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    Summary

    Bofur lies in his bedroll and thinks of the sun on Fíli’s hair, and how he seems to absorb its radiance and glow even at night, without the fire to illuminate him. Elvish nonsense, it’s beginning to sound like, but Bofur doesn’t care; he’d seen the pale hairs rise on Fíli’s arms when the water got cold, and if that’s not worth the appreciation those ridiculous tree-climbers give to the stars, then he doesn’t know what is.

    prompts taken: class, quaff, boots

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