According to legend, there once was a race of beings, miners, master craftsmen of stone and ore, beloved children of the god of metal and earth, Aulë, The Smith, or Mahal to those whom he made. And according to legend, a line of his children ruled under the Mountain for generations and generations, a powerful kingdom to the east.
Legends whisper in the shadows that one of the last princes of the line of Durin was a fierce warrior, a mighty smith in his own right, whose heart was as hard as the tree he was named after.
But this is not so.
For those who are aged beyond measure who remember such perilous times recall the one he loved, who softened him, and was more precious to him than gold or jewels.
They dare not speak her name.
Time: 74 years before the retaking of Erebor
Thorin thought his heart would drop from his body.
Truly, he prayed for it, begged Mahal to take him, end all of this.
But Mahal, in his infinite wisdom, did not answer.
For the past three hours, he sat, staring at the stone. Several times, he put his hands on it, on the surface, tracing the Dwarvish lettering he himself painstaking carved on the top.
The stone was cold, hard and for not the first time, he regretted not sending her down into the pits, the fires of the forge, as many of their brethren preferred, to allow the fire, the Great Smith to claim her and reforge her.
She might have been the renewed Arkenstone...
But no, he could not bear to part with her, could not begin to...
Instead, he placed her in this cold bed, hard as himself, to sleep until he joined her. And then...
"Thorin." A gentle hand placed itself on his shoulder. "Please. You can do no more. Come home. You must rest. You must-"
She squeezed. "Fili is worried."
"Fili is a child."
The dwarf-lass behind him smiled, albeit an unhappy one. She was a softer version of her brother, especially around the eyes and her hair. "Yes, he is. But he loves you." She did not remind her brother that her eldest son was his heir. That is unless he remarried and, truth be told, she honestly did not see that happening for many years, if ever.
"Dís, I would ask a favor of you." He still had not looked at her and this bothered Dís. "When I die-"
"When. I. Die," he gritted, speaking over her, his hand now covering hers, "bring me here. Bring me here, wrap us together, and send both of us down into the fires of the mountain forge together. Or bring her to me, if it is possible."
It was quiet for a time, the only sound of both dwarves breathing. Finally.
"Aye. If I can, I will. I will try. I promise." The two stood there that way for a moment, before she tried again. "Thorin, please. You can do no more."
Finally, her brother looked at her, lines, pain not there a week ago, now etched in his face. As his sister stroked a lock of hair away from his cheek, she noticed a ribbon of steel gray through it, a thread that had not been there days hence. "I cannot leave her alone in this cold bed. Not yet." It was a bare whisper. Gin hated the cold, could not stand it and Thorin had wrapped her and wrapped her in many furs. It was a wonder they managed to get the lid on her tomb. "Once I leave her in this place, it is over. There is no turning back. Please," he blinked rapidly, finally showing weakness, that which he abhorred, "this place is so cold. Leave me and let me sit with my memories."
Dís swallowed hard. It hurt to see her beloved eldest brother in this state. Finally, she relented. "For a little while, Thorin. Do not," she admonished, "make me send Kili after you." With that, she turned and did as her brother asked, leaving him alone with the body of his beloved wife...
And the memories he did not wish to forget.
Megin - Sváss Við Thorin: Megin - Beloved to Thorin