Some Vital Chord
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit. It belongs to the late, great J.R.R. Tolkien.
Bofur always allows a time for his troubles to lie heavy, to crowd on his shoulders and bend his head under their weight. He is of the mind that a trouble ignored festers, swells under the skin, grows malignant and bitter. And the road between the mines and the little drunkenly-leaning shack that he shares with his cousin is a long one and a dark one at the end of the day.
He does not consider it self-indulgence to consider his worries so, as he navigates his way with the stars hanging overhead, but rather as necessary. The dark places of the mind can never be quite so dark if you look at them straight and often, and in time it is more a nagging ache to poke at than a fresh wound. Bofur does not wish to become like his mother, after all. Grief and hate soured her sweet laughing mouth, took the spark from her merry eyes. She once rang so true that no one could see her and not love her, but after the death of his father, she faltered and the blows of life struck her until it hit some vital chord, some faultline deep in the rock of her being, and shattered it.
Bofur likes to be happy, enjoys a pint and the rhythm of tavern music, trickery and ribald jokes, smoking his pipe when a brisk wind whips up around the mountains and he can watch the summer storms roll in across the plains. He likes to watch Bombur cook, the quiet, efficient delight his brother takes in the art, and whittle with his cousin Bifur, only cheap little things, to sell at a pittance and make the dwarflings smile.
And he would not wish suffering on his family, not at any price. Bofur would appear carefree, and strong for those he loves, and so his mind wanders while his feet take the well-worn path. He summons up his old regrets, and lets himself feel the rough scars that criss-cross his spine. He worries about the future; how there seems to be less work at the mine and too many workers, about the winter that lurks ahead, how they will manage if worst comes to worst, with Bifur prone to his periods of absence where he sits with blank eyes and stares...
Sometimes Bofur is very glad for the ill-lit road, and the deep twilight that confuses the eyes of curious folk. Sometimes he must stand outside his own door, where the candles gutter and flicker through the dirty windows, and struggle to control himself, so he might walk in with a smile and a wink rather than in tears.
Tonight he takes a good long while to summon any semblance of joy. But he does so, with an effort that grits his teeth, and he throws back the door with an energy he does not feel.
"Evenin', Bifur, how's that carving coming along? Any more terrifying and dwarrowdams will be fainting in the streets- Bombur?"
His brother is there at the table, ginger hair glinting in the dim light, sharing a mug of something with Bifur, and Bofur's heart drops into his boots. There was a chance he could hide his bad news from Bifur, at least for a day or two while he tries to work it out, but Bombur is canny beyond the ken of any normal dwarf.
"Bofur!" His brother says warmly, getting up and knocking his forehead against Bofur's in greeting. He pulls back with a smile that fades as he looks at Bofur, really looks.
"What is it? What's happened?"
In his chair, Bifur swings around with a grunt to stare at them both, his drink forgotten.
Pinned between their anxious stares - just what he had been trying to avoid, Mahal damn it all - Bofur sweats.
"Oh, it's nothing - how are the dwarflings?"
"Fine. Bofur, what's wrong?"
"How's Nali? Is she well?"
"She's fine. Brother, tell me what's happened."
And now Bifur is up, standing shoulder to shoulder with Bombur, who has succeeded in boxing Bofur into a corner and coward that he is, Bofur can't stand for long against their combined stares. He drops his eyes to the floorboards.
"Korvus told me they wouldn't be needing me for a bit. They closed the east shaft and there's not enough work at the moment-"
"So he replaced you with one of his kinsmen, didn't he?" Bombur demands, his large hands curling into fists.
"He's put in one of those useless, scraggly-bearded tinkers who never swung a mattock in his life! Aye, there's work to be had so long as you're of Blue Mountain stock, and not the refugees of Moria or Erebor!"
"Bombur-" Bofur tries, but Bombur's rages are few and far between, and when they come there's nothing to be done but weather it.
Bifur is punctuating Bombur's tirade with obscene gestures and emphatic nods; Bofur will have no aid from that quarter. Weariness breaks on him all of a sudden, a cold wave that takes his strength, and Bofur sits heavily at the table. The chair beneath him wobbles as it takes his weight; it is poor wood, with a weakness in the grain that cannot be gotten around. Soon they will need new chairs, a new stove- the old iron one is warped and bent and sends thick clouds of smoke billowing through the hut, more wood for Bifur to carve toys from, and without his hours at the mine, where will the money come from?
Bombur and Bifur join him, the former still muttering about the dubious mental acumen and sexual preferences of certain foremen. Bofur doesn't want to hear it, and packs his pipe from their dwindling supply of pipe-weed. The smoke is just the right mix of spice and wood, and he holds it in his lungs until it burns, the stiffness easing slightly in his shoulders and back. Bofur is not listening properly to the conversation, which has shifted, mercifully, away from his current lack of income, but then Bombur says a name that brings him to attention with a start.
"Thorin Oakenshield? As in Thorin son of Thrain?"
"The very same."
"He's going to what?"
"Take back Erebor. It's all anyone's talking about at the tavern- Thorin is calling for volunteers. All those loyal to the line of Durin. And there's a pretty share of treasure at the end of it all. A dwarf could set himself up as a lord."
"A dwarf could be dragon-fodder, more like."
But his kin aren't listening. Bombur warms to his topic, naming the poor misguided fools that have already chosen to leave on this mad quest, and Bifur's eyes have a sharp glint to them that Bofur hasn't seen in fifty years or more.
"-and his sister-sons, Fili and Kili, as well, I've heard."
Bofur chokes and has to thump his chest to get a decent breath. Bifur and Bombur are too excited to notice; Bombur is building treasure halls in the air with wide sweeps of his arms, and Bifur's fingers dance in response, a swifter way to gets his thoughts across than his broken fragments of Ancient and ordinary Khuzdul. They both seem to have forgotten Smaug entirely, and a dragon is not something to leave out of your plans and expect to keep your life.
There is a chill in his heart, and his back is afire from neck to hips in unwilling remembrance. Long has Bofur kept those names locked with his darkest thoughts. To hear them on his brother's tongue, and after so many years...
He will sleep poorly this night, and all the nights after, it seems, for the wills of his kinsmen are set, and Bofur has always been one to bend to the wind than stand against it, though it does not ease the secret fears in his heart.
Author's Note: It seems I can't keep away from this fandom (or this pairing). This story has been circling my brain like a shark, demanding to be written. To whoever reads this: We're off the edge of the map.
Concrit always appreciated,
Taluliaka.