The value of Home

For the most part, his hat stays on, drenched as it was, the beloved piece of clothing was easy to forget, settled on his head. 

He felt daft, standing in his long shirt and trousers, in the middle of a hallway; the warmth of which made him realize how cold he’d been, sleeping outside for all those weeks. Oh, how he could imagine his own hearth and Bombur’s cooking.

But Bifur wasn’t Bifur– at least, he hadn’t been when Bofur left. 

“Yes, yes, we can discuss that once you’ve washed up, and we’ve both had some supper.” It will be a late supper, as it is already well past eight, but with the downpour, Bilbo had only eaten a couple apples for dinner, and he can’t imagine how long it’s been since the dwarf had anything to eat.

“Now!” Having hung his jacket by the door, the hobbit checks to see that his guest has removed his wet coats and boots, and nods, “Follow me, please.”

Dora, your advice is trash With love,  Bilbo

I mean, seriously, the little shit

I cry

B.B.

B. fucking B.

“Happy Birthday, Bilbo.”

“I don’t wish t’trouble ya–” Already feeling bad that the hobbit was getting soaked from sharing his umbrella, but an arm was hooked into his own and soon enough, he was being pulled along toward the quaint set of hills. 

The rain seemed to come down harder, which gave the pace set, a somewhat urgent affair. Soon enough and avoiding a somewhat slippery incline, they’d reached the hobbit’s home and had entered into it’s warmth. 

Bofur stood, dripping wet in the foyer. Even more to apologize for, he reminds himself, getting mud and water all over the front entrance like a shaggy dog. He pushes the brim of his drooping hat, up and away from his eyes. The home is cozy, with rounded wooden walls and wooden trim arches. 

The only thing to come out of this rain, Bilbo thought, was the lack of noisy neighbors. Had this been a clear night, Bilbo had no doubt that he’d have concerned family members at his door before the first lights of the morning. Of course, had this been a clear night, the dwarf would not have been in need of shelter to begin with.

There really was no avoiding the mess, however. Bilbo’s feet were covered in mud as well, though he wasn’t nearly as wet as his companion. 

“Nonsense.” He chastised, folding his umbrella. “You are a guest here, and I will not have you cleaning the floors. Besides,” The hobbit cast a look down at his own muddy feet, and raised his eyebrows at the dwarf. “I dare say you won’t be the only one making a mess.”

Taking care not to step on the carpet, Bilbo held the door open for his guest.

“That’s awfully kind of ya, lad, but I– well, I wouldn’t want t’bother ya, not in this kind of weather anyway.” Admittedly, he hadn’t the coin left in his pockets to afford a pint let alone a room for a night. It left him with poor options for comfort, but it had been relatively dry and not a downpour.

It makes for a very sad picture, watching the dwarf trudge on under the heavy rain. How can Bilbo go back to his warm hearth, when someone else was left outside to brave this dreadful weather?

Bilbo Baggins! What would your mother say?

“Master Dwarf!” The hobbit calls out, catching up to him on quick feet. “My smial is not far from here. Less than a league north, right on the hill.” He holds up his umbrella between them. It does a poor job of protecting them both from the rain, but his home is close enough now that Bilbo doesn’t mind terribly if he gets wet.

“Oh–” He glances down the direction he’d come, before glancing back at the now mud-slick thatch of ground he would’ve spent the night. “…No. Not at the moment.” There’s a helpless smile on his features, but his eyes are tired and he keeps his gaze slightly lower than the smaller man’s. 

He’s thankful for the rain, with worn clothes from traveling so long, at least being caught in this would make him look less of a pathetic sod who ran away from his home. 

“A-an explorer, w—” The dwarf is clearly lost, though Bilbo feels it would be unkind to point it out. He’s certain the poor fellow is well aware, despite his best attempts to stay positive. 

“Well, you’re just south of Hobbiton. In the Shire.” He thinks to add, after a pause. It’s not often that dwarves venture into the Shire — not by themselves, at least. There are some merchants that travel in caravans during the summer, but never during the spring months, for obvious reasons.

I need a dollar, dollar, dollar that’s what I need.

It’d been bad, the injury. It left his dear cousin jumbled and different and though Bofur had diligently stayed by Bifur’s side through his recovery– the frantic outbursts, the sudden wailings and harsh fists, had become too much to bear.

He didn’t hate his cousin for his actions, Oín had told them both that it would take a while for Bifur to re-learn how to communicate. In the meantime, it was simply frustrating. 

And that frustration turned to anger very quickly.

The tipping point came in the form of broken furniture, dishes scattered about, and stew thrown in his face. His cousin shouted angry nonsensical words and Bombur had stepped in before it could become any worse. 

Bofur left that night. He’d wandered out of Ered Luin, not but his Mattock and the clothes on his back. He wandered far and wide, never staying in any place for very long. Home wasn’t home to him anymore, not with his cousin someone else entirely. 

Eventually he’d wandered to reaches unknown to him– a quiet meadow banked by a forest and small rounded hills. It was quaint, and quiet, and he’d found a dry patch of grass to rest upon.

His heart felt heavy wondering if Bombur was alright keeping Bifur calm, but those thoughts were quickly pushed aside when he felt the first drops of rainfall. 

The rain came down like a deluge and Bofur had scrambled to find some cover, but the ground he’d chosen to spend the night became muddied and slick. No place for anyone to lay their head. 

Soon enough, he was soaked through, leaning against a thick tree in every vain attempt at staying dry when someone had called out to him from the road. The man was smaller than average, with no hair on his face or shoes on his mud-caked feet. He carried an umbrella, keeping flaxen curls dry from the rain. 

Deathless

They’re both grey, lines mapped across their features of the life they’d both lead. He’d spent his days in the Shire by Bilbo’s side, and now, by firelight, among the earthy aroma of pipeweed, Bilbo’s thoughts had been on a once king, long since returned to stone.

A helpless smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but his expression is hidden by dancing shadows in this dim place. 

“Suppose… hobbits an’ dwarves can meet in that place, an’ share a laugh or two.” Because surely fate wouldn’t be so cruel that those that love and lost, kept separated forever.