looked up. It was a single column, broken at the top. It was cracked and weather worn, and the faint runes upon its side could not be read.[2]

Dis traced the runes with her finger. “This pillar marks the spot where Durin first looked into Mirrormere,” she whispered in awe.

“And let us look ourselves into Mirrormere, ere we go!” said Thorin impatiently.

Dis came to stand beside Thorin. They stooped over the dark water. Its face was still and unruffled. At first they could see nothing. Then slowly they saw the forms of the encircling mountains mirrored in profound blue, and the peaks were like plumes of white above them; beyond there was a space of sky. There like jewels sunk in the deep shone glinting stars, though sunlight was in the sky above. Of their own stooping forms no shadow could be seen.

“O Kheled-zâram fair and wonderful!” said Thorin. “There lies the crown of Durin till he wakes. Farewell!” He bowed, and began to turn away.[3]

In the water, there were the mountains; there were the stars; and there was the shadowy shape of a person where their reflections would be. As they watched, features began to form, and the distinct outlines of a face appeared. It was Frerin. He looked at them, smiled, and raised his right hand in a silent farewell. Then he was gone.

Thorin and Dis blinked and looked at each other. They both knew what the other had seen. No need was there for words.

[1] The Return of the King, page 1050, Appendix A, “III Durin’s Folk

[2] The Fellowship of the Ring, page 325, Chapter VI “Lothlórien”

[3] cf. 2

The Sacrifice: The Story of Dis by Miriel