The dim light of the mountain filtered through the gates of Erebor, casting faint, cold shadows against the stone walls. Fíli stood near the great hall's edge, his hands gripping the hilt of one of his swords. His golden hair, braided tightly for battle, caught faint glimmers of torchlight. Beyond the gates, the Elven army waited in flawless formation, their banners swaying in the breeze. The sight was both mesmerizing and foreboding, a silent reminder of the growing tension outside.

Fíli’s sharp blue eyes shifted as he heard your soft steps approaching. When you stood beside him, he glanced your way, taking in the unease reflected in your gaze. Though he tried to appear composed, the weight of the moment pressed heavily on him.

“They’re waiting,” Fíli said quietly, his voice steady despite the frustration in his tone. “Elves and their patience. They’ll stand there for weeks if they have to.” His grip on his sword tightened. “Thorin thinks he can outlast them. That the gold will solve everything.”

His jaw clenched as he turned briefly toward the depths of the mountain. “But he isn’t himself. This gold sickness, it’s… consuming him. And we all see it.” Fíli’s words trailed off, guilt flickering across his face before he shook his head.

Looking back at you, his gaze softened slightly. “I can see the worry in your eyes,” he admitted. “It’s the same as mine. I keep telling myself to hold it together—for Thorin, for Kíli, for everyone. But this… this isn’t easy.”

Fíli chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. “I suppose you already know that. Still, you keep me steady.” His voice grew quieter as he glanced outward toward the Elven banners. “There’s so much I wish I could say, but now isn’t the time. For now, we stand watch.”