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“Music can heal the wounds which medicine cannot touch.”
― Debasish Mridha
“Leave me be, Oin. I will be fine.” Thorin’s tone, if not his words, got through to the old healer, who huffed in annoyance and stomped away to sit next to his brother. Bofur made a show of whittling a new pipe from a piece of wood he’d found in Beorn’s house, and watched out of the corner of his eye as his leader and king shifted in his seat. He was no longer at the edge of death, thanks to Gandalf’s…well, whatever it was Gandalf had done. But he was reaching for things with his left hand, keeping his right arm in close to his side. He was far from fine, and it didn’t take a healer to see it.
Bofur’s gaze slid over to Fili and Kili. The princes were uncommonly quiet, huddled close together near the fire. From where he was sitting, Thorin could not see their hands, but Bofur could, and he read the concern in the flickering iglishmêk passing between them. The lads were too young for this. This quest was too much to put on their shoulders, and their mam was likely worried sick about them. What had Thorin been thinking, to allow them to come? Although, Bofur mused, a slight smile quirking his lips, he’d have paid good coin to have seen Thorin try to stop them.
The Ri brothers had retreated to a corner, with Ori irritably telling his older brothers, “I’m not made of shale, stop fussing!” Not that his protests were going to stop Dori—he could no more stop fussing than he could stop breathing. Nori was quieter, but the way he leaned into his little brother was testament enough to his worry. Bombur, despite a pleasantly full stomach, was grumbling to Bifur about the strangeness of everything here. Dwalin kept one eye on Thorin and the other on the ax he was sharpening, his permanent scowl deeper than usual. Balin busied himself with a list of provisions, but his constant glances at Thorin were full of worry. Bilbo was curled up in a chair next to Bofur, and every now and then the Dwarf would catch a snatch of his quiet mutterings: “what was I thinking...huge Orc…idiot Hobbit…don’t know how to fight…out of my mind…”
None of them were really fine, to be honest about it. They hadn’t any of them truly been fine since they had left Rivendell. That had been the last time there had been song, and laughter, even if it had been at the Elves’ expense. They didn’t dare carry on like that here in Beorn’s home—the giant shapeshifter wasn’t as civilized as Elrond’s folk, and would not take mishandling of his crockery very well. However, it didn’t mean there couldn’t be a song or two to lift spirits. They were safe for the time being, and Beorn had agreed to help them. Well, if no one else was going to do it, Bofur supposed it was up to him to find a tune.
He set down the half-finished pipe and drew out the whistle he kept in his hat. Somehow this fragile instrument had survived stone giants, goblins, Orcs, wargs, and toppling trees. An experimental toot or two made several heads swivel in his direction, and he saw a smile or two emerge. Encouraged, he took a deep breath and launched into a bright melody. Toes in heavy boots started tapping, and hands clapped along with the rhythm or beat on tables. Even Bilbo sat up and took notice, a soft smile erasing the lines of worry.
Bofur swung from this song into a new one, a tavern song he’d picked up in the Iron Hills. He wasn’t surprised when Nori’s voice chimed in with the lyrics—they were a bit on the risqué side, of course he’d know them. A scandalized Dori tried to cover Ori’s ears, only to have his hands slapped away and the young Dwarf’s voice joining his brother’s. Dwalin’s rumble took up the chorus with Balin’s as counterpoint.
When the song ended there was silence for a moment, then a quiet pleasant tenor voice struck up. Bilbo sang of his home, of green hills and fields full of plenty, of quiet pleasures and family. Although his life was so different from theirs, each Dwarf nodded in agreement—some things were universal across all cultures, and both races had a deep love of home.
One song led to another, and at one point even Thorin’s deep tones chimed in. Bofur looked over at his king, and Thorin inclined his head in a nod, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. Bofur looked around at the company again. Where there were mutterings before, now there was music; where there had been frowns, smiles abounded; hands that had been clenched were now relaxed.
Bofur kept playing, every song he could think of, until finally the company was relaxed enough to attempt sleep. As he lay in the dark, Bofur couldn’t help a thrill of satisfaction. He had come on this quest for the promise of wealth and adventure, but had often wondered about his place. Each member of the company had his own set of skills, and Bofur had felt like the odd Dwarf out since the beginning. Dwalin could take down a warg singlehandedly and probably tear off an Orc’s head with his teeth. Ori and Balin had far more brains than any Dwarf he’d ever known. Nori could steal the gold out of your teeth and you’d not know it was missing for a week. But, he thought just before falling asleep, none of them could do what he had done tonight. Hope had returned to the mismatched company, borne on the notes from his whistle. In the great scheme of things, perhaps it was not much, but this night, it had meant the world.