Bofur is out of breath as the company race out into the sunlight, each glancing around looking for Gandalf to lead the way, or to their kin- making sure that each is safe and uninjured after their desperate race through goblin town. Bifur is running ahead of him, turning in place to hurl obscenities in Khuzdul at the great wall of the mountain at their backs, Bombur puffing along beside him pumping legs and arms comically hard to make sure he isn't left behind. It takes a moment for it to sink in that its Bofur himself who's bringing up the rear. It takes a moment more to realise that his breathing isn't easing, and there is a pain crawling up his back and into his chest that the excitement of the last few hours is no longer blocking. But he cannot stop- already his brother and cousin are moving out of earshot and have put their backs to the mountain and their straggling third.
They all come to a halt half a league from the goblins back door, but before Bofur can find the breath to call on Oin's help the others are turning in place calling wildly for their Burglar. The sting in his chest cuts a little deeper at the idea that Bilbo has been left behind in the dark endless tunnels, alone but for creatures who would joyfully put him to the rack and stretch him until every bone was broken in two. Bofur leans heavily on his mattock, a great heaving taking hold as Thorin's voice rises above the din. It isn't until the King has made his feelings about Master Baggins quite clear that the little hobbit appears out of no-where to the obvious relief of the wizard. Bofur feels the rock in his chest easing a little, though he can't quite meet Bilbo's gaze as the hobbit turns toward him, can't shake the feeling that one look at his face will expose every thought and feeling Bofur's ever directed toward him. It must be why he just cannot catch his breath!
The howling starts everyone from the hobbits pretty words. They haven't run far enough fast enough and the light is fading. Gandalf and Thorin urge them on, though now at least Bofur isn't the only one lagging and he runs alongside Bilbo as they stumble and skid downhill. Wargs! Wargs burst from the trees, flying overhead and blocking the dwarves flight. Bofur stumbles right into the trunk of a tree and draws a shaky lungful of air as he turns to find the lowest branch. The howling is closer then ever, and something warm almost catches and wraps around his leg as he climbs. He doesn't stop until he is safely out of reach of tooth and claw and only then allows himself to collapse back against the rough bark. His eyes drift to the other trees on the outcropping, he finds Bombur and Bifur safe behind him and.. There.. Bilbo is safe too. Though he looks sick at the sight of his little dagger, covered as it is in blood and bits it still shines it's brilliant blue.
It isn't long before the trees are surrounded, the orc beasts leering up at them, chanting Fifteen birds in five fir-trees. Bofur is so tired, the scramble from the falling trees sapping whatever energy he possessed, and so barely notices the flaming pine cones falling across his vision until one lands almost in his lap. He knocks it away just as their last refuge jerks and then tips backwards. It is luck more than his wits that saves him as the strap of his mattock catches on a sturdy stump of a branch. The weight of his body against empty space sends his brain into survival mode, the pain in his chest receding as he scrabbles to pull himself back onto his former perch. He can hear Dori and Ori's screams somewhere behind him, and Balins strangled no has him looking up to see Thorin, striding tall amongst the flames, the Goblin-cleaver drawn ready for battle. Bofur just stares at him as he passes, each step of his heavy tread shaking the tree and the crumbling ground beneath them more. The weariness comes back and he largely misses the sounds of battle, though he can hardly fail to notice the great claws that swoop out of the night and grab at his coat, bearing he and his companions out of the smoke and towards the stars...
The eyrie-like Carrock seems the safest place, in Bofur's mind, to finally collapse. Everyone is safe (though Thorin was mighty lucky that their little hobbit had not made his escape that night in the mountains) and the Pale Orc and his fellow savages are well behind them. Bombur sits with a huff beside him and seems to be in no hurry to get back up again. Bofur drifts for a while, groaning when a small, cool hand shakes his arm. He doesn't stir, partly because he doesn't want to and partly because he simply can't. Pain is no longer an issue. Instead it feels like a dwarf twice his brother's girth is sat upon his chest. There is a great numbness across the small of his back that he thinks he should probably be concerned with but lacks the energy to do so. It's only when Bilbo's familiar voice is screaming his name does he open his eyes against the bright light of dawn to see his brother's pale distraught face peering down at him next to their cousins edgy countenance that he thinks he should probably be paying attention. He feels himself being rolled on to his side, the brief blast of cold air through thin undergarments as a steady hand probes his back, illiciting a low groan that he is immediately ashamed of. He is again rolled gently on his back and the same hands examine his chest, pressing lightly but firmly against his ribs which gets him another groan for his pains. Oin stands then, looming over him to announce his verdict to eleven worried dwarves, a wizard and a hobbit knelt by Bofurs head nervously wringing his hands.
'Cracked ribs but none broken. His back's a worry mind- can you feel your toes lad?'
Bofur nods, rolling his head slightly to give his family (what he hopes) is a reassuring smile before seeking out the hobbits hand and giving a gentle squeeze. Oin nods and tells Thorin that they need to bind his ribs and rest before chasing off to Gandalf's friend, let alone a dragon infested mountain. Thorin seems displeased at the delay, but then a weariness passes over his face and he orders his nephews and Dwalin to see Bofur down to the Carrocks base. Both Kili and Fili apologise as their lifting tears a strangled cry from Bofur's lips. His family shuffle down behind them with Bilbo and the others bringing up the rear.
It is only when his chest is wrapped in whatever can be spared and he is settled against the wall of the dry sandy cave at the base of the Carrock that Bilbo finally has the chance to speak to him. The others are either huddled around the fire Gandalf has managed to light, nibbling whatever could be foraged for the season, or settling down for the first decent sleep since they found themselves on the goblins front doorstep. The little hobbit settles as near to him as deemed appropriate. Bofur thinks propriaty is overrated, but he doesn't speak against halfling customs and waits for Bilbo to finish shifting nervously. When he doesn't seem ready to do that or speak Bofur reaches out and gently cups the back of the hobbits neck, revelling in smooth skin and soft hair and pulling him closer to lean against his side.
'Your ribs-' He starts, going to move away but Bofurs hand stills him so that he's plastered along his side.
'Stay. It eases the ache.' Bilbo stiffens under his hand, before slowly settling at his side again, one small arm resting across Bofurs waist and a smooth face resting against his neck, warm moist breath across his throat.
'Before, in the cave. You must know I would never have said that. It was incredibly insensitive. I- I just didn't know what else to do. I truly didn't mean, well what I said.' Bofur exhales- slowly because he can now admit to himself that he's injured and he's going to have to settle for this small respite before they have to move on- and turns his head enough to brush his lips across the hobbits crown, the curly hair tickling his nose. Bilbos voice is small and wretched and it seems that Thorin is not the only one to seek forgiveness this day. He closes his eyes, his mind replaying their brief words in the cave. Yes it had hurt, more then Bofur had thought possible, but it was not a lie. His home in the shadow of Belegost of Old had always felt like a refugee camp, not a new start. Thorin's anger at the loss of Erebor, and the humiliation and despair that followed the battle at the East Gate and the nomadic lifestyle they'd had to resort to for so many years, tainted any shelter they'd found under Ered Luin. Bofur's own failings at protecting his little family, his youth that had seen him waving his cousin off a hero and welcoming back a cripple and a incoherent "mad man" now saw him chasing anothers dream of taking back a mountain he could barely remember, and certainly had little tie to. And now here was his little friend, his little something, aplogising for what was not only true, but something that they should long ago accepted and taken to heat. Or at least Thorin should of. If it weren't for the wizard, so strangely intent on seeing the dragon ousted and killed, they could of made Ered Luin home, they could have made the effort. The sudden resentment was foreign to Bofur, who always tried to be jolly, and it disappeared as suddenly as it came. Bilbo was warm against him, and still with exhausted sleep. The dwarf pulled him closer, leaning down ever so slightly to dare a kiss to Bilbo's brow before settling back against the rock. Tomorrow would be better, he was sure. The days after that remained to be seen.