Dwalin had been a warrior for almost two centuries. He had seldom had occasion to doubt his courage. Indeed, the concept of bravery had never been one he quite understood; combat would end well or it would end poorly, and it was a matter of luck and skill. Skill he had plenty of, and he supposed he must have luck on his side as he wasn't dead yet.

But he'd left fear behind the day he'd stolen some of Balin's clothes, bound his chest, and set out to foster with his relatives as a boy. He'd won renown as a warrior – but only because he hadn't had to conquer fear. Other warriors were more skilled, but they were more reluctant. Dwalin hadn't understood for decades, frustrated with how much more could be done if they'd just be willing to take risks.

And now, in the peace of Rivendell Dwalin the dwarf knew fear. Bofur was on the other side of that door, and Dwalin couldn't bring himself to try the knob. He thought he might shatter if he found it locked.

He paced his small room in the misty half-light of the moon. Was this what Elrond had meant about fear and love? Was it possible this fear meant that he loved Bofur?

Dwalin sat down on his bed and tried to think what he had loved in his life. His kin, certainly. Balin. But Bofur had been upset to part from Bombur and Bifur, whereas Dwalin had gone stretches of many months and even years away from Balin without much thought. And there'd been the decades of separation when he hadn't dared go home for fear that Balin would unmask him. Love, yes, but with fear shot through it.

He had loved his King. Not Thrain or Thror, who hadn't earned it, but Thorin. Thorin, who shared with Dwalin the singularly useful quality of setting every atom of his body to a goal and never bending from that path.

Dwalin wondered what Thorin would be like had he lived, King Under the Mountain, without that driving purpose ruling his life. Would Thorin be as lost as Dwalin felt now?

He reached for the closed door and his courage failed him once again. Damn Bofur, anyway! He could have asked if Dwalin wanted this… this… Monstrosity? Butchery?

There had been a time when Dwalin would have killed to have such a thing. He almost had killed – killed himself. A third of his left breast was gone because he hated the softness, hated that it meant he couldn't be a true warrior in his family's eyes. The blood loss had almost done him in; no Orc had been able to do what Dwalin almost did to himself.

Dwalin frowned to realize that the hatred of the useless breasts was mostly gone. He hadn't thought about his body in decades, not since Balin had greeted him as a brother. The last traces of fear had left then, and now the breasts were just annoyances. Much like the menses; he'd hated that his body did such things to him, but eventually its permanence had worn his hatred to dull peevishness.

On an impulse, he tore his shirt off. For the first time in months he unlaced the breast binder. The knots had not been made for untying, so he took a knife to them. He ran his fingers over the alien skin underneath. Almost a century and a half, and he still didn't feel like the ugly lumps were part of his body.

So why not? a treacherous voice whispered. Why not get rid of them?

You selfish coward, another voice said. Didn't Elrond say it would be unkind to leave Bofur without an apology? And here you're fondling yourself and wondering if you'd feel differently if it were him touching them.

Dwalin snatched his fingers away and pulled on his shirt. Then he pulled on his tunic as well for good measure. The fabric felt strange against his unbound breasts.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself. Unbidden, an image of Thorin came to him from many years past. Thorin and Dwalin had taken Kili out to track and kill his first warg. Kili was too young, much too young: not even any fuzz on his upper lip. But they'd taken Fili last year when his beard began to come in, and Kili had pleaded and begged and whined and pouted and Dis had eventually told them they would either take him or they would have to foster him, because otherwise she was going to strangle her youngest.

Even Dwalin had been impressed with Kili's seriousness and purpose once they were in the forest. He listened to everything they taught him, and he learned quickly. But he'd gone very quiet and rather white as they closed in on the warg. Thorin wasn't unaffected, either, and if it weren't for Dis he would have dragged his nephew back to Ered Luin and safety.

When it came the moment to step out and challenge the warg, Kili hesitated. Dwalin and Thorin exchanged worried looks. They would understand if Kili wasn't ready to make his first kill – but Kili would never forgive himself.

Kili had looked up at his uncle with tears in his eyes. "Am I a coward?" he asked. "I know I should have no fear in my heart, but I can't make it stop."

Thorin clasped his nephew tightly in a hug. "No, mine own," he'd said in a thick voice. "We all have fear in our hearts. Fear is a very sensible thing to feel when you're in danger. Courage is when you can reach through the fear."

Kili nodded, straightened, took a deep breath, and plunged into the darkness. Dwalin and Thorin plunged after him, because it was one thing to let Kili face his fears and quite another to let a boy face a warg alone. But Kili's had been the killing blow, and he'd worn that warg pelt until it was falling apart.

Courage, thought Dwalin, and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.

Bofur's room was empty.

If they were amongst dwarves, Dwalin would know where to find him. He would just follow his ears to the noisiest pub and he would find Bofur in the thick of things. Bofur was always at the center of any crowd, always laughed the loudest, always quaffed the longest. Bofur made friends with all who met him and entertained with song and story. For all that, Dwalin had discovered one of his friend's secrets one night when he'd determined to match Bofur drink for drink: even when Bofur wasn't buying, he drank nowhere near as much as it seemed he did. Dwalin had thought to ask about the deception, but decided it wasn't his business.

There were no public houses here in Rivendell, but there was Elven music coming from a pavilion up the valley, and Dwalin decided that was his most likely bet.

Bofur was indeed there, deep in conversation with a tall Elf with long golden hair. Dwalin hated him on sight.

He caught Bofur's eye and subtly indicated with his head that he'd like to leave. Instead of moving with appreciative alacrity as he usually would, Bofur looked at him stonily for a long moment, then turned back to his companion. "Lord Glorfindel," he said, "may I present my comrade, Dwalin son of Fundin." The Elf stood and bowed. His eyes were the color of mithril, almost unworldly. "Dwalin, the Elf Glorfindel."

Dwalin swallowed. Bofur had once spoken of him as a living legend and Dwalin had laughed, flattered at the warm admiration. But here was a real legend brought to life. The only Elf to die and return to Middle Earth. Glorfindel had battled a Balrog and come out victorious even in death.

"Greetings, Mister Dwalin." The clear voice was melodious.

Bofur WOULD have a type, wouldn't he? an insidious little voice sneered. Dwalin pushed the thought away and bowed curtly.

Bofur smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "You needn't glare so, Dwalin," he joked. "Glorfindel was telling me about the war against Morgoth, and the part Gandalf played in the final battle."

"Bofur, I would speak with you," said Dwalin, losing patience for such polite platitudes.

Something behind Bofur's eyes shuttered, but he nodded. He turned to the Elf. "It was an honor to speak with you, my lord," he said. "Your deeds are known even amongst the dwarves."

"As are yours amongst the Elves, friend Bofur," Glorfindel said, bowing again. "The fame of Erebor is known throughout Middle Earth." Bofur's eyes widened at the compliment.

They were silent as they made their way back to their suite. Dwalin was unaccustomed to such quiet in Bofur's presence; his friend always filled the air with humor or song, even when Dwalin had nothing to contribute. The silence made him feel that he had perhaps broken something in his friend.

Safe behind closed doors, Dwalin still hadn't found the magic needed to mend what he had brought upon them. Bofur turned to face him and waited, quiet and impatient, while Dwalin searched for words.

He took refuge in formality, standing straight and looking at the far wall and pretending Bofur was a commander to whom he must make a report. "I wish to offer my apologies for…" But then it all broke down, because it came to him what he had done. "…For assaulting you this evening."

Bofur did not make a reply, just looked at him. There was an incredulity in the way he set his lips. Dwalin focused on the far wall again. "You… tried to give me a gift, and I did not understand," he said, his throat growing unwontedly tight. "I can offer no excuse for my actions. I hope –" and damnation, why couldn't his voice work properly? – "I hope that someday I will regain your trust."

Bofur didn't reply for so long that Dwalin began to panic. The clock in the corner ticked away the silence, and each second took Bofur further away.

Abruptly, though, Bofur started and shook his head to clear it. Dwalin couldn't keep his eyes on the far wall anymore, had to know. He met Bofur's gaze.

"Don't be ridiculous, Dwalin," Bofur said lightly, but his eyes were all wrong. "It was my own fault. I should have told you weeks ago. If I'd not been a coward, you wouldn't have been taken off guard in the house of one you see as an enemy." Dwalin began to protest, but Bofur waved it away. "Enough. Let's put it behind us."

If Bofur would just look at him, he might be able to accept this. But he wouldn't. "Bofur, I tried to kill you –"

"You did not," Bofur said flatly, and now he looked at Dwalin. His eyes were depthless; not quite there. "You did not try to kill me. You were very angry, but you had no malice in your heart, Dwalin. Dwarves have tried to kill me before; I know the difference. You just wanted to hurt me as much as I'd hurt you."

Dwalin wondered if Bofur were trying to convince him – or himself.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. It was stupid of me. It never occurred to me that –" Bofur paused. "It doesn't matter. We're even, and we'll put it behind us."

The silence lengthened until Dwalin couldn't bear it, and he agreed, "Aye, behind us," thought he almost choked on the words. Bofur clapped him on the shoulder as if nothing had changed, and bid him goodnight.

Dwalin didn't sleep for many hours, disturbed by the memory of the flat faraway look in Bofur's eyes. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had broken something and Bofur wasn't going to let him fix it, and Dwalin wasn't sure he even could.