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Long before the axe-blade had fractured his skull and stolen his tongue, Bifur had been a young, ambitious toy-maker with a streak of wanderlust that his cousins found confusing but he was the older one.
It was on a rainy ridge near the borders of the Bree-land that he had encountered two Hobbits who would change his life: Bungo Baggins, a stout fellow with a surprising amount of common sense, and Belladonna Took, a woman who seemed to view "danger" as a personal challenge.
Bifur never spoke the Common Tongue, even then, he preferred the sharp, rhythmic Khuzdul of his people, but between Bungo’s patient translations and Belladonna’s sheer force of personality, they had formed an inseparable bond.
"Belladonna, for the love of the Valar, get down from there!" Bungo shouted, his hands shielding his eyes from the sun.
High above on a jagged limestone cliff, Belladonna was currently hanging by one hand, trying to reach a rare mountain orchid. Bifur stood at the base of the cliff, his arms crossed, muttering a string of Khuzdul that roughly translated to: “If she falls, I am not carrying her back to the Shire. I will bury her here and tell the Gaffer she ran off with an Elf.”
"Bifur says he’s going to leave you for the crows!" Bungo translated, though he added a bit of his own flair.
Belladonna laughed, swinging her legs and finally snagging the flower. She dropped down, landing lightly on her feet, her face glowing with triumph. "Oh, hush, you two. You’re like a pair of nervous hens. Bifur, look at the color of this petal! It would make a magnificent pigment for those wooden birds you’re carving."
Bifur sighed, taking the flower and tucking it behind his ear, though he gave her a stern look and tapped his temple. “You have rocks for brains, Hobbit,” he gestured.
"He says it’s lovely, dear," Bungo sighed, dusting off his waistcoat.
They traveled for years, through the Ered Luin, down to the edges of the Lonelands, and once, famously, all the way to the hidden valley of Imladris. Bifur watched over them like a silent, grumbling guardian, and in return, the Hobbits gave him a home that didn't smell of coal-smoke and despair.
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The day they told him was a crisp autumn evening in the Shire. They were sitting on the bench outside the newly finished Bag End. Bungo looked uncharacteristically nervous, and Belladonna was beaming.
"Bifur," Bungo said, patting the Dwarf’s arm. "We have news. Belladonna... well, there’s going to be another Baggins. A little one."
Bifur froze. He looked at Belladonna’s radiant face, then at Bungo’s proud chest. For a moment, the stoic Dwarf was speechless. Then, he let out a great, booming laugh and hoisted both Hobbits into a crushing hug.
That night, Bifur didn't sleep. He sat by the hearth of Bag End, his carving tools out. He worked with a delicacy that most wouldn't expect from a Dwarf. He carved a small wooden pony with jointed legs, a tiny dragon with painted scales (a joke between him and Belladonna), and a set of wooden blocks engraved with both Shire-runes and Khuzdul sigils.
When Bilbo was born, Bifur was the first non-Hobbit to hold him. The baby was a tiny, squalling thing with remarkably large feet. Bifur had looked down at the infant and felt a protective instinct so fierce it rivaled his loyalty to his own kin.
“He looks like a Bungo,” Bifur gestured, pointing to the baby’s nose. “But he has the eyes of the Took.”
"He has your temper, more like," Belladonna laughed, leaning against Bifur’s shoulder. "He’ll be a handful, our Bilbo."
But the shadow of the East was growing. Word came that the Blue Mountains were calling for every able-bodied Dwarf to return. The trade routes were closing. Bifur had to go. He promised to write, promised to return for Bilbo’s second birthday.
The letters came once a month, then once a year. Then, the Orcs attacked the Ered Luin. The axe-wound happened. The world became a place of half-forgotten memories and a tongue that couldn't speak the words of his friends. Bifur became the "crazy" cousin, the one who spoke in Khuzdul and fought with a feral intensity. He forgot how to write, he forgot the taste of Shire ale, but he never forgot the name Baggins.
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When Gandalf mentioned the name "Baggins" in a tavern in the Blue Mountains, Bifur’s head had snapped up so fast the axe-remnant in his skull throbbed. He didn't care about the gold. He didn't care about the Arkenstone. He signed the contract because he needed to see if the little boy with the wooden pony was still alive.
The Company arrived at Bag End in a flurry of chaos. Bifur stood at the back, his eyes darting around the familiar hallway. It was different, darker, quieter, but the smell was the same. Lavender and pipe-weed.
Then, he saw him.
Bilbo Baggins stood in the hallway, looking absolutely horrified as Dwarves ransacked his pantry. He was pale, his hands were trembling, and he looked like a man on the verge of a complete nervous collapse.
Bifur felt a pang of grief. This wasn't the adventurous lad Belladonna had promised. This was a frightened, lonely Hobbit who clearly had no idea what was happening.
As the other Dwarves shouted for ale, Bifur moved. He didn't go to the kitchen. He stepped up to Bilbo, towering over him. The Hobbit flinched, looking up at the Dwarf with the terrifying axe in his head.
Bifur didn't growl. He didn't demand food. He reached out and gently took Bilbo by the elbow, steering him away from the noise and into the quiet of the study.
"I-I say! What are you doing?" Bilbo stammered.
Bifur ignored him. He sat Bilbo down in an armchair, Bungo’s old chair, and knelt before him. He took Bilbo’s shaking hands in his large, calloused ones and began to hum. It was an old Khuzdul lullaby, a low, grounding thrum.
“Breathe, little one,” Bifur gestured with one hand, tapping his own chest. “In. Out. The noise is just wind. You are safe.”
Bilbo blinked, the panic slowly receding. There was something familiar about this Dwarf. Not the face, the axe had changed that, but the hands. The way he held Bilbo’s wrists.
"How... how did you know I needed to sit?" Bilbo whispered.
Bifur didn't answer in a way Bilbo could understand. He simply pointed to a portrait on the mantle. It was a painting of Bungo and Belladonna in their youth, laughing in a meadow.
Bifur stood up and walked to the mantle. His hand trembled as he touched the frame. He looked at the wooden pony sitting right next to the clock, the same pony he had carved thirty years ago. It was well-worn, the paint faded from years of a child’s play.
Bifur turned back to Bilbo, his eyes wet. He pointed to the portrait, then to himself, and made a sign of two fingers intertwined. “Friends. Deep friends.”
Bilbo’s breath hitched. "You... you’re the one from the stories. The one who carved the pony. My mother said you were lost in the mountains."
Bifur bowed his head. He gestured to the portrait of Belladonna and Bungo with a questioning tilt of his head.
"They’re gone," Bilbo said, his voice cracking. "Fell-winter took my father. And my mother... she didn't last long after. It’s been years."
Bifur let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-sob. He walked back to Bilbo and rested a heavy hand on the Hobbit’s head, a silent blessing. From that moment on, the Quest for Erebor was no longer about a mountain. It was about protecting the last living piece of the people who had taught a Dwarf how to love.
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The journey was a trial for everyone, but for the Company, the most baffling part was Bifur’s behavior.
Bifur, usually the most antisocial member of the group, had become Bilbo’s shadow. When they walked, Bifur was always two steps behind the Hobbit. When they ate, Bifur ensured Bilbo had the best portion of the stew.
"What's gotten into Bifur?" Bofur asked one evening, watching his cousin sharpen Bilbo’s small dagger with obsessive care. "He won't let anyone near the Halfling. I tried to give Bilbo a nudge earlier for being slow, and Bifur nearly took my arm off with his spear!"
"Maybe he likes the quiet ones," Bombur suggested, gnawing on a bone.
But it was more than that. When the Trolls caught them, Bifur fought like a demon to get to Bilbo’s side. When they were in the Goblin tunnels, Bifur refused to leave the rear until he was certain Bilbo was safe. The other Dwarves watched in confusion as the "mad" Dwarf tucked Bilbo’s blanket around him at night, muttering Khuzdul prayers over the sleeping Hobbit.
Thorin noticed it, too. "Bifur. You treat the Burglar as if he were your own sister-son. Why?"
Bifur looked at Thorin, his eyes hard. He pointed toward the West, then made the gesture for “Little one of the heart.” He said nothing more.
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The secret finally broke in the Last Homely House. The Dwarves were uncomfortable, surly, and suspicious of the Elves. They sat in the gardens, refusing to eat the "leaf-food," while Bilbo wandered off to see the library. Bifur was the only one eating the greens, bungo had all but forced him to years ago and the habit was hard to break nor one he wanted to.
Lord Elrond approached the group. He looked at the ragtag Company with his usual ageless calm, but his eyes stopped when they reached Bifur.
Elrond smiled, a genuine, warm expression. "I see the years have been eventful, Master Bifur. It has been a long time since you walked these paths with the Lady Belladonna and Master Bungo."
The Company went dead silent. Thorin stood up, his hand on his sword. "You know this Dwarf, Elf-lord?"
"I do," Elrond said, bowing slightly. "Though he was much younger then, and his crown was whole. He was part of a very famous trio. I remember quite clearly when Belladonna tried to sled down the railing of my home and Bifur was chasing after her holding a passed out bungo”
Bifur let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He stepped forward and gave Elrond a respectful nod, making a sign of “The years are long, but the valley is the same.”
"Wait," Bofur stammered, looking at his cousin. "You were in Rivendell? With hobbits? Why didn't you tell us?"
Bifur pointed to the axe in his head, then to his tongue, and gave Bofur a look of profound exasperation.
"Fun fact those hobbits were my parents" Bilbo said, walking back into the group. The company were shocked to find out bifur had once traveled with bilbos parents.
Bilbo walked over and leaned his head against Bifur’s sturdy shoulder.
Bofur and Bombur looked at each other, then at their cousin. The confusion turned into a deep, solemn respect. This hobbit was bringing their secluded cousin back out.
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Through the spiders of Mirkwood and the barrels of Lake-town, Bifur remained Bilbo’s shield. Even when the gold-sickness took Thorin and the Mountain was a place of madness, Bifur stayed sane. He sat with Bilbo in the cold corners of the ramparts, sharing his rations and humming those old Shire lullabies.
When the Battle of the Five Armies broke out, Bifur didn't fight for the gold. He fought to keep the Orcs away from the small, invisible figure darting through the fray.
After the battle, when the dust settled and the King was restored, Bifur was the one who helped Bilbo pack his bags for the Shire. He didn't want the Hobbit to stay in the cold stone of the Mountain. He knew Bilbo belonged in the green.
Bifur walked Bilbo to the gates. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a new carving. It was a small wooden Hobbit, holding a tiny sword, sitting atop a very noble-looking Dwarf.
Bilbo took the gift, his tears falling freely. "Will you come visit? Now that the roads are safe?"
Bifur looked at the Hobbit, the son of his best friends, the nephew of his soul. He gave Bilbo a final, crushing hug, then made a sign that even a Hobbit could understand. He touched his heart, then pointed to the West.
“Always. You are a Took. You are a Baggins. You are mine.”
As Bilbo walked away with Gandalf, he looked back one last time. Bifur was standing on the ramparts, leaning on his spear, watching until the small figure vanished into the horizon. He couldn't speak the language of Men, but in the silence of the Mountain, the name Bilbo was written in the very stone of his heart.