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“I’ll only be ten more minutes…” Bofur mumbled, intent on figuring out why a clockwork poppet wasn’t behaving itself. Bifur’s work was intricate, but Bofur had a Dwarf’s innate ability to diagnose and correct any sort of mechanical failure. This piece seemed determined to stymie his best efforts.
A strong finger and thumb caught his earlobe and he yelped. “You won’t be ten more seconds if I have my way about it!” Primrose Sandybank glared down at the Dwarf. “If you’re late, tonight of all nights, Bilbo is going to have my hide. I promised him you’d be out the door at closing, and you will be if I have to tie you up in a sack and sling you over my shoulder!”
The mental image of the Hobbit matron, who stood a good head shorter than Bofur, toting the stone-solid Dwarf back to his home in a sack, was so ludicrous that he forgot the pain in his ear and started to laugh. This was enough to shatter Primrose’s composure, and she joined him. “I mean it, Bofur,” she said when she could catch her breath. “Get yourself home. Lily’s already making the rounds of the dolls, telling them all goodnight. We’ll be out ourselves in a few minutes.”
“All right, I’m going. Mahal save me from the wrath of Hobbits.” Primrose swatted his shoulder and went back into the shop proper. Bofur watched her leave, thinking what a difference a few years made. The quiet widow who’d accepted the assistant position in the toyshop had evolved into a dynamo, running his shop and occasionally his life with fine-geared precision. And her daughter, nearly silent at their first meeting, had found her own role, welcoming new toys to the shop and finding just the right spot for them, and making sure they were secure for the night. He didn’t know what he’d do without them.
He let himself out the front door of the toy shop, making sure Primrose saw him leave. She had been right; tonight it was imperative that he arrive at Bag End on time. Four years ago this day, under the branches of the Party Tree, and in front of Shire-folk whose expressions had ranged from smiling to scandalized, a Hobbit had joined his life with that of a Dwarf from the eastern mountains. The smial under the hill was home, and the only rocks he mined these days were the ones that got in the way of planting the garden. He knew his mam must be splitting her sides laughing if she could see him from the Halls. But she’d be glad her son was happy, and had found his One.
He saw the smoke rising from the chimney, and the smell of roast mutton made his mouth water when he walked in the door. Bilbo was singing something that he couldn’t quite make out until he got closer to the kitchen, then he had to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh: “…leave the bones on the bedroom mat/pour the milk on the pantry floor… Oh, no, that won’t do at all, we can’t actually have things breaking. Steady on, Bilbo.”
“All the crockery is safe with you, love. You’ve got the surest hands in Hobbiton. I should know,” Bofur said with a cheeky grin, which went even wider when the tips of Bilbo’s ears turned bright pink. He caught the end of the dish towel Bilbo swatted him with and reeled him in, planting a kiss on burnished curls. ”Something smells lovely.”
“Welcome home, my dear. Remind me to send something with you tomorrow to thank Primrose for getting you home on time.”
“Well, that’s a fine thing! As if I’d miss our anniversary dinner!”
“Not deliberately, no, but I know how single-minded you can get sometimes. It’s one of your more endearing qualities,” Bilbo teased, kissing away the mock-pout. “It’s how you won me, after all. Stubborn as granite, you Dwarves. Why don’t you go get cleaned up—I’ve got a bit more to do out here, and I don’t want you seeing your surprise.”
Bofur smiled and did as he was asked, then set the table. He was still, after all this time, a bit nervous around the Westfarthing crockery, but remembered how it had been abused by the Company on their very first visit and still survived. And how many of Bilbo’s spoons had Bofur not been able to pry loose from Nori’s clever fingers?
Candles gave the dining room a golden glow, winking off the glass and silver, and fine-woven napkins rested at each place. “That looks lovely, that does,” he murmured, admiring his handiwork.
“It does indeed.” Bilbo set the platter of mutton on the table, disappeared back into the kitchen and brought out new potatoes and carrots, sprinkled with some green herb that Bofur could never remember the name of, but that made the vegetables taste amazing (quite an admission for a Dwarf). Gravy and fresh bread completed the feast. “I hope you’re hungry; I seem to have made quite a lot.”
“I’m not sure I could do justice to more than two or three helpings; hope you won’t take offense at that.”
“I’ll try not to. Oh, I almost forgot!” Bilbo dashed back into the kitchen and came back with a dark bottle. “I uncorked it to let it breathe and nearly left it behind!” He poured a rich ruby liquid into each of their glasses. “One of my father’s bottles of Old Winyard; pretty heady stuff, but it’s lovely with mutton. Shall we have a toast?”
“You’re the one with the words, you make it.”
Bilbo smiled and thought for a moment, then raised his glass. “To adventures—even when they make you miss your dinner, and sometimes a lot of other things, they can be well worth taking. Especially if there is someone to share the road with.”
“To adventures.” Glasses chimed softly against each other, and Bofur huffed out a breath after the first sip. “You’re right about it being heady; I’ll need to get some food in me before I have much more of that. Will you carve, or shall I?”
Bilbo handed over the knife, and Bofur carved off generous portions of the fork-tender meat, spooning vegetables onto their plates while Bilbo sliced bread and spread it with butter. Bofur poured gravy liberally over everything; Bilbo was a bit more fastidious, making a pool in the middle of his potatoes, and dunking a bite of meat in it from time to time.
However it was gotten inside them, it was thoroughly enjoyed, and sighs of repletion competed with gentle belches (Bofur had learned how to tone his down in deference to his One, though when Bilbo put his mind to it, he could give any Dwarf a run for his money). “I think we should wait on afters for a bit, let all this settle. Care for a pipe? It’s a lovely evening,” Bilbo invited.
They sat on the bench in front of Bag End, watching the sun go down, fiery purple and orange over the emerald fields. Competing smoke rings drifted and dissipated in the still air, and Bofur hummed a counterpoint to the chirping of the crickets, the fingers of his free hand laced into Bilbo’s. They talked quietly of the events of the day—Bofur’s frustration over the recalcitrant toy; Bilbo’s worry over a possible blight on his prize roses; an invitation from Bilbo’s cousin Primula to come to dinner the following Friday. It was mundane, some would say boring, but it filled Bofur with a quiet joy he would not have believed possible a few short years ago. It was no bad thing, he thought, to celebrate a simple life.
The stars were coming out when the pipes went cold and they retreated back into the smial. “Sit down at the table, and I’ll go get our pudding,” Bilbo said with a conspiratorial smile. The Hobbit disappeared into the kitchen, and Bofur took the opportunity to open the glory box and pull out a package hidden at the bottom. Primrose had wrapped it for him in a lovely linen handkerchief with leftover ribbon from one of the dolls’ dresses—trust her to make it both practical and economical. He’d just gotten sat down, with the package hidden out of sight on another chair, when Bilbo came back with a covered tray.
“I don’t know if you know this, but according to Hobbit tradition, the fourth anniversary is supposed to include fruit or flowers,” Bilbo said, setting the tray down and removing the napkin. “So this is my gift to you this day, my love. I hope you enjoy them.”
The tray contained half a dozen ‘roses’, edible ones made of apple and pastry, russet and gold in the candle light. Pinpoints of sugar icing ‘dew’ dotted them, and Bofur was almost afraid to touch them, fearing they’d crumble into nothing. “They’re too pretty to eat,” he murmured as Bilbo lifted three of the pastries onto a small plate.
“Well, I will be insulted if you don’t at least try,” Bilbo told him. “This was a new recipe, and you don’t know how many apples and batches of pastry I had to go through to get it right.” He put three on his own plate and, using his fingers, pulled a ‘petal’ loose, holding it out to his husband. “Open up.”
The ‘petal’ melted on his tongue, sweet and tart combined, with the light bite of cinnamon to balance it out. Brown eyes closed in bliss, and he sighed, “Perfect, love, just like always. Now it’s my turn.”
They fed each other the treats with smiles and giggles when a frisky tongue flicked at sticky fingers. All too soon the ‘roses’ were reduced to crumbs and memories, and Bofur took Bilbo’s smaller hand in his. “That was grand, Bilbo, and thank you. I can’t imagine a lovelier gift. I hope mine will measure up.” He reached beneath the table with his free hand and produced the package. “As it happens, I did know about the fruit and flowers—I talked to Bell Gamgee a while ago. You know, ‘when in Hobbiton’ and all that.”
Bilbo unwrapped the gift, admiring the handkerchief before setting it aside. An intricately carved box was revealed, and when he opened it, he looked down on a very unusual flower, one that seemed carved from natural stone, palm-sized, pink and crenellated on a bed of silk. “Where did you find this?” he asked, running a finger over the edges of the stone.
“Back in the Blue Mountains, this is called kurdu’aban—it means ‘heart stone’. In our tradition, it’s the symbol of love and balance. We cut it and polish it for decoration, it’s very popular for courting gifts, but this is the way it comes out of the ground. I wrote to Bombur to find one for me; I thought this way you would have a flower that would last all year long. Couldn’t quite figure out the ‘fruit’ part, so I hope this will…”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence before his One’s arm wrapped around his neck, the stone rose still clutched in his hand. “It’s beautiful,” Bilbo’s voice breathed against his ear, thick with emotion. Bofur pulled the Hobbit into his lap, and Bilbo curled into the embrace. The Dwarf was strong, but there was a softness to him that was comforting and safe, like having a stuffed toy that could bend iron. He couldn’t suppress a giggle at that mental image.
“What?” Bofur asked.
“Nothing,” Bilbo assured him, and no amount of eyebrow raising would make him elaborate. They stayed cuddled for some minutes, until Bofur’s back began to protest. “Let’s take this someplace more comfortable, shall we?” Bilbo slid off Bofur’s lap and held out a hand. Brown eyes twinkled up at him, and there was a shyness to the smile, even after all this time, that made Bilbo’s heart roll over in his chest.
“What about the dishes?” Bofur asked, knowing how fussy his Hobbit could be about messes.
“They’ll wait,” Bilbo said as he started blowing out the candles.
*****
In the glow of the bedside lamp, Bilbo undid his husband’s braids. It was a nightly ritual he delighted in, untangling the dark hair, combing it smooth and watching it fall across Bofur’s wide shoulders. He picked up the comb from the nightstand, fingers brushing the heart stone crystal. He wanted it where it would be the first thing he saw in the morning and last thing he saw at night.
“Mmm, that feels nice,” Bofur sighed as nimble fingers worked into his scalp. “So it’s been four years now since you took leave of your senses and made an honest Dwarf of me. Any regrets?”
“Only when you keep me awake with the snoring,” Bilbo teased, easing a stubborn knot loose.
“You knew about the snoring ahead of time. And you have to admit no one is worse than my brother.”
“True enough. How about you? Sorry you said yes?”
“Not for a minute, even if you do have this strange passion for green food.” Bilbo swatted him playfully. “I heard you singing when I came home today. After the way we all acted that night, I’d have thought you’d want to forget that song.”
“Well, there was no real harm done that night, even if you did all try to give me heart failure. Besides,” Bilbo confided as he set the comb down, “Kili made a point of telling me what ‘blunt the knives’ means to Dwarves, and why you lot thought what I said was so funny.”
“Oh, he did? When was this?” Bofur asked, leaning back against the headboard to look into dancing hazel eyes.
“When he noticed we were getting to be…more than just friends, and he heard you humming it one day. Is it any wonder it’s one of my favorite songs now?”
Bofur laughed. “The wonder is that Kili got his head out of his arse long enough to notice anything! He’ll be a fine prince once he finishes growing up, but until then Thorin’s got his hands full.”
“That’s Thorin’s problem, and he’s welcome to it…mizimelûh.”
“Wh—what did you just say?” Bofur whispered, sure he’d misheard.
Bilbo flushed, looking down at his hands. “Did I say it wrong? I’ve been practicing for a week.” Uncertainty morphed into embarrassment, then into ire. “If he’s played a prank on me and told me something horrid…”
“No, it’s not, it’s lovely!” Bofur said, taking his husband’s face in his hand, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Say it again?”
“Mizimelûh. That’s the other part of your anniversary present. I was told it means ‘treasure of all treasures’.”
“How did you find that out?”
“You wrote to Bombur; I wrote to Gloin. I thought a happily married Dwarf would know all the good endearments.” Bilbo was blushing furiously now, but he was smiling again.
“And a splendid one it is, and far better than I deserve. Thank you, love.” A kiss on the tip of Bilbo’s nose made it twitch, and Bofur laughed. Years ago and leagues away in the Blue Mountains, word had come of a quest, and a fortune promised to those who joined it. Bofur thought it sounded like a grand adventure, and if nothing else would provide a tale or two for a winter’s evening. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined the true riches that lay at the end of the road, in the steadfast heart of a Hobbit.
He watched Bilbo’s fingers brush across the heart-stone rose one last time before turning down the lamp. “Happy anniversary, mizimelûh, ” came a whisper in Bofur’s ear, followed by a suggestion that made the Dwarf’s eyes widen. At the rate this night was going, he might not live to see the next anniversary, but he’d surely arrive at the Halls with a smile on his face…