A/N: Things I apparently cannot do include a) recovering from my feels and b) stop writing about the Durins. Here's a piece about Fili, and his uncle, and a bit of Kili-but mostly Fili because he deserves it.
Not slash. Not mine. The usual.
The sunlight is warm and cloying, thick with the scent of clover and honey, and the skinchanger's eyes are proud and wild and distrustful, more beast than man.
Fili scrapes a breath, in and out, his throat still dry with weariness. They have rested at the house of Beorn for three days, and he has promised aid and the wizard has muttered reassurances to the company of Thorin, but it is no good. Fili has not rested since Rivendell.
If there is any comfort, it is that Kili sleeps soundly. When night falls, Fili watches his brother sleep on the bedroll beside his, listens to his peaceful breathing and promises himself that they have done well, at least in this. Kili is safe.
That is, after all, what matters most.
But Fili is more than brother—he is nephew and heir and a member of this company. He has not the gift of speech and careful questioning, so he cannot find the words to ask his uncle, What of the pale orc? What of the forest? What of the dragon?
He chokes down heavy cream and heavier bread, flicks away the fattest bees he has ever seen, and he waits. He waits for the sunlight to warm his heart as well as his face, for his uncle's brow to lighten. He waits for the day when being a prince will no longer feel like pretending, and he fears that that day will never come.
Kili finds him with his back against the weathered slats of the southern wall of Beorn's house. Kili slumps beside him, breaking the quiet as he always does, and Fili is grateful for his presence.
"Your beard is getting longer," Fili says, because it is (just a bit), and he wants to see his brother smile.
Kili beams. He has something tucked in his sleeve, and he holds it out after a moment. It is an orange, fat and firm. The pebbly rind rolls under Fili's fingers. He has not seen an orange since Bag End. They were not green enough for Rivendell.
"Where did you find it?"
"Beorn gave it to me," Kili says carelessly. "He likes me best of all the dwarves, I think."
It is easy to like Kili, Fili knows. Kili's face is always bright, even when there is no sunshine. He should be the one with the golden hair.
Kili steals back the orange so that he can toss it from hand to hand. "The goats took a fancy to me."
Fili wrinkles his nose. "You certainly smell like them."
Kili kicks him in the shin, but not too hard. Fili elbows him back and Kili grabs for his mustache. Fili protests at that.
"Enough! I just finished rebraiding it."
Kili subsides, toying with the orange, which is, miraculously, still intact. He closes his eyes and smiles dreamily upwards. Then he opens his eyes and says offhandedly, "Uncle is smoking by the stone wall."
Fili wonders how his brother knows. But then, they have never been able to hide anything from each other. He stands, shaking out the folds of his coat. He is not too many steps away when he hears his brother's voice.
"Catch!"
Kili tosses him the orange.
He finds Thorin by the wall as Kili said he would, one arm across his chest—and perhaps it is cradling his ribs, though Thorin's face shows no sign of pain—and his broad fingers around the bowl of his pipe.
Fili fingers the orange in his pocket and does not know what to say. It has always been like this. He is a fighter, even a warrior, a protector in his own right, but he is always in his uncle's shadow.
And he wants to be. But he does not know if he makes his uncle proud.
Thorin sees him, and his face creases into a smile. It is not the broad grin with which he occasionally favors Kili, but Fili does not mind.
"Come," Thorin says, with a glance at the wall beside him, and it is all the invitation Fili needs.
He sits beside his uncle and fumbles for his own pipe. He has his own weed, too, but Thorin offers him a pinch from the pouch in his coat.
"Thank you," Fili murmurs, and for a few moments they sit smoking in silence.
He feels Thorin's eyes on him. He meets the steely gaze and finds words springing unbidden to his lips.
"Are we safe here?"
Thorin's brow furrows. "Do you feel unsafe?"
Fili swallows, chin lowering. "I do not like the air," he confesses, though it sounds foolish. "And the sunshine—it is too bright—"
Thorin's hand reaches almost to ruffle his hair, but falls on his shoulder instead. It is a king's touch more than an uncle's, but it is enough. It has always been enough. "You were made for home, sister-son. As was I."
Fili nods, leaning into his touch. It is true, what Thorin says, although the home Fili longs for is not always Erebor. Ered Luin is always in his mind and heart, and perhaps that is traitorous of him, but he cannot help it.
When we reclaim Erebor, he tells himself, Mother will come, and she will be like a queen—and we will live all together, happily. Then it will be home.
He holds out the orange, and Thorin takes it, breaks it open. Fili relishes the sharp fragrance of the peel, and takes the half Thorin offers him.
He smiles at his uncle, and rests in their closeness, and the air does not feel so thick—even though the sunlight still does not warm his heart.