#hobbit fluff

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.

“Are you alright, uncle? The kettle was whistling.”

Bilbo blinked back to his senses and turned to see Frodo pouring the freshly boiled water into the tea pots Bilbo had prepared on the table.

“Do you think they’ll be much longer?” Bilbo wondered.

Frodo laughed. “Uncle Thorin loses his way, but he must be keen to enjoy the party.”

Thorin had gone out to Erebor for a visit and was meant to be returning with the old Company that had reclaimed the Lonely Mountain together. Even Fili - now the king - was set to be arriving with them for the long overdue visit.

Bilbo had spent the entirety of Thorin’s absence preparing for the dwarves. The pantry was overstocked with cheese and meats, and all manner of breads. The table where they’d eat was already set with plates of cakes and cookies, and the doorways were framed in winter greenery for a sense of festive cheer. It was to be a party to remember. If only the guests of honor would arrive.

Bilbo ruffled Frodo’s dark curls, forcing himself to relax his shoulders as he fetched the tea cozies. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen most of them. I must admit, I’m a bit impatient.”

His young nephew grinned up at him. “Me too, uncle! I look forward to meeting them.”

More than impatient, Bilbo felt nervous, somehow. It was a lot to ask all of them to come to the Shire. Bilbo and Thorin had traveled out a couple times since Thorin had left Erebor, but now with Frodo, Bilbo had been hesitant to make such a long trek. Still, it had been too long since he’d seen them all. He hoped they’d all been keeping well, and that they’d approve of the hobbit hole now that they were used to living in Erebor surrounded by dwarven finery in metal and stone. He wanted everything to be perfect for his old friends; warm enough, fed enough, entertained enough.

Frodo, who hadn’t lived at Bag End long, had asked both Thorin and Bilbo about the quest heaps of times. He had vivid mental images of each of the dwarves, as well as many of the events that had taken place. He was keen to see if they were at all how he’d imagined. The dwarves were supposedly rowdy and unruly, and fierce warriors. And one of them was the king of Erebor! Thorin and Bilbo didn’t always fit in completely with the other hobbits, but to Frodo, they were far more interesting.

--

Kili cleared his throat subtly as he stepped up beside Fili. The Shire was now just in view as the sun was beginning to set. The air was growing even cooler now, nipping at their skin as they walked.

“Seems you owe me three gold.”

Fili laughed brightly, the reminder of their earlier bet - that Thorin would get them lost beyond salvation - catching him off guard. “Seems so.”

“I’ll give you the chance to earn it back,” Kili offered, his face pure mischief.

Fili pursed his lips, shaking his head subtly. Kili had actually mellowed out quite a bit in the years since the quest, becoming a fine advisor to Fili. But something about being out on the road again with the company - and especially their uncle - had brought out some of his childhood chaos. “What did you have in mind?”

Kili leaned in and whispered as quietly as he could. “Three gold if you get him in the head before he stops you.” With that, he held a snowball up that he’d been hiding behind his back.

Fili took it and contemplated. Finally he nodded and winked at his brother. They were nearly at Bag End now; a bit of harmless fun wouldn’t sour hours of future travel, and surely Thorin would let it go once he got home to the Bagginses.

--

Frodo dropped the cookie he’d been stealing from the tray when he heard the front door push open.

“We’re here!” Thorin’s low voice called out into the hall. He smiled when he saw Bilbo and Frodo’s heads poke out of different rooms.

“Just on time,” Bilbo praised, sounding every bit as relieved as he was.

As the dwarves piled in, they greeted Bilbo with warmth, all talking over each other and taking off their packs and cloaks as they let themselves in.

Frodo stepped over to take Thorin’s cloak from him as the space became chaotic. “Welcome home, uncle.” “Thank you, Frodo.”

“Frodo?” Half the group turned their attention from Bilbo to Frodo now, remarking on his appearance, mainly. None of them had ever met such a young hobbit, apparently, slightly shorter than Bilbo, with bright eyes and dark curls.

Bombur clapped a hand down on Bilbo’s shoulder and gave him a stern look.

“Er- Great to have you again, Bombur.” “Let’s get to work.” “I- beg your pardon?” Bombur rustled the pack over his shoulder. “Food to set out.”

“Oh!” Bilbo blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected them to bring anything, but perhaps Thorin had suggested it, given the size of the group. “Of course, the kitchen is just in here, as you may remember-”

Just as Bilbo was leading him away, the door swung open again to reveal Fili and Kili, covered in snow, shaking themselves to loose what might come off.

“You’re late,” Bofur teased. “Right, well-” Kili could barely contain his laughter. “Someone pushed us down the hill, and all.”

This sent a fit of laughter through the group as they recalled Thorin getting his revenge on his nephews for the snowballs, and a surge of warmth through Bilbo’s chest as he took heart in the happiness of his fellows. The brothers laughing about mischief they’d caused just felt right somehow. Some things don’t change.

“Well- clean up and let's go sit, shall we?” Bilbo suggested, making his way with Bombur toward the kitchen. 

Thorin led the rest of the Company toward the dining room. “Come on, you mongrels!”

--

The night progressed easily, everyone happily sharing stories and catching up between mountains of goodies and several musical interludes.

Ori had brought them a book he’d scribed about Erebor and its history, including intricate drawings that enthralled Frodo, who was an endless fount of questions for everyone. He learned - only slightly embellished - accounts of Bilbo’s bravery, Thorin’s leadership, everyone’s skills in battle, and more.

As the hour grew late, Bilbo passed around another plate of nut cakes before settling at Thorin’s side to let out a wistful sigh. “I’d missed this,” he admitted quietly, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looked out over the group that was milling about Bag End in total comfort and goodwill.

Thorin placed his hand on Bilbo’s thigh and raised a brow. “Oh?”

“It reminds me a bit of those nights on the road.” He scrunched his nose and mouth about briefly. “I was terribly nervous, back then, mind you. Sure we’d get struck down by orcs, or worse, Smaug. But this is nice.” He turned his attention to Thorin. “Like a family reunion.”

“Only without the fear of stolen cutlery,” Thorin pointed out.

Bilbo laughed brightly, distracting Frodo for a moment, who’d been caught up in one of Kili’s tall tales. 

Frodo was glad to see his uncle had relaxed. He’d thought Bilbo might actually have lost his marbles a bit in Thorin’s absence, fretting and wringing his hands as he paced around Bag End for days. 

“You’re staying a few days, right?” Frodo asked suddenly. Fili nodded. “That’s right. Just a few days, then most of us will return to Erebor.” “I hope you’ll come again soon. Bilbo really missed you.” Fili and Kili glanced at each other. It was difficult to get away like this, but everyone had been keen to the idea the moment word had gotten around.

Fili nodded. “I suppose we’ll have to.”

Kili leaned in, a grin on his face. “Say, Frodo. Have you ever built a snow dragon?”

Before you even had time to ready yourself, both you and Gandalf were headed to Erebor. Perhaps Fili would forgive you if he knew the trouble you had been to just to see him and apologise for your earlier behaviour.   It was a strange experience travelling through the Mirkwood, far different from what you had expected. "Gandalf, this forest..." you paused as you started to feel your vision blur, you felt slightly nauseated, "I thought these lands belonged to the elves?" "And that they did." he spoke eerily, almost as if he was hiding something, "Gandalf?" "Forgive me, young one, I must concentrate, this is not your average path." you struggled to understand the Wizard, but he always did talk in riddles, ever since you can remember. It was almost what he was famous for other than his whizzpoppers and excellent fireworks.

The journey through Mirkwood was a long one, you felt as though you had been dreaming the whole way through, dreaming of more pleasant things, like Fili. You had thought about the times he had held you, the way his eyes would look into yours with a twinkle, the way he would kiss you so gently and pure. It was almost like you were there again, in the Blue Mountains with him. The day he kissed you under the moonlight and told you things you could have only dreamed of.

"y/n?" Fili's voice repeated through your mind, almost as if he was there. You opened your eyes to see something you were not expecting.

At first glance, you saw a young prince, blonde of hair and grinning through his braided moustache. 

"Fili?" you rubbed your eyes and tried your hardest to focus. He walked towards you and offered you his hand, you took it and felt the memorable warmth of his skin, you smiled. "Fili, I've missed you!" you said as you squeezed his hand lightly, "I haven't forgotten that night under the moonlight, the night you said you belonged with me, I haven't forgotten." you smiled through tears of joy when you went to squeeze his hand again and felt an absence. You looked down to your hand and saw nothing but the reins in your hand. Confused, you looked up again at Fili to find you were looking at a tree the entire time. "F-Fil-?" you were so pained and confused, you barely even heard Gandalf speak until he shouted loudly,

"Y/N!? You must follow closely!" Gandalf looked concerned as spoke, you really tried to focus but your mind kept failing you and feeling dosey. You thought you had almost completely gone insane before a beam of light had touched your skin and a gust of wind blew into your face, it was then that you had realised where you were. You looked around with your eyes squinted and there, tall before you was the Lonely Mountain.

"Erebor!" you whispered in disbelief, "It's just as my father said." The feeling of the warm sunset light kissing your skin and the refreshing cool air of the breeze made you feel much better. Walking through Mirkwood was difficult, you kept thinking you saw Fili and it made the journey twice as long, you longed for him.

Bard was a nice man, he thought logically, which you admired. It wasn't long before the elves of Mirkwood had arrived with provisions for the men of Laketown. You didn't think highly of the Elf King, you thought of him as a pretty little pixie, dim and witless. Although, word had reached you from a halfling that Thorin was sick and he had blocked the entrance to Erebor. You had thought about leaving Gandalf's side many times just to run to the mountain to find Fili, but, Gandalf just wouldn't let you leave. You had come all this way. It had taken weeks and weeks and weeks to get here and now that Fili was within your grasp, you couldn't even run to him. He didn't even know you were here. This evening, you sat looking out from the ruin of Dale towards the mountain where you could see a few torches lit, Fili could've been near one. Fili could be looking back! Every breath you took was just a constant reminder of each moment passing that you weren't with Fili. It was this moment that you felt your blood boil and you rose from your seat to find Gandalf when you bumped into the halfling who was headed somewhere. "Pardon me, must get going!" he spoke quietly as if he was sneaking, "You- Halfling... Are you-" "Bilbo." "What?" "My name is Bilbo." he said with a slight grin, "I'm sure you'd have a name too." "Y- Well, yes, it's y/n." you were confused, what is this Bilbo doing? "y/n? I know that name.. Why do I know your name?" "Bilbo, where are you going?" "Me? Oh.. Just... Just to the- uhm...  the- I'm going to the food trolley, you see... I'm a hobbit and we hobbitses are rather accustomed to large amounts of food." "The food trolley, yeah? I shall join you." you weren't hungry, you just wanted to see what the hobbit was up to. "No!" he gulped, "I mean, I just think you should stay where Gandalf can find you." Wretched Gandalf, you adored the wizard but his company had grown rather laborious.

His steps were measured, not hurried; he had a way of moving that felt both careful and natural, like he listened to the mountain as he walked, like he let its rhythm decide his pace. His presence was warm without touching you, steady without weighing on you, quiet without being cold. The lanterns hanging from the carved pillars cast golden flecks across his hair, catching in the braids he wore and turning them into little threads of sunlight.

The dwarrowdams had given you clothing that suited the mountain—a cotton dress thick enough to feel like a light armor, fitted snugly with dark leather straps that wrapped your torso. Being from hobbit descent your proportions were rather similar to those of a dwarf which made things a lot easier. You still remembered the way they had circled you with sharp eyes and busy hands, adjusting a strap here, tucking a hem there, muttering to themselves about the importance of proper dwarven attire. It had made you feel more seen than adorned, more claimed than decorated. It felt, strangely, like acceptance.

And Fíli had noticed—of course he had. His gaze had lingered when he first saw you wearing it, just a fraction too long, with a softness in his expression he hadn’t quite concealed quickly enough. Even now, as he led you through the warm corridors of the mountain, his eyes occasionally flicked toward the leather crossing your chest or the hem brushing your boots, as though the sight of you like this pleased him in some quiet, private way.

THE GREAT WEST FORGE/HORNS

He guided you deeper into the forge wing. The air grew warmer, the light redder, until the walls glowed faintly as though lit from within. The Great West Forge emerged before you like a vast cavern of fire and shadow.

The space stretched farther than your eyes could follow. Channels of molten ore streamed through the floor in glowing rivers, branching off in patterns that formed symbols older than any living dwarf. Bellows as tall as trees moved with slow, powerful breaths. Sparks rose constantly—like copper fireflies that drifted upward before fading into nothingness. Everything shone in shifting shades of amber, orange, and white. It was overwhelming and gorgeous; a cathedral of flame.

You felt Fíli watching you again. He always seemed to look at you in moments like this—not impatiently, not possessively, but with a sort of quiet delight, as though your awe was something sacred he didn’t want to disturb. He led you the way one might guide someone through a garden rather than a forge, every gesture gentle.

He brought you first to the forge-horn. It was carved from something that might once have been bone, polished until it gleamed like ivory. Its ridges caught the forge-light beautifully. With careful hands, he set it so you stood before it. His approach was subtle, his hands close but not touching, his presence warm just behind your shoulder. You leaned into the stance he showed you, feeling the weight of the horn beneath your palms.

When the note left the horn, the entire forge seemed to respond. A low, resonant tone rolled through the chamber, vibrating in your chest. It felt like speaking in the mountain’s own voice. Dwarves paused mid-work, just for a moment, lifting hammers in acknowledgment before returning to their labor. You felt heat flush your cheeks, though not from the fire around you.

Fíli’s quiet pride radiated behind you.

THE GREAT OVENS/FORGING

He guided you next toward the great ovens—massive stone chambers that pulsed with a heat so steady and deep it felt alive. The openings blazed with a blue-gold flame that licked the air without wavering. Fíli raised a hand to the stone beside one furnace, resting his palm against it. Under his touch, the surface glowed faintly, picking up the warmth of the fire within.

You mirrored him, pressing your hand cautiously to the stone. It was warm but not burning, and beneath the warmth was a subtle thrum—like a heartbeat.

Fíli seemed to sense your realization. He let you linger, let you feel the pulse of heat and life that fed the forge. The mountain was more than stone and heat; it was a partner in the craft, a living force. The warmth seeped into your fingers and up your arm, filling you with a strange sense of belonging. It felt as though the mountain accepted your touch.

He mistook the way your breath caught for discomfort and stepped fractionally closer, his body radiating a steadier warmth than the stone. The proximity didn’t startle you—it grounded you. His presence in the forge was like a second fire, one with no flames and no smoke, burning quietly behind his ribs.

He brought you onward. There were no words, but none were needed. The forge spoke in heat and shadows and sparks. And Fíli spoke in glances, gestures, the subtle ways he slowed his pace to match yours or shifted so the brightest sparks drifted harmlessly away from your path.

In a quieter alcove of the forge, separated from the main workspaces, he led you to a smaller anvil and a bench. The hum of larger furnaces softened into a steady background sigh. Warmth pressed against your skin from all sides. Fíli reached into his coat, as if retrieving something long kept safe. When his hand emerged, he held a dagger—small, worn, with a blade slightly bent and a hilt that had seen better years.

It felt personal, almost strangely intimate, that he carried something so old and flawed with such care. He set it on the anvil, the metal clinking softly. His fingertips lingered on the worn leather a moment before he stepped away, silently inviting you to stand beside him.

The forging process became a quiet dance between you. Over the next long stretch of time—minutes or hours, you couldn’t be sure—the two of you worked the blade together. The heat from the furnace warmed your skin, and the rhythmic ringing of your hammering blended with the forge’s heartbeat. When your grip faltered or your hand shook, his came gently around yours, steadying without overpowering, warm without binding. When your arms tired, his presence bolstered you, the subtle shift of his stance telling you he was prepared to catch you if the exhaustion took you too quickly.

The blade slowly surrendered its old imperfections. It did not become perfect—there remained a slight bow in the metal, a curve that felt almost like a signature rather than a flaw. You did not aim for perfection. You aimed to learn, to create, to share the work with him.

When you quenched the blade in cooling oil, steam rose around the two of you like a faint veil. The scent was sharp, metallic, earthy. Fíli waited until the mist dissipated before taking the blade gently from your hands. His expression was unreadable for several long heartbeats—quiet, contemplative, almost reverent. Then he held the blade out to you, resting it in your palms with a softness that surprised you. He did not need to say anything. The gift was in the gesture, the hours spent working beside you, the quiet pride in his gaze.

THE TAVERN/DRINKING AND SINGING

The tavern came after, carved into a natural hollow near the front gates. Warm candlelight flickered across polished stone tables. The smell of warm roast meat and honey ale filled the air. Songs rose from clusters of dwarves—voices deep, rich, overlapping in harmonies older than any surface kingdom. They vibrated through the floors, through the walls, through your bones.

You sat beside Fíli in a corner where the lantern-light softened into a warm haze. Ale sloshed gently in your tankard, sweet and strong. The scent of it curled into your nose. Dwarves at nearby tables stamped their boots to the beat of a song that rolled like thunder through the cavern.

Fíli drank slowly, eyes half-lidded as he listened to the music. The light caught in his hair again, gleaming in the gold. His braids swayed slightly when he tilted his head, absorbing every note of the melody around him. Though he said nothing, the faint rise and fall of his breath told you the music meant something to him. It wasn’t merely entertainment. It was history. It was blood. It was the heartbeat of his people.

The song swelled, and Fíli closed his eyes a moment, as though letting it pass through him. He leaned back carefully, letting his shoulder brush yours. The contact was featherlight, easy to dismiss, yet you felt it like a spark beneath your skin. He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

The songs changed eventually, becoming softer, lower. The tavern never truly quieted—dwarves were not a quiet people—but the energy shifted from rowdy joy to something warm, communal, deeply rooted. Fíli’s breathing matched the tempo, slow and measured. Though you could not understand Khuzdul, the sound of it surrounded you, comforting in its depth. You felt, in that moment, like part of something larger.

OUTSIDE/BRAIDING AND PROMISES

When the air grew thick with heat and the smell of ale, Fíli rose and led you outside. The wind met you instantly—cool, brisk, carrying the scent of stone and snow. The sunset painted the mountains in streaks of amber and red, the last of the day’s light catching on the peaks like spilled gold.

Fíli’s hair whipped wildly around his face, golden strands dancing in the wind. He tried to tame it with a sweep of his hand, but the mountain breeze refused to cooperate. Loose braids fluttered against his cheeks. Laugh lines softened at the corners of his eyes as he attempted again, to little effect.

Without thinking, you reached upward, smoothing the wild strands away from his face. The wind brushed your skin, but his hair was surprisingly soft beneath your fingertips. He stilled entirely under your touch, breath shallow in his chest. His posture softened, as though the moment anchored him more firmly than the stone beneath his boots.

Gently, instinctively, you gathered sections of his hair, guiding them back from his face. The wind hissed softly through the terrace, tugging at your dress and at his loosened strands. You wove braid after braid with slow care, threading the golden hair together with your fingers. Fíli’s eyes half-closed, not in sleepiness but in quiet surrender. He let you shape the braids freely, trusting your hands, your gentleness, the closeness between you.

A faint movement behind you revealed Kíli lingering in the doorway, a knowing smirk flickering across his face before he disappeared back inside. You could feel Fíli’s awareness of it without needing to look at him. Yet he made no move to pull away, no attempt to hide the intimacy of the moment. If anything, his shoulders relaxed further under your hands.

You tied off the final braid just as the sun dipped behind the farthest peak. Fíli raised a hand slowly, fingertips brushing the woven strands with reverent care. He looked toward the horizon for a long while, breathing in the twilight air. The wind carried the fading warmth of the sun away, leaving only the mountain’s quiet breath and the steady thrum beneath your feet.

He reached into his coat again—slowly this time, almost hesitantly. His fingers emerged curled around something small. You glimpsed the shape through the gaps between them: a bead carved from stone, dark as deep earth, wrapped in a thin band of gold. A single rune glinted in the remaining daylight.

His thumb brushed the bead. He didn’t open his hand fully, did not offer it forward. Instead he held it like a secret, a wish, a fragment of hope he wasn’t yet ready to voice. His breathing shallow, eyes fixed on the mountains, he closed his fingers gently around it.

The mountain wind swept around the two of you as if guarding the quiet moment.

He held the bead a little tighter.

And though no words were spoken, the silence between you was full, waiting, brimming with something warm and unshaped.

The sun set completely, leaving only the forge’s distant glow and the soft gold threading through Fíli’s hair—the braids you’d made.

The bead stayed in his hand.

For now until the right time comes.

~~~

You sat cross-legged near the fire, bundled in a thick woolen blanket that nearly swallowed you whole. It had once belonged to Dwalin, judging by its size, though he’d handed it over with a gruff, embarrassed cough when he’d noticed you shivering earlier that evening.

The fire crackled merrily, sending sparks dancing upward, and the smell of roasting chestnuts mingled with bread and herbs and something rich and buttery that made your stomach ache pleasantly.

You smiled to yourself, rubbing your hands together for warmth.

Around you, the Company moved with an ease born of weeks spent together — the clink of cookware, the murmur of low voices, the occasional burst of laughter. Bombur sat near the fire with a wooden spoon in hand, presiding over a pot with the seriousness of a king at council. Bofur hovered nearby, offering unsolicited advice and sneaking tastes when he thought no one was looking.

Thorin stood a little apart, speaking quietly with Balin, their heads bent close together. Even he seemed softened tonight, the hard lines of his posture eased by the glow of firelight and the knowledge that this night was meant for rest.

And then there was Fíli.

You didn’t mean to look for him — truly you didn’t — but your gaze found him all the same, as it so often did.

He sat on a fallen log just across the fire, sleeves rolled up as he worked a thin carving knife over a length of pale wood. The light caught in his fair hair, turning it to molten gold, and his expression was one of rare concentration — brow furrowed slightly, lips pressed together as though he were holding a secret there.

Kíli lounged beside him, boots stretched toward the fire, talking animatedly about something you couldn’t quite hear. Fíli hummed in response now and then, but his attention never left his hands.

You wondered what he was making.

Your thoughts drifted back, unbidden, to the Shire — to Yule mornings filled with anticipation and small, handmade gifts wrapped in brown paper and twine. Hobbits didn’t need much to make a celebration feel full. A shared meal, a warm fire, and something made with care.

Something like this.

“Enjoying yourself?” Bilbo’s voice came gently from your left.

You looked up to find him settling down beside you, his cheeks pink from the cold, eyes bright with curiosity and warmth. He held a mug in both hands, steam curling upward.

“I am,” you said honestly. “It feels… nice. Like home, in a way.”

Bilbo smiled at that, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Yes. I was thinking the same. I never thought I’d spend Yule sleeping on the ground with thirteen dwarves and a hobbit, but… well. Stranger things have happened.”

You laughed softly. “At least there’s good food.”

“An essential part of any proper holiday,” he agreed solemnly.

As if summoned by the word, Bombur announced that supper would be ready soon, and a cheer rose up from several throats. Even Thorin allowed himself a small, approving nod.

You shifted closer to the fire, letting its warmth seep into your bones. The cold had a way of sneaking up on you at night, especially with your smaller frame, but tonight you felt protected — wrapped in wool and fellowship and the quiet magic of the season.

A shadow fell across you, and you glanced up.

Fíli stood there, carving knife tucked away, hands dusted with pale wood shavings.

“Here,” he said, a little awkwardly, holding out a small bundle of pine boughs tied together with twine. “For you.”

You blinked. “For me?”

He nodded, suddenly very interested in the snow at his boots. “I noticed you were sitting on the ground. Thought it might be… warmer.”

Your heart gave a small, unexpected leap.

“Oh,” you said softly, accepting the bundle. The pine needles were fresh and fragrant, releasing their scent under your fingers. “Thank you, Fíli. That’s very kind.”

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s Yule. Or close enough. Seemed wrong not to do something.”

You arranged the boughs beneath your blanket, the difference immediate. The scent of pine rose around you, sharp and clean and wonderfully festive.

“It reminds me of the Shire,” you said, before you could stop yourself. “We decorate with greenery — holly, ivy. Pine too, sometimes.”

Fíli’s eyes lit with interest. “Do you? We do the same, back under the Mountain. Or… we did.” His voice softened at the end, but there was no bitterness in it tonight — only longing, tempered by hope.

“You’ll do it again,” you said, certain. “One day.”

He met your gaze then, something warm and steady passing between you. “Aye. I believe that.”

For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to the two of you — the fire’s glow, the hush of snow, the quiet understanding that needed no words.

Then Kíli leaned over, grinning. “Oi, am I interrupting something?”

Fíli rolled his eyes. “Always.”

You laughed, the sound light and unguarded, and Kíli looked pleased with himself.

Supper was announced at last, and everyone gathered close, bowls filled and passed around. The food was simple but hearty — stew thick with root vegetables and herbs, bread still warm from the pan, chestnuts split and steaming.

You ate until you were full and then a little beyond, the way one always did on Yule, and leaned back with a sigh of contentment.

Songs followed, as they always did.

Bofur started it, his voice rich and carrying, and soon others joined in — deep harmonies and lilting melodies weaving together. Even Bilbo added his voice, a little hesitant at first, then stronger as he went on.

You listened, wrapped in sound and warmth, your head resting lightly against your pack. Snow began to fall again, slow and lazy, catching in beards and hair and lashes, turning the Company into figures from a storybook.

Fíli’s voice rose above the rest — clear and sure — and you found yourself drawn to it, the way it seemed to hold both joy and yearning in equal measure.

When the song ended, there was a comfortable silence, broken only by the fire’s soft crackle.

Thorin stood then, lifting his mug.

“To Yule,” he said simply. “To warmth in dark times. And to the road ahead — walked together.”

Mugs were raised, and the toast echoed around the camp.

You drank, the warmth spreading through you, and felt something settle in your chest — a sense of belonging you hadn’t realized you’d been craving so deeply.

Later, as the Company began to drift toward sleep, you found yourself lingering by the fire, reluctant to let the night end just yet.

Fíli joined you again, settling close enough that your shoulders nearly touched.

“Cold?” he asked quietly.

“A little,” you admitted.

Without a word, he shifted his cloak, draping the edge of it around you. The fabric was heavy and warm, smelling faintly of smoke and pine and something unmistakably *him*.

You looked up at him, surprised, and found his expression soft, almost shy.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“Anytime,” he said.

The fire burned low, the snow continued to fall, and for the first time since you’d left the Shire, Yule felt whole again.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But tonight — tonight was enough.

Morning came gently.

You woke to the quiet sound of snowfall and the faint murmur of voices kept deliberately low. For a moment, you lay still beneath your blankets, the world cocooned in warmth and wool and the lingering comfort of sleep. The fire had burned down to glowing embers sometime in the night, and the cold pressed softly at the edges of the camp, never quite daring to intrude.

Yule morning.

The realization brought a smile to your lips.

You sat up slowly, brushing snowflakes from your hair where they’d drifted in, and took in the sight around you. The Company moved with uncharacteristic care, as though afraid to break the spell of the day. Dori and Nori were stringing something between two nearby trees — thin twine adorned with small bits of greenery and polished stones. Ori knelt nearby, arranging candles in a careful circle around the fire pit, shielding each flame with cupped hands as he lit them.

“Good morning,” Bilbo whispered as he noticed you stirring, offering you a mug already warm to the touch. “Tea. I thought you might like some.”

You accepted it gratefully. “You’re a marvel, Mr. Baggins.”

He preened just a little. “I try.”

As you sipped, the tea chased away the last of the chill, and you felt yourself relax into the moment. The Company was changed this morning — quieter, yes, but also lighter. There was a sense of intention to their movements, a reverence that felt ancient.

Fíli emerged from behind one of the tents, hair still loose from sleep, his braids undone. For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.

He caught your eye and smiled — a real one, bright and unguarded — and lifted a hand in a small wave. Something fluttered low in your chest in response.

Kíli appeared beside him, yawning. “If I don’t get breakfast soon, I’m declaring Yule a failure.”

“Patience,” Balin chided gently. “There are traditions to be observed first.”

Traditions.

The word hummed through you, familiar and comforting.

Once the camp had fully woken, everyone gathered again near the fire. Thorin stood at the center, holding a bundle of candles wrapped in red twine. His voice, when he spoke, was low and steady.

“Yule marks the turning of the year,” he said. “The longest night behind us, the promise of light ahead. In the old days, our people would light candles to remember what was lost — and to honor what yet remains.”

He passed the candles around, one to each member of the Company.

When he reached you, he hesitated only a moment before offering you one as well. “You travel with us,” he said simply. “You are part of this.”

Emotion rose unexpectedly in your throat, and you bowed your head in thanks, clutching the candle carefully.

Fíli stood beside you, close enough that you could feel his warmth even through layers of wool.

Together, one by one, you lit the candles and placed them around the fire pit. The small flames flickered bravely against the snow, reflections dancing in dark eyes and polished armor.

Silence fell — not empty, but full.

You closed your eyes, thinking of the Shire. Of your family. Of round windows glowing in the dusk. You whispered a quiet hope into the flame — for warmth, for home, for the people beside you.

When you opened your eyes again, Fíli was watching you.

Not openly — not enough for anyone else to notice — but with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

Breakfast followed, generous and lively, and the camp filled with laughter once more. Snowball fights broke out almost immediately — instigated by Kíli, naturally — and you found yourself ducking behind Bombur for cover as powdered snow flew through the air.

“Traitor!” Kíli cried when you lobbed a snowball back at him from your hiding place.

“You started it!” you shot back, laughing.

Fíli joined in with surprising enthusiasm, his laughter ringing bright and clear as he narrowly avoided a well-aimed throw from Dwalin. At one point, he slipped on the ice and landed hard in the snow, dragging you down with him when you tried to help.

You ended up tangled together, breathless with laughter, faces far too close.

For a moment, everything stilled.

Snow clung to his lashes. Your nose brushed his cheek. His hand rested at your waist, steady and warm.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

Then Kíli groaned loudly. “If you two start kissing, I’m leaving.”

You scrambled upright, cheeks burning, while Fíli laughed and helped you to your feet, his grip lingering just a second longer than necessary.

Later, as the afternoon wore on and the snow eased into a gentle drift, the Company settled into quieter pursuits. Carving, mending, storytelling. Bilbo read aloud from his book while Ori listened with rapt attention.

You found Fíli again near the edge of camp, seated on a fallen log with the pale wood you’d seen him carving the night before.

“Can I?” you asked, gesturing to the space beside him.

“Of course.”

You sat, your boots swinging slightly above the snow. “What are you making?”

He hesitated, then handed it to you.

It was a small figure — unmistakably hobbit-shaped — wrapped in a tiny cloak, hands tucked close to its chest. The details were careful, loving. You traced a finger over the smooth surface, awe blooming in your chest.

“Fíli,” you breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s not finished,” he said quickly. “But… I wanted you to have it. For Yule.”

Something warm and tight filled your chest, pressing behind your eyes.

“No one’s ever made me something like this,” you admitted softly.

He smiled, a little shy. “I thought… you’re far from home. And hobbits seem to like things that fit in the hand. Things that last.”

You laughed softly through the emotion. “You noticed.”

“I notice,” he said, simply.

You turned the figure over once more, then tucked it carefully into your pocket. “I’ll treasure it.”

A quiet settled between you — not awkward, but thoughtful.

“Can I show you something?” you asked suddenly.

He raised a brow. “What is it?”

“Come with me.”

You led him a short distance away, to where a small cluster of evergreens stood thick and close together. From your pack, you retrieved a bundle wrapped in cloth.

“I brought this from the Shire,” you said. “Didn’t think I’d ever have reason to use it, but… it’s Yule.”

You unwrapped the cloth to reveal small paper stars, folded carefully by hand, each one tied with thread.

Fíli’s eyes softened. “You made these?”

“Yes. We hang them up to remind us that even small lights matter.”

Together, you tied them to low branches, the paper pale against the green, fluttering softly in the breeze.

“They look like they belong,” he murmured.

“So do you,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He turned to you, searching your face.

“Do I?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Here. With them. With… me.”

His hand found yours, tentative at first, then certain.

“I feel the same,” he said. “More than I expected.”

The sun dipped low, painting the snow in gold and rose. Somewhere behind you, the Company laughed and sang, voices carrying through the trees.

Fíli squeezed your hand gently. “Would you… sit with me tonight? By the fire.”

You smiled, heart full. “I’d like that.”

As dusk fell and the candles were lit once more, you returned to the camp together. The warmth, the light, the quiet joy of the season wrapped around you like a promise.

Yule was not just a memory anymore.

It was here — alive in shared glances, handmade gifts, and the steady, growing closeness between you and a golden-haired dwarf who carved hope into wood and held your hand like it was something precious.

And the longest night had already passed.

Night settled fully this time, deep and blue and quiet.

The camp glowed like a fallen star amid the snow, firelight pooling warmly against the dark. Lanterns hung from branches, their glass fogged with heat, and the paper stars you’d hung earlier fluttered softly in the evening breeze. Candles flickered everywhere — along logs, nestled into hollows in the snow, their flames brave and steady.

Yule night.

The Company gathered close, cloaks drawn tight, shoulders brushing. There was a reverence to the evening, a sense that this was the heart of the celebration — the moment meant for closeness and truth.

Thorin spoke again, briefly, offering thanks — for the road behind, the road ahead, and for those who walked it together. Then he sat, content to let the night unfold.

Stories followed.

Balin told of old Yules beneath the Mountain, of great halls lit with thousands of candles reflected in stone and gold. Bifur spoke of distant lands and strange winter customs. Even Dwalin shared a tale, gruff but earnest, that ended with unexpected laughter.

You listened, wrapped in Fíli’s cloak once more, seated beside him near the fire as promised. The edge of the fabric brushed your cheek when he leaned closer, and you could feel the warmth of him through it — solid, reassuring.

At some point, his arm slid behind you, careful and unassuming, offering support without demand. You leaned into it instinctively, and his breath stuttered — just once — before evening out again.

Snow fell quietly, catching in his hair. Without thinking, you reached up and brushed a flake away. His eyes met yours, searching.

Neither of you spoke.

The world narrowed again — firelight, falling snow, the steady beat of your heart.

Later, as the fire burned lower and the Company drifted into smaller clusters, Kíli strummed a soft tune on his fiddle, the notes wandering like a dream. Some dwarves dozed where they sat. Others spoke in murmurs, laughter hushed.

You felt Fíli shift beside you.

“Would you like to walk?” he asked quietly. “Just for a bit.”

You nodded, rising with him. Together, you stepped beyond the circle of light, your boots crunching softly in the snow. The forest around you felt hushed and expectant, branches arching overhead like a cathedral.

You didn’t go far — just to the evergreens where the paper stars still hung, pale shapes against the dark.

“They look even better at night,” you murmured.

“They do,” he agreed. “Thank you. For sharing them with me.”

You smiled. “Thank you for the carving. I keep touching it, just to make sure it’s real.”

He chuckled softly, then grew serious. “I meant what I said earlier. About noticing.”

You turned to face him, heart beating faster. “I know.”

“I don’t always know how to say things plainly,” he continued. “Especially things that matter.”

You waited, breath held.

“But this road…” He gestured back toward the camp, the firelight glowing between the trees. “It’s been cold. Hard. And then you joined us, and suddenly Yule feels like Yule again.”

Emotion welled up, warm and overwhelming. “I was so afraid,” you admitted. “When I left the Shire. I thought I’d lose myself out here.”

“Did you?”

You shook your head. “No. I think I found something instead.”

He stepped closer, careful, giving you time. “I think I did too.”

For a long moment, you simply looked at each other — two souls meeting in the quiet dark.

Then, slowly, Fíli lifted a hand, brushing his thumb along your cheek in a question rather than a claim.

You leaned into the touch.

The kiss, when it came, was gentle — soft as falling snow. A promise rather than a declaration. His lips were warm, faintly tasting of smoke and spice, and when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Yule gift,” he murmured, a smile in his voice.

You laughed softly. “My favorite kind.”

You stayed there for a while, arms wrapped around each other, sharing warmth in the cold. When you returned to the fire, no one commented — but Kíli’s grin was entirely too knowing.

The night deepened.

At midnight, as was tradition among both hobbits and dwarves in different ways, gifts were exchanged.

Nothing grand — small, meaningful things. Bofur handed out hand-knitted socks. Ori gave Bilbo a new journal. Balin pressed a small, polished stone into your palm for luck.

When it was Fíli’s turn again, he hesitated, then reached into his pocket.

“This,” he said quietly, offering you a thin leather cord with a small carved star threaded onto it. “I finished it.”

Your breath caught. “It’s perfect.”

He helped you tie it around your neck, his fingers lingering at your collarbone.

“For light,” he said. “Wherever you go.”

You swallowed hard, then reached into your own pack.

“I made something too,” you said, handing him a small bundle. Inside was a neatly folded scarf — hobbit-made, soft and warm, dyed in deep green.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever give it to anyone,” you admitted. “But… Yule felt right.”

He ran his fingers over it reverently. “I’ll wear it. Always.”

The fire burned low, and one by one, the Company drifted to sleep. Some took to tents, others to bedrolls near the embers.

You remained by the fire, drowsy and content.

“Stay here,” Fíli said softly. “It’s warmer.”

You nodded, curling up beside him, your head resting against his shoulder. He wrapped his cloak around you both, his arm secure and protective.

Above you, the stars shone bright and cold. Below, the fire glowed steady and warm.

You drifted in and out of sleep, aware of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, of the way his hand rested at your back as though it belonged there.

For the first time in a long while, you dreamed without fear.

Yule night passed — not in darkness, but in light shared between souls.

You woke slowly, wrapped in warmth.

For a moment, you didn’t remember where you were — only the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek, the scent of smoke and pine and wool, the quiet crackle of embers. Then memory returned in a soft rush, and you smiled without opening your eyes.

Fíli.

His arm was still around you, solid and protective, his cloak draped over you both. The fire had burned down to a gentle glow, casting faint light across the snow-dusted camp. Dawn was just beginning to creep in — pale and blue, touching the edges of the world with promise.

Yule morning, after the longest night.

You shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, but his grip tightened just a bit, instinctive.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

You laughed softly. “Good morning.”

He opened his eyes, blinking, then smiled when he saw you. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better than I have in weeks.”

He brushed his thumb along your arm, slow and absentminded. “Me too.”

Around you, the camp stirred — quiet voices, the soft clink of cookware, the smell of bread warming over the fire. Someone began humming, low and content.

You sat up together, stretching, and Fíli helped you to your feet, keeping a careful hand at your elbow on the icy ground.

Breakfast was unhurried. There was laughter, shared glances, and the easy comfort of people who had weathered something together. Even Thorin seemed lighter this morning, his gaze lingering fondly on the Company.

Bilbo caught your eye and smiled knowingly. You pretended not to notice.

Later, as the camp was packed and the road prepared once more, you lingered near the evergreens. The paper stars still hung there, some dusted with snow, others turning gently in the breeze.

“I think I’ll miss this place,” you said quietly.

Fíli came to stand beside you. “We’ll carry it with us.”

You touched the carved star at your throat. “I already am.”

He hesitated, then took your hands in his. “I don’t know where this road will lead. But I know I don’t want to walk it without you.”

Emotion rose warm and sure. “Neither do I.”

He smiled — hopeful, certain — and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

When the Company set out again, the snow crunched beneath your boots, and the sun climbed slowly higher. The cold remained, but it no longer felt biting.

Yule had passed.

But its light lingered — in carved wood and folded paper, in shared cloaks and held hands, in the quiet certainty of belonging.

And wherever the road led next, you knew this much was true:

You were not alone.

The road did not rush them away.

That was the first thing you noticed as the Company lingered in the clearing long after the sun had fully risen. Normally, there was an unspoken urgency to movement — a constant awareness of distance yet to be crossed, dangers yet to be faced. But this morning was different. Yule had loosened something in all of them, as though the world itself had granted a pause.

Snow sparkled beneath the pale sunlight, each drift untouched and pristine. The camp bore the soft evidence of celebration — boot prints overlapping in the snow, a ring of candles burned low, paper stars swaying gently in the evergreens like quiet prayers left behind.

You stood near the fire pit, hands wrapped around a mug of tea Bilbo had pressed into them with a conspiratorial smile.

“Best enjoyed slowly,” he’d said. “Yule mornings deserve that much.”

Fíli joined you, scarf looped around his neck — *your* scarf — its green a vivid contrast against his pale hair and the white snow. Seeing it there sent a small, foolish thrill through you, one you didn’t bother trying to hide.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

“Warm enough?” he asked, adjusting the scarf absently.

“Yes,” you said, then softer, “I think I will be for a long while.”

His gaze lingered on you, searching, as though he were memorizing the way the morning light touched your face. Something unspoken passed between you — the shared understanding that this moment mattered, that it would be remembered long after the road blurred together.

When Thorin called for the Company to gather, it wasn’t with the sharpness of command, but with the steadiness of leadership tempered by gratitude.

“We leave this place better than we found it,” he said, nodding toward the evergreens. “Let the light remain.”

Together, you extinguished the last candles, pressing fingers into snow-warmed wax, careful and reverent. You untied the paper stars slowly, folding them with care before tucking them back into your pack.

“They’ve done their work,” Fíli said quietly.

You nodded. “They’ll do it again.”

The road stretched ahead, white and winding, disappearing into the trees. You hesitated only a moment before stepping forward — and felt Fíli’s hand find yours, sure and warm, as though it had always known where it belonged.

No one commented.

No one needed to.

The day passed gently. Conversation drifted in and out, laughter rising and falling like breath. When the cold pressed in, Fíli walked closer, shielding you from the wind without ever making it feel like a burden.

At midday, you stopped for rest. The Company gathered around as Bombur passed out food, and you found yourself seated between Fíli and Kíli, the latter eyeing you both with open amusement.

“So,” Kíli said, far too cheerfully, “Yule seems to have been productive.”

Fíli groaned. “Must you?”

“I must,” Kíli replied. “It’s my duty as a brother.”

You laughed, leaning into Fíli’s side. “I think Yule worked on all of us.”

Balin, overhearing, smiled knowingly. “Aye. Some bonds are forged best in the quiet moments.”

That night, camp was made early.

The air was colder, sharper now that Yule had passed, but the warmth lingered in other ways. After supper, as the Company settled in, Fíli guided you toward a spot near the fire, spreading blankets with careful attention.

“Come sit,” he said. “I don’t want you cold.”

You settled beside him, close enough that your knees brushed. He adjusted the blanket over you both, movements gentle and unhurried.

“Fíli?” you asked quietly.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know what comes next,” you admitted. “I’ve never known roads like this. Or feelings like this.”

He turned to you fully then, expression open and sincere. “Neither have I. But I know this — whatever comes, I want to face it with you.”

Your chest tightened, full to bursting. “That’s enough for me.”

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. The kiss he gave you then was deeper than before — still tender, but surer now, carrying the weight of intention. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“Yule doesn’t end in a day,” he murmured. “Not for those who carry it forward.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, watching sparks rise into the dark. Around you, the Company slept, breathed, dreamed — alive and whole.

You thought of the Shire, of round doors and glowing windows, of family gathered close. You thought of the road ahead, uncertain and wild.

And for the first time, you realized something with perfect clarity.

Home was not only a place.

It was a warmth shared. A hand held. A light that endured even after the longest night.

You reached for the small carving in your pocket, thumb brushing its smooth surface, and smiled.

“Happy Yule,” you whispered, though the night had long since passed.

Fíli’s arm tightened around you. “Always.”

The fire crackled softly.

The road waited.

You saw the mischief forming in his eyes before he even spoke. “Come outside with me.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now!”

“Kíli, it’s freezing,” you protested weakly. “And you promised we could rest today. It’s Yule—there is no training during Yule.”

He grinned, leaning over you on the furs. “But this isn’t training. It’s… winter fun. Together.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like training with extra steps.”

“Trust me,” he said, grabbing your hands and practically pulling you upright, “you’ll love it.”

You gave a theatrical sigh, but the brightness in his face was impossible to deny. When Kíli was excited about something, it spread to everyone around him like wildfire.

“Fine,” you said at last.

“Excellent! Boots on. Coat. Mittens. Everything warm. I wouldn't want us catching a cold, amrâlimê”

“I know how to dress for snow, Kíli,” you said, laughing. “You’re the one who forgets gloves.”

“That was once,” he said indignantly, already halfway to the door.

“That was last week.”

“Ancient history!”

He looked back at you then, winking, and you couldn’t help the flutter in your chest. Only Kíli could make you willingly step out of a warm room into the fierce winter cold.

The moment the mountain gates opened, a gust of icy wind hit your cheeks, instantly waking you from the last remnants of sleep. Snow covered the world in a thick quilt, muffling sound and softening every edge. The sky hung low and silver, promising more snowfall to come.

Kíli inhaled deeply, clearly delighted. “Isn’t it perfect?”

“Perfect for frostbite,” you teased.

He only laughed and grabbed your hand with a gentle tug. “Come on!”

You trudged after him down the path leading into the pine forest that skirted the side of Erebor. The branches overhead sagged under the weight of snow, and every few steps, a clump of it slid off and fell with a soft whump. The air smelled sharp and clean—cold pine resin and distant hearthsmoke drifting from the mountain.

You paused to admire it all, the stillness, the sweeping white landscape, the distant mountain rising behind you like a sleeping giant.

Kíli came to a stop near a clearing you had visited with him once in autumn. It looked completely transformed now; the brown earth and yellow leaves were gone, replaced with untouched snow that sparkled faintly beneath the pale afternoon light.

He turned to you and—without warning—held out a familiar object.

A bow.

Your brows shot up.

“What?” he said innocently. “You have been asking me to teach you again.”

“In better weather.”

“Cold weather builds character.”

“No,” you said firmly, “it builds numb fingers.”

“You’ll be fine.” He nudged the bow toward you again. “Come on. Just a few shots. It’ll be fun—I promise.”

You sighed, taking it from him. “Only because you look so pleased with yourself.”

He actually bounced on his feet. “Excellent!”

It turned out that heavy snowfall did exactly what you expected—it made aiming nearly impossible. The flakes drifted into your eyes, clung to your lashes, coated the string, and blurred the trees in front of you. Your first arrow went so wildly off course that it didn’t even hit a tree, simply disappearing somewhere into a snowdrift.

Kíli tried—and failed—not to laugh.

“Don’t you dare,” you warned.

“I’m not!” he said, though his shoulders shook with amusement. “Truly, that was—impressive.”

You punched his arm lightly through his thick coat. “Show-off.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, still smiling. “Come here. Let me help.”

You lifted the bow again, but your hands were already cold, trembling a bit as you brushed falling snow off your sleeves. Kíli stepped forward, placing his hands over yours with gentle, guiding pressure.

“Relax your shoulders,” he murmured, close enough that you felt his breath warm your cheek. “And straighten your spine just a touch.”

You did, though your breath hitched a little when he moved behind you—close, closer still—until his chest brushed your back and his arms framed yours. His hands settled over your own on the bowstring.

The world shrank to that small space between you.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“I think so,” you said, finding your voice.

He leaned his cheek beside yours, close enough to see the snow melting against the warmth of his skin. “Don’t fight the wind. Let it move. Breathe with it.”

You exhaled, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with your own, the steady warmth of him grounding you against the cold.

“Now,” he whispered gently, focused on the target, “let the string go.”

The arrow flew—not perfectly, not beautifully—but far better than before. It hit the base of a pine tree with a solid *thunk*.

Your eyes widened. “I hit it!”

“You hit it!” Kíli repeated proudly, squeezing your shoulders. “See? Told you. You’re a natural.”

“A natural disaster,” you corrected, laughing heartily. “That was barely a hit.”

“But it was one.” His hands lingered at your waist before he stepped back, eyes bright with pride. “One more?”

You nodded, cheeks warm despite the cold.

But after a few more attempts—some decent, most laughably off—you felt the cold seep deep into your fingers. They were stiff, almost numb, barely responding as you reached for another arrow.

Kíli noticed immediately from your shivering.

“Hey,” he said softly, taking your hands in his. “They’re freezing.”

“I told you,” you said through chattering teeth, “training in winter is madness.”

He frowned, his expression softening in that tender way he always reserved for you. Without a word, he reached for his thick wool scarf—deep burgundy, beautifully woven, unmistakably dwarven in make. You had seen him wear it many times, and he always told you it was a gift from his mother, Dís.

“Kíli,” you protested as he unwound it from his neck, “you don’t have to, you'll catch a cold—”

“Hold still.”

He wrapped the scarf around you gently, tucking the ends beneath your chin with careful hands. It was unbelievably warm, and it smelled faintly of pine smoke, winter air, and something distinctly him.

You touched the wool with numb fingertips. “Kíli… this is yours. Your mother gave it to you.”

He smiled in that soft, crooked way that always stole your breath. “She’d want you warm. And—” His voice lowered, suddenly shy.

"I want you warm."

Your heart stuttered at that.

He brushed stray snowflakes from your hair, his thumb lingering along your cheek. “Better?”

“Much,” you whispered.

But the warmth spreading through your chest wasn’t from the scarf.

The snow fell around you in thick, quiet flakes, each one drifting lazily from the heavy-laden branches overhead. The forest was utterly still, as if holding its breath, listening. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of you—standing in a clearing where everything was soft, muted, and impossibly peaceful.

Kíli looked at you for a long moment, his expression shifting into something deeper—something that made your own breath catch in your throat.

“What?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, smiling with a kind of wonder, eyes tracing over your face with devotion so open it almost startled you. “Nothing. I’m just…” He exhaled, breath fogging in the cold air. “I’m just thinking how lucky I am.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Lucky?”

“To have you,” he said, voice steady but thick with emotion. “To share this with you. The holidays, the winter… everything.” He gestured to the scarf now wrapped around you. “Seeing you like that—bundled up in something my mother made—it feels like…” He paused, searching for the right words. “It feels like home.”

Your heart swelled almost painfully. You stepped closer, snow crunching softly beneath your boots. “Kíli…”

He took your hands, warming them between his own. His eyes—dark, bright, full of that familiar golden warmth—held yours without wavering. Snowflakes clung to his hair, his eyelashes, melting slowly against his skin. He looked impossibly beautiful.

“I love you,” you whispered before you even realized you had spoken.

His breath hitched. “Say it again.”

You reached up, brushing a melting flake from his cheek. “I love you.”

Kíli’s smile bloomed, one of pure joy, unrestrained and radiant. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs stroking along your cheekbones as though memorizing the shape of you.

Then, with all the tenderness in the world, he kissed you.

It was a soft kiss—slow, impossibly gentle—like he wanted to savor every heartbeat. The cold around you vanished as his hands slipped to cradle your jaw, pulling you closer. You curled your fingers in his coat, melting into the warmth of him, the taste of winter and honey lingering between you.

Snow fell around you, silent and steady, dusting your hair, your shoulders, your joined hands. The world, in that moment, felt impossibly small and impossibly perfect.

When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, he whispered,

“You’re the best Yule gift I’ve ever had."

You laughed softly, breath mingling with his. “You didn’t even know you were getting me.”

“I was hoping,” he murmured. “I always hoped.”

You kissed him again, one more soft brush of lips against the cold. “Let’s go back inside before we freeze.”

He nodded, but his hands stayed on your waist for a moment longer, as if he couldn’t bear to break the spell just yet.

“Alright,” he said softly. “But you’re keeping the scarf.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you with a finger to your lips and a grin.

“It suits you,” he said, linked your fingers with his, and gently guided you back toward the warm glow of the mountain.