Strangely enough, it was the hat that brought Dwalin back to himself. Sometime in the shaking – Dwalin cringed – it had toppled onto the floor. Now it lay there, silent and alone. The wrongness of the hat without Bofur, of Bofur without the hat, seemed to wake him as if from a dream.

A nightmare – and Aulë, how he wished it were only a nightmare. The world had titled on its axis. An Elf stood guard over Bofur, to protect him from his closest friend.

"Bofur –" Dwalin reached out, Bofur liked being touched so he'd been trying to do it more, and something turned cold inside of him when Bofur shied back.

"I…" Dwalin found he didn't have words. He'd never seen Bofur look like that, all grey around the edges and no depth in his gaze. Aulë above, Bofur had looked better when they'd unwrapped him from the spider's sack in Mirkwood.

Dwalin wanted to be sick. He'd done that – he'd put that fear in Bofur's eyes.

"Bofur, I'm sorry." How empty the words were, how meaningless when Bofur looked through him and didn't see him, didn't smile the smile that had greeted Dwalin daily for three years now.

"Bofur?" Elrond prompted gently. "How are you feeling?"

Bofur made an effort to shake himself alert. He blinked at Elrond, who knelt beside him looking troubled.

"I'll send for some hot tea and brandy," Elrond said, studying Bofur's eyes. "It'll help take the edge off –"

Bofur looked alarmed and jumped to his feet, backing away from both of them.

"Bofur?" Dwalin couldn't help the break in his voice; Bofur looked like a cornered animal.

"So - so sorry to be any trouble," Bofur said all in a rush. "I should have explained to Dwalin, I'm sorry you went to such trouble my lord, I hope you'll only hold it against me and not against the dwarves, if you don't mind we've a long journey and I should get some sleep goodnight!" And he fled.

Dwalin moved to go after him, but the Elf put a cautionary hand on his shoulder. "Let him go, Mister Dwalin," Elrond advised. "You'll only terrify him more if you don't give him some time to remember that you're his friend." He reached for the hat on the floor, but Dwalin snatched it.

"I don't think I'm his friend, after what I just did." His fingers dug into the soft fur of the hat's brim.

Elrond motioned him to a chair, and Dwalin obeyed instinctively. He remembered that the Elf had been a general in countless wars; it would be hard to disobey the command of one so self-assured. Elrond sat and surveyed him, his face betraying no emotion.

"When was the last time you lost control like that?" Elrond asked.

Dwalin looked away, but the words came unbidden. "Seventy years ago. Three dwarves violated a human woman." He hesitated. "When I think back, I only should have shaved their beards and cut off their balls. I should have made them live instead of making them die."

Elrond arched an eyebrow. "What did you do?" There was no condemnation in his voice.

Dwalin glanced away again. "I don't like to think on it," he growled, "and I did it. I shouldn't put that blackness in another's head."

Elrond nodded. "Is it worse to think on what you did, or what they did?"

Dwalin shuddered. "What I did. They're dead and gone, but I have to live with the memory."

They sat in silence together.

"We all have that darkness in us, you know," Elrond said finally. His voice had changed, no longer commanding answers.

Dwalin made a noise of disbelief. "What do Elves know of darkness?" he scoffed.

The look Elrond turned on him made him wish he hadn't spoken. "We brought darkness incarnate to Middle Earth once," Elrond said, and Dwalin shivered to hear his tone. "I'd say we know the darkness quite well."

Dwalin thought of Bofur going limp, not fighting as he was shaken. He knew he'd have nightmares about that, about his fingers digging into Bofur's shoulders to prevent himself from going for his throat.

"Darkness comes on the heels of love," Elrond said finally. "The things most deeply held are the things that engender the most fear." He stood and crossed to the window, looking out at his valley. "Still I'd like to think that love is stronger."

Dwalin glanced up. Elrond had a distant look in his eye, as if he weren't entirely living in the present moment. "Do you believe that?" he asked. "That love is stronger?"

Elrond shook his head absently. "My lady is passed over the sea. She was savaged by Orcs, and love could not save her mind from reliving her torment. My sons are too caught in revenge to realize their lives have become as nightmares. No, I shouldn't believe that love and honor and decency will beat back fear and darkness and deception. But there's still a part of me that does."

Unsure what he ought to do with this flood of information, Dwalin looked away. His eye was caught by the scroll with the one-breasted archer, and he reached for it. He studied the illustrations that followed, and tried to imagine never having to bind his chest again.

"Why didn't he tell me?" he asked at last.

"Possibly he had some idea that you wouldn't take it well," Elrond said dryly. He left his window and seated himself beside Dwalin again.

"He shared a secret he said he'd keep," Dwalin said. Who else might Bofur tell? Did his kin know?

Elrond sighed and stood. "You'll need to forgive him that, and he'll need to forgive you losing control. There's only one of those things you can accomplish yourself."

Dwalin stood too and bowed awkwardly, feeling ill at ease.

"Your secret is safe with me, Mister Dwalin, as I trust mine is with you," Elrond said. He smiled then. "I am six thousand years old, master dwarf. You are hardly the first person in Middle Earth who was born to the wrong body."

Dwalin started. "There are others?"

Elrond nodded to the table. "Those weren't made for prurient interest alone. Nor even just for better archery. It's rare, but it happens."

"Even to dwarves?"

Elrond shuffled through a pile of papers, and brought out a book. "I sent for that from Erebor, you know," he said. "I think it mightily confused young Mister Ori, but he was kind enough to lend it."

Dwalin paged through the book, fascinated – and vaguely nauseated. Castrations, piercings, implantations. All on dwarves.

"May I take this to my chamber?"

"Of course."

Dwalin looked up at the strange, ancient Elf. He suddenly felt very young indeed. He looked again at the archer. "Should I do it?" he asked.

"That, my young friend, is entirely up to you. I will not treat you until your mind is made up definitively." Elrond waved a hand in dismissal. "And not until you have come to some understanding with Mister Bofur. You are welcome here as long as you need to stay, Mister Dwalin – but do not leave it too long. It would not be kind to him."