Cradling his bowl of stew, Bilbo waited for the momentary peace to shatter. Night hung around him like a blanket on his shoulders. The crackling fire and familiar murmurs of the Company did nothing to relax his tense frame.
As expected, Bofur plopped down to the ground next to him. "Sorry if I offended you, lad," he said with his usual lack of subtlety.
"It's fine, Bofur, really." Bilbo looked away from Bofur's serious gaze, only to see Thorin staring at them from across the camp. He's suspicious. The hobbit colored slightly and focused instead on the fire. "Don't worry about it."
Bofur hmmed. "You don't seem fine," he noted.
Bilbo said nothing.
"Listen," Bofur tried again, "you know you can tell me anything, right? If you want, that is."
Staring into the flames, Bilbo considered it. Bofur had always shown him kindness. Surely he wouldn't treat Bilbo too differently if he knew the truth.
Are you sure about that? snickered the voice. Once he knows, everyone will know. Thorin will be so disappointed.
In the end Bilbo just shrugged. He let the silence grow between them. Felt it seeping into his bones, a gray exhaustion he knew all too well.
Bofur watched him for a while, trying to be sneaky about it. Thankfully, he let it go for now, switching topics.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I woke up under a living room table, cuddling a roast pig and covered in toffee?"
The next day, Bilbo trudged along towards the rear of the Company. A few dwarves at first tried to coax him into joining their conversations, but let him be when he only grunted distractedly.
The memories were walking beside him today. Flickers of the past twined about his legs and blurred his vision. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other and ignored the phantom itching in his arms.
At one point he stumbled, falling sideways into something solid. Bilbo looked up in surprise to see Bifur steadily looking back. "Sorry," Bilbo muttered and kept walking.
The grizzled dwarf stayed at his side, keeping pace companionably. After a minute, he said something in Khuzdul, then raised a fist and waited. When Bilbo only looked from the fist to Bifur's face, the dwarf huffed and shoved his hand right under Bilbo's nose.
Bilbo examined the meaty fingers, noting an impressive amount of scarring along the knuckles. "Big fan of punching people, are you?" he asked, not really clear on what he was supposed to do.
Bifur shook his head. He pointed at a boulder they were passing.
"You punch rocks?"
A nod.
"Why? Is that a dwarf thing?" Bilbo asked. "For training?"
Another shake of the head. Bifur frowned, growling something under his breath. He pulled out a small knife and stooped to grab a stick. The dwarf shaved off a few curls of wood, then gestured to the axe embedded in his forehead and made his hands tremble violently, dropping the stick.
Remembering what Bofur had mentioned about his cousin's craft, Bilbo guessed: "You… couldn't make toys anymore, after the, uh, accident?"
Bifur pointed the knife at Bilbo, nodding encouragingly.
Bilbo thought about what that had to do with punching. Hobbits didn't really punch things, in fact it'd really cause a stir in the Shire to hear that so-and-so was seen with swollen knuckles, but he supposed dwarves were much more physical. Especially when they got upset…
Oh.
A dwarf's craft is their life, Bofur had said. Their pride and joy. Their sense of self. What happens when they lose their greatest passion?
Bilbo thought of that fateful day when everything had changed for him. He slowly hazarded another guess, hoping he was wrong. "You couldn't make toys, and you took that out on the walls?"
Bifur just stared ahead, gaze far away. Bilbo glanced down to study Bifur's hand more carefully. He wondered how many times a dwarf would have to punch stone to get scars like that. Day after day, month by month.
"Did it hurt a lot?" Bilbo asked quietly.
The dwarf slowly turned his gaze back to Bilbo, a weary sadness in his eyes. Then Bifur smiled, just a little bit, and nodded.
And Bilbo understood.