Hi!!! I love your Fili fics soo much!! If it’s not too much trouble and if it sparks inspiration, could I please request something with Fili and a female human reader who’s short, where the reader has been traveling with the group and is all dressed up and styled by the elves in Rivendell, maybe she’s much more comfortable dressed up too, and Fili sees her for the first time when she’s clean and with her hair done instead of all grungy from being on the road? No worries if not and I hope you’re having a wonderful holiday season🩷
Polished Manners
a story in which the elves take matters into their own hands and give reader a small make-over — which results in catching the eyes of a certain blonde prince
Fíli Durin x fem! reader (reader is implied to be shorter than the dwarves)
cw: mentions of self-doubt (only a little)
AN: I wanted this to be the first fic I write this year because the trope is just so adorable I could hardly contain myself. I'll be celebrating my birthday on Jan. 3rd so either I'll write a short blurb or start writing again on the forth. I hope you like the fic though 💓💓 Microsoft word crashed while writing this
wc: 5k+ (give it a chance pls I melted writing this)
You woke to the sound of water—soft, like a lullaby threading through the air. Rivendell’s waterfalls sang the dawn awake. It took you a moment to remember where you were. For days, your world had been uneven paths, mud-soaked boots, and the constant ache in your legs from trying to keep pace with dwarves whose strides were twice yours. But now?
Silk sheets. Warm light. The faint smell of flowers instead of wet earth.
Rivendell.
You sat up, blinking, half-expecting the illusion to shatter like a dream. But it stayed: sunshine filtered through sheer curtains, delicate and golden. The travel-worn pack you’d carried since Bree was nowhere in sight—someone must have taken it to be cleaned. Your clothes—the ones that had stubbornly collected dust and grime no matter how often you brushed them out—were also gone.
You slipped out of bed, feeling strangely small among the elven-made furniture, and opened the door. An elf waited—graceful, serene, impossibly composed. They smiled softly, as if they'd been expecting you.
“Come,” they said. “The baths are ready. Lord Elrond thought you might enjoy a moment of peace.”
Peace. The word alone nearly brought tears to your eyes.
---
Steam curled through the bathing chamber like mist over a lake. Warm water lapped at your skin, washing away days of exhaustion. You sank deeper, eyes closing, and for once, there was no need to keep tension in your shoulders, no need to stay ready to run or fight or catch up.
Just… breathe.
It felt selfish, almost, to let yourself enjoy it when the journey ahead remained dangerous. But you’d never been pampered before—never had the luxury of gentleness. You tried not to imagine what the dwarves would say if they saw this. Well… some of them. You could already hear Bofur laughing kindly, and Dwalin grumbling that it made you soft.
But Fíli… You didn’t know. He was always difficult to predict.
He’d been kind to you. Respectful. Protective in his own way, though he never said so outright. He treated your height as a logistical consideration rather than a joke—walking beside you on steep paths, offering a steadying hand without comment. He never laughed when you lagged; he slowed his pace.
Still, you doubted he—or any of them—had ever pictured you looking like anything other than the road-worn stray who had stumbled into their quest. You weren’t sure you pictured yourself as anything else.
When you stepped from the bath, the elves had prepared clothing. Not extravagant—just… beautiful. Soft fabric in colors that reminded you of twilight, fitted to your shape with the kind of care that said 'you deserve this' . They braided your hair with gentle fingers, twisting it in patterns that mirrored the starlit motifs in Rivendell’s carvings.
You caught sight of yourself in a polished mirror.
Clean. Presentable. Almost elegant.
You barely recognized yourself.
“You look lovely,” an elf murmured.
“…Do I?” Your voice sounded small.
“There is more strength in beauty than most believe. Wear it proudly.”
---
Back in the halls, you found the dwarves gathered—voices loud enough to echo off the delicate arches. They looked comically out of place in this refined sanctuary, like a troupe of boisterous thunderclouds in a landscape of moonlight.
Bofur saw you first. His eyebrows shot up.
“Well now! Don’t you scrub up nice!”
Several heads turned. But one reaction mattered more.
Fíli stood near the balustrade, hair shining in the morning light, blades strapped to his back even here among the peace. He laughed at something Kíli said, but the sound faded as his gaze drifted across the room—landed on you—and stopped.
His smile stilled. His breath hitched. For a heartbeat, he just stared.
Not in shock.
In awe.
You froze, unsure what to do with his attention. His eyes traveled over the new braidwork in your hair, the fabric that fit just so, the shift in how you carried yourself now that you didn’t feel like a burden or an afterthought. Something softened in his face, melting all the lines that battle had carved there.
Kíli elbowed him lightly. “Brother? You look like a trout that’s forgotten how to swim.”
Fíli blinked, swatted him away, and stepped toward you. Slowly. Carefully. As though approaching a wild creature he didn’t want to scare off.
“You…” His voice failed for a moment. He cleared his throat. “You look—different.”
You curled your hands together, suddenly shy. “Is… that bad?”
“No!” His answer was immediate, too quick, like he couldn’t allow the possibility to exist. He tried again, gentler. “No. It’s… good. It suits you.”
You ducked your head, heart tripping. “The elves insisted.”
“Well.” His lips quirked, warmth returning to his voice. “I might have to thank them.”
Before you could think of a reply, Thorin barked orders from across the space, calling everyone to prepare for counsel. The others shuffled off, but Fíli stayed a moment longer—as though unwilling to break the moment.
He hesitated, then offered his arm. Not because he thought you needed help. But because he wanted you to know you deserved to walk beside him.
“May I?” he asked.
You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, surprised at how natural it felt.
“Yes,” you breathed. “You may.”
As you walked with him, you caught him glancing at you from the corner of his eye. Like he was memorizing this version of you—clean, confident, comfortable—and trying to reconcile it with the person he’d known on the road.
Not replacing one with the other.
Just… adjusting the picture in his head. Adding to it.
The council chamber of Rivendell felt like a place carved out of a dream—open air, carved stone, sunlight filtering through the leaves. The sound of conversation echoed like distant music, elves and dwarves and humans speaking in cautious diplomacy.
You stood with the company, hands clasped in front of you, trying not to fidget. You weren’t technically a member of the council. You weren’t royalty or a warrior of renown. You were just… you. The curious little traveler who had stumbled into a quest larger than herself.
But Fíli never moved far from your side. It was subtle—he didn’t stand in front of you like a guard, but beside you as though sharing his space was the most natural thing in the world. Every time someone jostled too close, he shifted, placing himself between you and them without drawing attention to the gesture.
You didn’t think he noticed he was doing it.
You did.
Thorin spoke with Elrond at length, their words heavy with duty and the weight of kingdoms, and you tried to listen. But your mind drifted—not from boredom, but because you could feel Fíli watching you. Not constantly. Not in a way that demanded anything. Just… glances. Checking in. A flicker of concern, like he expected you to vanish if he blinked too long.
At one point he leaned close—not touching, but near enough that his voice reached you alone.
“Are you all right?” he murmured.
“Yes,” you whispered back. “Why do you ask?”
He hesitated. Then: “You seem… quieter than usual.”
A small laugh escaped you. “I’m trying not to embarrass anyone.”
“If anyone here is embarrassed by you,” he said softly, “it would be their mistake, not yours.”
He said it with such conviction that it startled you. You turned to reply, but the council reached a point of tension—a raised voice here, an objection there—and the moment fell away.
Still, the warmth lingered.
When the council finally dispersed, the company filtered into the gardens, each dwarf settling into their own way of coping with the clash of politics and prophecy. The air smelled like rain on stone and pine needles warming in the sun.
You found yourself alone for the first time since morning. Or so you thought.
Fíli found you before long.
He approached slowly, bootsteps soft on the grass. Not hesitant—but careful, like he respected your space. You sat on a low stone bench overlooking the waterfall, and he stopped just short of joining you.
“May I sit?” he asked.
You nodded.
He dropped down beside you, elbows on his knees, staring out at the falls. His braids gleamed like gold wire in the sun. Silence settled—not heavy, just there, like a comfortable blanket neither of you needed to shake off.
“You look like you belong here,” he said at last.
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“In this place. All of this—” He gestured at the archways, the gardens, the gentle breeze lifting the leaves. “It suits you. More than the dust and danger and sleeping on rocks.”
You smiled, a little embarrassed. “I thought you’d say it made me look out of place. Like a stray dog someone brushed and put a ribbon on.”
His brows drew together, expression sharp and offended. “I would never say that.”
The fierceness of his voice surprised you. He turned to look at you fully, gaze steady and unguarded.
“You are not a stray. You chose this road. You walk it with us. That makes you part of the company—no matter how you’re dressed.”
It was rare to hear him talk like that. Fíli laughed easily, teased easily, fought bravely—but this direct honesty was something else. A glimpse beneath the confident exterior.
“And besides,” he added more quietly, “I think you look… well. Wonderful.”
Your heartbeat stuttered.
You turned away before he could see your expression, but he noticed anyway. You could hear it in the soft laugh he tried—and failed—to hide.
A short while later, Kíli called from across the garden, waving both arms like a child trying to signal a ship.
“Fíli! Come on! Spar with me before Thorin starts lecturing us again!”
Fíli groaned. “If he disapproves of seeing us fight, imagine how he’ll react to knowing we were avoiding him.”
Kíli shouted something about honor and blades and "stop stalling, brother!"
Fíli didn’t stand. Not yet. His fingers brushed the stone bench, just beside your hand. Not touching, but close enough to feel the possibility of it.
“I’ll see you at supper?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said, finding your voice. “I’d like that.”
His smile was brighter than the midday light.
He stood, took a few steps, then paused and looked back once more—as if committing you, clean and braided and unburdened, to memory.
Kíli tugged him away, laughing.
The moment remained.
Dinner was a lively affair. The elves were patient hosts; the dwarves were loud guests; you were somewhere in between, trying not to spill anything. After hours of travel rations and woodland scrap meals, real food felt like luxury.
Bofur leaned across the table with a wink. “So. About this little transformation of yours…”
You sighed, bracing.
He grinned. “I approve! Always said you had a spark to you. Now look at you—proving me right!”
You laughed, tension easing. “I think I just needed a bath.”
“A bath?!” Dwalin barked. “That’s all it took?”
Nori smirked. “We should throw half this company into the water, see if we get miracles.”
Fíli, you noticed, said nothing. He ate quietly, though his gaze lifted to you more often than he looked at his plate. When he did speak, it was only to agree with whatever compliment the others offered—not to repeat it, but to confirm it, as if speaking of a fact rather than an opinion.
At one point, when the table’s energy was high and no one was watching, his hand brushed yours beneath the table. Not an accident. Just the barest, tentative touch.
Enough to ask a question wordlessly.
You answered by not pulling away.
He stilled, as though that small contact meant more than any spoken declaration.
You wondered if it did.
By the time dinner ended, laughter chasing the lantern light up toward the carved ceilings, you felt… different. Not because of the dress. Not because of the braids.
Because you weren’t invisible. Not to them. Not to him.
On your way back to your room, quiet halls stretching long and starlit, you heard footsteps hurrying behind you.
Fíli.
He slowed when he reached you. Hands behind his back. Biting back nerves.
“I—uh—I wanted to ask you something,” he began, stumbling over the words like they were unfamiliar terrain. “Tomorrow, before we leave… would you walk the gardens with me? Just us? There’s something I’d like to say away from the others.”
Your breath caught.
Was this—?
You swallowed. “Yes, Fíli. I’d like that. Very much.”
He exhaled, relief flickering across his face like sunrise.
“Good. Then I’ll meet you here. In the morning.”
He hesitated, as if debating something.
Then, gently—so gently—he bowed his head toward you. Not a formal dwarven bow, not quite. Something smaller. For you alone.
“Sleep well,” he said.
You wondered, as he walked away, if your heart would ever return to a normal rhythm again.
Morning in Rivendell felt like waking inside a held breath—soft, suspended, waiting. Cool air drifted through the corridors in gentle drafts, carrying the scent of pine and distant rivers. You dressed in the elven-made clothes again, not out of vanity, but because they felt like armor made of comfort instead of metal. Like proof that you could be something other than survival and dust.
When you stepped into the hall, Fíli was already there.
He stood with his back turned, hands behind him, rocking slightly on his heels the way he did when nerves nipped at the edges of his confidence. His hair was freshly braided, beads catching flashes of gold in the early light. For a moment, he didn’t notice you.
Then he turned—and froze exactly the way he had the day before.
“Good morning,” you said softly.
Fíli blinked, recovered, and bowed his head in greeting. “Morning. You… well. You look ready for the day.”
“I hope I am,” you murmured. “Though I admit I haven’t walked anywhere yet. I might trip the moment we step outside.”
His grin appeared—quick, bright, unguarded. “If you fall, I’ll catch you.”
He said it easily, like a promise already made.
You walked together through Rivendell’s gardens. The path wound past fountains and carved bridges, through clusters of flowers that looked like they’d grown from music rather than soil. For a time, silence filled the space between you—not sharp, not awkward. Just there, like a companion.
Fíli broke it first.
“I used to think of you as—” He paused, reconsidering. “Someone the road changed. Someone who needed it.”
You swallowed. “And now?”
“And now,” he said slowly, “I see there was more to you the whole time. Not hidden. Just… waiting for room to breathe.”
The words hit harder than he probably meant them to. They felt like being seen—truly seen—in a way that was frightening and comforting all at once.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had room before,” you admitted.
“Well,” he said, voice warm, “I hope this journey leaves space for you. Even when it’s difficult. Especially then.”
He glanced down at you, expression softer than the mist curling off the waterfalls.
“You deserve that much.”
You reached a quiet alcove where the stone railing overlooked the valley. Birds wheeled high above the water, their calls echoing like distant bells.
Fíli stopped walking. His boots scuffed lightly against the stone. You turned to face him.
He looked nervous. Not frightened, but uncertain—like someone stepping toward the edge of something important.
“I asked you to walk with me because there’s something I wanted to say,” he began. “Something I’ve been trying to find the right words for.”
You nodded, encouraging.
He exhaled.
“When you joined us, I thought you might turn back. I thought you were… fragile.” His face twisted with frustration. “That was wrong. You’ve held your own through everything we’ve faced. Longer marches than you should have had to endure. Nights without rest. Storms. Goblins. The things most of us have trained for, you survived through will alone.”
You opened your mouth, but he raised a hand—not to silence you, but to finish his thought before courage escaped him.
“But even then, I only saw how strong you were because the world made you be. I didn’t understand that strength can be quiet. That it can look like gentleness. Like patience. Like choosing kindness when you’re cold and tired and scared. I never thought that was less than steel.” His gaze was steady, earnest. “Now I think it might be more.”
He didn’t look away. Didn’t retreat into humor or bravado.
“I’m glad Rivendell gave you a chance to feel comfortable. To rest. To feel… like yourself.”
Your throat tightened. “I didn’t know I could.”
“You can,” he said. “And I hope you will. Even after we leave here. Even when it’s hard.”
He stepped closer—not invading, just offering.
“And I hope—if you want—it doesn’t have to be something you face alone.”
The breath you released trembled.
“Fíli,” you whispered, unsure how to gather everything you felt into one sentence. “I don’t know what to say.. ”
He smiled sadly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know.”
He reached into his coat, hesitating only briefly, and withdrew something wrapped in cloth. He offered it, palm open.
“For you.”
You unfolded the cloth carefully. Inside was a small charm—a simple piece of worked metal shaped like a knot of three interlocking lines. Dwarven craft. Not ornamental. Not expensive. But personal. Something someone made with intention.
“It’s.. a traveler’s token,” Fíli said quietly. “From the Blue Mountains. Kíli and I were given matching ones when we came of age. I… well. I traded a bit with one of Elrond’s smiths to make a third.”
“You made this?” you breathed.
His ears went pink. “I helped. Somewhat. I held the metal and got very specific and very annoying about the engraving.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it—warm and helpless.
You lifted the charm. It felt solid in your hand. Safe.
“Fíli,” you said, voice shaking in the softest way, “I… don’t know what this means.”
He swallowed. “It can mean nothing. If that’s what you want. Just a token for luck.” Then, quieter:
“Or it can mean you’re not walking the world alone. That someone is choosing to share the road with you.”
You looked up. He held your gaze, nervous but unflinching.
“It doesn’t have to mean more than that,” he added. “Not until you want it to.”
Your heart felt like a small, trembling animal learning it could uncurl. Slowly. Carefully.
“I want it to,” you whispered.
Fíli’s breath caught. “You do?”
You nodded. “I don’t know what comes next. But… yes. I want that.”
Something in his expression went soft at the edges, like molten metal cooling into something strong.
“Then we’ll figure it out,” he said.
He carefully reached for your hand—pausing long enough to give you room to pull away. When you didn’t, his fingers laced with yours slowly, reverently. Like he’d been waiting a long time for permission.
His palm was warm. Calloused from training. Steady.
You stood there with him, overlooking Rivendell, and for the first time the journey ahead didn’t feel like a cliff you were about to fall from. It felt like a road.
One you didn’t have to walk alone.
Eventually, voices rose from the courtyard—a sign that the company was gathering. The moment had to end. The road was calling again.
Fíli squeezed your hand once before letting go.
“We should join the others,” he said. “Before they come looking.”
“They would,” you replied. “Some loudly.”
He laughed. “Kíli most loudly of all.”
You started down the path, but Fíli paused. You looked back at him.
“One more thing,” he said, voice low. “When I saw you in those clothes yesterday… I didn’t think you looked like someone changed by elves.”
“No?”
He shook his head.
“I thought you finally looked like someone who remembered she deserved care.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Words wouldn’t fit past the feeling in your chest.
Instead, you reached out and took his hand again.
This time he didn’t let go.
Packing to leave Rivendell felt different than arriving. On the way in, you had been dust, exhaustion, and the thin edge of hope. On the way out, you were still all those things—but now wrapped in something gentler. Something chosen.
Dwarves packed loudly, of course. Armor rang like bells. Boots thudded. Voices ricocheted down elegant corridors never meant for so much clamor. The elves bore it all with a kind of resigned serenity that was very nearly admirable.
You tightened the straps on your bag—a clean bag now, mended by skilled hands—and adjusted the little token Fíli had given you. You wore it tucked beneath your clothing, close enough to feel when you breathed. Not a secret, but not a spectacle. A promise in progress.
Fíli found you as the last of the company filtered out to the courtyard. He didn’t swoop in or hover; he just stepped beside you like it was the place he was always meant to stand.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I think so,” you answered. “Ask me again when my feet hit the road.”
He chuckled. “If they slip, I’ll catch you.”
You snorted. “At this point I’m starting to think you want me to fall, just to prove your reflexes.”
His eyes sparked with mischief. “If I did, would it work?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Worth a try,” he murmured, smiling.
In the courtyard, the company gathered. Thorin spoke with Elrond, voice low with the gravity of future choices. Kíli practiced restless footwork with his bow, unable to stand still for more than two breaths. Bofur hummed something cheerful and off-key. It all felt familiar now—reassuring in its chaos.
You stepped forward to join them, but before you crossed the last few paces, Fíli reached out, fingers brushing your sleeve.
“May I walk beside you today?” he asked quietly.
It was the carefulness in the question that undid you. Not possession. Not assumption. Choice.
“Yes,” you said, steady and sure. “I want you to.”
His expression warmed, like sunrise finding a window.
Then Kíli appeared at his brother’s shoulder with the subtlety of a falling tree..
“So!” he declared, clasping his hands behind his back like an innocent man. “Anything interesting happen on your morning walk?”
Fíli froze. You froze. Kíli’s grin widened like a child discovering contraband sweets.
“No?” he continued. “Nothing at all? Not even, say… emotional revelations? Promises of shared futures? A quiet moment on a balcony overlooking the waterfalls?”
Fíli groaned. “Kíli.”
“What?” Kíli asked, eyes bright. “Just trying to spark conversation. I’m making memories here.”
“You weren’t there,” Fíli pointed out.
“Not physically,” Kíli agreed. “But spiritually? I was absolutely there. Watching. Cheering.”
You pressed a hand over your face. “I’m going to start falling on purpose and see if I can take you with me.”
Kíli gasped. “You wound me! And so soon after I gave my blessing—”
“You didn’t,” Fíli muttered.
“I did in my heart,” Kíli countered. “And that’s what matters.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. It broke whatever tension lingered, and Fíli’s shoulders eased. He looked at you—really looked—and his smile turned into something small and private.
The road from Rivendell curved along the cliffs. The air was crisp, the world sunlit and wide. And though you were back on uneven ground with a pack tugging at your shoulders, it didn’t feel like returning to hardship.
Fíli stayed beside you, matching your tempo without fanfare. Not slowing down so you wouldn’t be left behind—simply choosing to walk with you.
“So,” he said, voice low enough not to carry. “When we reach camp tonight—there’s something I wanted to ask. Nothing heavy,” he added quickly. “Just… something.”
“Should I be worried?” you teased.
“Probably,” he said gravely. “I’ve been thinking.”
You gasped. “Dangerous.”
“The deadliest of all my activities.”
Your shoulders brushed as you walked. The contact lingered—a small spark of awareness in the air. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just a steady warmth.
You wondered if anyone else noticed.
They did.
About an hour after setting out, Bofur fell into step behind you like a man casually not-being-subtle.
“So,” he began.
“So?” you echoed.
He nodded toward Fíli’s back. “Our princeling seems rather… attentive today.”
Fíli heard his name and tensed like a startled deer, but didn’t turn around.
You cleared your throat. “He’s just being polite.”
Bofur snorted. “Lass, that lad’s been polite since the day we met. This is different. This is the sort of polite that’s practically holdin’ a banner sayin’ ‘look at me, I care.’”
Fíli tripped. Just slightly. He recovered immediately and pretended he hadn’t.
You tried not to laugh. “Bofur, it’s fine. We’re just—figuring things out.”
“Aye,” Bofur said. “I know. Just wanted to say: if it ends with you lettin’ him braid some of ya' hair, we'll pretend not to see. Fo' a while at least.”
Fíli made a noise of despair.
You smiled. “Thank you.”
“What are uncles for?” Bofur replied.
“You’re not my uncle,” Fíli muttered.
“Spiritual uncle,” Bofur corrected.
Kíli shouted from ahead, “Spiritual uncles can give blessings too!”
“No they cannot!” Fíli shouted back.
When you finally stopped for the evening, the world glowed with dying sunlight. A clearing opened by the river, and the company set about making camp.
Fíli approached you once more.
“Would you sit with me?” he asked. “Just for a moment.”
You nodded. You found a fallen log overlooking the water, away from the bustle. The river shimmered with the last of the light, the sound of it like a lullaby.
Fíli sat close—not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating through the space between you. He fiddled with his hands, searching for words.
“I know the road ahead is dangerous,” he said. “And I know there are no guarantees. For any of us.” His gaze flicked to you. “But if there is room on that road for something good—for a reason to hope—then I want to make space for it.”
Your heart slowed, not with fear, but clarity.
“What are you asking?” you murmured.
He swallowed. “I’m asking if it would be all right… if I stayed by your side. Not because you need me. Not so I can protect you or worry over you. Just because I want to.”
You breathed in. Out.
“Fíli,” you said softly, “you’re already there.”
He blinked, uncertainty cracking.
“I want you beside me,” you continued. “Not as a guard. Not as a prince. Just… as you.”
Silence. Then a slow exhale. Like he’d been holding his breath since the moment you left Rivendell.
He reached for your hand again. This time, when your fingers laced, it was certain. Not tentative. Not hesitant.
Chosen.
Fíli leaned just slightly toward you. Not asking for a kiss. Not assuming one. Just sharing the same space, the same air, the same moment.
“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted quietly.
“Neither have I,” you said.
“Good,” he whispered. “Then we can learn together, " he said, fingers already in your hair, playing with it absentmindedly.
As night settled, the company gathered around the fire. Kíli clocked the hand-holding immediately, elbowed Bofur, and both looked delighted. Thorin noticed next. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in assessment. After a long moment, he inclined his head once, almost imperceptibly.
Permission.
Respect.
Maybe even approval.
No one made a spectacle of it. No one teased loudly. The world didn’t stop and point. Life just… continued. With Fíli’s hand in yours and the token resting against your heart.
The journey ahead was still long. Still frightening. Still uncertain.
But now, for the first time, the road felt like something you could survive.
Not alone.
Never alone again.
Night fell in quiet layers—soft darkness, crackling firelight, the hush of the river threading through the trees. The company settled in around the flames, each dwarf finding a comfortable sprawl of bedrolls and cloaks, the subtle sounds of sharpening blades and murmured conversation fading into the rhythm of sleep.
Fíli sat beside you, close enough for warmth but far enough to give you a choice. He always seemed to give you choices.
“You should sleep,” you murmured.
He shook his head. “You first. I’ll take the watch.”
“You had the last watch.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, gaze drifting toward the darkness beyond the trees. “There’s a peace here tonight. I’d rather keep it than hand it off.”
You wrapped your blanket around your shoulders and settled on your bedroll. The air held a lingering chill, curling around your ankles and wrists the way night air always did on the road—sharp enough to bite. You lay still, trying to get comfortable, trying not to shiver.
It didn’t escape him.
Without a word, Fíli slid his cloak from his shoulders and draped it over you. The fabric smelled faintly of travel and metal and the campfires of a hundred nights before this one.
“Fíli,” you whispered, “you’ll freeze.”
“I’ll live,” he said simply. Then, after a beat: “But if you don’t take it, that would be a different story.”
You hesitated. He lowered himself beside you, not under the blanket, just near enough that his presence reached you like a hearth’s heat.
“Is this all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said. And it was. It truly was.
He lay back, hands behind his head, eyes on the stars peeking through the canopy overhead. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled. Someone snored. Someone else muttered in their sleep about food.
It felt normal. It felt like belonging.
Fíli’s voice eventually broke the quiet, soft enough that only you could hear.
“There’s a saying in our language,” he murmured. “A dwarven phrase I grew up with. My mother used to tell us before long journeys.”
You turned your head to look at him. “What does it mean?”
He hesitated, then spoke the words in Dwarvish. "Baruz-kadad amrukh farn.”
They rolled like mountain stone, warm and deep and old.
“It means,” he translated slowly, “may your steps find a road that welcomes you back.”
You felt the weight of it settle in your chest—not heavy, but rooted. A blessing, not a prayer.
“Is that what you wish for me?” you asked.
Fíli turned his head then, eyes finding yours in the dim firelight. “No,” he answered. “Not just that.”
He shifted, bracing himself on one elbow, leaning just slightly closer—not enough to trap you, only enough to make the moment real.
“I wish,” he said, voice steady but threaded with something vulnerable, “to be someone that road leads back to.”
Your breath caught. He waited. Not demanding. Not expecting. Just waiting in the space between question and answer.
You reached out, fingers brushing his—the barest touch, like testing the edge of dawn. He didn’t move except to turn his hand so your fingers could slide into his. It felt like choosing something. Not a story. Not a dream.
A future.
“I hope it does,” you whispered. “I hope it leads to you.”
Something in him loosened—tension melting away as if it had been waiting for that single sentence. He lowered his forehead to yours, not quite a kiss, not quite a bow. Just contact. Just closeness. A promise made in silence.
“I’ll walk with you,” he murmured. “As long as you’ll have me.”
You squeezed his hand. “Then stay.”
He laid back down beside you, closer this time, sharing the blanket. Not wrapping around you, not overtaking your space—just a warm line of presence at your side, solid and reassuring.
The river sang. The fire dimmed. The stars held their breath.
And as sleep pulled you under, the last thing you felt was Fíli’s thumb brushing the back of your hand—once, like punctuation. A quiet vow in the language of touch.
Not a beginning.
A continuation.
Together.
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