Disclaimer & Author's Note:
Ah! Hey guys! This is something familiar!
Damn, it's been a long time since I've written, let alone posted anything here. And it figures that when I finally do, it's for the Tolkien universe. I've always been a huge fan of the films and the books. The Hobbit film? Obsessed! Love love loved it! Saw it 6 times in the cinema. Fell deeply in love with Thorin, pretty much adopted the other 12 dwarves and claimed Bofur as my spirit animal. Really, these guys have me all giggly and happee~
So anyway, to give myself an outlet for all these feels that I've been having lately, I've decided to write something for the fandom. It's Thorin/Bofur, simply because I love the pairing and there's just not enough of it. It's currently shaping up to look like a multi-chapter thing, but be fore-warned (as anyone who's followed my other fics would know) I do have a tendency of giving up on my fics and updating sparsely. If it happens, know that I don't mean it...it just happens.. :(
But enough of that. I present to you my new fic. None of the characters are mine (except a few minor OCs). They belong to JRR Tolkien and the Tolkien Estate, as well as Peter Jackson and his film people. The entire thing is centered around the idea that both Bofur and Thorin somewhat knew each other before the quest, and follows their lives before and after the fall of Erebor, throughout life in Ered Luin and then throughout the quest to reclaim the mountain. Majorly AU, probably a bit OOC but hey, that's the point of writing fic, no?
Oh, and it's slash. I don't intend to make it explicit (if I do, I'll probably ask someone else to write it out) but yeah, it's slash. My first attempt at it, actually.
Oh god what did I just get myself into...?
Anyway, ONWARDS!
The first time Bofur met Thorin, he had no idea what to expect of the dwarf.
It was not to say, though, that he didn't already know him. Or at least, of him. After all, everyone knew who he was. He was Thorin, son of Thrain. Grandson of Thror, King Under The Mountain and king of Erebor. He was a prince, an heir descended from the mighty line of Durin the Deathless, and thus, through such ancestry, a dwarf of the most noble of births.
And every dwarf throughout Middle-earth recognised such heraldry, recognised the significance of being born of Durins's line. They respected and revered the young prince's name just as well as they revered his father's or his grandfather's. It was simply something that all dwarves did, whoever and wherever they were. An heir of Durin, to them, was as much legend as it was fact.
So basically, Bofur had always known *who* Thorin was.
In fact, it could be said that he had no choice but to know of him, seeing as he and his family worked the mines of Erebor and provided the kingdom with its steady supply of gemstones, gold, silver and mithril. Deep within the passages of rock and stone that stretched far and deep into the Lonely Mountain, he alongside his father, uncle and cousin, made their living by hacking away from dawn to dusk, yielding from the mountain the very riches that made Erebor known throughout Middle-earth.
It was a difficult job and an even more difficult life, but one that they, as dwarves, did with pride and diligence.
After all, his father once told him, Erebor's riches did not come from the hands of kings and royals, or from politics and policies. No, Erebor's riches come from the earth - from the miners who break their picks upon stone, their bones upon rock and their hard-earned coin upon bread and meats for their families. It was, at most times a thankless job, only a step lower from smithing and the forging of precious treasures from precious metals, but it was not a shameful one, for all dwarves knew the value of their miners.
Though, to be honest, it seemed in the halls of Erebor's royal household, such respect was kept on tight lips and withdrawn hands. Not that anyone ever questioned such things, seeing as those hands were the same ones that fed them, and as such, should not be idly bitten. But Bofur had always been unnaturally curious and observant for a dwarf, and he noticed quite clearly how the King and his son took great care to visit the vaults of treasures and those who appraised them. Or the halls of boiling forges and metalworks and the smiths who worked them. But in all the years that Bofur had spent working away in the mines below everyone's feet, he could honestly say that he had never seen a hair of a royal's head visit the mines, ever.
Not that he expected them to. But it would be nice, he sometimes mused, if they could show just a little appreciation for their hard work. His father would shake his head and tell him that mining was a job far below the royal household, and that it was unlikely that such things in Erebor would ever change; but in no way - and his father's eyes would glow fiercely - did that make any of us, less than them.
But Prince Thorin was different, his uncle would say. And that was one of the ways Bofur would remember hearing Thorin's name; from his uncle's lips, through his uncle's voice. The dwarf prince was, for a time, a blacksmith's apprentice, and so he must have a better understanding of the working class dwarf's plights. They did make up two-thirds of his future subjects. His father would heartily disagree with him, while his cousin would agree enough to placate his father, but then exchange looks with Bofur and shake his head.
Bofur would simply smile and carry on smoking his pipe, or shrug his shoulders and carry on mining, unconcerned with the what if's or maybe's. After all, the only thing he really needed to know was that Thorin, son of Thrain son of Thror, was a prince of Erebor and an heir of Durin. Thus, he was a noble among nobles, and so for all intents and purposes - or until Bofur sees the dwarf prince himself and is proven otherwise - he was nothing more than a myth or legend beyond his concern.
Or so he thought.
Because what Bofur finds, on the day he first meets Thorin, is that the prince he had spent most of his life knowing about, and the prince standing before him, are two very, very, different dwarves. And even to this day, he supposes, he cannot for the life of him, understand why.
The day it happens, it is a day like any other.
As always, deep in the mines, Bofur and his cousin Bifur were diligently hacking away at the mountain rock while discussing the differences between dwarf lasses (who, in Bofur's opinion, favored Bifur) and human wives (who, Bifur insisted, seemed to adore Bofur as if he was a Big Folk himself). It was a discussion that never seemed to end, mainly because Bofur never gave an honest opinion about any point Bifur put across, choosing instead to dress every response with one of his trademark quirks.
"Aye! They are quite odd looking without beards, cousin. But I suppose that sort of thing is what makes 'em attractive." Bifur snorted.
"And why they find ye so particularly interesting, cousin." He pointed at Bofur's moustache and thin beard, which he trimmed daily so that it never grew out into a proper dwarf's beard. "If it were Bombur and I minding the toys, ye could count on nothing but pigeons to be interested in the little trinkets. But if ye were with us, the best wives of Dale would come down from their high towers to buy a toy from ye. It's quite odd, is all."
Bofur laughed at the implication. He struck his pick against the wall and found a stream of mithril. Angling the mattock so that he could remove the rock without damaging the precious metal, he replied to his cousin,"
"It's not so odd, cousin. Why, old Gambur attracts the best wives of Dale as well! And he's a much heavier and older dwarf than I."
"Aye, and a lecherous one too, dear Bofur. That old dwarf spends all his coin on ale and pleasures, taverns and tavern beds. I wouldn't call the lasses who flock to him as the best wives of Dale."
"Well, if it be so, then ye are to blame, cousin. Poor Gambur would not be so loose with his coin if he had a good dwarf lass to come home to. Instead it seems they've all gone and fancied ye. Shame on ye, Bifur, stealing all those lasses when ye know how rare they are."
Bifur laughed, his mattock striking stone and dislodging thin streams of gold that fell into his hands and into the pile at his feet. Bofur laughed as well, even as he set his mattock down and reached up to remove the mithril streams in one piece. Better value that way.
It was then, out of the blue, that they heard it. A magnificent bellow that rang through the hollow space.
The both of them paused and looked at each other questioningly. On Bofur's right, his father who had been suspended above them, landed and placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning backward to peer across the distance. When another bellow resounded, he pulled back, shook his head and muttered Khuzdul curses under his breath.
Bofur didn't catch much of it, but could distinctly hear the words 'that brat' uttered in dismay.
Across the space, on the platform where the day's hard work is piled and sorted before being sent to the vaults and appraisers and metalsmiths, sounds of scuffling and mumbled raised voices piqued Bofur's curious ears. He gave Bifur a look, to which Bifur responded with one that warned against it, and then promptly dislodged his own safety harness, picked up his mattock, and made his way to the landing.
As expected, a crowd had already begun to form when he got there, though they didn't seem to be agitated (as dwarves tend to be when gathered in groups) but rather, just curious. Bofur peered over some of the older and taller dwarves' shoulders, and saw only that one of the pulleys responsible to lifting the precious metals to the vaults, had snapped. Though, from the looks of it, it hadn't been that far from the ground to be a danger.
A little bit more intrigued, Bofur squeezed his way and peered between two very heavy dwarves, who seemed to be leaning back as they were. Almost as if they were apprehensive about the individual before them. Unfazed, Bofur continued to push and squeeze through, the two dwarves giving way at last, only for him to lose his footing and land sprawled on the ground, his mattock burying itself in a pile of fallen gold nuggets, four pairs of heavy boots in front of his face.
Except, two of those boots, were of decidedly better make.
He gulped and looked up, the first thing he noticed being the colour of a very, very rich, deep blue marred with red across its silver trimmings. Bofur noticed the mithril clasps that adorned the dwarf's beard and braids, and quite dumbly recalled some tavern talks that claimed only the royal family could afford to use the rarest of precious metals for simple hair ornaments.
Bofur gulped again. He made to get up, only to hear the dwarf mutter another Khuzdul word he was familiar with.
'Commoner.'
Let it not be said that Bofur was one to let an insult slide. He turned his gaze to the dwarf, brows furrowed and a little bit upset. The dwarf returned the look with a cold stare.
"Well? Get up then, you fool. Is that how they taught you to curtsy your prince?"
Oh. Well. By all means.
Wiping the dirt from his clothes, Bofur rose to his feet and bowed his head.
"My apologies," he spoke, an indignant tone seeping through despite himself. "Prince Thorin."
And that concludes chapter 1!
Happee thoughts!