The Sacrifice: The Story of Dis    Part 1~Míriel

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

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Part 1

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.

            It had all started when Thorin had walked in on Dis practicing with a sword...

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            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.

            “Dis?”

            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.

            “Pray tell, Dis, what are you doing?”

            “I...I...I sharpened your sword.”  Dis said lamely.

            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.”

            Dis studied the sword.  “I see nothing,” she said finally.

            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?”

            “It is there.  You just do not wish to see it.”

            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.