Chapter Text
He grunted as he pressed the knife-blade against his skin, wincing as he felt a searing pain numb his arm as he ran the blade's sharp edges across the top of it. The deadly edge broke through the flimsy dam, causing a scarlet wave to trickle out slowly. It began to gain momentum, the crimson river flowing faster with every anxious heartbeat that sounded in his chest. It took every ounce of his being to keep himself from crying out.
He blinked away the tears brimming in his eyes. He inwardly chastised himself for even daring to tear up, so he moved the knife-blade upwards to a patch of virgin skin, biting back a hiss as the merciless steel was once more coated with a cherry-red layer. That patch of pierced skin, no longer virgin, throbbed as it cried its own rivulets of bloody tears.
Feeling that he paid his penance for the night, he took out a thick piece of cloth from his pocket, wrapping it tightly around the bloody instrument before pocketing the whole thing.
As the Dwarf gazed upon his handiwork with a pained expression, his eyes flickering over his arm adorned with red ribbons, running down in abandon, he marvelled once more that his hands were capable of both making beautiful, detailed things and inflicting damage on the one that deserved it the most: himself.
A penance, he reminded himself unwaveringly, a penance for what I am, for being nothing but a hindrance to the others on this journey.
At first, he had joined the quest out of loyalty and enthusiasm, to help reclaim their home that had been stolen from them. Old injuries be damned, he was going to go along on this quest, kicking and screaming if he must. His heart was gladdened when his two kinsmen decided to come along too, instead of telling him to stay behind. How he wanted to show them that there was still life in him yet, that he was capable of keeping himself in check.
That he had not lost all of his control.
But Mahal, how wrong he was.
He knew he couldn't help it when he had his flare-ups, or when he spoke in rapid Khuzdûl to express a point, or when he resorted to Iglishmêk that wasn't quite in keeping with the other's understanding … it did not bother him at first.
But when he began to notice their responses for every time he acted out of sorts, it began to gnaw at him slowly from the inside, until it left him hollow with guilt and shame.
It was simple: when Thorin would look exasperated when he had another outburst, slowing them down whilst riding on the road; when Dwalin would mutter something under his breath when he picked a flower or two; when Balin would sigh when he stared off into the distance whilst the older Dwarf spoke; when Glóin would grumble about him being slightly unhinged during a hunt; when Óin tut-tutted whenever the healer regularly checked his head-wound; when Dori would roll his eyes when he was set off; when Nori would grin teasingly when he provoked the setting-off; when Fíli and Kíli would shake their heads at each other knowingly when he spoke; when Ori would regard him with doe-like eyes and shy away when he noticed the young Dwarf staring; when his cousins had to hold him back and calm him down after making a scene, tiredly trying to explain his actions to the others as if he were a child; when the Hobbit would look upon him like he was some sort of freak …
The moment he realised the meanings behind their responses, he was shattered, beyond being put back together.
At that moment, he hated himself for who he was.
An out-of-control, unstable, temperamental Dwarf with an Orc axe protruding from his forehead.
A hindrance.
Out of pure guilt, he punished himself.
A penance.
He began small, using the exact same knife he used for carving wood into beautiful toys to make little nicks on his hand when no one was looking. On the road, no one would notice the flash of silver and the sudden appearance of an open scratch on his hand. Even whilst he was whittling, he would let the knife slip intentionally and cut his fingers. Once or twice, Óin would have to tend to his wounds, tut-tutting at the other Dwarf's supposed carelessness, but never did the thought enter anyone's mind that the Dwarf, usually so nimble with his fingers, was now suddenly being clumsy at his craft.
When it got too much for him, when he sensed their disapproval when he was being himself, he would hide away, pretending to go and relieve himself or something; the knife probed higher on his arm; cuts became deeper; the lines became longer; the blood came gushing; the scars became frequent; the pain became too unbearable.
This was the price he had to pay, to remind himself what he was to the others, and for that he was sorry.
Pulling down his sleeve, careful not to let the blood soak through the material, and replacing his leather vambrace – wincing as he felt the stinging pain – he turned to go back to the clearing where he and the others camped. He was on first watch, and he knew if Thorin had woken up and found that he was not at his post … he dared not think of the consequences.
Sitting by the fire, weakly cradling his arm, Bifur wondered once more why his hands were capable of making things that brought joy to others' hearts, yet it was also able to agitate his own heart as he slowly bled it out.