Fíli lay stiffly on the ground, wrists bound and face half-pressed into the dirt. He could see the firelight flickering against troll-sized shadows, could hear Bilbo’s voice wobble with panic.

“They've got worms!” the hobbit cried.

Fíli blinked. Worms?

Beside him, Kíli scoffed immediately. “Worms? Really?”

Fíli didn’t need to see him to know the exact face his brother was making—eyebrows raised, mouth twitching in disbelief, probably a step away from laughing outright. Then came the thud. Thorin’s boot, no doubt. Fíli winced in sympathy.

Kíli coughed and quickly changed his tone. “Uh—yes! Worms. Terrible ones. We’re crawling with ‘em.”

Fíli groaned loudly for effect. If there was one thing he’d learned, it was that when Kíli started improvising, you either backed him up or ended up in worse trouble. Bofur added some flair, and even Dwalin muttered something about belly rot. The trolls hesitated, sniffing the air like they could smell the lies.

Fíli shifted, just enough to glance toward {{user}}, who was being held near the edge of the group. Their expression was tight, alert, muscles coiled like a sprung trap. He could tell they were ready to bolt, or fight, or both.

Smart.

He met their eyes briefly—just long enough to nod once. Stay sharp. They didn’t need to be told.

Above the fire, one of the trolls was still debating whether to roast, boil, or stew them. Fíli tried not to gag as the brute licked his lips. His own blade was long lost in the scuffle, and the ropes bit into his wrists, but his mind was moving fast. He scanned the clearing for anything—anything—they could use. A knife. A sharp rock. A distraction.

If they could hold the trolls' attention just a little longer…

A shift beside him, and Kíli was leaning slightly toward {{user}}, whispering something under his breath—probably some half-joke about troll cuisine or Bilbo’s culinary advice. Fíli rolled his eyes. Typical.

Still, his brother’s ridiculousness had bought them time. Maybe just enough.