On the day they left Rivendell, they went to Lord Elrond's study to thank him privately.
The Elflord waved away their words, but Bofur thought he saw some satisfaction on his face when Dwalin, with obvious reluctance, admitted that he should not have dismissed his advice just because he was an Elf. It was the closest Dwalin would get to an apology, he knew.
There was a definite twinkle in Elrond's eye as he bowed and said, "In that case, Master Dwarf, I hope you will not take it amiss if I offer a gift before you depart."
"A gift?" Dwalin's voice held deep suspicion, and both Bofur and Elrond stifled their smiles.
Elrond indicated a wooden box on his writing table. It was completely devoid of all decoration – something almost unheard of in Elven circles. The box had a delicate lock, to which Elrond held the key.
"My hope is that the contents will not cause offense," Elrond said. "I understand that such matters are considered… private… amongst dwarves. I may have presumed too far, in which case I will tender my humblest apologies."
Bofur raised an eyebrow. This ought to be good. When dwarves went stuffy and formal, he knew what to expect; with Elves, he hadn't the first clue.
For once, Elrond seemed to have difficulty choosing his words. "Mister Dwalin," he said slowly, "in my reading on dwarven culture, I have noticed that the practice of communal bathing serves as a bonding ritual for males of your kind."
Bofur stared at Elrond. He'd been wrong; this was going to be awful. Dwalin frowned and started to speak, but Bofur elbowed him in the ribs.
"Surgery of course can only do so much. To, ah, supplement the rest, I fashioned this." Elrond placed the small key on top of the box. "A… prosthetic, if you will."
Dwalin reached for the key, looking completely mystified.
"Why, Mister Bofur, are you quite well?" Elrond asked. "You've turned a most alarming shade of red."
Bofur made a strangled sound and glared at the Elf. Dwalin turned to him, confused, so Bofur growled at him to open the blasted box. Might as well have it done with. If Bofur was very lucky, Dwalin might well only try to kill Elrond.
Dwalin unlocked the box with surprisingly nimble fingers and pushed up the lid.
It wasn't quite the dildo Bofur was bracing himself for, but it was a carved wooden phallus, nestled in white linen. Mithril threads – minute chains that had to be dwarvencraft – indicated it could be attached to the body; the chains would be barely visible under thick dwarven hair.
The thing was enormous.
"…Oh," Dwalin said faintly.
"I had some trouble with the dimensions," Elrond said, and Bofur had to bite back a shout of hysterical laughter. "I'm afraid even medical texts seem to disagree, and the dwarves I asked gave me no better data."
"The dwarves you…" Bofur echoed. Aulë above, Elrond was a madman. He'd let a madman carve up his best friend.
"A most unsatisfactory way to glean information," Elrond agreed, looking mildly affronted.
Bofur finally dared to look at Dwalin. He was still staring at the box, holding himself very rigid, but Bofur could see the whites of his eyes.
"Er," he began, hoping he could hurry Dwalin out before there was an explosion.
"I removed the most spurious claims and tried to find a happy medium," Elrond went on. "But I understand it is a, ah, touchy subject amongst dwarves, so if you'd like me to have it remade to specifications…"
Mad laughter burned the back of Bofur's throat and made his eyes water. Dwalin was in no state to reply, so Bofur reached for words, but –
"No, my Lord," Dwalin said, snapping the box closed. "The specifications are quite satisfactory. My thanks for your… thoughtfulness." There was a queer look on his face as they made their goodbyes and their escapes.
Just outside the study, Bofur realized that Dwalin was shaking. Alarmed, he whispered, "Are you well?"
But Dwalin turned and Bofur saw his face, the barely-banked hilarity there, and together they tore down to their rooms and slammed the door behind them. Dwalin leaned against the door and roared his laughter, and Bofur collapsed on the floor in hysterical giggles.
They were still giggling when they guided their ponies out of the valley. The box was tied to Dwalin's pony, and the key hung on a chain around his neck.
"Can you imagine the look on Thorin's face, were he here?" Dwalin chuckled.
"You're going to be a legend," Bofur hooted. "Never mind a lifetime as a warrior. After they see you in the baths, they'll sing songs for centuries for the size of your cock alone!"
They rode in silence for a bit, still grinning. "How far to Ered Luin, then?" Bofur finally asked.
"Twelve days if we don't stop, but I rather thought we ought to look in on our burglar when we pass the Shire." Dwalin quirked an eyebrow at him. "I never thought I'd be able to bathe with other dwarves – I can wait another fortnight."
"You looking forward to it?" Bofur teased.
Dwalin grinned, flashing teeth, still almost giddy. "Very much so."
It was a pity he had to wait so long, Bofur thought. Dwalin's pleasure was evident in every line of his body since the surgery. He was even holding himself differently – it was subtle, but there was a tension gone. Bofur felt himself smiling like a fool. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "the Redbeards have a mining settlement two days north of here. It's a little out of our way…"
When Dwalin was so open and happy like this, his face was easy to read. He clearly wanted to say yes. "King Dain…" he began reluctantly.
Bofur clucked to his pony and turned her northward. "You've got kin there, haven't you? It would be rude not to visit and tell them about the splendor of Erebor."
You can't make someone happy, his mother's voice echoed in his ears, but he ignored it for the look of boyish glee on Dwalin's face. His excitement was infectious.
They raced the ponies northward.
Note: I'm told that wood is a terrible material for a packer, so this will definitely change in the rewrite.