Chapter Text
The gates of Erebor stood open.
Not flung wide in celebration, but opened with care, as one might open the doors of a long-abandoned home. The stone still smelled faintly of smoke and iron, though the worst of the battle had been scrubbed away. Torches lined the great entry, their light steady and warm, reflecting off freshly rehung banners that had not yet learned how to belong.
Fíli stood near the front of the gathering, hands clasped behind his back in an effort at restraint that was already failing him. He shifted his weight for what felt like the hundredth time, boots scraping faintly against newly cleared stone. Beside him, Kíli leaned forward on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back in a way that fooled absolutely no one into thinking he was calm, eyes fixed on the road beyond the gates as though sheer will might summon the approaching party into view.
“She’s going to hate the banners,” Fíli said suddenly.
Kíli snorted. “She chose the banners.”
“Yes, but she chose them years ago,” Fíli countered. “She’s had time to decide she hates them now.”
“She’s going to notice the floor first,” Kíli said under his breath.
Fíli glanced at him. “The floor?”
“The scuffing near the eastern stair,” Kíli replied seriously. “Even if it's not there.”
“It is there,” Fíli said. “You dragged half the armory through it yesterday.”
“That was necessary,” Kíli protested. “Besides, she’ll complain about the soot before that.”
Fíli smiled despite himself. “She’ll complain about both. In the same breath.”
Rán stood close to Fíli’s side, close enough that her sleeve brushed his arm when he moved. She listened without interrupting, her attention caught more by their expressions than their words. There was a brightness to them she had not seen since the battle ended, a restless, boyish energy that cut through the gravity that still lingered in Erebor’s halls.
“She sounds… thorough,” Rán said carefully.
Fíli looked down between and grabbed her hand with purpose. “That’s one way to say it.”
“She ran the household before Smaug ever came,” Kíli added. “Even Thorin answered to her, whether he admits it or not.”
Fíli nodded eagerly. “She still does. You’ll see.”
“She’s going to cook,” Kíli said with certainty.
Fíli glanced at him. “That’s what you’re most excited about?”
“Yes,” Kíli said immediately. “Because she always does when she sees us. Even if she’s tired. Even if she says she won’t.”
Fíli smiled, softer this time. “She’ll say the stores aren’t ready yet. Then somehow there will be bread.”
“And stew,” Kíli added. “The good kind. The kind that takes all day.”
Rán listened quietly, struck by the way their memories settled not on places, but on care. On routine. On warmth.
“She sounds like home,” she said.
Fíli nodded once, quietly kissing her hand, more to reassure himself, as his eyes stayed fixed on the door. “She is. For us.”
Ahead of them, Thorin stood at the forefront, shoulders squared, the weight of crown and kinship balanced carefully on his spine. At his side, Bilbo Baggins craned his neck to peer down the road, curiosity written plainly across his face.
“So that is Dís,” Bilbo said conversationally, though she was not yet in sight.
Thorin did not look away from the gate. “It is.”
Bilbo smiled to himself. “You speak of her the way people speak of storms.”
Thorin’s mouth twitched. “She has opinions.”
“I’ve noticed,” Bilbo said lightly. “You’ve mentioned her management of your household at least three times since breakfast.”
“That was relevant,” Thorin replied. “She is… decisive. With me as well. Perhaps especially with me.”
Bilbo grinned. “And you allow that?”
Thorin shot him a look without real heat. His mouth curved slightly. “I survive it.”
The sound of approaching voices carried into the hall. Boots on stone, banners shifting, the murmur of a familiar dialect.
Bilbo’s eyes softened. “It must be good to have family return.”
Thorin exhaled slowly. “Yes. It is.”
The sound reached them before the sight did. Boots on stone. Low voices carrying the cadence of the Iron Hills. The faint jingle of mail and ornament.
Kíli straightened abruptly. “That’s them.”
Fíli felt it then, a tightening low in his chest, sharp and sudden. He drew a breath and held it, eyes fixed on the open gate.
Dáin’s banner appeared first, iron-dark and proud, followed by his company. At their center walked Dís, her bearing steady, her eyes already taking in the hall as though measuring what had been reclaimed. Her braids were thick and carefully woven, her cloak clasped neatly at her shoulders.
Thorin stepped forward alone.
She stopped before him, studying him openly. Her eyes traced the line of his armor, the cut of his beard, the weariness he had not entirely shed. Then she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him.
Behind them, Fíli’s jaw tightened.
He had kept his posture straight, hands folded, expression carefully composed, the way Thorin had taught him. He told himself to wait. To be patient. To let them have this moment. He had done so for years.
Kíli was not doing as well.
He rocked slightly on his heels, then stilled, then rocked again. His hands clenched at his sides, fingers flexing as though they had nowhere to go. He leaned forward, then caught himself and straightened, breathing out hard through his nose.
“She’s really here,” he muttered, half to himself.
Fíli glanced at him, a warning look in his eyes. Not yet.
Kíli nodded quickly, swallowing. He folded his arms, then dropped them again. His gaze flicked from Dís to Thorin and back, his foot tapping once against the stone before he forced it still.
It was not a quick embrace, nor a public one meant for display. She held him firmly, cheek against his shoulder, as though confirming by touch what sight alone could not. Thorin stiffened in surprise for half a heartbeat, then exhaled and returned the embrace, one arm coming around her back, the other settling between her shoulders.
For a moment, the King of Erebor was only a brother who had come back alive. She reached up and placed her hand against his cheek, firm and grounding. Her eyes searched his face, sharp and unflinching, then softened.
“You look thinner,” she said. “And tired.”
He gave a faint, familiar huff of breath. “You always say that.”
“Because it is always true,” she answered. Then, after a pause, “But you held it. You brought them home.”
“We will rebuild,” Thorin said.
Dís reached up and adjusted Thorin’s collar, the motion quick and habitual. It struck Kíli like a blow. She had done that for him too, once. He could almost feel it, hands steady, voice murmuring that he was fine, that they would see each other soon.
His fingers curled tight at his sides.
He leaned forward without meaning to, caught himself, and straightened again. His heart was pounding now, loud enough that he was sure someone else must hear it.
She laughed softly at something Thorin said.
That sound broke the last of it.
“Amma!” Kíli yelled, the word tearing out of him.
The moment it left his mouth, his body followed.
He was running before he could think better of it, boots striking stone too fast, too loud, his restraint left behind with the place he had been standing. He barely registered Fíli moving beside him, only felt the rush of air and the sudden, overwhelming relief of not holding back anymore.
Dís turned at the sound of his voice, surprise flashing across her face for half a heartbeat before recognition took its place. She opened her arms just in time as Kíli reached her, breathless, and she caught him with a strength that stopped him short.
Fíli arrived a heartbeat later, the last of his composure falling away as he sunk into her.
“My boys,” Dís murmured, arms wrapped tightly around them both. “My boys.”
Kíli pressed his face into her shoulder, clutching at her cloak like he might fall apart if he let go. Fíli leaned into the embrace, eyes closing, the world narrowing to the simple truth of her arms around them.
Dís released them only when she was satisfied they were still solid beneath her hands. She drew back just enough to look at their faces, thumbs brushing briefly over familiar lines, committing changes to memory. The warmth did not leave her face, but composure settled back into her posture with practiced ease, like armor worn by habit rather than necessity.
Thorin stepped forward beside her.
“My sister,” he said, his voice carrying through the hall. “Dís of Durin’s line.”
The company inclined their heads as one.
“These are those who stood with us,” Thorin continued. He gestured first to dwarves already known to her, then outward to the others who had fought, bled, and survived the reclaiming.
“Balin. Dwalin.” Her voice softened, the authority easing just enough to reveal the woman beneath it. “Thank you for watching over my brother.”
Dwalin shifted, uncomfortable with the praise. “Someone had to make sure he didn’t get himself killed.”
Balin smiled gently. “We did our best.”
Dís agreed. “For that, you have my thanks.”
Her grip tightened briefly before she released them, satisfaction settling into her features as she stepped back into place beside Thorin, as though a long-held debt had finally been acknowledged.
Thorin continued down the line, naming each member of the company in turn. Dís listened closely, offering a nod or a word where memory or recognition stirred, her attention sharp and deliberate.
When Thorin reached Bilbo, he paused.
“And this,” he said, a faint emphasis entering his voice, “is Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”
Dís’s attention sharpened at once. She looked down at Bilbo, not dismissively, but with the same careful consideration she had given every warrior in the hall.
“The hobbit,” she said.
Bilbo bowed, a little awkwardly, hands clasped in front of him. “At your service.”
“You walked into danger without obligation, and you stayed,” she continued. “That tells me more than any tale.”
Bilbo flushed, ducking his head. “I did what I could.”
Dís studied him for a long moment. “You were not bound to this quest,” she said. “Yet you walked into danger and did not turn aside.”
Bilbo shifted, flushing faintly. “I did what seemed right at the time.”
She nodded once. “That is often the hardest reason to give.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Thorin, then back to Bilbo. “You have my thanks, Master Baggins. For standing when you might have gone home.”
When Thorin reached Rán, his tone remained the same as it had for the others.
“This is Rán,” he said. “She stood with us from the road onward.”
Dís’s gaze settled on her, not weighing or wary, but intent. She studied her for a heartbeat, then stepped forward a fraction.
“It is no small thing,” Dís said, “for a woman of our people to take the road as you have.”
Rán met her eyes steadily.
“Fewer still see it through,” Dís continued. “You did.”
There was approval there, plain and unsoftened. She inclined her head in acknowledgment.
“You have my respect,” she said. “And my thanks, for standing with my sons.”
Fíli watched the exchange closely. His chest warmed with something like pride, not only that Rán had met his mother’s gaze without faltering, but that Dís had seen her clearly and accepted her without ceremony. He opened his mouth, ready to add his own words, to bridge what had not yet been said.
But Dís had already moved on. She turned, cloak sweeping lightly as she faced the company that had arrived with her, those who had waited with practiced patience while old ties were acknowledged and renewed.
She lifted her hand.
“Before we go further,” Dís said, “there is one more you should meet.”
At her gesture, a young woman stepped forward from among Dáin’s escort. She moved with quiet confidence, neither hesitant nor ostentatious, her bearing unmistakably that of the Iron Hills.
“Princess Signe,” Dís said, her voice carrying clearly through the hall. “Daughter of King Dáin.”
Signe inclined her head in greeting, composed and observant, eyes already taking in the Mountain that had shaped so much of her family’s history without ever being hers. She stood tall, neither tentative nor bold, carrying herself with the quiet assurance of someone raised to listen before she spoke.
For a brief moment, the hall was utterly still.
The Mountain had welcomed not only its past, but its future.