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Bofur felt as if his entire body had turned to ice.
He was standing outside of the tent where healers were working desperately to save the life of his love and there was nothing he could do.
Not a single thing.
He wasn't even permitted to stand beside Bilbo and hold the little hobbit's hand while he suffered.
Bofur hadn't felt so useless and desperate since his cousin Bifur had been all but left to die, their healers declaring him a lost cause with the axe buried in his skull.
The toymaker tries to bolster himself up with that memory.
If Bifur had survived, as aged and injured as he was and with an axe in his head to boot, then Bilbo would make it as well.
He had to.
Weary and covered in blood and gore from head to toe, Bofur began to pace the scorched earth, thinly veiled anxiety in every line and crease of his face. There'd been two arrows in the hobbit's arm and one in his leg, and the sight of the orc spear thrusting towards Bilbo's chest was something he wouldn't soon forget.
His worries were interrupted by a shadow blocking out the bleak sunlight beside him, Bofur turned to settle his furious gaze on the one responsible for everything.
"Thorin Oakenshield. You have some nerve showing your face here," he spat at the man he had once called lover and King, eyebrows drawing together to glare.
It had been Bilbo that Bofur first took to bed with him in the last homely house, taking advantage of the soft beds and privacy Lord Elrond had offered them. Not enough that they dared do much more than use mouths and hands, stealing moments between meals so that the rest of the company would never find out. It wasn't until Thorin had walked in on them together did the dwarf join them in their love, showing them that first blissful time together in Beorn's home what it meant to be loved by a King. Thorin loved much the same as he ruled, with a quiet but intense passion that drew Bilbo and Bofur to him. He'd whispered sweet nothings to them about being together in Erebor, of making a home together and formally courting one another. And Bofur, silly, naive dwarf that he was, let himself believe that the King would actually keep his word.
"Did any of it actually mean a thing to you, Thorin?" Bofur demanded in a bitter tone, shaking his head. "Did you mean a single word that came oozing out of your mouth, or was it just a ploy so we'd let you into our bed?"
Thorin looked aghast at this and his bright blue eyes (Bilbo had always likened them to sapphires, his traitorous mind supplied) widened in despair.
"Bofur, I- You know I meant everything I said. I never meant for any of this to happen. If Bilbo hadn't taken the Arkenstone and betrayed me, then none of this would have happened in the first place," he growled, and Bofur detected the hint of wounded pride in his tone.
The normally easy going, smiling, boisterously excited dwarf exploded.
"Don't you dare, Thorin Oakenshield. Don't you even dare stand there and blame Bilbo for this, while he suffers not ten feet away after saving your useless life," he snarled, advancing on the Durin with rage in every blood encrusted inch of his being. His fist connects with Thorin's jaw and he falls backwards, Bofur leaping forward to pin him to the ground.
"It's your fault this happened, ALL YOUR FAULT. You and your damned pride, your ugly greed and avarice. You had everything any dwarf could ever dream for and you THREW IT ALL AWAY for what? For a shiny rock? Some gold and diamonds?"
His voice grew louder and louder as all his anger, fear and sorrow poured out of him, raining blows down on the other dwarf's shoulders and chest. People were drawing around them now, some looking as if they were wondering whether they should pull Bofur away or not. Dwalin, bearing new scars to add to his collection and with his broad arms folded over his chest, remained where he stood, watching the scene unfold with a sort of grim understanding. His King's pride had nearly cost them everything that had fought so hard for, and perhaps these were words that the dark dwarf needed to hear.
Thorin, at least, had the common sense to lay there and take it, his blank expression not betraying his inner thoughts.
"Bilbo's going to die. He's going to die and it's all your fault. He took the Arkenstone to try to save your life, for all you don't deserve it, and you spit in the face of such an act of love. You would rather die for a few bits of metal and a useless rock to salvage your damnable pride. And even after you force him to leave with words so cruel they'd break the most cold hearted soldier, he still stands by your side and protects you with every ounce of his strength. Your burdensome betrayer saved your worthless life, and the lives of your nephews, and now he's going to die for his troubles. You were supposed to keep him safe. We were supposed to keep him safe. This is all your fault, Thorin, son of Thrain, and don't you dare blame it on the hobbit or I will kill you where you lay, King or not."
He curled his fingers into the front of Thorin's tunic and gasped for breath, throat hoarse from screaming and fists aching, an impressive bruise swelling on the other dwarf's jaw. He felt drained and empty, having expelled every pent up ounce of anger and frustration on the silent King beneath him. A drop of wetness fell on the faded blue fabric, and Bofur briefly wondered if it had begun to rain before he noticed the dampness of his cheeks.
"I'm going to lose my hobbit. And now I've lost you, as well, haven't I?" he whispered, sounding so lost and heartbroken that even Dwalin's hard expression softened in pity.
Thorin doesn't answer him and that's all it takes to push Bofur completely beyond the point of no return, a low sob escaping his throat. He hides his tears behind blood and dirt stained hands, but nothing can cover up the sounds of his broken sobs, his entire body shuddering with them.
He had not come on this journey expecting to find love. He'd come expecting to die, if he were being completely honest. But to have loved so dearly, and experienced the hope of a home, a real home, with his heart's desires close to him always, and then to lose it all because of something so trivial as a stone, was even worse than death.
Bofur was so lost in his anguish he did not notice the movement of the dwarf still sprawled in the dirt beneath him, and he doesn't until Thorin is sitting up and sliding his arms around the toymaker to pull him against his chest. He resists at first, bitter sorrow still prominent, shoving against the dwarf King, but Thorin's response is to simply tighten his grip, burying his face into Bofur's neck and refusing to let him go. The King seemed to know that if he let Bofur leave now, then he truly would have lost him forever.
"I am sorry, my âzyungâl," he breathed against his skin, and Bofur went still out of shock more than acquiescence to Thorin's grasp. Thorin Oakenshield did not apologize. The dwarf's pride did not allow for it. He had apologized once in the time Bofur had known him, on the Carrock after Bilbo saved his life the first time. Taking Bofur's stunned silence as a sign to continue, Thorin exhaled, pulling the other dwarf closer onto his lap.
"I.. I let my pride, and my greed, blind me to the things that should have been truly important to me. I was so overcome with the need to reclaim my heritage, to be the strong and unyielding ruler that our kin deserve, that I lost sight of what should have been at the forefront of all of that. But that is no excuse for what I did, or said, to Bilbo. Or you. I do not deserve your forgiveness, either of you, and I would not judge you for running me through with your blade right now for the cruelties I have dealt you both. But if you would let a disgraced King have another chance to be the dwarf you and Bilbo deserve, my precious ghivashel, then I would beg your forgiveness, and plead for the opportunity to spend every waking moment of the rest of my life proving my love and devotion to you before all of Middle Earth."
He drew back to meet his lover's eyes, cupping his face and brushing away his tears with callused thumbs. And this time, all Bofur sees is honest sincerity in his King, and a quiet desperation for the dwarf's answer. Gone is the furious pride and greed, the evils that had plagued Thorin for so long, burdened him with a darkness that none could penetrate.
None, that is, except a modest toymaker and a respectable hobbit from the Shire it seemed.
Bofur swallowed thickly and let his eyes drop to the front of Thorin's tunic before he took a great, shuddering breath, face now dry of tears.
"I hope you are prepared for all that Bilbo and I might demand of you to earn our forgiveness, my King. It will not come easily, but, with a little hard work and time, I think, we may just find it in our hearts to give you another chance," he murmured finally, risking a look up at Thorin's face.
And Bofur fell in love all over again at the sight of the relief and joy he saw there, a warm smile spreading across his mouth.
"I will labour for your forgiveness until the breath leaves my body," came his soft reply, pressing a gentle kiss to his toymaker's forehead.
There is a rustle of fabric from behind him and Bofur turns to look at an exhausted, but pleased healer exiting Bilbo's tent, the front of his tunic stained maroon with dried blood.
"My King, the hobbit rests now. He is healing well and none of his wounds, while numerous indeed, were life threatening."
Bofur's face twists into an expression of confusion, not even caring that the healer seemed bemused at the sight of his King with a lapful of another dwarf in the dirt.
"That isn't possible. I saw the orc run him through, there was so much blood..." he trailed off, uncertain.
At this, the healer chuckled and shot Thorin a mischievous look, holding up a pile of what looked like liquid silver in front of him.
"And little of it his. It seemed, Master Dwarf, that someone saw fit to gift your burglar with a mail of mithril. The orc blade could not pierce such fine craftsmanship. A fine piece that I would say, perhaps, is fit for a King."
The healer turned, leaving Bofur with that thought in mind, and it took him a moment to digest before he slid his gaze back to Thorin, who to his credit was trying to look innocent. He was about as good at it as Kili was when the lad had gotten up to mischief, and Bofur saw through it before his head even finished turning.
"You.. You gave him a coat of mithril?" he murmured, still sounding a little flummoxed at this. Thorin chuckled warmly and slowly stood them up, his arms not moving from their secure place around Bofur's waist.
"It was the first thing I did, when we reclaimed the mountain. I think, perhaps, I knew that we might end up here. That my pride and greed would overwhelm my reason. I wanted to protect him, keep him safe, even if the madness of my line claimed me. And so I gave him the finest, strongest coat of mithril our armory had to offer," came the rumbling reply, Thorin's fingers sliding through the tangled mess of Bofur's hair.
Bofur would have cried again if he had any tears left. He settled for grabbing Thorin by his braids and dragging him in for a kiss, uncoordinated and messy but with every ounce of love the toymaker could muster poured into it. The other dwarf is shocked to stillness for only the briefest of moments before he kisses him back, sweeping Bofur up into his arms and cradling him to his chest, blood, dirt and all, much to the delight and applause of the audience that had gathered.
Thorin was true to his word, and he would spend every moment of free time making it up to the hobbit and the other dwarf. For while Bilbo and Bofur's forgiveness was easily given, despite what Bofur had said, it wasn't so easy for Thorin to forgive himself for the suffering he had caused his dearest treasures over what he had now come to see as no more than a pretty rock.
For Thorin, as he fell asleep one night, many months after the great battle, with his arms wrapped tight around his lovers, had finally realized that the true heart of the mountain didn't lie in the depths of a stone, but in the warmth and the gentle love of a toymaker and a hobbit.