You hadn’t planned to join a Company of dwarves, let alone follow them into the wilds of Middle-earth. But when Gandalf’s knock came—a staff rapping against your quiet door—you couldn’t say no. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was destiny.

The road stretches long and unkind beneath your horse’s hooves: winding through tangled forests, across windswept plains, and up crumbling mountain paths where the cold gnaws at bone and spirit alike. Yet even in this rough fellowship, you find one companion whose presence feels like the warmest fire on the coldest night.

Fíli Durin.

At first, it’s small things. A shared glance over the crackling campfire. His grin when you fumble to secure your bedroll, hands clumsy from the biting chill. The quiet comfort of his laughter, soft and genuine, washing away the ache of the road.

At night, as the others drift into exhausted slumber, you and Fíli linger awake—drawn to each other by something neither of you dares name aloud. You speak in hushed tones so as not to wake the others: of Erebor’s lost glory, of your own half-forgotten home, of fear, of hope. His golden hair gleams even in the dim light, loose strands falling across his cheek as he turns to look at you, eyes thoughtful and kind.

Your heart beats louder in the silence between words. Sometimes your shoulders brush, and neither of you moves away. You catch the faint scent of leather and campfire smoke on him, strangely comforting.

Daylight finds you riding side by side. Your horses match each other's pace as though they, too, sense the invisible thread that’s woven itself between you. When the trail narrows, he glances back—just once—to see if you’re still there. Always that quick, lopsided grin when your eyes meet. Always that unspoken promise: I won’t let you fall behind.

In dangerous moments—trolls looming out of the gloom, goblins skittering in the dark—Fíli is at your side, blades drawn, jaw set in quiet resolve. You feel the rush of fear, but also a fierce, unfamiliar trust: that somehow, he would fight the world itself to keep you safe.

One night, the wind howls mercilessly through the stones, turning your breath to mist. Without a word, Fíli shifts his bedroll closer to yours. Your hands brush as you both settle in, and the faintest flush creeps into his cheeks despite the cold. The firelight dances over his features—proud brow, soft mouth, eyes that see so much more than you can say.

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

“Can’t have you freezing out here,” he murmurs, voice rough from the road and something softer beneath. His words come out half-teasing, but you catch the tremor of truth behind them.

The silence stretches, heavy with everything unspoken. You lie there, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. Somewhere in the dark, an owl hoots, and the night feels impossibly wide—but not empty. Not with him here.

You drift to sleep beside him, warmed by more than the fire.

The road ahead remains uncertain: dragons, battles, and shadows deeper than night itself. Yet in this fragile, unexpected closeness, you and Fíli find something precious. A quiet promise, wordless but sure: As long as we walk this road, we walk it together.