Chapter Text
The Halls of Mandos
Fourth Age 39
Shamukh! Lanz galikh, Námo. Is it evening here? These halls seem to exist in a perpetual twilight. I confess that I have not made any effort to track time since my summoning here. I believe I might grow depressed if I let myself mark its passage while I wait. Not from the decor, of course. Your wife's tapestries are exquisite. She's captured Glorfindel's knifelike cheekbones perfectly in that one, there.
Why do I tarry here? Aside from one very personal matter I wish to attend to, there are a few others that I wish to set you straight on --
Yes, I understand you have already spoken with several others about these matters. I am not here to dispute any facts that they have related. I only wish to distill my part in their tales, as well as fill the gaps in their accounts. I suppose I am primarily here on account of the ache in my soul, my faë, if you will, that I am not able to remedy on my own. Indeed, I have shed more tears with your sister Nienna than I can count. Ulmo could form a river from my tears.
Thank you for agreeing to listen to my appeal. I have heard you know everything that has been and is yet to come, but it's important to me that I not leave anything relevant out. So, I shall begin at my beginning.
I have been known by a few different names in my lifetime, but for now you need only know me as Bofur. I was born in exile in Dunland, grew up in the Blue Mountains, and with my older cousin Bifur and younger brother Bombur set out for the Lonely Mountain in the company of Thorin Oakenshield in the spring of 2941. Being members of the Broadbeam clan, we three were the only members of Thorin's company (aside from Bilbo and Gandalf of course) not of Durin's line.
I'm sorry if it seems I'm rambling a bit; I assure you all of this is vital. Our ancestors dwelt for centuries with Durin's folk in Khazad-dum, eventually migrating to the Lonely Mountain with them. Our parents followed Thrain into exile after Smaug set the mountain aflame. Broadbeams are known for our brawniness, being broader of chest and thicker of limb than the average dwarf, and the three of us meant to serve as an honor guard for Thorin and his nephews. Thought we had not seen battle, our long years of toil in various mines and smithies ensured we could swing axes and hammers as hard as any warrior.
We set out with Thorin for a number of personal reasons, not just to reclaim the Kingdom under the Mountain -- though our dreams all hinged on the success of that main goal. I mainly sought a fresh start in a land far from that of my youth, where I might finally grow into the version of myself that I wished to be. I believe that I eventually succeeded, though nothing played out the way I envisioned. There have been many points along the way where hope failed me, and I regretted my path with a bitterness I still recall at times.
To be perfectly candid, if Mahal had not assured me that the chambers he has set aside are acutely attuned to my peculiar needs, then I would find myself sinking into deepest despair. I admit that some of my hurt may be assuaged by reuniting with my lost friends and family members there. But the tear in my fëa gapes open, and will only widen if I leave your domain before it has been mended.
I find myself feeling the need to explain to you a bit more of my background, so that you may understand where my anguish originated before I delve into the main part of my tale. I entered my 148th year just before we set out for the Lonely Mountain. Not old for a dwarf, but not young, either. I am sure you will have heard that many dwarves never marry, having never taken an interest in romantic love or physical union. Of the thirteen dwarves in Thorin's company only Gloin had married before we set out. Fili and Kili had not yet reached marrying age. The rest of us were a bunch of entrenched bachelors.
In my case, it wasn't for a lack of interest. While most dwarves may tell you that they experience attraction once or twice in their lives before settling down, I began noticing dwarrow lasses during my 20s. It took a few conversations with Bifur, his sister Bimbur, and Bombur on the subject for me to realize that I was different from most dwarves.
I alarmed my parents when they asked me at age 80 whether I had identified a young lady who I might like to court, and I rattled off a list seven names long. I had already played around with a few of them before developing any interest in courting or marriage. Eventually I settled on lovely Fala. We courted for over a year (doing more than playing around in that time) before realizing that we weren't compatible for the long term. She had ambitions and -- at the time -- I did not. She later married a nice enough fellow named Dror and they lived happily for many years. Eventually, the same grief that cast its pall over my family shadowed hers as well.
After Fala, nearly a decade passed before I made another attempt at courtship. I hadn't previously considered Drifa, a lass ten years my junior. I was completely smitten upon meeting her again after she'd lived away in Dunland for a few years. I asked for her hand following a whirlwind summer, but she said she wasn't ready. Not a month later, she wed a Dunlander named Lydik. Uttering his name inflames my anger all over again, and makes me crave the cool hand of the love that is lost to me all the more. Drifa's treachery would turn out to be a blessing in disguise, but I am getting ahead of myself.
For the next fifty or so years, I made no more attempts at love. Physical comfort, well, that I did not swear off. I confess to not being overly fussy during this time; turning my attentions to humans and even the occasional hobbit. I wasn't completely unscrupulous, as I made clear I wasn't interested in a relationship with any of them and took precautions to avoid unwanted children.
I was happy enough with my life; until I wasn't. My parents grew old and passed on within a few months of each other. In my grief, I began questioning my life and rethinking how I wanted to spend the last century or so I had left to me.
While it might seem that I am sharing entirely too much of the wrong type of information to begin this story, I assure you that it's all necessary for you to understand my state of being when our journey began in the spring of 2941. Here I was, 148 years old, with nothing to lose and everything to gain from a change of scenery. By this point in my life I honestly wouldn't have much cared if I died, so long as I did it on my own terms. And if I survived, then I'd have the chance to help shape a kingdom and make a new life. Thorin had kin in the Iron Hills, and I thought I might find someone to love amongst them. Even if I didn't find love, still I would be better off than when I started.
This is, ultimately, a love story, though that love is cut off from me now. That is the personal matter that I have lingered here to speak to you about. I didn't find love on the Lonely Mountain, or in the Iron Hills, you see. I found it long before, in Rivendell.