PART TWO

"Mister Bofur?" Cantrell rapped his knuckles on the open door of Bofur's tiny office. "May I come in?"

Bofur looked up from the ledger that was making him cross-eyed. Who could have guessed that taking ore out of the ground necessitated such paperwork? But the miners had to be paid, and the mines had to be inspected for safety, and only the most profitable veins should be played out, so paperwork it was. "Yes, come in, Mister Cantrell."

The overseer strode in with a bit of a swagger. Bofur sighed internally. His second in command was a good dwarf and a good miner, he reminded himself. He was just so… insufferable.

Cantrell stuck his hands in his pockets and puffed his chest out. "I've come for any last-minute instructions, sir," he said loudly, probably for an audience down the hall. "Before you leave on your journey."

"Is it evening already?" Bofur asked, looking around for the clock. Ah – he'd forgotten to wind it this morning. Blast. He wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight.

"Yes, sir," Cantrell said smartly.

Bofur frowned, and tried to mentally reprioritize all the tasks left before he could leave for the night. "Very well. We'll do a walk-through, and I'll give you my notes. Ahh, Cantrell, I did mention that the journey isn't official yet, didn't I?"

"You did, sir," said Cantrell, tapping the side of his nose and trying to wink. "You did."

They wandered down to the shaft entrances together, Bofur ticking off last-minute reminders as they went. He was pleased to hear voices raised in song in shafts 20 and 21; when the evening shift was happy, he could generally be sure the day shift was happy as well. He said as much to his companion.

They inspected shafts 7, 17, and 27 today, and Bofur frowned at the notes left by the official inspection team. "Close 27 until further tests can be done; it's looking unstable."

"But shaft 27 is one of our best, sir!" said Cantrell, sounding shocked.

"It won't be if there's a cave-in," Bofur said. "Ask Oin in the east mines to send you his head inspector; the lad's got a good eye for such things. If he says you can open it again, do so."

Bofur waved at some of the day-shift miners who were still straggling out. Sometimes it was difficult to give up a particularly rich vein when you'd been working hard at it all day. "Remind me to send someone down Shaft 12 to demand they go home and get some sleep." There had been a thin vein of emeralds found there earlier this week and some of the miners still hadn't left. "Oin's your go-to dwarf if you've any questions; I've let him know to expect you," Bofur said. "And I've drafted out the next ten paydays, though of course you'll need to make minor adjustments. Unless you've any questions, I think we're ready to hand you the reins, so to speak."

"Thank you, sir," Cantrell said in his stuffiest voice.

"I don't expect I'll be gone more than a few months, but you never know." Bofur remembered something and frowned. "Do you know the time? I'm to see the King at seven thirty."

"It's seven twenty now, sir."

Damn and blast. Bofur ran.

It was dreadfully improper to arrive at the King's audience chamber in miner's clothing and the grit of the day still on him. Bofur couldn't bring himself to care, because all of his plans hinged on the next few minutes. Indeed, Dain scowled to see him so dirty, and Balin, who had orchestrated this entire affair, rolled his eyes.

Bofur caught sight of Dwalin, a step or so behind the King, and flashed him a smile. Dwalin, who had very definite ideas of on- and off-duty behavior, ignored him completely.

"We have," said the King in that sing-song voice he used when he was trying to be regal, "a mission for you, Mister Bofur."

"For me, sire?" Bofur affected surprise.

The King gave him a sour look. "For you. You have been specially requested."

Bofur waited.

"We would like to send a formal invitation to the dwarves living in the Blue Mountains, those who came of Erebor, to return to their homeland. After much discussion," and the King looked peevishly at Balin, "we have decided to send two of the heroes who joined my predecessor on his quest. We will send a Longbeard, of course, but we would also like to send a native."

This was where it could all unravel. Bofur was the native. Seven of the remaining heroes of the quest were Longbeards, though most couldn't be spared. Bofur had gone over the possibilities in his mind again and again. Balin and Ori were too necessary, as was Dori – though Bofur still didn't know what a Head Chamberlain actually did. If Bofur was going, they couldn't send Oin too, and Gloin would flatly refuse; his wife and boy were here at last and he would not leave them. Which meant that it would come down to a choice between Dwalin and Nori. It was more prestigious for the King to keep Dwalin at the Court, but it might come as an insult to their kin to send Nori, who had not been missed when he left the Blue Mountains.

"I would be honored, sire," he said. "May I ask which Longbeard will accompany me on this journey?"

The King frowned. "As we have had growing reports of Orc attacks, we think it best to send the foremost warrior. Dwalin will accompany you."

Bofur took a breath at last, and thanked his stars.

Someone must have told Dwalin already, because surely someone couldn't stifle surprise that well? Dwalin did not even look at him as the formalities and details wrapped up. Bofur tried not to take that as an ill omen.

And indeed, Dwalin was smiling – well, grimacing, which was as close as he came – when they set out two days hence. All eight of Thorin's company came to see them off, and Bofur found himself a bit teary-eyed when he hugged Bifur and Bombur goodbye, and clasped hands with Balin. Ori composed an ode, and Dori pressed extra food on their already-overburdened ponies.

Bofur waved as they trotted away toward the Great Road.

It took Bofur off guard how suddenly and sharply he missed his kin, and the rest of the company as well. He'd never been parted from Bombur in his life; the closest he'd come was in Mirkwood when they'd been afraid his brother would sleep forever. And then he'd had Bifur at least, and Kili and Fili who had made a special point of cheering him up.

Dwalin noticed the change in mood. Dwalin didn't speak much at the best of times, so Bofur was used to filling the silence with humorous chatter and inane witticism. But the further they got from the Lonely Mountain that first day, the more he found he couldn't find words to fill the emptiness. He fell silent and wondered if he'd made a grave mistake.

"Is there aught I can do to ease your sorrow?" Dwalin asked when they'd pitched camp and settled in for the night. The formal question offered to grieving family seemed appropriate, almost.

"No," Bofur admitted. "I'll just have to grin and bear it." But the smile slipped from his lips within seconds.

"Dwalin?" he asked when the silence became too much. "Could you tell me a tale about one of your adventures?"

"Aye, of course." He could hear the amusement in Dwalin's gruff voice; Gloin's son Gimli had asked the same questions not long ago.

To his surprise, Dwalin told him about the disastrous campaign to retake Moria. "It was a bad job from the beginning," he said, "and everybody knew it. But they'd just lost their home, and Orcs were easier to face than dragons – or the truth."

"Is that when you first met Thorin?"

"Aye. I think he knew how bad it was going to be, but his father and his grandfather wouldn't hear reason. He came by his stubbornness honestly."

Bofur lay back in his bedroll and looked at the stars. "Tell me about how you met him."

It took a while, but gradually the steady stream of Dwalin's words seemed to fill up a corner of the empty place in Bofur's heart. He closed his eyes and listened to the cadence of the deep voice as Dwalin talked far into the night.

The journey was to take at least two months, and they had to stop as royal envoys at many places along the way. At Thranduil's palace, the welcome was uneasy; at Beorn's, joyful. Dwalin was a pleasant enough traveling companion, and was willing enough to add his deep voice to the songs that Bofur played in the evenings. Bofur still missed his kin, but the first hard wrench of it was passed.

A sense of peace, now that his plan was finally moving ahead, kept him buoyed for a month. Then one day, Dwalin frowned when Bofur nudged his pony off the main road.

"Where are we going? I thought we were headed for Bree?"

Bofur turned a brilliant smile upon him. "We've an invitation to Rivendell."

Author's Note: Apologies for the willful character assassination of King Dain. My only excuse is that it sets things up down the line.