Prompt for the Feels for Fíli Art and Fic Mini Contest / #2 Character Analysis

Winner of the Feels for Fíli Art and Fic Mini Contest / #2 Character Analysis / Fic

This is un-beta'd.

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PERFECT HAIR
Marigold Faucet

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"Wisdom comes from experience. Experience is often a result of lack of wisdom."
—Terry Pratchett

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It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Dwarf in possession of one treasure must be in want of more (often to the point of personal disaster).

In the case of Fíli, son of Dís and heir to Thorin II Oakenshield: exiled King Under The Mountain, who—unsurprisingly to those who know him well—is currently eyeing a simple, Dwarven dagger, this is most certainly true.

He's about to take out his coin purse when Kíli barrels into him, knocking them both to the ground with a loud thud. They struggle briefly, Fíli attempting to push Kíli off him but his brother, benefitting from a recent growth spurt, refuses to budge, easily pinning his elder beneath with a triumphant grin.

"Don't do it, O brother!" Kíli cries, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead with exaggerated melodrama.

"Kíli!" Fíli shouts, squirming beneath the solid weight of his brother. "Get off me!"

"And let you make a terrible mistake?" Kíli says, eyes wide with barely hidden mirth.

"It's too late to leave you at home," Fíli growls.

"I'm hurt," Kíli gasps, hand on heart as if he were physically wounded, smiling widely.

"You will be in a minute if you don't get off me," Fíli threatens.

Kíli ponders this for a moment, before nodding and helping Fíli up with a sigh and a grin. "But if Uncle asks why I didn't stop you, I'll say you kicked me in the shin."

"The shin." Fíli states flatly, brushing the dirt from his trousers and jacket. He watches Kíli do the same, nodding, before delivering a swift and brutal kick to the shins. It's juvenile, he knows, but undeniably satisfying all the same.

"Ow!" Kíli cries, clutching his leg in both hands as if to stop the pain, glaring at his brother. "Fíli!"

"You're a terrible liar Kee," Fíli smirks, handing the bewildered shopkeeper a few gold coins for the dagger. Fíli watches the Dwarf, a stout, round fellow with an even rounder beard, bite each coin (as if an heir of Durin would try to cheat him!) before handing over the dagger with a satisfied nod. He turns back to Kíli, who glares at him as he rubs his still injured leg, and pats him on the shoulder with a bright smile.

"Look at this way," he says. "You won't have to lie to Uncle now."

"I hope you realise what you've done," Kíli says. "I've failed our King! I'll be shorn of my beard and thrown from the mountain in shame!"

"You don't have a beard," Fíli says, poking his brother's cheek with the sheathed point of his new dagger.

"I do," Kíli snaps, rubbing his hands over the light stubble on his cheeks. It's not a beard, Fíli wants to say, but Kíli has never taken well to that kind of teasing and if Fíli is honest, neither has he. It wasn't often you would see Fíli without bloodied knuckles and bruised cheeks, a sniffling Kíli trailing behind his furious brother, babbling his thanks through hiccupped sobs. Uncle had told him more than once that Kíli needed to learn to stand up for himself, but Fíli could never bring himself to leave his brother to the cruelty of others—especially not stupid, closed-minded children who would taunt a chicken if it were different from all the other chickens.

"Why do you need another one?" Kíli asks, never one to bear a silence, no matter how comfortable, for long. "You have enough already."

"You can never have enough," Fíli replies, rolling his eyes. His had this conversation with Kíli twice before and more so with Ma and Uncle. It should have been obvious, this desire to collect more daggers and knives, given that he had used gather the scraps bits of metal from the forge and keep them safely tucked away at home or in his pockets. He's rather content with his two swords, not feeling the need to own anymore, but there's something about a dagger or a throwing knife that calls to him and makes him wait it all the more.

"Ma disagrees," Kíli says, but it is hardly new information when she is constantly exasperated by finding blades hidden in bits of clothing.

"Well," Fíli says, smiling at his brother. "Don't tell her then."

"I won't have to tell her," Kíli exclaims, throwing his hands in the air with a loud, exasperated huff. "She always knows! Remember that time we filled Uncle's boots with honey and sugar? Ma found out long before Thorin had the chance to put them on."

"The trail of ants might have been a big clue," Fíli laughs.

"Explain how she knew it was us who hid all of Uncle's socks—" Kíli demands.

"—you wouldn't stop giggling—"

"—or that it was us who drew all over Dwalin—"

"—we were covered in ink—"

"—and how'd she know it was me who put frogs in her bed?" Kíli asks, arms crossed over his chest. "It could have easily been you."

"Because, o-brother-mine," Fíli replies, slinging his arm over Kíli's shoulders. "You are the only one dumb enough to put frogs in Ma's bed."

"That's not true," Kíli responds with a laugh, playfully pushing Fíli away. "Uncle and Dwalin tried it once when they were drunk, of course I supplied the frogs…"

"Just—" Fíli states, entirely bemused by the image of Thorin and Dwalin drunkenly trying and hide frogs in Dís' bed. "Just don't tell Ma, okay?"

"I won't need to," Kíli mutters and falls silent, offering up no more conversation. Fíli doesn't mind, admiring the scenery as they make their way through the market and back towards the mountain. They stop only once, long enough for Fíli to purchase a fresh batch of cookies to soothe his mother's ire should she find out Fíli spent his share of his and Kíli's wages, from their last job escorting a caravan to trade beyond the River Lhûn, on another dagger (plus two more small knives that he has hidden in his dresser).

"Did Uncle really tell you to stop me buying a dagger?" Fíli asks suddenly, stopping at the threshold of the tall, Dwarven gate, whirling to face a too-pleased Kíli.

"This morning before he left," Kíli nods, grinning widely, before squaring his shoulders and dropping his face into a pensive frown.

"Kíli," he says in his best imitation of their Uncle. It always amazes Fíli how easy it is for Kíli to impersonate his Uncle, the two causing no end of mischief when Kíli had begun to cultivate this particular skill. "My most favourite and talented nephew, please don't let your brother buy another dagger."

"He really said that?" Fíli asks, raising a disbelieving eyebrow at his brother.

"Okay, maybe not the bit about me being the favourite and the most talented—that goes without saying—but everything else is word for word," Kíli states, waving his hand dismissively. "We're starting to think you have a problem."

"A problem, really?" Fíli asks, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at Kíli's deceptively heavy pockets. "So, you've stopped collecting river stones then?"

Fíli cannot remember a time when Kíli did not feel the desire to collect stones, pebbles and rocks, often taking the opportunity, much as Fíli would to the forges, to disappear down to the river bed if they often found themselves nearby, and coming back laden with new stones for his collection. Perhaps it was some inherit Durin trait that compelled them so, and if that is true then Fíli can hardly be blamed, because they are not the only ones to collect and gather their own personal treasures.

They'd asked Thorin once, when they were still dwarflings, if he had any trinkets and treasures. Looking back, Fíli thinks he expected Thorin to tell them more of the gleaming, golden treasure lost to them in far off Erebor, but instead Thorin had told them of the raven feathers he'd once hoarded like gold; those too lost in the Sack of Erebor.

It wasn't long after that that Thorin had taken them with him on their first trip to the market. They'd been free to play as they wished, the promise of toys and sugary treats keeping them from straying too far, but Fíli hadn't been interested in running tirelessly around the poor, unsuspecting merchant folk. Rather, he'd taken Kíli by the hand and led him to a small copse of trees at the market's edge, telling him to keep an eye out for any raven feathers while they played.

They'd found very little, Kíli with more stones in his pockets than feathers, before Thorin was calling them back. It was all rather disappointing to Fíli, as he sorted through he and his brother's combined efforts later that night. They were no raven feathers, only those from an unfortunate sparrow and an unlucky thrush.

He'd given them to Thorin anyway, his Uncle wishing to know what had him looking so upset. Thorin had gratefully accepted them, listening to Fíli explain with one of his rare smiles, and Fíli had never felt such pride before as Thorin offered him his most humble thanks for such a generous act.

"That's different," Kíli says, interrupting Fíli from his thoughts. "My stones aren't dangerous weapons."

Fíli has to disagree with this, knowing full well how dangerous Kíli's collection could be when he had a mind to cause pain. They'd been arguing, the reason lost after countless retellings (Fíli's particular favourite is that they'd been arguing over which was the more majestic), and it had been Fíli's most unfortunate luck that Kíli had been holding the smooth, pine box he kept his collection in. Fíli had said something rather cruel, if memory serves, and Kíli, bolstered by rage, had dropped the box right on Fíli's unbooted foot. It wasn't enough to break bones, but it had left his toes badly bruised and painful to walk on for some time after.

"Dwalin is certain you plan on killing us in our sleep," Kíli continues. "At any rate, you'll certainly be spoiled for choice."

"Nonsense," Fíli grins. "I'd have to be king then."

"Where do you plan on keeping them all anyway?" Kíli asks. "It's not like you can carry all your blades with you."

Fíli swallows, lightly biting his lip. It is true that he has run out of discreet places to hide them in his clothes, Dwalin certain that if they were to stitch them all to the lining of Fíli's jacket then they could create a decent piece of armour. He already had a fair few stashed in his pack, fitted around whatever items he'd stuffed in there in preparation for new work.

"I'll find somewhere," Fíli says and continues walking.

—

That, Fíli notes, is how he finds himself regretfully mourning the loss of a considerably sized lock of bright, golden hair.

"I told you it was a terrible idea," Kíli snickers. Fíli wishes he could find the humour in it as Kíli does, but it is his hair and hair, to a Dwarf, is immeasurably sacred. Fíli, in all his wisdom, has completely ruined his hair; his beautiful, sacred hair.

All Dwarves are taught, among many things, the importance of hair and beard, what braids were used to indicate family and trade, wealth and status. To cut one's hair was to denounce all these things, to be shamed.

"I'm such a fool!" Fíli cries, burying his face in his arm as he lays his head on the table. He supposes that he is rather lucky, only severing a relatively small section above his left ear (and not slicing it off in the process), but he feels suddenly exposed in a way he hasn't before.

"Don't worry Fee," Kíli soothes, suppressed laughter dancing across his words. "I'm sure no one will notice."

"Not helping Kíli," Fíli says, muffled, face still hidden in his arms.

"Sorry," Kíli says, voice serious, but Fíli can tell that the smile is still there without having to look and punches him lightly in the arm.

"Stop smiling," he says.

"I'm not smiling," Kíli says, still smiling.

"You are," Fíli says, feeling a smile of his own twitch at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm not!" Kíli says and now he's no longer smiling, causing Fíli's own to spread wider. "You're not even looking, how can you tell?"

"I know you," Fíli says and isn't that how it's always been? Fíli always seeming to know his brother's moods and secrets with barely a glance. It drives them both insane at times, but if he were given the option Fíli wouldn't give this skill up for all the gold in Erebor.

"I'm not smiling," Kíli says, pouting.

"I know," Fíli laughs, picturing Kíli's sullen expression. "Now you're pouting."

"Shut up," Kíli smiles, giving Fíli a playful shove.

It continues this way for a few moment longer, each shoving the other in continuous retaliation until Fíli finds himself once again sorrowfully looking those shorn threads of hair, occasionally raising his hand to fiddle with the offending cut. He pays little mind to Kíli, who sorts through his stones with a heavy sigh, so absorbed in his task of trying to will his hair back that he doesn't notice Dís' return until it is far too late.

"What happened to your hair!?" Dís shrieks, cloak falling to the floor with a soft whump. Fíli startles, dropping the hair and nearly falling from his seat. Kíli is laughing again, but the clatter of stone against stone suggests he is as startled as Fíli is.

"He tried to—" Kíli says, facing their mother.

"Kíli!" Fíli cries, staring at his brother with wide, warning eyes.

"She asked!" Kíli says, pointing at a less than amused Dís.

"She doesn't need to know!" Fíli hisses.

"She is your mother," Dís growls, smacking them both up the back of the head. "Now tell me what happened."

"I didn't do anything," Kíli says quickly, rubbing the back of his head.

"Fíli…" Dís says, voice low and stern. There's no lying to her, Fíli knows this, but the thought of confessing that it was his own stupidity that was responsible is utterly terrifying.

"I—" he starts, mouth dry. He catches Kíli's eye, who is almost bouncing in his seat, eyes bright with barely restrained mirth. Fíli suddenly wants to kill him, his brother enjoying this far too much and then Kíli smiles, wide and wicked.

Suddenly Fíli really wants to kill him.

"He thought it would be a good idea to hide some of his throwing knives in his hair," Kíli bursts, moving his hand in wild gestures and body shaking with silent laughter.

Fíli is definitely going to kill him.

"Fíli!" Dís says, whacking Kíli on the back of the head again.

"Ow!" Kíli cries. "Wrong son!"

"Sorry," Dís says, whacking Kíli on the back of the head again. "Kíli!"

"'Amad—" Fíli starts, laughing at Kíli scandalised look, only to be silenced by with a swift blow to the back of his head.

"Honestly," Dís chastises. "I expect these kind of harebrained ideas from your brother."

"Hey!"

"What were you thinking?" Dís asks, lips pressed together tightly as she tries keep from smiling.

"I clearly wasn't," Fíli states dryly, unimpressed by the apparent hilarity of his situation. "It's not funny."

"It is," Dís says with a bright smile. Fíli glares at her, feeling betrayed but it does little to stem his mother's amusement who bites her thumb and hastily adds (still smiling): "But only a little bit."

"You're as bad as Kíli," Fíli huffs.

"Come on," Dís says, running her fingers through Fíli's damaged (butchered) hair. "Let's see what we can salvage."

He misses moments like this, him and Dís (Kíli too, Fíli supposes) sitting comfortably before the hearth. They've never really needed to exchange a great deal of words, enjoying their company over conversation. Dís works her fingers through Fíli's braids, gently taking them apart and brushing them out with the comb. Fíli leans forward, resting his forehead on his knees letting Dís adjust him as needed, while Kíli chatters endlessly beside him on the floor. He flinches slightly, drawing in a sharp breath, when Dís finally reaches the jagged cut of hair.

"Do you think Uncle will notice?" Fíli quietly asks, Dís smoothing the hair beneath her fingers.

"Hard to say," Dís hums, chuckling lightly as she starts on the first braid. "You know how he is."

"Will he be mad if he does?" Fíli asks, suddenly feeling very much like a dwarfling again and not a Dwarf a few years past his majority. He's never been able to adequately express this fear, the fear of disappointing Thorin or angering him in some way. Fíli is the heir after all and Thorin his king, making every mistake feel a thousand times worse and what he's done feels like a terrible, terrible mistake.

"Oh ghivashel," Dís says gently, hands stilling in a half-finished braid. "I doubt that very much."

"But… he gave us this really long—" Fíli starts with a shaking breath.

"—and really boring—" Kíli adds.

"—lecture about being responsible since we're princes—"

"—some of us being princelier than others—"

"—and how we're meant to be an example to our people—"

"—who think we're irresistibly charming and good-looking—"

"—would you let me finish?" Fíli sighs, giving Kíli a slightly pained look.

"Kíli," Dís says softly, eyes flicking towards the door. "Go."

"Yes 'Amad," Kíli sighs, rising from his seat on the floor with exaggerated movements.

"Go on Fíli," Dís urges once Kíli has disappeared out the front door.

"I've already messed up once this week," Fíli confesses, though to be fair it had been through the combined efforts of himself, Kíli and an escaped pig. Thorin had given them all (the poor pig included) a sound tongue lashing, leaving Fíli burning with shame. "I don't want to disappoint him again."

"Let me tell you this now, because Mahal knows that stupid thurkbundwon't," Dís says, tilting Fíli's head so that she can look him in the eyes. "Thorin is proud of you and no matter what you do, that will never change."

"Thanks," Fíli mutters, pulling turning back to the fire with a small smile.

"I happen to rather proud of you too," Dís says, running the comb through his hair again.

"I know," Fíli laughs.

"I bet Kíli is as well," Dís adds, poking him in the back of the head.

"I get the idea 'Amad," Fíli sighs, rolling his eyes.

"I'm glad," Dís says, turning towards the door and shouting: "You can come back Kíli!"

"No need!" Kíli shouts back. "I've found someone who appreciates my charm and excellent wit, I've no more time for you!"

"You're too old for imaginary friends!" Dís replies.

"That's a shame," Kíli says, coming through the door and turning to Thorin who stands, bemused, behind him. "I rather liked having you around Uncle, even if you are only imaginary"

Fíli feels himself go pale, Dís drawing a comforting hand through his hair. He leans into the touch, ignoring the murmured exchange between his mother and uncle, focusing instead on how he's going to possibly explain to Thorin.

In the end, it doesn't really matter.

"Fíli," Thorin says gently, kneeling before him. "What happened to your hair?"

"Don't be mad?" Fíli asks, silently cursing himself for sounding so childish.

"I promise I won't be mad," Thorin assures.

"I put knives in my hair," Fíli mumbles, ducking his head into his knees.

Thorin blinks, once, twice and then his lips twitch upwards as he barks out a sharp laugh. "Fíli—"

"It's not—" Fíli shouts, suddenly feeling distressed. How can Thorin be laughing, after everything he's ever said about duty and responsibility? "It's not funny."

"I cut my hair," Fíli whispers, horrified, feeling hot tears pricking at his eyes.

"Fíli," Thorin says, previous amusement all but disappeared. "It was an accident, admittedly a foolish one, but an accident."

"But—" Fíli starts, because this not how it's supposed to go and he doesn't know what to do with this. Hasn't he shamed them? Hasn't he shamed himself?

"If you took the blade to your hair with purpose, it would be different," Thorin says softly, placing his hand on Fíli's shoulder. "You've shamed no one Fíli."

"My hair," Fíli stresses, because he has to be certain if he has any hope of dislodging this painful guilt.

"If we cast aside every Dwarf who singed his beard in the forge," Thorin tells him. "Or every hunter that had to cut their hair loose from a tangled branch, these halls would quickly fall to chaos.

"At least we'd be without swords to kill each other," Fíli tearfully jokes, wiping the tears from his eyes with a wet chuckle.

"I think you could keep as all well supplied with your little collection," Thorin laughs, drawing their foreheads together.

Fíli smiles, bringing has hand to card through his hair, and suddenly it doesn't feel so terrible anymore.

—

Fin.

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Khuzdul:

'amad / mother

ghivashel / treasure of all treasures

thurkbund / rock head