Once Upon A Contract

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 3: 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕸𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖗 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖊

When asked by his crew mates why he had joined the company, Bofur had loudly exclaimed about free meals and free beer.

He wasn't sure what it meant when his mates, once able to sing a tune crude and crass along to the drumming beat of their pickaxes and hammers, only pursed their lips and patted him on the shoulder with nary a word. Bofur had been in this crew since he had struck lucky in an apprenticeship.

Mining was not his craft, wasn't what he would have chosen to do with his life, but with an uncle struck near dumb due to an axe to the head (he had been protecting the late prince Frerin, laddie. Prince Thorin Oakenshield ordered the best care for him) during the battle of Azanulbizar and no money to keep up the medicines needed for his Uncle who probably would have become something more akin to a father if it hadn't been for that bloody axe, Bofur hadn't had a choice.

His uncle couldn't work. Oh, Bifur could manage well enough as a guard but the real money came from the caravans and with that axe in the head and the loss of common on his tongue (once Bifur had been a teacher. He had been a wonderful teacher, able to spin tales and teach both common, Khuzdul, and iglishmek. At one point, Bifur could read and write all three!) Bifur could not take the posts offered by the caravans.

Not that the coin from working the guard rotations hadn't helped, but it wasn't enough. Wasn't nearly enough.

Bofur, old enough to barely remember his amad and adad, old enough to know Bifur had stepped in before he and Bombur were turned out with nothing but the clothes on their backs, knew he had to step up. Bombur was young, just discovering his craft and had enough talent to actually do something with it.

Had enough talent to stretch the reserves Bofur had half flinched and half paid for, from the measly three days Bifur had taught him before Azanulbizar, to a week. Bombur had taken the thin soups and half risen breads and made what had felt like feasts. He had done what Bofur would never manage to do and may Mahal disregard him in the forge, Bombur could be more then a washed-up soldier and a broken miner without a craft. He could be so much more.

Bombur was made for the kitchens. Bofur could handle the few years it took to put Bombur through his apprenticeship. He could do it. He could put aside his own craft. He could slog through the mines and pull the extra hours needed to maintain a roof over their heads, food on the table, and tonics beside Bifur's bed. He could do it.

So, he did.

Bofur marched out to the mines and begged until someone listened. He wasn't yet of age, but that didn't matter. It was only a decade or so off, not worth mentioning to the Forman and Bofur was desperate. This wasn't his craft but he needed the money. He needed it.

Eventually the Forman had shook his head and dropped a contract in front of him. Bofur, with tears in his eyes signed shakily. (It was better, his mind hissed at him, then what his brother had to do. Bofur had been old enough to learn to sign his name under Bifur's tutelage. Bombur had to sign with an X.) The Forman had barely batted an eye, only dropped a too big hat onto Bofur's head and ordered him to the shafts.

But five years turned into ten, turned into fifteen, turned into twenty. And, well, mining wasn't Bofur's craft but by that point, it might as well have been.

Bombur's apprenticeship had gone well, Bifur was as stable as he was ever going to be, and Bofur was long past the age of apprenticeship.

(Bofur's ribs ached on the days Bifur couldn't tell dwarrow from goblin or orc. Bombur would never raise a hand to the dwarf that had been the only father he had ever known. And, while Bofur hadn't liked it either, somedays it wasn't that hard to shout a battle cry back. Some days the mines were too dark and the shifts too long and the anger too much, and the fight was just right.)