Awwwww, Bomris and Kifur!

(Bomfris, Bombur and Alris’ daughter, is named to honour both Bofur and her – her great-aunt, whom she never met.)

A bit of background on Bomris, first. She’s a small, thin Dwarrowdam with dark skin , black hair and rough hands. She is weary, resigned and beaten-down from her constant responsibilities, her anxiousness and worry. She is softly-spoken and tends to be nervous in company. She often goes without, so that her brother might eat.

Well, Bomris basically raised her younger brother, Bomfur (Bombur and Bofur’s dad). Their parents were lost in a cave-in – common enough in Ered Luin, where the Mountains had been so tumultuously and dramatically altered, half of them sunken and the tunnels waterlogged, treacherous and dangerous.

They were both miners, poor as the fleas on a church mouse. And as poor people who work in groups often do, it was usual to share a beer or two together after such backbreaking, dangerous work. Bomfur had a quiet, friendly drinking pal, who hung out at the taverns (such as good ole Borin’s in Ered Luin!) with the rest of that rather more rowdy bunch. His name was Kifur, and he liked to whistle.

It was in a tavern that Bomfur met the jolly, wisecracking Genna, and began their silly one-upmanship jokes competition. Genna could easily drink any of the others under the table (and then some!!!) and so one day, Bomris was sent for, to come and collect her utterly utterly soused brother. 

That little Dwarrowdam couldn’t quite carry her (much larger!) younger brother, who was slurring and beaming at Genna and was of no use at all. Many of the others thought it hilarious, and slapped their hands on their thighs and roared with laughter at poor introverted Bomris. 

But Kifur stepped forward and slung Bomfur’s arm around him, and hauled him up. “Which way?” he said, straight to Bomris. 

She gave him a look full of gratitude, and showed him the way back to their bare little house. After Kifur had poured the sodden (and singing) Bomfur into his bed, he turned to Bomris and said, “is there anything else I can do for you?”

She shook her head.

He spotted her pick, lying by the door. “That handle’s loose,” he said. “Maybe I could fix that for you?”

She looked up, and a tiny smile crossed her face. “That would be nice.”

(By the next week, Bomris had a new pick-handle. And she had learned to listen for a lilting whistle, coming up her street.)