A/N: This was prompted by my brother, who suggested an examination of Thorin and Bifur's connection from Azanulbizar. To fight at Azanulbizar, as this headcanon demands, Bifur would have been very young. I chose to write this through Bofur's eyes, examining the often-silent character of Bifur and the king he served.
Title from Shakespeare's Richard II.
It is a long-held family secret, for Bombur holds no grudges and their elders are all but gone. It is a secret, and one Bofur carries with shame.
For many years past, a dwarfling with a budding craftsman's hands and wild eyes crept out to join the king in battle.
At Azanulbizar, a dwarfling fought and fell.
(It was Bifur who fought and fell. It was Bofur who helped him borrow armor, who saddled him a pony and sent him off to Thror's camp.)
...
The axe buried itself in his skull, but dwarves' skulls are hard. Their bones are the bones of the earth.
I was too far away, Balin says, when they carried Bifur back, still half-conscious, in the days after the battle. I could not reach him. But Thorin could.
Bofur presses a hand to his chest, bows his head in thanks, along with the rest of the Ur clan. The prince saved him, Bifur, scarce more than a child who had known nothing but the Blue Mountains all his life.
They could not thank the prince, that day. Thror was dead and Frerin was dead and Thrain had not returned.
Their prince was their king, and Bifur lay very, very still.
...
Dwarves bleed dark, rich blood. The blood of the soil and ore they love, the blood that gives heart to stone and iron. Bofur thinks his cousin is dying.
Bifur lives. He loses much blood, much color in his broad face, and he loses something else.
They don't know that until later.
...
Bofur is a simple dwarf, his brother simpler still. They would live in the Blue Mountains forever, Bofur with his toymaking and Bombur carving ladles to stir his hearty stews.
Before Azanulbizar, Bifur might have been different. His fingers were clever. At twenty, he could make small metal birds that flapped their glittering wings and sang.
Afterwards, he still makes birds. He gives them to the dwarflings in the village, to the children of men that pass through trading.
The birds flap their wings, but all of them are silent.
...
It is not that Bifur cannot speak. He speaks in Khuzdul, broken phrases. His eyes are wilder than ever. Bofur knows the other dwarves think him mad.
Perhaps he is.
After all, Thrain never returned and Thorin's smiles, rare as they are, never quite reach his eyes.
...
What if, Bofur says to Bombur, What if I had not brought him the armor? What if—
And Bombur shakes his head, claps a heavy hand on his brother's shoulder, quieting him.
Bombur, too, has little to say. But Bombur has never been one for talking.
Bifur, though. He used to tell stories.
...
Often they work together. Bofur talks and talks, and Bifur grunts at intervals. The family Ur is not wealthy, but there is a stream of traders who come in and out. And dwarves, even grown ones, have a fancy for fine craft. There is not a cottage in the village without a mechanical bird, or one of Bofur's carvings.
It is an afternoon of decades since, and the king enters with a small dwarfling held by each hand. They are his nephews; everyone knows it. One of them is golden-haired and solemn, the other dark and impish.
"Well, now," Bofur says, bowing, "What can I do for all you, milords?"
Thorin tilts his head. "They have told me you sell toys."
Bofur nods. There are toys on every inch of the long bench counter; surely Thorin has seen that. If he were not a king, Bofur might think it was a hint of dry humor. But he is a king, and Bofur does not dare laugh.
From the back room, Bifur comes, with his birds. He catches sight of Thorin and goes pale behind his beard.
Thorin stops still, too. He is the king, it is not his duty, but he remembers. And he—the king—bows, and touches a hand to his forehead.
Bifur returns the gesture and vanishes into the shadows.
That night, they sit by the fire. Bofur does not know what to say, so he toasts bread and passes a cup of ale to his cousin. It sits untouched.
One by one, Bifur plucks the metal feathers from the frail wing of a gilded bird. Bofur watches as he casts them into the fire.
His lips are shut, but his eyes reflect the flames.
Bofur turns away. There might have been tears in his cousin's eyes, but he does not want to be certain.
...
Fili and Kili grow up.
There are other children who flock to Bifur, Bifur who makes them beautiful, shining things, toys that almost envy those of Dale. They are too young to think him mad.
And Thorin speaks of the Mountain again. An oaken branch rests on his arm; it was Bifur who threaded it through with shafts of iron.
...
They all go together. How could they not? How could even Bombur stay behind. They are no royals, but they are dwarves, and dwarves are kin. The mighty oak and the lowliest shrub grow from the same soil.
The trek is long. Bofur finds voice in his songs, in his jokes, in his tales to the wide-eyed hobbit. The days grow darker, but there are some nights beside the fire where there is hope.
One night, Balin tells the story of Azanulbizar, and Bifur is on his feet, they are all on their feet, all with their eyes on Thorin.
But not all of them remember.
...
It grieves Bofur, simple as he is, lover of the Blue Mountains and the laughter of dwarflings in dusty streets, to see a king weighed down by gold. What he would give for the king who bore the Oakenshield.
But now they search for the Arkenstone. Bofur finds himself longing to know what Bifur is thinking, even more than usual. For Bifur fought beside the king—surely he would know something about this strange mood. (Dwalin and Balin would know him better, but Bofur does not dare ask them. And Fili and Kili know him perchance best, but there is pain in their young faces and Bofur does not want to make them suffer more.)
...
It is by chance that this ugly, wild, glorious day brings with it such a lucky blow. The axe is free, and Bifur blinks, speaks—speaks—
Bofur feels his heart, a century-odd in the weighing, lift up. They are outnumbered, but they are dwarves, and this is their mountain—their victory—
He shouts, and his cousin shouts back.
Victory.
But oh, how dearly bought.
And later, when they are gathered around their fallen king (and where the are the lads? Bofur wants to ask, but he does not, dares not—) he will feel all the glory fade from the day, though the ugliness remains.
Thorin is dead, and he takes their victory with him.
Beside him, Bofur sees Bifur stoop. There is an eagle's feather on the ground. It glimmers gilded in the cold sunlight. Bifur takes and kneels beside his king, then lays it across Thorin's still palm.
And Bofur waits. He waits, and it feels like a century. He waits for Bifur to speak.
Bifur gazes at the face of his king. He touches his forehead and then Thorin's. He rises, and stands staring up with wild eyes at the sun.
And he says nothing at all.