A Better Place - The Hobbit Fanfiction

Alternate Entry Thirty-Nine - A Question of Existence

The two elves who had carried Bofur from wherever Thranduil's reach extended also carried him up to his house, since Eydis and I weren't strong enough to do it and all the healthy men weren't home. I'd been keeping his house neat, his armchairs dusted, but there was no food in his house so once the elves—who I profusely thanked before they themselves went home—had settled him into his armchair I rushed back to my house to bring some, and a jug of mead to warm over the fire. He told me of his part in the war, the dark corners of it he had seen, and his fears for the future. I told him what Dain and I had been up to in the last several months.

And I told him about the dreams. I had told Elrond, so I might as well tell my very own da about the chill that sometimes crept through my back, the fingertips I felt touching my eyelids, the insides of my wrists, the pinches to the insides of my arms, the salt I would taste in my mouth.

The world has divided into fragile layers and I am beginning to see through the one I am on, I later wrote to him. It's a sheet of sugar over cider and it's dissolving.

I had been startled to hear from Elrond that I was not as unknown to Elrond as I'd thought.

Thranduil and I maintain a running conversation of the goings and doings of our realms, his first response had reminded me. Did you never think he might occasionally mention the young woman he chose to write into his family?

Bofur was just as unnerved by my dreams, which were not confined to my sleep, as I had feared he would be, but not as unnerved as I. "Dreams cannot truly touch us," he said at last once I'd finished telling him about the letter I'd written. "Unfortunately what parts of us they do have access to are easy to bruise." He'd agreed with me about choosing to write to Elrond, and choosing Elrond to write to. "I've never heard a questionable thing about that man," he said, fingers folded together on his stomach, fractured legs stretched out before him. "If anyone can help you, it is he."

For the time being, I moved back in with my da, to help him fetch and carry, and to go from his armchair to his bed since moving was still exceedingly painful, though he was now on the upswing of healing. Once he had healed I considered staying with him until Gimli returned, but the shape of his house no longer felt quite the same to me as it once had—we'd grown out of each other. I loved it still, and it would always be a home to me, but it was not my home anymore. So I spent a great deal of my evenings with Bofur after we had finished our respective days of work, then I went back to my own house to sleep. At least this way I knew he was eating well, and properly. He disagreed.

But Elrond's letters were not helping. I couldn't discern if he was being purposefully vague or he genuinely didn't know how to help me. It would be easier for us to discuss this rising nightmare if I could do it with him in person.

It was getting to him that was the problem.

Bofur had been home quite a long time—some six months, when at last I could bear the stunted conversations of Lord Elrond no longer. I was sitting with my knees up before Bofur's fire, staring blankly down into the flames, when I told him.

Bofur then stared blankly at me. "Mabyn, we're at war. Yes it's a war that's stayed mostly contained to the south, but don't for a minute think it won't come here at its first opportunity. It's too dangerous."

I spoke hollowly. "I've already spoken to Thranduil—I sent the letter today—and I know he has guards to spare. I didn't ask for them, but you know they'll come. I already know Dain won't let you come; he needs all those available who are strong enough to forge new armor and weaponry, for here as well as the battlefields, and he'll never let you go. He needs you here too much."