Thorin kept his word. He visited the Chamber every day. Bilbo kept on with his life, busily pottering around his little Hobbit-Hole and garden, blithely unconcerned with what his neighbours thought of him. He lent his mithril-shirt to a museum, although Hobbits called it a ‘mathom-house’. From what Thorin could understand, a mathom was something that was meant to gather dust; interesting, but impractical. A mithril-shirt, impractical! He shook his head at the ridiculousness of it. Truly, Hobbits were preposterous little creatures!
I’m with Thorin on this one. Even if there hasn’t been war in the Shire in centuries, it’s still a good idea to hold onto something like that in case there’s another quest.
His parents Kifur and Bomrís and his uncle Bomfur (the father to Bofur and Bombur) were greeting him, and Thorin wondered how that worked. Did Mahal let you know in some way? Or had they discovered it as Thorin had, peering through the waters of Gimlîn-zâram?
You’ll find out before too long, Thorin.
“Allow him some space,” he said sternly. It had been ten years, but he still recalled how disoriented and overwhelmed he had been. “He has just met our Maker and his parents, and will be—”
“Zabadâl belkul!” cried a joyous voice, and Thorin was rudely interrupted by a heavy, entirely naked body slamming into him and bowling him over. “Zabadâl belkul, melhekhel!”
“Bifur!” Thorin managed, spitting out white-and-black streaked hair. “Bifur, calm down!”
“Zûr zu?” Bifur grabbed Thorin’s shoulders and smashed their heads together. Thorin reeled, stars sparking before his eyes.
“Ach! Stop, wait-”
“Abbad, abbad, sakhab!” Bifur crowed, and then patted at Thorin’s face. “Ah, melhekhel, Thorin-zabad. Sakhab at you, I never thought I’d see you again, and so unchanged. Why, you could skin me wi’ that glare! Does a body good to see it.”
Thorin stopped struggling and stared at him, dumbfounded. “Bifur… you’re speaking Westron.”
“Am I?” Bifur blinked, and then he smiled. There was a faint red scar where once there had been a huge stomach-churning dent in his skull, and he seemed far more lucid than Thorin could remember him ever being – if still rather odd. “Oh. So I am.”
I know some of the reunions are heartbreaking, but Bifur’s is hilarious. Bifur is one of my favorite canonical dwarves, and I always wondered what he’d be like if I could understand what he says in Dwarvish, and this take on his personality fits pretty well with what I’d thought he’d be like, but better.
“And you’re naked,” Fíli added.
“On top of Thorin,” Kíli sniggered.
Bifur beamed at them, pushing away from Thorin and exclaiming, “Lads! Fíli, Kíli, shamukh ra ghelekhur aimâ, how wonderful it is to see you!”
“Good to see you too,” Kíli told him, pulling him to his feet.
“Be even better if we hadn’t seen so much of you,” Fíli mumbled. Bifur simply laughed and tugged the boys into a hug, throwing his arms around their necks and holding on tightly.
Thorin pushed himself up and rubbed his forehead. “Well, it seems you slip back into Khuzdul every now and then,” he said to himself, before smiling at the faces of his nephews as they tried to extricate themselves from Bifur’s ebullience. Raising his voice he said, “Perhaps we should find you some clothes…”
“No perhaps about it,” Kíli wheezed.
Bifur jerked away suddenly to stare at his hands with a perplexed expression. His eyes were completely focused for the first time in ten years. “Oh, yes.” Then he raised his eyebrows and looked down at himself with apparent surprise. “Aye, all right. Although I could get used to this, you know. Rather… freeing. You should try it.”
“My eyes,” moaned Fíli.
“My brain,” whimpered Kíli.
I love everything about this, I can’t deny it. Bifur streaking around the halls, hugging Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli while he’s stark naked, Fíli’s reaction to Bifur wanting to stay naked…just everything about this is hilarious and makes my day whenever I read it.
Abruptly Bifur tensed, his head jerking up and his eyes widening. “Wait, ‘ikhuzh! ‘Amad, ‘adad, uncle Bomfur… where are they?”
“Behind you, Bifur,” said an amused voice. “The Maker recreated your birthmark, I see.”
Another dwarrowdam I like? Bomrís. I relate to her a lot, and I like her little humorous comment here. Orla, Hrera, and Frís are ahead of her on the list, but I like Bomrís too.
“Aye, we eat,” Thorin said, trying and failing to repress a smile. “There’s food, and plenty of it.”
“Oh.” Bifur frowned for a moment, and then he brightened. “Are there flowers?”
I love that Bifur still likes flowers, and presumably vegetables, now that he’s in the Halls.
The door flew open, and Dwalin stormed in, followed by Óin. “You idiot!” he thundered.
“That’s our King,” Óin muttered.
“You idiot, your Majesty,” snarled Dwalin, teeth snapping around the words.
It’s not Dáin’s fault, he did what he had to do to keep the peace and make sure Erebor’s relationship with the Dalemen was good, but still this is hilarious.
“You’re a damned fool,” said Dwalin bluntly.
Dáin laughed his raspy laugh. “Aye, probably. But practical.”
Dáin is a better king than 90% of the fandom gives him credit for being. He’s practical, he knows how to lead. Yes, being Lord of the Iron Hills isn’t the same as being King of Erebor, but he ruled for over a hundred years there, and there was peace and prosperity. Now that he’s king of Erebor, he’s bringing the same thing there, it’ll just take those closest to Thorin time to see it.
Hrera looked politely incredulous. “He must be touched in the head. That one has had too much sun.”
“He’s a fine young Dwarrow,” Thorin said, and then he wondered why he felt the need to defend him. Surely he hadn’t become so fond of the lad?
“Fine young Dwarrow or not, he’s going to get sunburnt,” she predicted.
She was not wrong. Gimli was reddened and peeling by the time he made it back down from the summit, and Hrera tutted over the state of his braids. “Terrible,” she said disapprovingly. “Look at that! Has the boy never used hair oils in his life?”
“Probably not,” Thorin said. “He dislikes primping and frippery, as he calls it.”
I have a feeling that, when Gimli finally passes into the Halls, the first thing Hrera will do when she meets him will be to sit him down and work on his hair while lecturing him on it’s importance.
“I suppose that makes you King, then!” one laughed. Gimli rolled his eyes and waved that away.
“No fear! I would have to be blind drunk to want to be King. Have you seen Dáin lately? He looks like granite pounded by giants!
Gimli’s not an idiot, he knows that he wouldn’t want the responsibility that comes from being king, at least not this early on.
“What’s this my dainty ears do hear?” said Nori, clumping towards them with a tray of tankards and a creased grin. “Our Gimli versus the Stonehelm? Now that I’d pay to see.”
“No you wouldn’t!” cried a Dwarf. “You’d be running the books, you old crook!”
“Aye, we’d be paying you!”
Nori winked. “Pack of lies it is, my dears, and I’m ashamed to know you.”
See Nori in his natural element, running the books for various bets and making a tidy profit off of them.
“Well then, I’d give you two to three odds on Gimli versus the Stonehelm, but in the third match, I’m afraid, it’s gonna have t’ drop to one outta nine.”
“And why, may I ask?” Gimli said indignantly. “I’m the finest axeman of my age in the whole of Erebor!”
“Indeed you are, my little Lord,” said Nori slyly, “but in the third match you’d be fightin’ Dwalin son of Fundin, an’ I don’t much fancy yer chances.”
A groan rose from around the table, and Gimli shook his head. “Alas!” he laughed. “Well, I’d have to bet against myself – and you’ve already done so well out of me too, you old villain.”
“Knew you’d beat Lóni,” Nori said in satisfaction. “All right, boys, pay up.”
With some grumbling, the assembled drinkers handed Nori a few coins. “Thanking you kindly,” he said, grinning broadly. Biting hard on one, he nodded and then slipped them into a pocket. Sitting himself down at the table, he eased his metal leg out in front of him and a knife abruptly appeared in his hands. He absently spun it around his fingers as he raised his braided eyebrows, now liberally streaked with grey. “Well, my brave lads? Not taking me up on my very generous odds?”
Gimli took another sip of his ale and licked the foam from his moustache. “Me, fight Dwalin? You’ve got to be joking. He taught me most of what I know. I’d be warg-food before the day was out.”
“You’d be warg-food before the minute was out,” said a Dwarf, and Gimli puffed out his chest in indignation.
“I’ll have you know I’d last at least twenty.” He suddenly grinned. “Seconds.”
Again, Nori would do so well running the books for these fights, it wouldn’t be funny. I wonder if he ever arranges things like that in the afterlife, pitting together two dwarven heroes and having everyone bet on which one would be the victor.
“Oh, I see,” she said, and looked back to where the thief was amusing the lads with knife tricks. “He lost that leg at the Battle, then?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, my dear.” She patted his cheek comfortingly and sighed. “Oh, you stone-faced Durin men. If you would only say!”
I love Hrera. And I also sympathize with her, since apparently getting Durins to open up is like wringing water from a stone. I can be done with a lot of time, effort, and patience, but no one could say that it’s easy.
“Here now, what’s this about your brother, Nori?” called one of the youngsters, and the call was echoed by several around the table.
Nori rolled his eyes dramatically. “Do you mean the mother-hen or the scribbler?”
Now, I wonder which brother is which? Nori’s nicknames for them are so subtle it’s hard to tell. I love his reaction though, it’s like ‘oh for Mahal’s sake, can’t I go five minutes without someone asking after my brothers?’.
A little sigh echoed around the table, and Thorin shook his head at their longing expressions. His weaver companion was the epitome of Dwarven male beauty, after all, with his silvery hair, classic Stiffbeard nose, thick legs and stout frame. Unfortunately for his many admirers, he was one of the many Dwarrows whose heart was given to their craft. Dori loved his weaving, his brothers, his wines and his tea, and had as much interest in romance as he had in cross-country skiing. Furthermore, he had a punch like a charging oliphaunt.
I relate to this version of Dori a lot, if I’m honest. I feel the same way he does about romance and sex, I just don’t have the muscle that he does, or family that accepts it like he does. I also love how Nori makes a bit of profit off of the dwarf who’s sighing over Dori, it’s just so Nori.
“You idiots really need to find a new obsession,” snorted Thorin – and Gimli chuckled under his breath.
“Tell him, and we’ll have Ori, my father and uncle, my cousins, Bofur and probably even Bombur down here to glare at you and cheer Dori on,” he said, his eyes dancing with mirth. “I’d like to place a wager, if I may?”
Nori winked at him. “Better believe it, little star. The Company sticks together.”
“The Company are weird,” said a youngster after a pause.
“That too!” Nori laughed.
I can’t deny any of that. The Company stick together, and they’re also weird. It’s why they work so well together, they’re accepting of each other’s quirks.
“Disgraceful,” Hrera said absently. “I’ll wager you a silver clasp for one of your daggers, Thorin dear? On Gimli to win, of course.”
Another reason to love Hrera. Prim, proper, elegant, and willing to make wagers with her grandson on fights.
“Older than Thorin now.” He shook his head. “Ach, Mahal’s mighty balls, don’t get sentimental,” Dwalin growled to himself. “Orla’d tan yer hide if she saw you whining about yer good fortune.”
Aw, Dwalin’s already getting a bit sentimental towards Orla, he already cares what she thinks of him.
Dáin straightened on the throne, his manner stern. “We shall have no more Azanulbizars,” he said, and Thrór let out a gusty sigh of relief. “Balin, we need your wisdom here. You can’t leave me alone to deal with Thranduil and Glóin both.”
As good of a point as that is, Dáin, it doesn’t work to convince Balin. I wonder if it would have worked if Balin knew that, in the future, both Thranduil and Gloin would be in the mountain at the same time for an extended length of time?
“I risked my life for my King. I risked my life because he called,” Balin said, drawing himself up and speaking with quiet authority. “Now – now I understand why he wished for this, why he had no other choice. It is a horror than cannot be tolerated, and a shame upon us all.”
Dáin sighed. “I am not that King.”
Thorin’s hand tensed on Thrór’s arm. “I did not have the chance to be your King, Balin,” he muttered. “I was a warrior first; a soldier who led his people in exile. Statecraft, politics, treaties, compromise, diplomacy – I never practised any of these. Dáin knows more of Kingship than I ever did. Listen to him, not to the memory of my vain pride! Moria is a glittering trap, a fool’s hope. Do not do this!”
Balin, don’t be a fool. Listen to Dáin, he knows what he’s talking about. Yes, he’s not the king you followed, Thorin is, but hasn’t Dáin done well so far? Erebor has grown from the wreck it was post battle, relations with the other nearby kingdoms are going well…going after Moria now, so soon after the last battle, is a bad idea.
BIFURUHHHHHHH ❤
*Smooches you a lot and also clings to your leg like a happy 3yo* THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOUUUUUUU
Aw Yiss 