Dwalin paced the length of the little room at the inn, caught in the throes of a full-bore panic. Dis had refused to tell him anything more, had sent him away with a preemptory wave of the hand, and he couldn't do anything. He couldn't remember returning to the inn, just a sense that Bofur would help calm the terror welling in his chest. But Bofur wasn't here, and the landlord said he'd gone for drinks with some miners. Dwalin may have said some very derogatory things about miners when he heard that.

Will she tell everyone? Will she blackmail me? Will they kill me for what I've done?

Eight steps across the room, eight steps back. Deep breaths, calm the mind. Eight steps across the room, eight steps back. He had to decide what to do. He had to stop panicking.

In the century and a half since he'd first been forced to keep his secret, only twice had someone found it out. The first had been Bofur himself, and the panic then had been different. The first thing Bofur had done was to cover Dwalin's naked chest from Kili's view. That told Dwalin that Bofur wouldn't humiliate him publicly; the reveal would be private, most likely to Thorin alone.

– Did Thorin know? –

When Balin told him Bofur said he had no intention of telling, Dwalin didn't believe it. He didn't believe it for weeks, months even. Not until the Battle of Five Armies – not until Bofur beheaded an Orc that had slipped under Dwalin's guard. Bofur had no reason to save his life if he meant to destroy it later on, so Dwalin finally had to trust him.

The panic when Bofur revealed the secret to Elrond had been drowned in the white-hot fury of betrayal. Dwalin could count on one hand the number of people he trusted in this world. And also there was the knowledge that if Dwalin killed Bofur, Elrond would most likely kill him and his secret wouldn't matter – though that wasn't what stayed his hand, in the end.

Dis was not Bofur. She was not Elrond. There had never been any gentleness in her soul except for when it came to her sons, and Dwalin had always admired that in her. Now he could see why it unnerved people.

He didn't know what she wanted. She had lost everything; revenge would be hollow, because Dwalin wasn't the one she really blamed. It was just there was no one else left.

Would she choose to destroy him in a fit of directionless grief? That didn't sound like the shrewd, calculating woman he knew of old. But madness did run in the Line of Durin – it had taken Thror; it had taken Thorin.

– Did Thorin know? –

There was no way to know what Dis would do, short of waiting for her to show her hand. Dwalin growled in frustration, pacing still the eight steps across the bedchamber; there and back, there and back. He wanted to punch someone. He wanted to take his axes to the rough-hewn wood of the beds. He wanted Orcs to attack so he could do something useful with this anger.

Anger was better than panic; he could feel his thoughts becoming slightly less chaotic.

A century and a half with nothing to lose: he had never been proud of his lack of fear because until recently he hadn't understood what fear even meant. Fear was caring about losing something.

His first instinct was to run. He'd always known discovery was a possibility, so he rarely stayed in one place long enough to form attachments. He could leave now, take his axes and one of the ponies, head south. See if there really were Oliphaunts, or warrior women who cut off their breasts. Middle Earth was vast; he would never have to see another dwarf again. He could outrun his own fame, if he traveled far enough.

He had a good head for maps. He could remember the ones he'd poured over with Ori in the Archives when he'd thought it kinder to leave Bofur with only memories. Even without a map, he was skilled at navigation in the wilds; Thorin had counted on him for it during the quest.

– Did Thorin know? –

But Dwalin did know one thing, through all the confusion and clamoring running through his mind. He knew that he couldn't race off without telling Bofur he was leaving. So he paced, and he thought, and he paced, and he cursed every miner in Ered Luin until he was surprised Mahal didn't strike him dead for blasphemy.

Bofur rapped on Dwalin's door just as the latter's thoughts were finally beginning to settle. Dwalin had thought a smoke might calm his nerves, but the pipe had snapped in his shaking fingers. He borrowed Bofur's and raided his stash of pipeweed while he was at it, having forgotten to replenish his own at the market. It turned out to be Halfling stuff, but Dwalin was not overly particular in that moment.

The knock was cheerful, and Bofur pushed the door open without waiting for a reply, which meant he must be cheerful as well; Bofur became tentative when he was sad or anxious. And Dwalin could have kissed him – not that he would; he'd learned that lesson well enough – for the bright smile on his face, because if Bofur was his normal merry self then the world couldn't possibly be too bad, no matter what Dis might choose to do. Dwalin clung to that thread of hope.

Bofur was already talking a mile a minute when he came through the door. "You'll never guess! I found out why they let Uncle keep his place on the Council – Dwalin, what happened?" He was at his friend's side in an instant.

Dwalin looked up into eyes wide with concern. Bofur sat on the bed next to him, looking alarmed. "Was it Dis? Dwalin, you don't have to keep visiting her, not if she's going to torture you." Hesitantly, Bofur settled an arm over Dwalin's shoulders and leaned his forehead against Dwalin's, offering kin-comfort.

They'd barely touched in days, and Dwalin was surprised at the pure relief that swept through him at the gesture. Balin and Thorin were the only ones to offer him kin-comfort since he'd come of age. He closed his eyes and breathed in calm and the scent of Bofur.

"I hate this place," he said at the end of several minutes, when the panic had dulled to just a low throbbing in his belly. He lifted his head to meet Bofur's eyes again, shifting out from under Bofur's arm self-consciously. "I want to go home."

Bofur swallowed hard and nodded, gnawing on his lip. "Aye. Me, too." He tugged on Dwalin's shoulder. "Shall we get you some supper?" he suggested.

Supper did sound like a good idea. He stood, but he couldn't keep his hands from shaking from the adrenaline crash. Bofur noticed; of course he did. Bofur noticed everything.

A queer look came into Bofur's eye. He narrowed his eyes consideringly.

Dwalin balled his fists to stop them from shaking and raised an eyebrow at him. "Trouncing the city watch, was it?" Bofur said, as if in response to some question.

"What?"

"Earlier, you said that trouncing the city watch put you in a good mood."

That was true. Dwalin wouldn't trust himself with them now; he was clinging too tightly to the reins on his anger, and someone might get hurt.

Bofur was still looking at him with a strange light in his eyes. He nodded decisively. "I know what you need," he announced, and bared his teeth in a smile, turning toward the door.

It was not a nice smile at all.

Dwalin picked up his sword belt – no, he didn't care if most civilized people left off their weaponry for meals, thank you Balin – and made to follow, but Bofur shook his head.

"Leave your weapons," he grunted, and removed the daggers at his own belt, leaving only the one Dori had made for all the company, too beautiful to use in an actual fight.

Once upon a time – three or four days ago – Dwalin probably would have balked, but he'd never seen that dangerous glint in Bofur's eyes before, and he was too intrigued to argue.

The tavern they went to was outside the walls of Ered Luin, in a district where Men lived. Indeed, it was a tavern for Men, with tables and chairs sized to fit. Dwalin glanced around uncertainly.

"Oh," said the tavernkeep flatly, looking unhappy when she saw Bofur. "I thought we'd gotten rid of you at last." Dwalin's eyebrows shot up.

Bofur flashed her his most charming smile. "Come now, Mistress, is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"Friend, my left tit," the Woman grumbled, but she didn't look completely put out. She rolled her eyes at Bofur's bow. "Will you be dining with us tonight, sire, or should I begin to collect the crockery now?"

The feral smile was back. "We'd like some food, if you please," Bofur said sweetly.

The tavernkeep held out a hand, palm upward, affecting boredom. "Money up front, if you please," she drawled. But her eyes widened in startled amazement when Bofur dropped three gold coins into her palm.

"That'll cover the crockery," Bofur said. The smile was soft but the words were hard-edged. Dwalin wished he hadn't removed his knuckledusters back at the inn; he didn't like the undercurrents to this conversation. Bofur had just paid her enough for ten meals.

Dwalin would have chosen a seat as far as possible from the Men in the tavern, but Bofur dropped his bag on the table closest to the roughest-looking bunch. Dwalin heard them muttering, belligerent glances darted their way.

The food was surprisingly decent, for Human fare. Bofur quaffed and belched and picked his teeth with an ostentation that had Dwalin staring, and the muttering from the nearest table became buzzing.

"Bofur," he said quietly, "I think there's going to be trouble if we don't leave soon."

Bofur smiled, sly and dangerous, and Dwalin saw the mad glint in his eye. "Why do you think I brought you here?"

Adrenaline slammed through Dwalin as he suddenly understood, and Mahal, why hadn't he thought of this? It was brilliant, this; the only thing better would have been picking a fight with Orcs.

A wide smile spread over Dwalin's face. "Here I thought you were the sane one of the two of us," he breathed.

"Not here. This town could drive anyone mad," Bofur said, his smile turning shark-like.

"You've done this before?"

A smirk. "So long as no one's permanently injured, it's outside the walls and the Council can't do anything."

Dwalin knew they shouldn't do this; knew that as ambassadors the rules were different; knew that Balin would have his hide if he ever found out. He couldn't bring himself to care.

"How do we get them to jump us?" he asked. They grinned at each other, feeding off the pre-fight exhilaration: the closest thing in the world to flying (besides being rescued by Eagles, of course, not that anyone had had time to enjoy that).

"Nothing simpler," Bofur said, and when the serving girl approached to take their dishes, he whistled at her.

It was hardly a fair fight, five Men against two dwarves. They never had a chance.

The two of them stood back to back like they had in the Battle of the Five Armies, the same adrenaline singing in their blood. They moved almost in harmony. Sometime in the middle of the fray, Dwalin caught sight of Bofur out of the corner of his eye. There was a fierce glee on Bofur's face as he assisted the Man who dove at him to run face-first into a wall. Dwalin knew his own face held a similar joy. With a roar, he jumped at the nearest Man and took him down, arms swinging.

Half an hour later, Dwalin stood in the middle of the wreck of three tables and inspected his split knuckles. Two of the Men had fled into the night. A third was stretched on the floor, groaning. Another lay against a far wall where Dwalin had thrown him, and no one knew where the last was. Bofur, laughing a little manically and still coming down from the high of a good brawl, was paying off the tavernkeep. She looked less than impressed, but happy enough to have the coin.

Dwalin wondered what Bofur had done back in the days he didn't have money to pay her off. He saw the speculative gleam of interest in her eyes, and hoped the conclusion he jumped to was just jealousy talking.

If he were going to be jealous of everyone Bofur charmed, he mused, he would spend a lot of his life being jealous. That would be ridiculous, so Dwalin put it from his mind.

Back at the inn, Bofur insisted on seeing to the cut over his eye and on bandaging his hands. It was oddly intimate, the cleaning of wounds.

Bofur read the tattoos on the hand with the split knuckles and snorted. "Do you know, I didn't think you even knew what a sense of humor was for the first year I knew you?" He squeezed water out of the wet cloth in the washbasin and started on his work.

Dwalin smiled. Bofur had a bloody nose and some brilliant bruising on his arms and torso. But the mad glint was gone from his eyes, and there was only the usual warm welcome there.

Dwalin, too, felt the contentment of a good fight centering him. Dis could be dealt with on the morrow. The only way to discover whether she planned to expose him was to ask her. If she wouldn't say…

"How angry do you reckon the King would be?" he murmured. "If we left for home?"

Bofur gave him a lopsided smile and started wrapping the bandage around Dwalin's hand. "He'd shout a lot, and I don't think he'd ever forgive us, but he wouldn't dare do much more." He raised an eyebrow at Dwalin. "We can go if you need to. We've delivered the King's message for him; we could say nobody's interested. It's true enough; no one has come forward yet." He tied off the bandage, reached for the washbasin, and started scrubbing at the cut over Dwalin's eye with a cloth. The blood must have gotten into his hair, because Bofur went far afield of the cut in his scrubbing.

"We'll see," Dwalin said.

Bofur hummed to himself over the task, chasing the line of dried blood behind Dwalin's ragged ear. "You never did tell me," he said conversationally, "what took a chunk out of this. Orc or Warg?"

"Fili, actually," said Dwalin.

Bofur laughed loudly. "There's a story there, I'll wager."

Dwalin reached for another wet cloth and dabbed ineffectually at Bofur's nose, only managing to spread the blood around. "I'll tell you it someday," he said. "I'll only say it's no easy thing being a dwarfling's first weaponsmaster." He paused. "You were going to tell me something earlier, before… supper. About your uncle."

Bofur huffed a small laugh. "Ah yes, that. It turns out, he was removed from the Council after all."

"But he's been restored?"

"Aye. In deference to me, it seems." Bofur sounded amazed.

"And why not?" Dwalin demanded. "You're a hero of Erebor as much as the rest of us."

Bofur shrugged. "I don't feel like a hero," he admitted.

"No one ever does."

"Balur won't thank me for it," Bofur said dryly. "Already he's complaining about clan watch duty."

Dwalin searched his memory. He knew he'd stood for the duty several times for the Longbeard clan. "Two dwarves from each clan?" he said slowly. "To head the city watch each day."

"For a week. Clan Broadbeam has been added back into the rotation."

"But there's only two of you."

"Aye. Bifur and Bombur and I used to trade off, and sometimes Havlin would stand with me. Balur's very put out that he'll have to stand watch; he thinks it's below the dignity of a head of clan. But I can hire from outside the clan to stand with us, so long as one of us is there."

"When do you have to go?"

Bofur grimaced. "Tomorrow."

Dwalin smiled, and made another attempt on the bloodied nose. "So you had your own reasons for wanting to annoy the Council by fighting."

Bofur closed his eyes and held very still while Dwalin removed the dried blood as gently as possible. Only the curve of his lips gave Dwalin an answer.