Sansûkh (Bagginshield & Gigolas)

Chapter Six

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 neighbors 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!

Erebor underwent several ferocious winters. The restorations slowed to a halt as Dáin fed all their efforts into keeping the Mountain supplied and warm. Dori redirected his tireless Guild campaign into organizing foraging and hunting schedules, and Bombur spent hour after hour in the marketplace, ladling out bowls of soup and thick hunks of bread to all and sundry. Óin, poor fellow, threw up his hands in disgust at the new onslaught of illnesses and threatened to retire. Nori's leg gave him a great deal of trouble in the biting cold, and he complained vociferously to any who would listen.

Gimli was immensely proud when his beard finally reached a respectable length. He kept it tied into two workmanlike braids; his thick moustache plaited into it. His hair he kept back in a queue at most times, preferring not to fuss with it, though on special occasions he brought out the golden barrel-clasps his grandfather had made.

Seven years after the final departure from Ered Luin, Bifur woke up in the Halls of Mahal.

Thorin waited outside the welcoming sepulchre, Fíli and Kíli by his side. The miner had been steadily declining ever since the Battle of Five Armies, and it was remarkable that he had lasted so long. A testament to Dwarven durability, Thorin supposed.

It had been hard to watch. Towards the end, Bifur had been barely present, drifting away to some distant place where no-one, not even his cousins, could reach him. His words had disappeared, as had his iglishmêk. He placidly followed where he was guided, and he had to be helped in everything, in dressing, in feeding, in washing.

Yes, it had been painful to watch.

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?

Eventually the door opened and Fíli looked up. "He's here!" he said, gripping onto Thorin's hand.

"Shhh!" Kíli said, and Thorin shot them both a look.

"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."