"Should you be doing that?" Fíli asked that night as they camped by the lakeside. Morwinyon had moved away from the fire. Though her burns had healed completely – and so she would swear on anything anyone asked her to swear on, no matter that the heat from the fire still burned – she could see the stars better from here, sitting under a tree uninfested with spiderwebs and unblighted by darkness. Also, it made seeing what she was trying to do more difficult.

Unless, of course, her dwarf came seeking her.

Morwinyon shrugged mostly without pain as she continued trying to unwrap her bandages. Aside from an ignorable dull ache the arm felt fine, and she was tired of not having the use of her fingers: she was using her teeth to pull at the wrappings. It was undignified.

"Would you like help?"

"I can manage," she muttered around the edge of bandage clamped between her teeth, though her progress could charitably be called slow.

"I'm sure you can," he agreed. "That's why I asked if you'd like help instead of asking if you needed it."

With a sigh, she held out her arm. He sat and took her hand into his lap, carefully working free the knots and tucked edges Tauriel had used to make sure Morwinyon could not do exactly what she had been trying to do.

After a moment or three of fumbling with the knots, Fíli echoed her sigh. "These might have to be cut, though I don't have anything but the damn sword. Maybe Oin has something. How did she tie them so tightly?"

"Spite," Morwinyon grumbled, and sighed again. "I jest. She meant only to make sure I kept them on as long as she thought I should. There is a small knife in my left boot."

"Should you keep them on longer?" he inquired even as he reached for the knife. She obligingly stretched out her leg.

"No," she said. He did not reply as he began carefully cutting the knots out. "Sometimes Tauriel forgets how quickly I heal."

Fíli snorted. "And how quickly is that, Princess?"

She wriggled her fingers at him as he freed them from their cloth prison. "These were broken earlier."

He caught them, feeling over them carefully before unwrapping the rest of her arm, making her flex and move the arm in every direction and asking about pain.

"None," she said peevishly, and winced when her elbow and wrist popped with loud cracks. "That does not count."

"Of course not," he replied very dryly as he started unwrapping her other arm. "You're going to scar."

"Definitely," she agreed with some satisfaction, inspecting her right arm. The burns from the dragon blood had not responded quite as quickly as her broken bones had to the salve or her natural quick healing. Quicker than most elves, even, though her mother had been quicker to heal as she had been quicker in almost everything, but quick healing did not mean scarless healing. Her mother had had many scars. Morwinyin vividly remembered tracing some of them with small fingers, each a reminder that Laeriel had lived through ages and would continue to do so. Only, apparently, she had not.

Morwinyon planned to live through everything. Maybe that was what she inherited from her father.

That and an appreciation for aesthetics, she admitted to herself as she watched firelight flicker in Fíli's hair. She pitied Smaug all of a sudden: he had guarded his stolen horde so jealously, and all of it would only be outshone by a dwarf who could rightfully claim it.

"You really do have pretty hair," she told Fíli.

"So you've said," he replied, looking up at her. "Is this an elvish thing?"

"Maybe," she said instead of, definitely, yes, sorry my cultural upbringing involved odes to the beauty of hair and eyes, of which you also possess a nice pair, by the way. "We do not have beards, though."

He cocked his head, thumb running absently over the back of her now-unbandaged left hand. "You don't think I have a pretty beard?"

She could not help it. She laughed. "Of all the beards I have seen, yours is without a doubt the prettiest," she assured him.

"I would return the compliment," he said, "but you don't have a beard. It's a little off-putting, you know. You'll have to settle for having the prettiest unbearded face I've seen."

"You could compliment my hair," she pointed out. "I have rather nice hair."

"You have beautiful hair. Oin nearly squints his eyes out of his head when he sees it, though – it's not entirely decent."

"Is that why he glares at me?" Morwinyon asked, feeling cheered. "I thought he did not like me. I am not sure what is not entirely decent about my hair, though."

Fíli, wincing, said, "Well, he might not like you much, either, but most of the dwarves who grew up in Erebor are stricter about propriety. Our generation – Kíli's and mine – doesn't care as much. You can see how he does his hair."

Morwinyon laughed again. "Are you saying I am-" she took a moment to remember the appropriate term from a book she had found lying in Inwiel's office once. "Are you saying I am a shameless hussy?"

"Nooo," he said, drawing it out. "I'm saying Oin might think so. Because he's old and stubborn."

"I suppose I must avoid accidentally offending old and stubborn dwarves," Morwinyon mused.

"Or don't," Fíli said, shrugging. "Thorin won't care about your hair."

Something in his tone caught her attention. "Just about my elvishness."

Fíli shrugged. "Thorin isn't fond of your father. On a personal level. I don't think."

"If you knew how few people were fond of my father on a personal level, you would not be quite so hesitant to tell me about it," Morwinyon told him, though that was not entirely true if she thought about it. Even Tauriel talked about Thranduil with an annoyed sort of fondness, even when he did something that would have made Morwinyon furious. But then, Thranduil had always been fond of Tauriel too – even when he was at his most autocratic with her. It occurred to Morwinyon that she did not have as large a pool of reactions to draw on in regards to her father as she had thought.

"If it helps, your father's hair is even more scandalous than yours."

"It helps a great deal, though I am almost certain he would take it as a point of pride."

Fíli finally put down her hand and stood to collect the bandages. "I'll bring you some food and tea, if you can't sit beside the fire comfortably."

"Who said I could not?" she asked, kicking one foot idly and testing her arms by leaning back on her elbows. They were in the edges of the forest, so the ground was loamy without being full of pinecones or acorns or other pods to irritate her completely and totally healed arms. "Perhaps I only need help with my hair."

"I'm sure that is the entire reason," Fíli agreed solemnly. "Me helping you with your hair won't get you into Oin's good graces, though, and it is something taken seriously by my generation."

Morwinyon let herself fall to the ground with a thump. "Food would be appreciated."

"Leaves and tangles won't help either," Fíli called over his shoulder as he went back to the others.

"Why do I like him?" Morwinyon asked the stars she could see through the canopy. "I suppose because he is charming. And he did save me from drowning. And talks to me like I am a capable adult. And helped with my bandages. And helped fight Smaug. And is getting me food. Other than that I cannot imagine."

A snicker came from her left.

"It cannot be because of his family," she continued to the stars. "The little brother is reckless and rash and an eavesdropper and apparently a shameless hussy, too."

Kíli flopped to the ground beside her. "But the little brother is so good looking," he protested. "Not to mention charming and sweet and brave."

"If you would like me to carry word of your virtues to Tauriel, I am afraid I can say only 'fights dragons' and 'occasionally jests'."

"Now you're just being mean," he said comfortably. "But as I am the bigger person-"

She snorted.

"- and as those aren't terrible virtues to have, I will offer to help you with your hair. I care even less for tradition than my brother."

Morwinyon turned her head to look at him. Kíli had come after her and Bain, which meant he cared, and he had helped with Smaug, which meant he was brave, and he did like Tauriel, which meant he had some measure of good judgment.

"I suppose I must be honest with you," she said. "I asked for help with my hair from exactly who I wanted help from."

"Yes, and when I make a complete mess of it he won't be able to help himself. You have an older brother. You know how it is."

"I will have to take your word for it," she said slowly. Legolas was so much older than she was. He had always been good at letting her make what mistakes her father allowed her to make.

"Sit up," Kíli ordered. "I have a comb."

She obeyed.

When Fíli returned, he found Morwinyon feeling around her new hairstyle, which even she could tell was lopsided and already straggling free, and Kíli sitting behind her on a log.

"I take it your hair choices are not so much the statement of a revolutionary as a product of complete lack of skill," she said.

"Shh," Kíli replied. "It's a secret."

Fíli sighed, and Morwinyon looked at him.

"I told you I needed help with my hair," she said. "Admittedly I appear to have accepted a poor offer."

"Just move," Fíli ordered his brother, setting down plate and cup beside Morwinyon. "You did this on purpose."

"Someone had to flirt for you," Kíli said, unperturbed as he handed the comb over at Fíli's imperious gesture.

"Who will flirt for you?" Fíli asked dangerously as he took his brother's seat on the log, trying and failing to untangle the mass of braids at the back of Morwinyon's neck. "Since you trip over your own feet whenever you so much as see a flash of red hair lately? Seeing Gloin will be awkward. What did you do?"

"I braided," Kíli replied haughtily. "And Morwinyon has graciously agreed to pass on compliments."

"When did that happen?" Morwinyon asked. "I only told you the ones I could pass on."

"Oh, come on-"

"Go away before I do something awful," Fíli interrupted. "This is a mess, and Oin will actually murder me if he comes to see what I am doing."

"He won't murder you," Kíli protested even as he left. "You're the good one!"

Fíli muttered under his breath as he did his best to fight out the tangles. After a while, Morwinyon asked, "Will he actually murder you?"

"No, but he will tell Balin when we arrive, and I don't need a lecture on the responsibilities of my position and how being in compromising positions with people is the opposite of remembering them."

"I wanted you in this position," Morwinyon admitted. "But I do not want you in trouble."

"I make it sound more dire than it is," Fíli assured her. "Balin is a master of the disappointed face, but he probably wouldn't tell Thorin."

"Oh. Good."

"This isn't as terrible as I thought it was going to be," Fíli remarked after a short time. Morwinyon tilted her head back to look up at him incredulously. "Oh, no, the braids were awful and somehow he managed to tie one around your ear, but I mean your hair is coming untangled much more easily than mine did the few times I let Kíli experiment on me."

"Oh," she said, looking back towards the lake. She could not even see the fire. Fíli had abandoned the comb early on, and now he carded his fingers through her hair in search of more tangles, brushing against her injured ear. It did not hurt.

"You really do have beautiful hair," he said, clearing his throat. "Since we're past all limits of propriety now anyway."

"I comes from my mother's side," Morwinyon said. For some reason she could think of nothing else to say. "I mean, obviously. You have seen my father."

"I haven't, actually," Fíli said. "Thorin mentioned his hair in one of many imprisoned rants."

"Oh. Well. It is gold. Not like yours, it is… my mother called it morning sunlight."

"Your mother was a poet?"

Morwinyon shrugged helplessly. How to explain that most elves were poets, one way or another? Laeriel's writing, what Morwinyon had seen of it in letters locked away in Thranduil's desk drawer or Legolas' keepsake box, was more lyrical than most because she had raised speaking Quenya, which was practically speaking in poetry anyway. "My mother was larger than life in nearly everything. It makes sense that her endearments would be, too."

Fíli 'hmm'ed, working on a tiny braid above her ear. "Did she have one for you?"

"Morwinyon was her endearment," she said. "The name she gave me. She never called me anything else – Glint-in-the-dark, the western star, the one we elves can follow home."

He stopped braiding. His breathing changed a little.

"So, yes," she said into the silence. "I suppose she did give me a larger than life endearment."

"A lot to live up to," he said. "Are they ever difficult, those expectations?"

Morwinyon did not shake her head, but only because Fíli had resumed braiding. "Only if no one lets me try."

He stopped again, but for a much shorter time. "I wouldn't try to stop you."

She smiled wider than she remembered ever doing, because she did not doubt him. "I know."

"Morwinyon-"

"Elves believe that sometimes people just fit," she said quickly, trying to get the words out. "Like – not like something broken, we are whole by ourselves. Not like a puzzle, it is not difficult, but…"

He waited, tying off the small braid with a tie and moving to make a larger one.

"Sometimes you know that someone fits in your life," she said finally. "Like Tauriel does. Like Legolas. You and I, we fit."

"I fit in your life like your brother?" he teased, finishing the big braid off faster.

She tilted her head back to look up at him. "Not even remotely."

He met her eyes for one long, never-ending moment before looking away, and though she was effectively looking at him upside-down it did not feel ridiculous. "I am glad for that," he said.

"But?"

"You will live a great deal longer than I will-"

"Beren and Luthien," she said. "You will live longer than he did, anyway."

Surprised, he laughed. "All right. Objection withdrawn."

"Are there others?" she asked. "I do not want – I want you to want me like I want you, but elves fall in love very quickly as a rule, and I do not know-"

"No other objections," he said. "Well. My family will probably have objections, but as it's actually illegal for them to do more than complain about my choice of spouse…"

Morwinyon turned around and kissed him. He was at a very convenient height on the log, and she was trying to figure out the logistics of a near two-foot height difference even as his hands, still caught in her hair, came up to cradle her face as if on instinct.

It was just as well they had the comb: both sets of braids had to be redone by morning.