Oh yes, Nonnie, she would have company. Though Dis often believes herself to be alone, she is by no means forgotten. 

Dori is always an unobtrusive presence, pouring tea and shifting the plate of biscuits closer to her hand. He knows, far better than most, how she feels. 

(She does something similar for him, on certain days.)

Dwalin plies her with far too much to drink, and they laugh and complain long into the night. He ends up snoring on her hearth, and she falls asleep in her grandmother’s armchair, and they both have terrible heads in the morning… but it’s worth it.

Dain brings beer and stories, definitely. He hums quietly under his breath, to make the place less empty. He’s quieter than usual, on those days… but now and then he brings something new, discovered in the moldering archives or in the tunnels. A letter written by her father. Her mother’s harp (desperately needing re-stringing). Her grandfather’s favourite worry-stone, the runes nearly worn smooth. The record of Frerin’s birth, and the list of songs and ceremonies that greeted his presentation.

That always hurts. But it’s a welcome hurt, and a dear one. She will cry when he brings her these things… but then he often does too, and that’s why. That’s why.

Balin doesn’t need to say a damn word. Balin can just look at her with those old, knowing eyes, and she can feel it sizzle in the air between them.

Mizim and Gloin invite her to their rooms, full of arguing and fondness and love. There, Dis will knead dough for the next day’s bread and bicker with Gloin, as Mizim fires off the occasional random snarky comment, and Gimli and Gimris squabble like Dwarflings of twenty. Then when the meal is ready, Gloin will clear his throat and raise a toast to the departed, and Dis will not answer, only hold her glass high. 

Later, Gimli will rest his head upon her knee, and she will comb out his hair with slow, soft motions. Her fingers linger in that mass of blood red, soft and thick, as coarse as Fili’s ever was. Not Kili’s, though. Kili’s was smoother. 

(She knows he doesn’t care to have his hair fussed with. She knows that not even his mother is permitted this.)