Title: Scarf
Chapter's genre: Friendship
Summary: He found himself oddly content between the past and upcoming storm.
Chapter 1
A chill breeze penetrated Fíli's oversized tunic – shirt really – that Bard and his family had provided for him. The younger daughter of Bard had given him two shirts; a brown one with short sleeves that still managed to reach his elbows and a grey one with long sleeves that hung limply past his fingertips. He had been given a strip of red cloth to use as a belt to have the loose clothing hug closer to his stocky figure as well as keep the sleeves tied to his wrists. He had seen the elder daughter take what he presumed to be a dress that both sisters had long since outgrown and rip it into long strips before offering one to each member of the Company.
The collars of his shirts were so wide they exposed bare skin on his shoulders which made the young prince highly self-conscious. No respectful dwarf would succumb to one or two layers of clothing, for both practical and aesthetic reasons. Fíli could already feel his naturally cool skin freeze over in the barely noticeable, but still biting wind. He really missed his many layers of shirts and undershirts as well as his beloved travelling coat and the warm warg fur. Nonetheless he was grateful for the few obviously well-worn articles of cloth that the poor family was able offer him.
Water sloshed merrily against wooden pillars that supported the house of Bard, the sound not even nearly as deafening as the underground falls of Ered Luin that the young dwarf prince was accustomed to. He was certain the Beard Falls were still a tolerable temperature for a swim. Same couldn't be said for Long Lake; merely looking at the floating ice made him shiver in discomfort. His hand reached for the pipe hidden between the folds of his makeshift belt. He had managed to keep it on his person through the forced stay at the Woodland Realm. Same couldn't be said for his priced weapons. Unfortunately Fíli hadn't had the chance to restock his pipe-weed supply since passing through the town of Bree, but he had just enough for one last smoke. Southlinch, he recalled the pipe-weed to be called. He lit his pipe with numb fingers and took a greedy inhale of the sweet smelling smoke. Settling for a more comfortable position against the railing, he exhaled slowly a cloud of smoke and let his eyes close in content.
Muffled sounds could be heard in the wooden house of his hosts. Bofur and Tauriel were conversing in hushed tones as not to disturb the still recovering raven haired prince. Óin was lightly snoring, probably passed out in front of the fireplace. The poor healer hadn't managed to get a wink of rest between trying to create a suitable medicine for the raving and hallucinating Kíli and fighting off invading orcs. Tonight he would enjoy few hours of well-deserved rest; Fíli would make sure of it.
A soft, slightly off-tune humming carried over from one of the holes on the wall created by the recent orc skirmish. Another, considerably younger voice joined the humming. The melody was upbeat, like a song the men of Bree would sing with a pint of ale in their hands at the famous Prancing Pony. Still with his eyes closed, Fíli felt his foot tap to the beat as he imagined a merry group of dwarves and men alike celebrating in a cozy tavern by the warmth of a hearth. All too soon the song ended and he was snapped out of the pleasant daydream back to the cold and damp of Esgaroth. There was a ruffle of blankets followed by a faint "sleep well, little Tilly" and a candle was blown out by the window next to where the beds were. Before the fair haired dwarf could bemoan the lack of music, the humming continued. This time it seemed less merry and almost aimless. As if the person behind the voice couldn't quite decide what to do with the song, so she settled for any notes that passed her lips. Fíli inhaled and exhaled the smoke slowly and strained his ears. He could barely make out a quiet clack of something small and wooden hitting together.
He was almost done with his smoke when the clacking and humming ceased. He could hear light footsteps closing in and opened his eyes in time to see the oaken door creak open. Out came the elder daughter of Bard, holding a folded cloth between her small bony hands.
"May I join you, Master Dwarf?" she asked pleasantly. The crown prince gave a subtle nod in confirmation and politely emptied his pipe before replacing it in his belt. He watched her with mild curiosity from the corner of his eye as she fumbled with the faded blue cloth.
"I wanted to thank you for what you did back there", she began. Fíli turned to fully face her and furrowed his brows in confusion. "It was very brave of you, reckless even, to fight the orcs unarmed", she elaborated.
"Least I can do after you helped us", he replied easily as he studied her youthful face. A small warm smile rose to her usually serious face. It reminded him of his mother's nostalgic smile when she told him and Kíli stories of their father; a smile originating from happier times that had survived through the hardships of life.
Strange how such a small detail took his thoughts back to the halls of the Blue Mountains, his home. Surely there was nothing else that this petite woman had in common with the finely shaped dames of his race. She could hardly be considered attractive by his people's standards. Fíli was quite sure he could snap her in two like a twig, for her body was frail; not graceful and agile like the Captain of the Guard glued to his brother's side, but underweight and weak from poverty. And while some might be able to look past the obvious lack of beard, she didn't have anything on the dwarrowdams with her formless body shape. The clothes she wore positively engulfed her tiny frame and hid any and all traits that would separate her from, say, Bain. All the same, Fíli felt there was something inviting about the wide kind eyes that peered at him so openly without restraints.
He snapped out of his musings when the small hands of his present company presented the cloth she had been hugging to her chest previously.
"I know it isn't much", she trailed off as she unfolded the cloth for him to see. It was a faded blue scarf. Unlike rest of the clothing he wore, the scarf was clearly unused and newly made. Sigrid hesitantly wrapped it around his neck before letting her hands fall to her sides and fiddled the ends of her bodice. His hands reached up to try the texture between chilly fingers. It was nothing like the sturdy leathers and soft wools he was accustomed to. But he didn't mind the roughness of the scarf as warmth slowly spread across his previously bare neck.
"You made this… for me?" She nodded and bit her lower lip and let her gaze fall past his short stature to demurely stare at their feet. He stepped closer and studied her flustered face in silence. He could barely make out the freckles that dusted her upper cheeks. So different from Bombur's, he thought.
Sigrid shifted her weight uncomfortably, her small hands clenching and unclenching. Growing slightly irritated by her obvious nervousness, the prince took her calloused hands between his bigger ones and held them. Her eyes shot up to his in surprise as his thumb caressed the back of her hand.
"It is warm, thank you."
Her bony hands were warm against his strong warrior's hands and he idly pondered if all children of men were as hot-blooded. A common misconception was that dwarves were as hot-blooded as they were hot tempered, but their blood was cool which required multiple layers of clothing to keep warm even during the warmer seasons. Truly, Fíli had to wonder what Illúvatar had fashioned the men after when creating them, for they were small and frail. Even Bilbo who was Tilda's height seemed to have more meat around his bones than the willowy figure of Sigrid. Yet there was hidden strength in the race of men, not as obvious as the grace of elves or the raw strength of dwarves. But it was there, and whatever it was, it was easier to see than the strength of hobbits Fíli had had the chance to witness during their long trek. Who would've thought someone so small and timid would prove to be an invaluable ally in the grand scheme of things.
He released Sigrid's hands and returned to leaning against the railing. Thinking about Bilbo was a sure way to remind himself of the quest and the rest of the Company that now climbed up the mountain. His gaze traveled to the horizon where the Lonely Mountain stood tall and proud. He had wanted to be there with his kin, to be by his uncle's side and witness the great halls of his forefathers. But as much as his place was beside his uncle and King, it was even more so beside his injured brother.
The atmosphere was nearly tranquil, but Fíli knew better than to let it fool him into a false sense of security. It was the calm after the storm. Or before the next storm, he thought grimly. There still remained the very real fear of a live dragon residing deep beneath the mountain. Should the worst come to pass, he would have to do everything in his power to get Bard's family as well as his remaining companions to safety. The mere thought of the wooden city above the lake surface being scorched by dragon fire made his insides churn uncomfortably.
No. It won't come to that. Smaug has not been seen in decades, he reminded himself firmly and willed the dark thoughts to fade away. He had spent enough time worrying for his brother. He would take this one day at a time.
Distant voices of patrolling guards roused the unlikely couple from their musings.
"It's late. Come inside", Sigrid suggested as she stood up and smoothened the wrinkles off her skirts. Silently the woman and the dwarf entered the destroyed home and settled next to the sleeping Óin. Even with all the recent not-so-pleasant happenings, Fíli found himself oddly content sitting next to the fire, with the faintest brush of Sigrid's side against his.