I do not own the Hobbit or anything related to it.

Note:

There are three types of Post-Traumatic Stress. The two I chose were re-experiencing the traumatic event (Bofur) and avoidance and numbing (Bombur). Just so you know.

All four chapters are not really related - they are all one-shots in a different person's point of view.

Between Remembering and Not Remembering

Screams filled the blood stained air, both human and beastlike. Streaks of light pierced the gloom as fiery arrows were aimed high over their heads and into the midst of their ranks.

Many fell victim to either the swarm of arrows, a flying javelin, a deadly blade or a crushing mace. Over and over again, those around him were cut down, making the ever increasing pile of bodies higher. They appeared to float in a hot, thick, sticky substance that poured by the gallon from the multiple lacerations dealt to each corpse.

He swung his hammer again and again, seemingly drowning in a sea of flowing red blood. It rose up to his ankles, knees, thighs, slowly growing in amount. There was nothing he could do to escape it and when he reached up to climb a pile of the heedlessly tossed aside dead, he fell back, hands now stained with red.

He tried frantically to wipe it off, but to no avail. The scarlet sea was now up to his hips and still steadily increasing in volume, weak waves growing stronger and washing away the dead and alive alike.

Now struggling to stay afloat, he took in great gasping breaths, arms and legs paddling with a fierce determination. Behind him he heard his brother call out but he was overtaken by sheer, animal panic.

He went under, pulled down by a giant wave, before bursting up to the surface again. The area around him was now silent with the exception of the ferocious waves around him.

He went under again and again. He had lost his hat long before; it had floated away to the never ending horizon of red, blood red. One final time he was pulled down and this time he could not resurface, his limbs weighed down with great weights.

He allowed himself to sink slowly, slowly to the bottom, the thick blood filling his mouth. But the bottom never came…

Bofur woke, screaming and gasping for air as he tried to pull his way out of the realistic nightmare that had again plagued his sleep. Bifur was crouched next to him, making sure he did not cause himself any injury and keeping him away from the edge of the bed. His brother stood on the other side, trying unsuccessfully to calm him down.

After what seemed like an eternity, the toymaker began to settle, calming through the careful words of Bombur and the comforting babble of Bifur. He laid, panting, on the bed as the other two watched him with concerned gazes.

"Well," said Bombur finally, forcing forward a cheery voice, "I have managed to acquire quite a feast for tonight. It would make you think we are heroes or something." With that he walked out. Bifur also exited, closing the door to give his cousin some privacy.

Bofur sat up, putting his head in his hands. It was supposed to be him that was the cheery one, the one forcing himself to be optimistic in the toughest of situations. Now the job had fallen to his brother through his sheer inability to even close his eyes for a few seconds without remembering the blood filled battle for Erebor.

The nightmares assaulted him day and night, stealing away his resilience to deal with any problem larger than accidently dropping a bowl. Even being late to diner or chipping one of his half-finished carvings were enough to send him over the edge. The problem was that sometimes the nightmares weren't nightmares and were actual memories from the battle, so real that it was like he was fighting it again. Several times he had struck either his brother or cousin by accident, mistaking them for an enemy he had slain on the battlefield. It had gotten so bad he refused to leave the house, afraid that he would accidently hurt a woman or child in one of his fits. He used to have loved children; they had come from all over the small village they had lived in before the quest to chat to him and inspect his wares with a highly trained young eye.

From what he knew, he was not the only one to suffer from the battle in his small household. It had not done much damage to Bifur, for his mind had already been addled from an orc raid decades ago, but Bombur was a different case. Bofur had noticed him actively avoiding any reminder of the battle and he seemed not to recall any memory of the day or the few traumatic events that had unfolded after. Every time he caught him unawares or by himself, he seemed indifferent and detached from what he was doing.

In truth, it was really their cousin that held the family together now. Bofur had seen him carefully removing any sign of the battle that had taken place from their shared living quarters. The gentle dwarf had also sat with the toymaker when he had become so lost, so down he just wallowed in a seemingly never ending pit of despair, and it was him that had then dug him out of the pit. It was him that earned the money now, Bombur and Bofur both contributing to the small toyshop the burly dwarf had opened. And it was him that sat with his traumatised cousin of a night, talking to him in a gabbled nonsense that was both calming and familiar.

Sighing, Bofur stood, removing the covers that covered him. It was a struggle to get out of bed now, and every day it only grew worse. If it was not for his family and the regular visits paid to him by the surviving members of the company, he would have ended the torment his mind put him through long ago. One could only bear so much.

"Are you up?" Bofur looked up to see his brother's false expression of good humour staring back at him. He nodded, then moved to pull on a fresh tunic.

There was a scream behind him as a large goblin sent a dwarf flying into a pile of broken spears and bodies behind him. He was impaled multiple times and Bofur rushed over to see if he was still alive. The dwarf gurgled, blood pouring from his mouth, eyes bulging from his head. Bofur watched, horrified, as the warrior gurgled his last breath and the light in his eyes dimmed and faded. The smell of blood filled his nostrils and a yell sounded behind him…

A hand grabbed his shoulder and Bofur looked up, startled. Bifur was staring at him. He spoke. It took a while for the traumatised dwarf to understand his cousin.

"I…am…fine," he replied in between shaky breaths, finally understanding that Bifur was asking if he was alright and not wanting to talk about it. Bifur raised his eyebrows but said nothing more. Instead he wrapped his arms around the toymaker's shaking form and stayed there.

Eventually they moved into the dining room and sat down at the table. Bombur entered and placed a plateful of food in front of each of them. He forced a smile then left, saying he had to finish carving some toys. Bofur looked after him. He knew his brother had forcefully blocked most of the memories from the battle, even so much as avoiding him when he had one of his fits. Not that Bofur could blame him.

A goblin fell to his feet, head smashed in by his hammer. Blood and brains mixed together on the ground, swirling around in a sickening way. The foul substance drenched the already gore mattered hair of a man that lay face down in the dirt, the shaft of a well-placed arrow protruding from his back…

Between remembering and forgetting, he would rather not remember.

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