PART THREE

The Redbeards welcomed them as heroes, which still surprised Bofur. Dwalin didn't seem to notice, but then Dwalin had been a hero for much longer than the rest of them.

As compared to Ered Luin, the settlement was prosperous – but Bofur couldn't help comparing it to the Lonely Mountain. No wonder Thorin had never been able to resign himself to exile; nothing could match Erebor. Still, it was nice to have earth over his head again. He didn't mind the outside, but it wasn't homey; there was a sense of safety underground, being surrounded by stone and earth.

They were feasted, of course, and called upon to tell the tale of the quest and the Battle of the Five Armies. Bofur enjoyed telling stories, but the Battle was not a story he liked. It had cost them all too much.

He would not neglect his duty though, or dishonor the memory of Thorin and his sister-sons by hurrying past their deaths. To his surprise, when his voice faltered over Fili's end – he was weeping now, no shame in that, but it made it hard to speak – Dwalin's deep voice joined in. The dwarves in the feasting hall were held captive as they traded the tale back and forth until Dwalin told of the crowning of King Dain.

There was silence when he finished, and all the dwarves thought on their heroes, living and dead. "To Thorin Oakenshield," said the Redbeard chief finally, and every dwarf in the room drank to his memory.

It was a relief when the bards were called to take over. Tears continued to roll down Bofur's cheeks, and he didn't even try to brush them away.

Dwalin squeezed his shoulder. "You've not wept for them before."

It was true, Bofur reflected. He'd not been able to weep until now.

Dwalin left a comforting hand on his shoulder, and it was so much like how they'd been, at home in Erebor before this hare-brained schemed of his, that Bofur wanted to weep more. But he dried his tears and drank a toast to the dead King Under the Mountain, and listened to the bards tell of Durin's deeds.

Bofur rapped at Dwalin's door a few hours later. He pushed it open slightly without waiting for an answer. "Shall we go down to the baths, then?" he called.

When he received no reply, he entered the room. It was still a surprise to him that everywhere they stopped, they were given rooms to themselves. On their way to Erebor, they would have been lucky to receive only one room for the fourteen of them. Only Thranduil had given them private quarters – in his dungeons.

Dwalin was sitting on the bed, looking at the closed box before him. His gaze was oddly fixed, unseeing.

"If you'd rather go in the morning, there will be fewer people," Bofur said.

Dwalin stood. "No. I want this. So I'll do it."

Realizing that he'd interrupted Dwalin girding himself for battle, Bofur tried to apologize and leave him to himself for a while.

Dwalin looked alarmed. "We'll go together, won't we?" he said.

Bofur smiled. "Of course."

"Then let's go."

The look of pure animal delight on Dwalin's face as he slipped into the heated water – well, Bofur hoarded it like a dragon to shield himself from his mother's words. That Dwalin had spent nearly two centuries without this when Bofur still hated to think of their eight-month quest: the thought hurt, so he put it away.

Dwalin was stiff and shy with the others in the baths, not that anyone noticed. They were all too busy having a genuine hero in their midst. Dwalin and Bofur were pelted with questions about Erebor, about the dragon, about Dain.

Durin's Beard, Bofur had missed being amongst his own kind. How the Halfling could have stood it all alone, he'd never know.

Bofur rose to the occasion, shouting answers, telling jokes. Not a quiet soak, not tonight – they might get that if they came back in the morning. This was a celebration.

When Dwalin started growling at the young dwarves pestering him, Bofur judged the evening over. "Too much?" he asked when they finally had a moment of quiet in the dressing room.

But Dwalin shook his head. "Good," he grunted, combing his fingers through his wet beard.

Bofur thought he could get used to a world where Dwalin's default expression was a smile.

They visited the baths again in the morning, and Dwalin seemed more relaxed this time. Bofur put it down to fewer people.

It was a wonderful luxury to soak, and he would be sorry to leave. He was rather dreading Ered Luin and all the memories it held.

Beside him, he felt his friend go tense. He tilted an inquiring glance Dwalin's way.

"The ratty little fellow with red hair," Dwalin said under his breath. With a subtle jerk of the head, he indicated a dwarf a yard or two to his right. The dwarf saw Bofur glare at him and looked alarmed.

"What about him? Do you know him?"

"He's been making faces at me all morning," Dwalin muttered. "Last night, too."

"Likely he just wants to meet his childhood hero," Bofur said.

"Perhaps." Dwalin sounded doubtful.

Because his friend still looked disgruntled, Bofur kept an eye on the dwarf. Sure enough he soon tried to get Dwalin's attention again.

Oh. Understanding flooded through him. "Excuse me," he said to Dwalin, and not letting himself think too much about what he was doing, Bofur splashed through the water over to the offending dwarf.

It only took a few words to make the stringy little fellow realize his mistake, and Bofur felt quite satisfied as he scuttled away. He bared his teeth when the dwarf looked back, and returned to Dwalin's side.

Dwalin raised an eloquent eyebrow. It was so much like Elrond's that Bofur almost laughed aloud, but decided it was best not to share the comparison.

"Well?" Dwalin said when Bofur didn't speak. "What was that all about, then?"

Bofur decided it was better not to have this conversation in public. Back in their rooms, he smirked at Dwalin. "He was propositioning you, my friend," he explained, and let the laughter bubble out at Dwalin's thunderstruck expression.

"But – why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

Dwalin looked adorably confused. "Is that – usual in the baths?" he asked. "No one's ever…"

"Not unusual," Bofur said. "A shake of the head will stop anyone if you're not interested. But come now. Surely you've been propositioned before!"

"No," Dwalin said.

Bofur gaped for a moment, then shut his mouth. "No, I don't suppose anyone would have dared." He chewed his lip. "Not even Thorin?"

"Once, but he was in his cups."

Bofur frowned at his friend. "Dwalin, you do know you're quite attractive, don't you?"

Dwalin looked almost shy. "I know you think so – thought so." He turned away, and started fussing with the laces of his knapsack.

"No, really." Bofur reached out and stilled the other dwarf's fingers. "You look like a king out of legend."

Dwalin shook his head. "I've seen what people want in a bed partner, and I made sure I wasn't it."

Well, Dwalin was intimidating, Bofur would agree. He took a different tack. "What do people want in a bed partner, then?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully light.

Dwalin looked at his hands, his brow knit. "Someone young… handsome. Pleasing to the eye. Someone strong, with a light heart and ready smile."

Bofur felt suddenly panicked. "Dwalin, are you describing Fili?" He'd thought Dwalin might have wanted Thorin; it had never occurred to him to think further.

Dwalin shook his head, and smiled tentatively. "No. I was describing you."

The silence went on for too long, and finally Bofur looked away and said, in a voice he barely recognized as his own, "We'd best set out soon."

"Aye," said Dwalin, turning back to his knapsack.

Bofur was almost at the door when Dwalin asked, "What did you say to him to make him run off like that? The red-haired dwarf?"

"Just that he should be grateful you didn't take his balls for such presumption," Bofur lied.