Chapter Text
The funeral of Thorin Oakenshield was not the first one Bilbo Baggins ever attended. It was, however, the first one he attended that had come far too soon.
The service was very much befitting of a dwarf king who had fallen defending his kingdom. It was held deep in the halls of Erebor, in a dark chamber filled with candles like a starry night sky, and the King Under the Mountain was laid out on an altar of green marble in its center. All of the blood and grit from that day’s battle had been cleaned from his face and his regal golden armor. His hands had been folded across his chest, and in them, by his people’s tradition, he held his most prized possession: the key to the mountain’s hidden door.
Bilbo didn’t doubt that many of the people paying their respects wondered why Thorin had been given a key instead of the Arkenstone, the King’s Jewel, to carry with him into the next world. The hobbit knew full why, after all the grief that the cursed gem had caused the dwarf, but he said nothing to anyone about it. He didn’t care to ask what had become of the Arkenstone either. He only knew that Bard the Bowman from Laketown had returned it to Erebor in exchange for a share of the mountain’s treasure, holding to the bargain he had tried to make moments before the battle. Even that had been hard for Bilbo to hear.
He would never forget the look of betrayal that Thorin had cast on him that morning when his part in that bargain had been revealed. So much shock and sadness had filled those blue eyes, bottomless pain at the news that his dear little friend had stolen his heirloom and slipped it into the hands of the man he perceived as his enemy. Worse was the final glaze of madness that had swallowed that pain as the dwarf had tried to avenge himself on his treacherous burglar. Bilbo could only imagine the look in his own eyes when that had unfolded, though he was sure it had matched the fearful confusion in Fíli and Kíli’s when their uncle had commanded them to kill the halfling for him at first.
That recollection brought two more equally haunting ones.
Thorin was not the only dwarf being laid to rest that night; his beloved nephews each rested on an altar of their own on either side of him. The sight of their young and once lively faces now as still as the stone beneath them plagued Bilbo with the memories of their deaths. Poor Fíli, stabbed from behind by Azog the Defiler and then thrown to the ground far below like a worthless slaughtered fowl. Poor Kíli, run through by Azog’s minions and left lying in the snow for hours until anyone found him. For them, tonight’s funeral had come all the more too soon, and it was thanks to the failure of one who had tried so desperately to protect them.
The failure of Bilbo Baggins.
The hobbit supposed he couldn’t fault himself for the battle that had taken place. He had no hand in the sudden arrival of Azog’s forces. What he did fault himself for was leaving such an ugly wake before that with his foolish attempt to make peace between the dwarves and the men, and then reaching Ravenhill too late to warn Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli of the Pale Orc’s ambush. He had found them just in time to tell them of the danger and then watch it overtake them anyway. His one fleeting comfort after that had been Thorin’s friendly dying words to him, that the world would be a merrier place if more people valued home over gold. It was a life lesson that Oakenshield would never have the chance to make use of now, all because of a burglar too helpless to even succeed at his own meddling.
Many important figures attended the mournful proceedings. The wizard Gandalf the Grey stood behind Bilbo with a consoling hand on the halfling’s shoulder. By Gandalf’s side stood his fellow wizard Radagast the Brown and the skin-changer Beorn. Bard the Bowman was present as well, as was the elf king Thranduil from Mirkwood and his female captain of the guard, whose name Bilbo didn’t know.
And of course, there were the dwarves. Eleven of them, Thorin’s cousin Dain Ironfoot and the ten surviving members of the late king’s company, stood across the chamber from the hobbit. Bilbo tried not to look at any of them throughout the funeral. His guilt and grief were so great that he couldn’t even bring himself to face Balin, who had become nearly as much of a mentor to him as Gandalf over the course of their journey.
The only time he did spare any of them his attention was when he heard a muffled sob directly across from him. He lifted his head to spy Ori, the company’s youngest member, all but burying his face behind his journal in despair. The lad seemed ready to topple over from his heartache at any moment. Bilbo briefly watched as Dori and Nori placed supportive hands on their little brother’s shoulders, then another pang of guilt brought tears to his eyes and he moved them to the very next dwarf on their right.
Bofur.
The rascally miner had barely been recognizable since the battle. Gone was the sparkle in his eyes and the playful smile on his face, now replaced by a dull stare and an utterly lifeless frown. He wasn’t even wearing the silly fur hat that he normally sported like a trophy on his head. It had been in his hands from the moment his three companions were found among the slain.
Bilbo knew that Bofur and Thorin had seldom seen eye-to-eye on things—including himself—and as far as he knew, there had been no closure between them before the latter’s death. Bofur had always been close with Fíli and Kíli though, almost like a third brother. All of their deaths had surely hurt him, but it was Ori that he looked at in that moment instead of the deceased. He was clearly debating whether to help console the lad or to leave Ori’s brothers to it. In the end, he reluctantly stayed out of the family matter.
That was when his somber gaze caught Bilbo’s across the room, and the hobbit quickly looked away.
After the attendees finished paying their respects to Thorin and his nephews, a shroud and a marble cover were placed over each body. As the final tradition, the sword Orcrist and the weapons of Fíli and Kíli were placed over the tombs of their wielders to protect them in their rest. No more harm would come to the last of Durin’s line.
Mr. Baggins sought privacy when there was nothing left to see.
* * *
Bilbo wasn’t entirely without comfort after the funeral, although the thing that he sought it from numbed his pain more than it healed it.
In the days following his escape from Gollum in the Misty Mountains, not one had passed where he hadn’t thought of the gold ring in his pocket. The magic little trinket had done him a world of good since he had found it, making him invisible to enemies whenever he wore it and taking his mind off of more worrisome things when he held it. This second “power” concerned him a bit, but tonight he was willing to embrace whatever it was.
He was seated on the floor of a lonely corridor with his back against the wall. His sharp ears assured him that no one else was nearby. That was the way he usually preferred it when he felt like marveling at his ring, so he reached into his tattered blue jacket and retrieved the item.
He only got a few minutes to revel in its smooth, shiny band before he heard footsteps clomping towards the corridor’s entrance.
The ring was back in his pocket in a flash. Bilbo tensed slightly and turned to the doorway, ready to see the intruder along with a casual nod. He froze when the other person entered his view and stopped in the entranceway.
It was Bofur, still clasping his hat in his hands with a dismal expression. Bilbo could tell from the dwarf’s poised reaction that their encounter was not as much of a surprise for him. He had been searching for the hobbit.
Once again, the smaller figure averted his gaze. That meant little to Bofur, who seldom could take a hint. He carefully made his way over to sit against the opposite wall from the halfling. A long silence hung in the air between them.
“It wasn’t your fault, Bilbo,” the miner said in a hushed voice.
The hobbit couldn’t help sending him a surprised look. It was the first time he had heard Bofur speak since the battle. Sorrow had all but destroyed the former chatterbox.
Tears filled Bilbo’s eyes when the words sank in, and he went back to staring at his knees in front of him. He didn’t believe the sentiment for an instant. Bofur watched him and grappled for something else to say.
“Why did you come back?” the dwarf finally asked. “After you left the mountain and gave the stone to Bard, why did you return to us?”
It wasn’t an admonishment. Bilbo sensed from the other’s tone that it was merely a question. No doubt, it was one that had been weighing on Bofur’s mind all day.
“Because I didn’t want to leave the company,” was the simple reply.
“But you must have known Thorin would be angry when he learned the truth,” his companion gently scolded.
“Why did you send me away from the mountain to begin with?” Bilbo deflected.
It was true. Bofur had approached the hobbit the previous night, on the eve of Thorin’s petty war, and whispered his blessing for his friend to escape from Erebor in the cover of darkness. He hadn’t known that Bilbo was planning to do so anyway, just to deliver the Arkenstone and then return, but he had given the little burglar permission to leave their company just the same.
Bilbo didn’t get an answer right away, so he continued. “And when...when Thorin did learn the truth...why did you help me escape him? You were the one who told me I was part of the company, and yet you sent me away twice.”
“And you came back twice,” Bofur noted flatly. “I think a pinch of dwarf stubbornness rubbed off on you.”
In spite of his misery, Bilbo let his tiniest laugh escape. Even in the worst of times, the miner still had a quip up his sleeve.
“Why did you do it, though?” he pressed on softly.
Bofur was the one to shy away this time. “You signed on to deal with the dragon, and it was dealt with. There was no reason for you to get tangled in what came after. It wasn’t something I wanted for you.”
He turned his head to stare down the corridor, and his rough voice wavered. “...Or for any of us.”
Bilbo immediately forgot his own misery. “Bofur, I—I’m so sorry for—”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” The dwarf faced him again and said a touch more firmly, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Bilbo.”
The words still weren’t taken to heart. The hobbit dropped his chin again, not wanting to respond to those statements. “Well in any case, I am grateful for what you’ve done.”
Something more troubled crept into Bofur’s eyes. “I’m grateful to you too.” His stare fell then with an unsteady breath. “But...I was sort of hoping that it might be more than gratitude between us.”
That lifted Bilbo’s chin again in a hurry.
The other fidgeted with his hat. “I always admired how willing you were to see this quest through for us, even when you didn’t feel welcome.”
It took several beats for Bilbo to grasp what Bofur was getting at. When he thought he understood, he leapt to his feet looking appalled. His comrade stayed seated and nervously raised one hand in a halting gesture.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound the way it did.”
“Then what exactly are you suggesting?” Bilbo demanded, fresh tears stinging his eyes. He was starting to question the motive behind every good thing Bofur had ever done for him.
The dwarf raised his own gloomy eyes without a hint of pride. “I’m suggesting whatever’s to your liking. I care about you, Bilbo, I really do, and I hate to see you suffering like this. And I don’t very much like feeling this way myself, to speak the truth.” His gaze faltered. “Whatever there is between us...I’d rather we spent the night together than alone.”
The shorter being stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Bilbo’s disgust faded to uncertainty, but he never said anything. He tried to once, then he clenched his jaw shut and stormed out of the corridor with his hand in his pocket.
* * *
To say that the hobbit outright dismissed Bofur’s offer would have been a lie. He spent a great deal of time thinking about it, in fact. It took two contemplative hours of wandering the crumbled stone halls of Erebor before he came to his decision.
Of all thirteen dwarves in Thorin’s company, he would say that Bofur had grown on him the fastest. It was hard not to find something enjoyable about the miner with his sunny disposition, his love of music, and his bounty of mischievous antics. Those antics had only distressed Bilbo for a short while before he had come to recognize them as signs of endearment. If Bofur didn’t care for someone, he left them be; pranks and jests were for the people he liked enough to think about aggravating, and he had aggravated the fussy Mr. Baggins quite a bit throughout their quest.
What had impressed him about the hatted dwarf even more than Bofur’s silliness had been his sincerity. He may not have been the only member of the company to protect and look after Bilbo on the journey, but he had done so the most, and never grudgingly like the others. He had been fond of their Shireling from the beginning, yet Bilbo had been too miserable to see that until he had hurt his guardian.
That fateful confrontation in the Misty Mountains still haunted the hobbit. As if it hadn’t been disgraceful enough of him to try to abandon the others in the dead of night, he had literally added insult to the injury by lashing out at Bofur. He could still picture how all of the warmth and care had fallen from the dwarf’s face when his kind little charge had hissed that his kind didn’t belong anywhere. It was the same desolate face he wore now for his fallen friends.
Bilbo had given Bofur the perfect opportunity to be cruel to him that night. The dwarf would have had an even better reason than Thorin to be that way, but he had chosen to be kind instead. He had wished the halfling all the luck in the world, and the twinkle in his eyes had shown that he had meant it.
As it happened, fate had intervened in Bilbo’s departure and soon brought him back to the company, along with his good sense. He had been grateful to Bofur ever since.
But was that truly all he had been?
Tonight’s offer wasn’t as forward as it had seemed at first. Bofur had left the nature of it entirely up to Bilbo, and he had expressed more concern for his friend’s well-being than for his own desires. What bothered the hobbit about the whole business was the question of what either of their desires might be. More importantly, would it be wise to act on them so suddenly?
Bilbo was no stranger to intimacy, of course. No hobbit raised sensibly could live to the age of fifty-one years without at least knowing what to expect from lovemaking, although he had never engaged in the deed himself. Such a thing wasn’t proper outside of the most serious relationships, he had been taught, and “proper” was the last thing he would call what was being considered tonight. Putting aside how shortly he had known Bofur, the notion of two males being together befuddled him to no end. How was that deed expected to work?
Even so, the past day’s events put a great deal into perspective for him. Bofur was not just another friend, and he had thought many times of the selfless, loyal dwarf during his dealings with Bard. There was also the swell of happiness he had felt when Bard had agreed to his plan with the Arkenstone. It was the belief that he had succeeded, that he could soon return to his company knowing they were safe and show Bofur that he had not deserted them. Everything fell into place for Bilbo then.
Bofur was the reason he had come back—and he was so broken by grief now that he might just have to act on his desires.
He thought of Bofur’s arms, strong and sturdy from years of mining in the Blue Mountains, and how many times they had made him feel secure. He also thought of Bofur’s hands and all the times those large, calloused, but gentle fingers had pulled him to safety and reassured him, making him feel as if all would be well for as long as they were touching him. Bilbo fantasized about how those arms and those hands might rub away his pain tonight, maybe even for longer than that, and he even dared to wonder what else the dwarf might do to ease him. He felt despicable for conjuring up such ideas, but at the end of those two long hours, he decided that maybe he should accept the other’s invitation.
He wasn’t the same hobbit he once was, after all.
* * *
Bofur’s reaction to Bilbo standing in the doorway of his candle-lit room was a rightfully astonished one. The timid smile that Bilbo greeted him with after that brought a more familiar expression to those whiskered features. The relief shining in the dwarf’s eye was ten steps ahead of him as he rose from the foot of his bed and approached his visitor.
“I’ve given a lot of thought to this,” Bilbo said once Bofur was in front of him. “I told myself what a mistake it would be to come here tonight. I told myself what an immoral, indecent, and incredibly implausible thing this would be to do...” He trailed off shaking his head, lost for words.
Bofur paused with a warier expression. “You did?”
Bilbo laughed quietly and faced him again. “No, you see, that’s just it. I told myself all of those things, but I didn’t believe myself. I knew that under all of that stiff old propriety that this was something I really wanted. Something between us, something special.”
He was getting more excited by the second, and that positive energy was affecting Bofur as well. An overjoyed grin emerged from under his long mustache.
“And now you’re here?” he finished.
“Now I’m here,” Bilbo confirmed serenely. He reached out and took his companion by the elbows. “Bofur, I know that you’ve always cared about me. I know that now, and I also know now that I care about you. And...”
He struggled to speak right then. “And if the one blessing in all of this tragedy is that we finally found each other...then I will gladly embrace it.”
Bofur looked more like himself than he had in a while. His hat was still off, but his happiness was there again, even if his smile was much softer than usual. Bilbo might have tried to see what was behind that smile if the hobbit’s vision wasn’t temporarily blurred by the mention of their losses.
“You really want this, Bilbo?” Bofur asked him.
The burglar glanced down with a touch of his old clumsy humor. “Well, I’m not the most knowledgeable person on what ‘this’ is, but I do believe I know enough to want it. I wouldn’t be in this mountain tonight if I was too afraid to try new things, so...”
He looked up at Bofur with deep meaning. “...I’m yours for the taking, if you want me.”
The dwarf’s smile softened more at this. Bilbo didn’t see that either. He was too focused on the sudden feeling of those powerful elbows bending in his grasp. Two large forearms came up under his slender ones to hold him by the elbows in turn.
“Those are mighty brave words for someone from the quaint green Shire, you know,’ Bofur teased him lightly.
“Well, I am part Took.”
“I don’t know what that means,” the dwarf pleasantly declared.
They shared a small chuckle at that.
The hobbit wet his lips and said, “Then I’ll be sure to tell you about it.”
A delicate silence fell between them then. The two shared gazes for a heartbeat, then Bilbo felt Bofur’s arms slowly making their way around his small waist, encircling him. Already he could feel their muscles flexing through the heavy fabric of his and the miner’s clothing, and a wonderful dizzying sensation came over him. He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling, then he lifted his head, leaned towards his lover-to-be, and waited.
He waited for a very long time.
Bilbo cracked his eyelids open again when it began to feel too long. He found Bofur gazing down at him closely just as before, except a change had come over the taller figure. He looked pale, eyes gaping wide with something horrible, and his smiling lips were now parted indecisively. It was then that Bilbo felt those strong arms loosening around him and those large hands sliding away.
Concern gripped him. “Bofur?”
The dwarf shook his head quickly as his mouth fumbled to form a word.
“I can’t do this, Bilbo,” he whispered at last.
The halfling was too stunned to question him.
Bofur released his partner and withdrew in a hurry, as if something had jabbed him. He staggered nearly all the way back to his bed in the tiny room.
“I’m sorry,” he expelled hoarsely. “I shouldn’t have done this. I’m so sorry I started this!”
Bilbo followed him as the hurt of his rejection began to take hold. “What are you talking about?”
“Stop, please!” Bofur begged him with a frantic bat of his hand.
The other complied so abruptly that he almost tripped over his large feet. Another jolt of anguish punched him in the chest at the sound of the cry. Having retained some distance, Bofur composed himself. He motioned back and forth between them with one finger.
“This,” he tried to elaborate. “We shouldn’t do this.”
Bilbo was already crumbling. “But...but earlier you said—”
“I didn’t know that this would be your first time.”
The Shireling almost laughed through his sadness. “Well of course it would be.”
“But it wouldn’t be mine.”
That was the blow that finally shattered the hobbit’s heart. He jerked back with a shaky gasp, looking betrayed by the news. Just like that, his special something with the person who had defended and supported him for so long had become a cheap liaison. Devastation crinkled his smooth face at that realization.
Seeing this ripped at Bofur’s heart just as much. “Oh, Bilbo...”
“I care about you,” the halfling warbled. “You said you cared about me too.”
“I do. I mean that truly, but this is wrong to do. You belong in the Shire. I belong here now. A courtship between us would never work. One of us would have to give up our home to be with the other. We can’t ask each other for a thing like that.”
“One of us could offer.”
“Would you be willing to make that offer?”
Bilbo’s silence was an answer in and of itself. Bofur’s silence said volumes as well.
The dwarf had a point to concede, as crushing as it was. Consummating a relationship would cost one of them dearly. Not only would the person who relented have to turn his back on his old home, but he would also have to adhere to his new one. Hobbits and dwarves were disapproving of outsiders as it was, and one who didn’t cast away his own people’s customs in exchange for theirs had little chance of living happily among them. Indeed, that was a sacrifice he could never ask anyone to make, let alone someone he thought he cherished.
He wondered if Bofur had given any thought to this matter before intimating his feelings earlier that evening. That was when something terrible in Bilbo made him wonder if the whole proposition had been some horrid trick to punish him for Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli.
The smaller figure was weeping freely when he spoke again, but he was calm. He never would have gotten his next words out if he had been anything less than calm.
“Do you love me, Bofur?”
The dwarf’s sorrow visibly deepened at such a question.
“I do love you, Bilbo,” he quietly confessed, “and that’s why I can’t take you.”
Seeing that the hobbit didn’t understand, Bofur sat heavily on his bed once more. He had to plant his hands far apart on either side of him to hold himself up. His sights were aimed at the floor in misery when he explained himself.
“This quest has stolen so much of your innocence and given you nothing but pain for it. I can’t be the one to steal the last of it.”
He looked up at Bilbo again, almost pleading for that broken little soul to say something. Instead, the halfling hung his head and sank to the cold stone floor. Consideration pulled Bofur down from his bed to the floor as well. Neither one of them made any move to approach the other or even to leave. They preferred to sit in shock at opposite ends of the room.
They wondered if it really would have been worse to spend that night alone.
*