Dwalin strode into Elrond's study scowling, every inch a warrior with his battleaxes strapped to his back. "Your Elves," he growled, "are the worst guards I've ever had the misfortune to look upon."

Elrond, who had been preparing the table for surgery, raised an eyebrow in mild inquiry. "My guards know to expect you, friend Dwarf," he said. "Why would they stop you from passing?"

"I have two axes and a sword, and you have only scalpels," Dwalin growled. He loosed one of the axes and looked at it fondly.

Elrond smiled. "I have kept myself alive through three Ages, Mister Dwalin. I assure you, I am not entirely defenseless." He looked at the axe. "Keep it on the left side of the table, if you'd like it near you; I will be starting on the right."

Bofur was already feeling a bit sick. He wished he didn't have to be here, but Dwalin had asked. Whatever Dwalin needed, he would give if he could.

He looked away when Dwalin removed his shirt and binder; he didn't like to look at Dwalin's bare chest. The breasts were disconcerting, even under the thick fur that covered his friend's torso. They didn't match Bofur's vision of who Dwalin was.

Dwalin grudgingly allowed Elrond's examination, face impassive, but he balked when the Elf offered him a sleeping draught. His knuckles went white where he clutched the axe haft. "No," he said.

"It is necessary," Elrond said. "If you move during the operation, even a little, a scalpel could touch an artery – or your heart."

Dwalin glared at him. "No," he said.

Elrond muttered something, no doubt about the stubbornness of dwarves, and put the draught away. He regarded Dwalin with just a hint of frustration. "What then do you suggest, friend Dwarf?" he asked. "I cannot perform surgery if you cannot keep still, and you cannot keep still without either a sleeping draught or –"

"Or?"

Elrond shook his head. "There are potions that hold a person awake but motionless, but they are not used in houses of healing. They are more often found in torture chambers."

Bofur didn't like where this was going. "Dwalin," he began.

Dwalin turned a fierce glare on him, and Bofur shut up. Dwalin would have to live with his choice; it wasn't Bofur's to make – even if he wanted to shout at his friend about pigheaded stupidity and lack of trust.

Elrond sighed. "A draught of waking death is one of the worst things a being can survive, Mister Dwalin. You would have no control over your muscles. Even focusing your eyes would become impossible. And during that time, I would be cutting into your body. You wouldn't feel pain, I can take that with another potion, but you'd still be able to feel it happening and do nothing." He looked troubled. "It is the stuff that nightmares are made of."

Dwalin nodded, jaw clenched. "I will not sleep while in the power of an Elf," he said grimly.

Bofur wanted to hit him.

Elrond held Dwalin's gaze for a long moment, as if testing him. Finally he nodded. "It shall be as you wish," he said.

They were silent as the surgery was prepared. Dwalin had never looked so small as he did lying on a linen-draped table next to an ancient Elf. Dwalin clutched the handle of his axe in his left hand.

"Bofur will stand guard over me," Dwalin said when Elrond brought him a goblet.

"I will?" Bofur straightened. "I will."

He approached the table. He already wanted to throw up, and Elrond hadn't even started yet.

But Dwalin smiled up at him, and clasped his hand like a brother. "My second axe is in the corner. I trust you to use it if necessary." The smile on his face said he knew it wasn't necessary, but the fine tremor that ran through him said it would make him feel more at ease. Bofur fetched the axe.

Dwalin drank the two draughts, and clutched again his axe-haft as the tension eased from his muscles.

Bofur stepped to Dwalin's left side, careful to put himself in his friend's line of sight. He knew he was trembling, but he didn't care. He kept his eyes on Dwalin's, refusing to look at Elrond. He was afraid he might bolt at the first sight of blood, and he couldn't abandon Dwalin to live through this alone.

What must have been hours later, Elrond bandaged Dwalin's right side. He put a hand on Bofur's wrist to alert him. Bofur, who had managed to block out the entire world except for Dwalin's breathing, started so violently that Elrond frowned. Bofur shook off the Elf's concern and moved to stand on Dwalin's other side, but he realized that Dwalin still held his beloved axe in his left hand, blocking Elrond's access.

"Dwalin," he said softly. Dwalin didn't even twitch. "Please do not fear." He pried the axe-haft out of Dwalin's wooden fingers and took it to the other side of the table. He reached for Dwalin's right hand and tried to wrap his fingers around the axe, but they wouldn't stay. Bofur fought a wave of nausea. Dwalin was not dead, he reminded himself.

Not dead, he repeated, again and again, his fingers laced around Dwalin's motionless ones to grasp the axe. Not dead, and he clutched the second axe in his other hand so hard that the imprint stayed for days.

Dwalin slept for almost a day after he regained the use of his limbs. Bofur suspected a sleeping potion, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Dwalin had asked him to protect him during the surgery, not after, and sometimes Dwalin needed protection from himself.

He knew he had to stuff his anger away before Dwalin woke, so he spent the time in the forge, pounding metal rather harder than necessary.

This had better be worth it.

Bofur was not normally one for what ifs, but he wondered if it would have been best to leave well enough alone; whether they would both be happier back in Erebor serving the King.

Dwalin would be happier now, he hoped. That it might come at the cost of their friendship, Bofur had never expected. Forgiveness was all very well, but what of the next time Bofur poked Dwalin's wounds? Dwalin could have killed him if he'd wanted to.

The knife he made today was better than the previous one, but Bofur knew he had little talent for weaponscrafting. But he was too unsettled to busy his hands with making toys, and there were no children in Rivendell.

When pounding metal turned his muscles to knots, he wandered through the valley again.

He'd love a good pub brawl, he thought, and regretted again that the valley had no such establishment. A friendly drink, a friendly fight, some destruction of property – that would leech the anger out. Pity he'd not been able to do that in years. Erebor didn't seem to have need of such places.

Still, the anger fled his conscious mind when he entered Dwalin's room to find his friend awake.

"Is there any pain?" was his first question. "Should I fetch Lord Elrond?"

"No," Dwalin rasped. His voice was even more gravelly than usual.

"Can I fetch you anything?"

"Water?"

Bofur brought him water, and was relieved to see him drink unassisted.

Dwalin tried to sit up, and evidently there was pain and Dwalin was just being stupid again, because he winced and gasped. "Help me with my shirt," he said, his face pale. "I want to see."

"There's nothing to see but bandages, Dwalin." Bofur tried to be patient. "Give it time."

On the third day, Dwalin didn't grit his teeth with every movement, and Elrond allowed the bandages to come off. And the look on Dwalin's face as he traced the still-angry scars on his chest made it all worth it, no matter what the cost might turn out to be.