The Sacrifice: The Story of Dis   Part 3 ~Míriel

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.

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Part 3

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? 

            “Tomorrow for certain.”  Thráin answered.

            Thorin nodded righteously.  “As I thought,” he said.

            “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!”

            “But-”

            “And Frerin, it is taunting, not tormenting, as you so eloquently put it.”

            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.

            “Frerin, wake up,” she whispered urgently.

            He sat up and rubbed his eyes.  “What is it?” he asked sleepily.

            “I forgot to bring any cram.  Do you have any extra?”

            “Of course.  I knew you would forget,” he yawned.

            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.

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