Chapter Text
Dís was the true brains behind the Line of Durin and everybody knew it.
For as long as she could remember, being the voice of reason and common sense had been her primary purpose in life, right up there with cooking breakfast, producing the newest heirs to a fallen kingdom, and smacking Thorin upside his fat, directionally-challenged head. That last one was particularly important since Thorin tended to cause an unhealthy amount of ruin and mayhem whenever he got too big for his breeches. Honestly, how one lone dwarf could create such melodramatic chaos was beyond her ability to comprehend, but her dear brother managed to do it on a semi-regular basis.
And Dís was left to clean up the mess. How typical.
Like right now, brother dearest was standing atop an elevated platform in Erebor's Gallery of Kings, making a grand speech about the reconstruction of the Lonely Mountain and how many precious stones were being mined and wares were being sold in the market and how far the dwarves of Durin's Folk had come in restoring their place in both the world of dwarves and Arda as a whole. For being such a quiet and broody bastard, Thorin could give a marvelously long-winded speech when he really put his scattered marbles to it. Dís would've been as impressed as their subjects if she hadn't seen him practicing said speech on a suit of armor last night.
"He's very good at this."
Dís turned to the young lady next to her and said, "My brother enjoys hearing himself speak. You should've heard him scolding the boys when they were small. I'm surprised their ears didn't fall off."
"For some reason, I don't think that would've stopped them."
"Probably not."
Sigrid wandered off a short while after that, excusing herself to locate Bain and Tilda amongst the crowd that had formed in the gigantic hall. Thankfully, both of their heads were quite visible above the sea of dwarves, Bain's most recent growth spurt easily putting him at the same height as his very tall father. And much to her boys' distress, it was becoming more and more clear that Sigrid and Tilda had inherited those same traits from Bard as well. The eldest Lady of Dale now had at least a good head and a half on Erebor's King and Princes.
And her brother was still prattling on and on. Didn't he ever run out of air?
"By Mahâl, I should've sewn his mouth shut when I had the chance," lamented the princess. "It would've saved me so much grief over the decades. And look at all these poor saps, just drinking it up like the rocky lumps that they are."
The Lady Under the Mountain crinkled her nose in disgust when a small herd of dwarf women bustled past, all of them twittering about the King and Princes and what kind of gifts they were going to give the royals later in the evening. Durin's Day was always a grand event in Erebor and it was traditional for nobles and other high-ranking officials to present the royal family with gifts to commemorate another successful year of strength and peace in their beloved homeland. And considering how the mountain had only been reclaimed a little over five years, it wasn't surprising that Ereborians were very excited about celebrating the holiday and had gathered in mass numbers to partake in the festivities their King and his Council had orchestrated for them.
However, the fawning over her very married brother was growing quite...tedious and downright annoying.
She had spent the past two days snickering at her sons, quietly observing their valiant attempts to kill at least a half dozen dwarves with their death glares alone. Everyone assumed that Fíli would be the more vicious of the princes due to his age and serious nature, but Kíli was the one that simpering lasses had to watch out for. The youngest son of Dís was very protective of his hobbit-y uncle and cousin, taking any insult against Bilbo and Frodo as an insult against himself. Dís had wondered several times if she would have to intervene on her son's behalf, especially during yesterday's dinner in the communal dining hall.
Kíli had looked about ready to rip the whiskers off a Firebeard lass who'd gotten a little too handsy with Thorin, dark eyes narrowing when the dwarf had situated herself right between the Longbeard King and his Consort at a buffet table. Only Frodo's sudden appearance and clambering for attention at Thorin's legs had stayed her son's surprisingly sharp tongue. It would've been an impressive sight, if it had come to be.
"My dear, sweet, loving amad!"
And speak of the silver-tongued, messy-haired devil. Her mother had been right; think his name and he appears...
"What did you do this time?"
Kíli pouted. "Why do you always assume I've done something wrong?"
"Because you have that sickly sweet look on your face," said Dís as she reached out to straighten the lad's disheveled hair. "And your fingers are twitching in that shifty way that you never notice. So, I'll ask again, what did you do now?"
Like a candle being snuffed out, Kíli's happy-go-lucky grin morphed into a monstrous scowl, his dark eyes flitting to the far side of the room. It didn't take long for Dís to spot the recipients of her youngest son's glare, which was a small group of female dwarves standing right below Thorin's podium, half of them appearing to be Longbeards while the remaining four were a possible mix of Firebeards and Broadbeams. Dís had no idea what they had done to earn Kíli's wrath, but it must have been something pretty damn stupid and ill-advised.
"Please tell me you're not going to set them on fire again."
"How many times do I have to tell you that that was Fíli," whined the younger dwarf. "And he said it was an accident. Not that I believe him, of course, but that lady's skirt was barely singed, anyways."
Dís pinched the bridge of her nose and said, "That's beside the point. Now tell me what you're up to? I can't handle another diplomatic incident tonight."
"Those ladies have been conspiring against Uncle Bilbo for days," said Kíli, a small arrow twisting back and forth between his fingers. "I overheard them saying some things in the hallway and they were downright awful and I've been following them ever since. If there wasn't so many of them I wouldn't be concerned, but they all seem to think that Uncle's just using Bilbo as a front and will take a dwarf consort at the soonest opportunity."
"You know that this kind of talk isn't unheard of, Kíli. There's only so much we can—"
"They're trying to get into Uncle's bed, Amad." If possible, her son looked even angrier, which was quite the feat. "That one with the emerald beads and blond hair has been following him for days and even tried to give him a comb the other evening. And Bilbo was standing right there. It's insulting and degrading and I won't have them acting like that towards my uncle. Either of them."
It only took a few seconds for Dís to realize that her son was genuinely distressed, the arrow moving faster and faster between his fingers until she could barely see it. When it came to familial dysfunction and instability, Kíli had always been the more sensitive of her two boys, but this level of agitation was unusual and made Dís pause for a short time to reevaluate the situation.
"And I assume you wish to present me with concrete evidence to assure future assistance?"
Kíli's smile was downright evil. She was so proud.
The next two hours dragged on and on with the princess and youngest prince having to schmooze and mingle with the visiting diplomats, guildmasters, Dyrian tribal leaders, and several of Dale's council members. Dís played her part to the letter, subtly coaching Kíli as they moved from dwarf to nobleman to dwarf to some kind of warrior that she wasn't quite sure what he really was. But her son played his part well and no wars were declared; a good day in Dís' opinion.
It was shortly after high noon when Kíli grabbed his mother's hand and said, "They're heading off for their twittering, Amad. And they've been glaring at Uncle Bilbo for the past half hour, so I have a feeling I know what they'll be ranting about. C'mon!"
"Your braids are mine if this turns out to be a wild goose chase."
"So little confidence."
"And so little time, so move it!" ordered Dís as she gave her son a solid push towards the nearest exit. "Don't forget to wave to the nobles, either. They'll self-combust if you don't acknowledge them."
"Isn't that what we want?"
"Only after we've secured treaties and trade agreements with them. They're worthless until then. Now smile and wave, mizimith, smile and wave."
Kíli groaned. "I hate being a prince."
"You won't be one for much longer if you don't listen and do what I tell you. And stop looking so miserable. It's unprincely."
"Bossy, bossy."
After Dís excused her son and herself from the festivities to prepare for the evening feast, the pair disappeared into one of the hidden tunnels that Nori and his minions were known to frequent, easily locating three barely-visibly marks that were located next to an invisible doorway. All of Nori's tunnels had small and seemingly senseless markings carved into the corners of them, thus allowing the tunnel crawler to navigate through the pitch blackness that enveloped the spymaster's realm. This simple system gave Dís and Kíli the ability to follow their targets' voices through the passageways, eventually climbing up a flight of stairs that allowed them to observe the group of dwarves from a nearby ceiling.
Enlisting Nori's expertise may have been helpful, but Erebor's spymaster was busy watching an unscrupulous Ironfist noble for the next few evenings. Dís had no doubt that at least three of his minions knew about their movements, though. They weren't Nori's pride and joy for nothing.
"I don't think this is going to work. He's already been made—"
"Nonsense! I staked my claim and intent decades before that butterball was even able to write his letters," said a voice that made Dís' eyes narrow. "Besides, who has ever heard of a non-dwarf ruling at any level of dwarven society. It's unspeakable!"
She recognized that voice. That horrid, sickeningly saccharine voice.
"He refused to accept your comb, Makla. I dislike the thought of a halfling being Consort just as much as you do, but there's only so much that can be done. Someone's been watching us and the last thing we need is an incident that would get your father in—"
"I won't involve him like Hakla did! That turned out to be an utter disaster."
"You've already managed to attend dinners in the royal hall with your mother. Considering how few are permitted to even enter the royal wing, I think that says quite a bit for your potential success."
"And the halfling has scarcely been seen with the King for quite some time," said another honeyed voice that made Dís want to gag. Honestly, this is what their ancient race had come to? Maybe extinction was the better outcome. "I've heard rumors circulating about there being discontent in their marriage. Halflings are such strange creatures, I wouldn't be surprised if His Majesty is now regretting such a swift set of nuptials."
"Those feet are disgusting, too. Did you see them this morning? Dirt all over the place! I can't imagine what he steps in on a daily basis. Ugh..."
"If we can establish you and your family within the King's inner circle, and the halfling has reason to leave and return to his homeland, it would be within the King's rights to annul the marriage and take a rightful, dwarven bride. There's no precedent for inter-race marriages, so the bride would likely be treated with as much respect and legitimacy as any other dwarven consort. Perhaps even moreso, considering the first consort and his complete lack of respectability."
And that was it.
With a grunt of exertion, Dís was barely able to restrain her youngest son before he went charging off, steam all but hissing out of Kíli's ears and nose as he listened to his beloved uncle being slandered by a bunch of hook-nosed harpies. Keeping a tight hold on Kíli's shoulder, Dís signed several Iglishmêk words into his hand and tugged the irate prince back toward the tunnel entrance. It was only once they were a sufficient distance away that she finally spoke out loud to him.
"I recognize that name. And that voice. It's deeper with age," Dís admitted, "But just as irritating and honeyed as I recall. Awful memories."
"Who is she?"
"Do you remember that horrid dwarf who your uncle courted for several weeks? Shortly before your fortieth birthday?"
"Of course, how could I forget her," mumbled Kíli with a blush. "She made fun of me the whole time and spread rumors all over the Blue Mountains about you consorting with an elf and me being the byproduct. Fíli chopped her braids off."
"Aye, her name was Hakla," said Dís with a nasty smirk. She'd been so proud of Fíli that day that Thorin had accused her of resembling a male peacock. "And that back there is Makla, her younger sister. They look nothing alike, which is probably the reason why she's been overlooked by all of us so far. And I'm assuming that's also why her father and sister haven't shown their ugly mugs, either."
"Maybe the sister's dead."
"We're never that damned lucky," grumbled the princess. "But I have an idea that'll put them all in their rightful places. It'll take some careful coordination, but it's doable. Come, mizimith, I need to find your uncle and you need to find Dáin. We'll be needing his loud mouth and shameless idiocy for this."
"Dáin?"
"What can I say? Desperate times call for desperate measures."
Forty minutes later...
"Ugh, Dís? Where are we going?"
"To your rooms."
"But the festivities are that way," said Bilbo, nearly tripping over his feet when they took a sharp left. "I'll be late and Thorin will be most—"
"My brother can suck on a lemon for all I care. C'mon, hurry up!"
Dís dragged her brother-in-law into his bedchambers, tossing the bewildered hobbit onto a nearby chair before she started rummaging through her brother's cabinets and bureau and anything else that might contain what she was looking for. Thorin had never been very good at hiding things and what was his was hers and what was hers was his and all that fine babble. Okay, maybe that last part wasn't so true, but Dís didn't really care at the moment.
"Ah ha! Here it is!"
She bustled over to the chair and grabbed Bilbo's head, turning it this way and that in order to get a good look at his ears. Big and pointy and leaf-like they certainly were, but her dear brother was utterly besotted with them and Dís knew just what would get his diamonds grinding. If those clothy-haired bints thought they could steal Thorin's attention, then they were in for a rude awakening.
"Okay, I think this will work just fine," said Dís, fingers gently pulling Bilbo's left ear into position. "This may itch a little bit, but I'm positive that it was designed specifically for this particular ear. No squirming."
"Dís, I really think that we should be heading down to the—"
"And no talking."
It only took a minute for Dís to latch the golden dragon onto her brother-in-law's ear. The crafting was exquisite and Dís didn't doubt that her brother had spent many hours laboring over the tiny piece of jewelry. Shards of the Arkenstone glittered all along it, gently wrapping around Bilbo's ear and coming to a head on the tip, which sported the dragon's head and shimmering eye. A tiny arrow could just barely be seen, embedded directly in the exposed belly where Bard the Bowman had shot Smaug five years ago.
Thorin had truly outdone himself.
"One accessary down," said Dís as she disappeared back into her brother's closets, "Three more to go. If I can find them, of course. Blasted oaf, why can't he ever organize his stuff in a color-based system."
"Are you alright in there?"
"I've found them!" crowed the princess. "Now take your clothes off. Don't look at me like that! I'm trying to help you here."
She paused and looked him over.
"But keep the mithril shirt on. Both for protective and aesthetic purposes. Well, c'mon, we haven't got all day, do we?"
Bilbo just stared at her with wide eyes, toes twitching in the universal sign of an attempted escape. But Dís was prepared and made a grab for the hobbit before he could make it two feet, depositing him back in the chair before throwing a waistcoat, trousers, and overcoat onto his lap, eyebrows raised in an unmistakable gesture of, "Go ahead, try to run again, I dare you."
"Okay, have it your way."
By the time Dís was done with him, Bilbo looked every inch the Dragon-Riddler he had proven to be in real life. The waistcoat and jacket that Bilbo now wore had both been specially designed by Dori, who had jumped at the chance to create an ensemble that would chronicle their Consort's deeds against the Greatest Calamity of the Third Age. The former was made from a beautiful golden fabric, small acorn buttons traveling up the middle while an embroidered dragon of dark blue thread twisted around the rest of it. In contrast, the hobbit-y jacket was dark blue with fur trimmings, purposely designed to resemble the King's most favored surcoat, except with less pomp and a lovely golden depiction of Smaug along the collar, wrists, and lower edges.
"You look wonderful," crowed Dís, clapping her hands with glee. "And now for the final touches."
"I really don't think this is—"
"Oh shush."
With a dramatic flourish, Dís placed the golden circlet upon Bilbo's head, carefully rearranging his coppery curls and the marriage braids that were tucked behind the hobbit's pointed ears. This was yet another piece of jewelry Thorin had created, but thought no one knew about. Unfortunately for him, Dís lived up to her role as the nosy little sister and enjoyed rummaging through Thorin's things when he acted the least bit shifty. And he had acted particularly shifty one Trewsday morning about three months ago, so Dís had decided to do some investigating on the kingdom's behalf.
"My brother's crafting abilities are no less than exquisite," she said with unconcealed pride. "And would you look at that? It fits perfectly. Thorin had to have measured your cranium at some point. Even the loops near the ears are shaped at just the right angle to accommodate your braids."
"Dís, where did you find this?"
"That's not important right now. Oh, don't look at me like that." She attempted to rearrange Bilbo's curls into some semblance of order, and failed quite miserably. "Just ask my brother when he manages to pick his jaw up from the floor. Aye, that is one fine looking piece of jewelry."
"It's shaped like a dragon."
The princess reached out to touch the circlet and said, "Don't tell my brother this, but I do believe this is his finest work."
"Well, that would certainly stroke his ego."
Dís leaned back and admired the serpentine crown, which truly was shaped in just the right manner to fit Bilbo's fragile head and accommodate his pointed ears. Tiny scales were etched into the gold, some of them containing rubies that glittered in the candlelight. It was all crafted in such a way that the dragon almost looked real, its Arkenstone eye glaring at her from atop Bilbo's forehead. And was that mithril along the dragon's belly and jaws?
Elegant, dainty, subtle...
Such strange words to associate with her brother's craft. Dís was the jeweler of the family, not Thorin. Her brother usually favored blacksmithing and the more robust aspects of silver and gold crafting over the infamously tedious work that came with his sister's occupation of choice. All it took was a single glance to determine that this wasn't Thorin's usual brand of creation; it must have taken him weeks of painstaking and meticulous work to complete such a complicated project in an unfamiliar field. Not to mention how many very precious gems and metals had been required to make it.
Glóin must've spent days digging through the Royal Treasury for so much mithril. And then there was the Arkenstone shard...
It was a manifestation of true dwarven love, and no one could tell Dís otherwise. Her brother had made many stupid mistakes in his life—dragging her darling boys off on a foolish, suicidal quest to kill a Mahâl-forsaken dragon was just the tip of that ridiculous iceberg—but loving and wedding Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was not one of them. Any dwarf worth their whiskers could see the intense love that had been carved into every millimeter of the circlet, the rubies and gold seeming to glint and glow and reflect the luster of her brother's fiery passion.
Thorin Oakenshield was madly in love with his hobbit and anyone who didn't see that after tonight was either touched in the head or needed to be touched in the head. And said touching would be done with Dwalin's hammer, if the guard captain had any say in it.
"Okay, I think we're ready."
"And yet I still have no idea what I'm supposed to be ready for," said Bilbo, eyebrow raised in the amused manner he often used on his dwarves. "Will we be commemorating the death of Smaug? Because I think Bard and Bain should also be involved if that's the case."
"Hobbits are such charming creatures."
"What do—whoa!"
Dís laughed as she frog-marched Bilbo out of the room and down the hallway. "I believe it's time to pay my dear brother a visit. And chase off some harpies, too."
"You're up to something dastardly. And I don't think I'm going to like it."
"Oh, you're gonna love it. Trust me."