Work Text:
It's not as if he doesn't understand what's happening. He's nineteen years old, hardly an infant — he notices that there's never meat for supper anymore, that their 'new' clothes are patched and worn, and he hears the whispers between his aunt and cousin when they think he's gone to bed.
He's pretty certain his brother, who is only twelve, doesn't know. He ought to, really, in case it does come to the worst — in case their aunt ever wins that whispered argument, in case they are to be sent away again — but every time Bofur thinks of explaining it to him, imagines the look on his face when understanding dawns, his guts twist painfully and he shrinks back from the thought like a coward, tells himself, I'll talk to him tomorrow.
Then one day there is nothing for supper, not for any of them. Their aunt clears her throat meaningfully and then leaves the room — difficult talks have never been her strength, and anyway she isn't as close to them as her son is; they are her husband's sister-sons, not hers, and serve only as reminders of him now that he is gone. Bifur watches her go, then turns to them and says, "Come here, lads, we must talk," and Bofur hears the catch in his voice and he can't pretend 'tomorrow' is an option anymore.
He is determinedly grown-up about it, as best he can be: puts an arm around his brother's shoulders and listens, and doesn't start crying even when Bombur does, and says, "It's all right, it really is. We can't expect you to starve yourselves to keep us."
Then he wishes he hadn't said anything, because that starts Bifur crying, too, and he can't bear that; all his grown-up resolve collapses, and he bursts into tears himself, stumbles forward to fling his arms around his cousin's neck. Bombur follows an instant later, and they stay that way for a long time, all three of them holding tight to each other and weeping into each other's shirts.
They separate, eventually — Bifur puts a hand on each of their shoulders and pushes them gently back, kneels down to look into their eyes. "It won't be so bad, my lads," he says, though he sounds like he's as unconvinced of that as they are. "You won't be far away; you're just going to Missus Ganri's place. She'll look after you — she'll make sure you're taught a trade, even — and I'll come and see you whenever I can, I swear it."
"But Missus Ganri's place is for boys who haven't got any family," Bombur protests, his voice still thick with tears. "We've got you, haven't we?"
"Of course we do," Bofur steps in — one glance at his cousin is enough to tell he won't be able to answer, not without weeping and probably setting Bombur off again, and if anyone else makes his baby brother cry today they will face his wrath, family or no. "We'll always have Bifur, and we'll always have Auntie, you know that. It's just that we can't live with them for a while."
Bombur sniffs, and looks to Bifur. "Only for a while?"
"Only until I can find better work," Bifur pledges, clasping both their hands in his. "Only until there's more money. Then I'll come and get you, and bring you home again."
Then their aunt comes in again, telling them that it's time to pack their things, that Missus Ganri is expecting them tonight, and Bofur stumbles through gathering what few possessions they have and shepherds his brother along, and when he breaks out of the orphan-matron's grip and runs back out the door of her home, desperate to say another goodbye to his family, they're already gone.
A week after they move in, Bifur does come to see them, and Bofur feels something unclench in his chest — he hadn't dared to believe he'd really come, hadn't allowed himself to hope. But he is there, and he calls them "my lads," and talks cheerfully about a job prospect he's heard about in a tavern, and promises, before he goes, that he'll be back again soon, that they won't have to stay here long.
His visits come frequently at first, once a fortnight at least; then it is once a month, and then once every two or three months, and the span between them seems to lengthen every time, and the promises he offers when he does come — that he will come for them, that they will have a home again, that they will always be his lads — grow hollow.
When Bofur is twenty-three, he pulls his cousin aside on one of these visits, making sure Bombur can't overhear, and asks, "Will you really bring us home? I don't mean — I know you would, I've never doubted that. But will you ever be able to?"
Bifur looks down, shakes his head. "I don't know," he admits, very quiet. "There is so little work to be had — if I had a trade, if I'd done a proper apprenticeship, maybe there'd be some hope, but as it is... I don't know, Bofur."
He leaves without the usual promises, and they don't see him again for half a year, and Bofur braces himself for his brother's disappointment, for his confusion — I thought we'd always have him, brother, I thought he'd come back for us. But no such outburst comes; Bombur is quiet, and calm, and takes it in perfect stride, and that breaks Bofur's heart worse than if he had wept and stormed.
Then he does come back, and Bombur's face lights at the sight of him, and even Bofur's fury at that (you dare come back here after the last time, you dare let him hope — let me hope...) doesn't last long when Bifur sits them both down and says, "I've found work."
They both stare at him for a long moment, struck speechless; Bombur recovers first, demands, "What kind of work? Where?"
"It's risky," Bifur admits, leaning back in his seat. "And it'll be a little while before it pays off. But they've already said they'll have me, and — oh, my lads, this is the chance, I know it!"
Bofur doesn't like the sound of it's risky; he leans forward, repeats his brother's question. "What kind of work is it?"
"Fighting. There's a party leaving in a week or two, heading to the south to clear out an orc-nest there; I've volunteered to join them."
"Fighting! Bifur—"
"The pay's good," Bifur interrupts him. "Too good to turn down. Not so much that we'd be set for life, nothing like that, but between this and a bit of regular work — I could bring you lads home again. And even if..."
He hesitates, glancing at Bombur, who protests, "I'm not a child; I know what could happen."
"Fair enough," Bifur says, and goes on, "Even if I'm hurt or killed, there's a pension. I've put your name down, Bofur, in case I can't accept it myself. It'll be enough to set you up on your own, to give the two of you a bit of a start in life."
The mood is sober for a moment; Bofur looks hard into his cousin's face, sees lines of worry that weren't there a few short years ago. Then Bifur flashes a quick smile and reaches out to tousle his hair, says, "But I won't have you worrying, not over me. It's not my first time carrying a spear; I think I can handle a few orcs, don't you?"
Once again, he doesn't offer promises before he goes, though this time it's because he doesn't need to — all three of them are laughing as they walk him to the front door, making wild plans for what they'll do when he comes home a wealthy dwarf. He pulls them both into a crushing embrace, looks at them with bright eyes and says, "It won't be long now, my lads," and then he's out the door and away down the walk.
"Be careful," Bofur shouts after him, and gets only a laugh and a wave in return.
The night the war-party leaves, Bombur packs all his things into a knapsack, leaves it by the foot of his bed as if he thinks Bifur will come by at any moment to pick them up. It is two months before Bofur can convince him to unpack it, and four months after that before he stops spending every spare moment by the window, peering down the road toward the south.
Bofur turns twenty-five, and there is still no news, no sign of Bifur's return; Missus Ganri finds him an apprenticeship with a carpenter. He learns quickly, and though he doesn't much enjoy the work, he is determined to make a career of it — there is always demand for carpentry, always money in it, and that matters much more to him than whether there is pleasure in it.
Six months after that, and still no news, Missus Ganri dies in her sleep and they, and all the other boys, are turned out on their own.
Their first thought is to go back to their aunt's house, but they arrive to find it empty, abandoned; Bofur asks a neighbor he doesn't recognize what happened, and the stranger shakes his head, says, "The poor lady took sick and died last year. Didn't last long after her boy left, I'm afraid. Did you know her?"
"We used to," Bofur says shortly, and leaves, pulling Bombur along behind him; there will be time enough to mourn later, if they can find a place to stay (and if they can't, well, never mind mourning, for they'll join her in the Halls of Waiting soon enough).
In the end, Bofur's master takes them both in — it costs him all the pay he would have earned over his term there, plus a contract for two years' additional work after his apprenticeship is done and a promise that Bombur will help around the house, but he agrees without a moment's hesitation and nearly weeps with relief once the papers are signed.
Bombur wakes him in the small hours, that first night, and whispers in a panic, "What if Bifur doesn't know where to look for us? What if he can't find us, when he comes back?"
"If he can't find us, we'll find him," Bofur whispers back. Privately he thinks, If he were coming back, he'd be here by now, but he can't say that, not to Bombur; he throws an arm over his brother, pulls him close. "Now go to sleep."
They do hear word of the war-party, eventually — Bombur has found work washing glasses in a tavern whose owner turns a blind eye to his youth, and one night a soldier comes in, drinks himself numb and unburdens his tale across the bar to Bombur. It is terrible news (though not unexpected, at least not to Bofur): they met the orcs and were routed, many of them killed and the rest driven back, injured and maimed and exhausted, into the forest that lines the eastern edge of the mountains, and it's only now that the survivors have made their way back.
"Did you ask him..." Bofur begins, when Bombur comes home and relays the story to him; then he realizes he can't finish the question, can't make himself say it aloud.
Bombur understands, though, and says, "I did. He said nothing, only — only shook his head," and then he gives a great gasping sob and throws his arms around Bofur, and the two of them stand weeping together for a long while.
After that, they are more determined than ever to make their own way, to look after themselves as best they can. Bombur works tirelessly around the house, cooking meals and keeping the place tidy, and then follows each long day with a long night's work at the tavern; by the time he turns twenty-one, he's moved up to working in the kitchen there, and his employer is beginning to drop hints that, when the head cook retires, he may ask Bombur to take his place. Bofur, meanwhile, keeps up his apprenticeship and takes every opportunity he sees to learn a bit more, or to pick up a bit of extra coin — his favorite phrase, it seems, is "Shall I do that for you?", asked both of his master and of any customer or passerby who expresses an unmet need; often the answer is "yes," and sometimes, if he's lucky, it's "yes, and I shall pay for it."
The best tips come from making deliveries, and so he always volunteers for that task; that's how he comes to be out in the street, balancing a pair of sturdy wooden chairs on his shoulders and cursing the bad luck that had the shop's wagon busy elsewhere today, on the morning of his twenty-ninth birthday.
He's nearly to the customer's home when there's a sudden shout from behind him, followed by heavy footfalls and the commotion of someone pushing through a crowd; then a hand lands on his back, startling him so that he nearly drops the chairs, and there's a torrent of Khuzdul in his ear, so fast he can't begin to follow it.
"Look," he says crossly, turning around, "perhaps you haven't noticed, but I'm a bit busy here, and—" and then he does drop the chairs, because it's Bifur, Bifur, beaming down at him and still going on in rapid-fire Khuzdul, and how can this be?
He realizes after a moment that his cousin has stopped talking, apparently waiting for an answer; Bofur shakes his head, and all he can manage to say is, stupidly, "But you're dead," and then, "Oh Mahal, Bifur, is that an axe-blade?"
Bifur speaks again, then, at Bofur's look of incomprehension, brings his hands up, flicks both index fingers upward: Listen.
"I — I'm listening," Bofur says, eyes fixed on his cousin's hands; he reads iglishmek easily and quickly, always has, and if for whatever reason Bifur won't speak to him in the common tongue, this will at least be easier than trying to remember his Khuzdul lessons. "Only — Bifur, you've been gone five years, what happened?"
Bad hurt, Bifur signs, and Bofur lets out a strangled laugh, says somewhat hysterically, "You do have a gift for understatement."
His cousin rolls his eyes and keeps signing: Cannot speak. Long time, could not remember. Forgot everything. Forgot home. Then remembered, and came home, and... nothing. Mother gone, dead. Boys gone, could not find.
"You looked for us?" Bofur asks, his voice shaking; Bifur stares at him for a second, as if he can't believe the question, and then steps forward, pulls him firmly into an embrace.
"Always," he says, and that at least is one Khuzdul word Bofur understands without a moment's thought.
When they separate, Bofur turns back to his chairs, pushes one toward his cousin. "Help me with this delivery," he says, "and then — oh, Mahal, I can't wait until Bombur sees you."
Bifur hesitates, not taking the chair. One good thing, he signs. Got hurt-coin. Can pay rent, have home.
Hurt-coin takes Bofur a moment to figure out — it's not really a proper sign — but he does get it, eventually, and says, "Your pension? They really did pay, then?"
Good coin. There's something else on Bifur's mind, though, clearly; he picks up the chair, puts it down again, fiddles with a braid in his beard, and finally signs, Boys will come home?
"As if you have to ask," Bofur says, his voice suddenly thick with emotion; he turns away quickly, hoists the chair over his shoulder. "Now come on, will you? We're keeping Bombur waiting."