Matters of the Heart
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit. It belongs to the late, great J.R.R. Tolkien.
Bofur loses his head when Bilbo climbs onto the burning tree branch. The hobbit is outlined in tongues of fire; his red coat burning, his hair like twisted gold dragged new from the forge. The baying of the wolves is dreadful, and the smoke singes his lungs as he tries to snatch a breath to call Bilbo's name. The hobbit's shoulders straighten, and his lips move as though he were uttering a silent battle-prayer. His sword is cold and dreadful in his hand as he marches determinedly down towards death.
Bofur scrabbles for purchase against the wood. His mattock, wedged between two branches, is the only reason he has not yet fallen. But he tries, lunging again and again for the trunk, hearing all the while the snarls and clashes and cries of battle, and knowing that Bilbo is amongst it, and unable to do a damned thing, is more than he can stand. Ori screams, and Bofur turns his head in time to see Dori lose his grip on the wizard's staff, and the two dwarves fall into the darkness. Dazed with horror, he makes it at last, the stricken tree shuddering under his boots, and there are great shadows in the sky. The goblins wheel and retreat, yammering and howling in dismay, and Bofur hefts his weapon and stumbles towards the inferno, the only thought in his head to find Bilbo, in all this madness and flame, and defend him as long as he is able.
Dwalin emerges from the smoke and grabs him around the shoulders, roaring something he cannot hear. Great wings spread behind the warrior, larger than anything Bofur has ever seen, and a vicious streamlined head.
Dragons, he thinks foolishly as a band of iron constricts about his waist, and then he and Dwalin are yanked into empty air.
They are beautiful, light and dark heads bent together, and the clean wind playing upon them. Bilbo is swamped in Thorin's embrace, but bears it proudly. There is relief and joy clouding his eyes, and as Bofur recognises it, his energy fades. He has had a bridge and a massively corpulent Goblin King applied to his back in the past few hours, and all along his spine there is a dull throbbing pain. When he turns his head, it is like having a red-hot poker applied to his neck.
Jealousy rears its head, along with a sullen disappointment, and Bofur cannot shake himself free of them.
He is a King, Bofur reminds himself, as Thorin pulls back, his eyes kindled with a new flame, to regard his burglar.
He has been courting Bilbo so delicately that Bofur had only been half-aware of his intentions himself. Certainly Bilbo had never given him any sign in return, except for gentle good humour and friendship. The Company had suspected of course, looking on the two with dispassionate eyes, and indeed Nori had taken it upon himself to give Bofur suggestions, many of them postively indecent in nature, to hasten the courting process.
But now that Thorin Oakenshield had displayed his interest, and so publicly, Bofur knows he will be expected to drop his suit and stand aside. It is unthinkable for a miner to challenge a king, even in matters of the heart.
Saving Thorin is a courting gift beyond all measure, one that Bofur cannot possibly hope to match.
Possessiveness is not love, Bofur tells himself. Love is a sacrifice, of time or place or life itself.
Bilbo's face is radiant with happiness beneath the dirt and blood. Bofur will not cause him pain. What point would there be in telling Bilbo of his feelings, forcing such a choice upon him? Bofur knows the only end such a path would lead to, and if he is selfish enough to want to spare himself the suffering of it, that is his affair.
But it is very cold that night, even though the Company sleeps clustered, sharing their coats and blankets, Bilbo snug in the centre. Bofur lies on his back, bearing the pain as steadily as any dwarf worthy of the name, and lets the stars pierce him like daggers until they waver and swim before his eyes.
He will not weep because his friend is loved. He will not be guilty of that, at least.
Bofur goes to Oin on their first morning in Beorn's house. The healer has been methodically making his way through the various ailments of the Company, beginning with their leader. He would have put it off, but his back had frozen up during the night, and his bent and shuffling walk was damning to every creature with eyes, let alone Oin's raptor-like gaze.
The old dwarf spreads a salve over his bruises, muttering curses to himself as he probes at particular sensistive spots. Bofur knows enough of healers in general that their anger is very often not directed towards their patients, but rather to their ills, as though they were enemies upon a battlefield of skin and bone. And it is true enough in this case; Oin gives him a gentle slap on the shoulder to indicate he is allowed to rise.
"There's naught but time and rest that will solve it, lad." The healer tells him as Bofur pulls on his tunic.
Oin watches him wisely through narrowed eyes as Bofur crams his hat back down upon his head.
"You're doing the right thing, you know. Best not to get between a king and his dues."
Bofur doesn't consider Bilbo as dues, but he does not wish to get into an argument, particularly with a dwarf who merely has to remove his horn to be literally deaf to his point of view.
"Aye." He says shortly, and walks off to wander in Beorn's gardens.
Today is a rest day for the Company, and most of the dwarves are sprawled on the porch dozing or mending things, fixing clothes or cleaning their weapons. His brother is making the most of Beorn's hospitality by having his animals bring course after course of food, while Bifur sits unblinking, polishing the grime from his boar spear. They will not miss him, and Bofur is oddly enough glad for some solitude.
He lights his pipe, and follows the little paths that wind in and out of the flowerbeds. Their nodding heads are yellow and red and purple, and they remind him of Bilbo and his home nestled in the green folds of the Shire. It should not be a surprise therefore, that he emerges out of the woods on the edge of the bee-fields to find the hobbit reclining on a little hill, surrounded by clover and sunlight.
Bilbo squints into the bright day, and shades his eyes with his hands.
"Bofur!" He cries out cheerfully, and waves at him, and Bofur has no choice but to approach and carefully lower his stiff body into the shade beside him.
"Master Baggins," he says in greeting, and then thrusts his pipe into his mouth to prevent any more conversation on his end.
But Bilbo is not listening. Frown lines mar his smooth forehead as he tugs at Bofur's shoulder, trying to look at his injury.
"M'fine," Bofur protests around his pipe, but he leans forward obligingly enough and lets Bilbo see his impressive array of bruises. The hobbit has shown a remarkable tendancy towards a certain bloody-minded stubborness, and it is disconcerting to be on the receiving end.
"Oh Bofur, it looks dreadful. You have been to see Oin?"
"Aye, I have. He says I'll be playing the harp again in no time. That's brilliant, especially considering I could never play it before!"
Bilbo lets out a put-upon sigh and gives him a gentle shove.
"That was a terrible joke."
"Well, fixing my sense of humour is beyond even Master Oin's expertise."
Bilbo snorts and rests his head against the tree trunk, closing his eyes briefly. When he opens them, he looks worried, and Bofur's heart lashes against its cage.
"Look, Bofur, I'm so sorry about the things I said to you, back in the goblin cave. I didn't mean to hurt you, but I was angry, and you're such an easy target, you're always so nice and positive and...and lovely and I felt so horrible afterwards and I just..."
"Don't trouble your head about it, Bilbo. It's already forgotten."
Bofur is smote by Bilbo's smile. He should by now have learned to guard against it.
"I'm so glad! It's been such a weight on my mind. And we haven't had much time to talk recently, with the goblins and the wolves and then the eagles. And Thorin..."
Bilbo stops, guiltily, and glances at Bofur under his eyelashes.
"Ah, yes," Bofur says airly, trying to let nothing except mild interest show on his face. "How are you and Thorin?"
And Bilbo blushes, his brown cheeks blooming with warmth. Bofur cannot tear his eyes away.
"Well, it's...it's quite overwhelming, actually. Being alone with him, having all his attention on you, it's rather like being in the path of a storm. Very intense and powerful, but exciting as well. You...that is to say, you don't mind, do you Bofur?"
"Not at all." Bofur hears his own voice saying, and his smile is answered by one of Bilbo's.
"Oh, good, because I rather thought..."
"I don't mind at all."
Somehow, Bofur and Bilbo sit and chat until the sun begins to sink behind the trees, and Bilbo's stomach reminds them of the meals they've missed with a deep growl. They walk back to the house together, and Bofur cannot remember one thing that he said, or was said in return, only Bilbo's teeth gleaming and his eyes sparkling with good health and wellbeing and love in the sunset.
Author's Note: This is a gift fic for happiness-in-a-hat on Tumblr, also known as For All Love on AO3. She requested fluffy Boffins of me, and instead received an angsty two-part story, that will (hopefully) at least have the happy ending she asked for.
Concrit always appreciated,
Taluliaka.