True to form, Dwalin asked no questions, just guided his pony to follow Bofur's.
They had only gone a few miles when a company of Elves melted silently out of the woods to surround them. The faces were, if not friendly, at least not grim, and no weapon was drawn, so Bofur chose to consider them an escort rather than a guard. He could feel the tension radiating off Dwalin, however. When he glanced back, he saw his friend was fingering one of his axes.
Lord Elrond wasn't likely to forgive the willful decapitation of his subjects, so Bofur did the only thing he could think to do. He began to hum the song the Elves had sung the last time they'd escorted dwarves to the Last Homely House. As one, the Elves took it up as they rounded one last bend to find the hidden valley spread out before them. Bofur caught his breath. Pulling the pony up next to him, Dwalin surveyed the valley, and with a visible effort let himself relax.
Irregular communication through Nori's network of – well, it wouldn't be polite to call them spies, would it? – meant Bofur couldn't be sure if Lord Elrond would be at home when they called. But he was soon put to ease on that point. Elrond came to greet them himself, a glimmer of a smile on his face as he bowed.
"Mister Bofur, Mister Dwalin," he said, "welcome to Rivendell."
They were given comfortable rooms and told to bathe and rest before the evening feast, but Bofur couldn't relax. Now that he was here, there as no going back. He had gambled everything on this venture. If Dwalin refused…
The knot in the pit of his stomach, which had been growing over the past year, hardened into stomach cramps. Bofur curled up on his bed and tried to think soothing thoughts of deep mines and glittering gold.
Dwalin pushed open the adjoining door without knocking and strode in. "Those blasted Elves –" he began, but he caught sight of Bofur and ran to his side. "What's the matter?" he demanded. "Are you ill? What did you eat? Did they poison you?" He turned toward the door, knife already unsheathed, ready to attack all comers.
Bofur put a hand on his wrist to calm him. "I am well, Dwalin."
It took the big dwarf a moment to compose himself, and for the second time that day Bofur watched him force himself into calm. Dwalin sighed, a long rumble. Bofur was touched by his friend's concern.
"You don't look well," Dwalin muttered.
Bofur hesitated. This might be the last moment Dwalin ever treated him as a friend, and he wanted to bask in it, but instead he took one of the massive hands in his and said, "Promise, no matter what follows, that you will not hate me."
Dwalin gave him a baffled look. "I have no reason to hate you."
"And if I gave you a reason?"
To his surprise, Dwalin tweaked one of his braids affectionately. "You are as kin to me. I could never hate my kin."
Bofur tried to let the words warm him, even as the knot in his stomach turned to stone.
Lord Elrond did honor to his guests. The feast was merry enough, but Bofur could not enjoy it. To his relief, Dwalin took it on himself to answer the Elflord's questions about their mission and their new life at Erebor. Excepting the first night of their journey, Bofur had never heard him say so many words in one sitting. He was aware that talking was usually his job, and he was failing miserably on this mission.
After the meal, Dwalin took his arm to guide him back toward the rooms, a worried look crossing his face when he saw Bofur's uneaten food, but he stopped at a sign from Elrond. Bofur looked up at the regal Elf and wondered how he'd ever thought he'd have the courage for this.
"Mister Bofur, will you join me in my study? We have much to discuss."
Dumbly, Bofur nodded.
Elrond turned to Dwalin and bowed. "Mister Dwalin, if you will excuse us."
Dwalin bared his teeth. "He goes nowhere without me," he snarled, stepping in front of Bofur as if to protect him.
Elrond half-smiled and titled an inquiring look toward Bofur, unruffled. "Mister Bofur?" he asked. "May Mister Dwalin join us?"
Bofur swallowed. "Yes, he had better join us."
Dwalin entered Elrond's study as if entering an Orc nest. A quick scan of the room, a nod to Bofur that it was safe, and then he moved to guard the most likely point of attack – the door. Bofur felt an overwhelming sense of fondness, and almost managed to smile.
He had meant to explain to Dwalin before supper, but he hadn't had the courage. That was a mistake, he knew: now the best he could hope for was that Dwalin would hate him forever, and choose not to eviscerate him.
Elrond shut the door after him, which Dwalin didn't like. The tall Elf raised an eyebrow at Bofur. "Mister Bofur, does your friend know why you are here?"
Bofur couldn't make his throat work. He'd just caught sight of the books and scrolls open on the worktable. Elrond was nothing if not thorough; there were at least a dozen sketches next to the box of what looked like very delicate knives. Bofur approached to see them better.
It was like a kick in the gut.
The books were the worst. The first was open to a picture of a female dwarf, completely naked. All the details except for her face were meticulously sketched. Bofur shuddered. It was obscene.
Another scroll showed cross-sections of different parts of the body, thankfully above the waist – Bofur wasn't sure he could keep from throwing up otherwise. Not all the drawing were of dwarves, but they were all of women.
"Mister Dwalin," Elrond said, "Mister Bofur contacted me about a medical matter some time ago, and I've gathered my research."
Bofur's stomach dropped into his boots when Dwalin stepped up to the table to examine what the other two were looking at.
The last scroll caught Bofur's eye enough to distract him; it was headed by a lavish illustration of an archer with long hair braided in many braids close to her head. The side of her chest where she clutched her bow and quiver was flat. Underneath, more sketches illustrated how the surgery was done.
This was the scroll that Dwalin reached for. Bofur felt numb. He saw Dwalin's eyes go wide and a little feral, and the big dwarf went rigid. The scroll shook in his heavy hand. Dwalin's head snapped up and he looked straight at Bofur.
Bofur would never be able to unsee the horror in his friend's eyes. Dwalin's mouth worked silently for a moment as he tried and failed to find words, but fear darted after rage through his eyes. They stared at each other.
"You – you shared my secret with an ELF?!" Dwalin roared.
Bofur's head swam. It was going all wrong. Of course it was going wrong. He was supposed to have told Dwalin on the way here, had this out long before Rivendell. If only he weren't such a coward –
Dimly, he was aware that Dwalin had shoved him against the nearest wall and was shaking him until his teeth rattled. He was pretty sure he deserved it, so he didn't protest. Finally, with a cry of anguish, Dwalin shoved him away. Bofur stumbled and would have pitched forward if Elrond hadn't caught him. He was very, very glad that Dwalin didn't have his axes with him.
He looked up at Lord Elrond. The dark Elf seemed imperturbed, but he checked Bofur over to make sure Dwalin had done no damage. "Are you hurt?" Elrond asked.
Bofur shook his head. Elrond guided him into a chair and stood, blocking Bofur from Dwalin's rage.
He almost didn't dare to look at Dwalin, though the roaring had stopped. The dwarf had fallen to his knees, his shoulders shaking. "A century of silence," he rasped, accusing, broken. "A century, and you gave it to our enemy."
"No, Master Dwarf," Elrond said calmly, "I'm afraid you are incorrect. You are the one who shared your secret with an Elf." Dwalin spun, mouth open to shout a denial, but Elrond raised a forestalling hand. "Until tonight, I believed that Mister Bofur was my patient."
Dwalin's mouth opened, and his eyes flew to Bofur's again. Elrond put a protective hand on Bofur's shoulder, and Dwalin began to speak – but he stopped and gazed at Bofur. Bofur saw the moment that Dwalin regained control of himself: shame joined the hot rage in his eyes.
Elrond's voice was icy. "I will not leave this room until I am certain that Mister Bofur is safe with you, Mister Dwalin."