When the Dwarf Came A-Visiting ~Míriel

Chapter 17 ~All’s Well that Ends Better

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            The door slammed behind Bilbo as he ran outside.  Bifur, Bofur, and I simply stood there and watched.

            “He always was an excitable little fellow,” Bifur (or was it Bofur?) remarked.

            “How much longer until he realizes he’s outside?” Bofur (or was it Bifur?) asked.

            His question was answered when the front door slowly opened, and Bilbo walked back in, looking slightly calmer.

            “Hullo,” Bilbo said; “and before either of you ask, no, there is nothing wrong.  And no, there is no more room in my house for anymore dwarves.”

            Bifur shook his head.  “But, dear Bilbo—”

            “No!” he cried, his voice going high, and his eye had resumed that funny twitchy movement.  “There is no room!  No room, I tell you!”

            “But—” Bofur began, but then was cut off by a sneeze from Bifur.

            “No!” Bilbo said shrilly.  “No more sick dwarves!”

            “But—”

            Bilbo grabbed his ears.  “No!  I can’t take it anymore, I tell you!  I’ve had enough!  Take your brother, or cousin, or whatever he is to you!  Take his snoring and his excessive use of handkerchiefs!  Take his use of far too many beds and sheets!  Take his love of food causing me to go to the market and return with my house in an uproar!  Just, please, go, and take him with you!”  Bilbo had now assumed a position on his knees, hands clasped toward Bifur and Bofur.  Yes, he was, for all practical purposes, begging.

            “Bilbo,” Bifur said.  “We have come to fetch Bofur.”

            Bilbo’s face lit up.  “You have?”

            “Yes.  Where is he?”

            “This way!  Come, come quickly!”  Bilbo hurried them into the other room, where they were met with the sight of Bombur lying on three hobbit-sized beds and surrounded by handkerchiefs.

            Bombur turned to us as we came in.  “Ah, Bofur, my broder.  You haf come to see me thy?”

            “He believes he’s dying from a cold,” I explained.

            Bofur looked at Bilbo quizzically.  “My nephew,” Bilbo said; then muttered, “Whatever possessed me to take him in, I will never know.”

            Bifur reached over and tugged on Bombur’s arm.  “Up, Bombur.  We’ve come to take you home.”

            Bombur moaned. 

            Bofur frowned.  “Bombur, get up.  We are not carrying you again.”

            To my surprise, Bombur complied.

            “Dank you, Bilbo,” he said; “You haf been a most excellent host.”

            Bilbo nodded.  “It was my pleasure,” he said, muttering; “to have you leave.”

            “What’s all this?”

            We turned to see Merry and Frodo standing there, handkerchiefs in hand.

            “Bombur is leaving!” Bilbo said.  (Was that a note of song that I detected in his voice?)

            “Leaving!” Merry said.  “That means I get my bed back!”

            Frodo elbowed him.  “You shall be missed, Bombur.” he said politely.  Merry mumbled something akin to that.

            Bombur bowed.  (At least I think that it was bowing.  It all depends on if you consider bowing only bowing your head and shoulders, as it was impossible for Bombur to bend any further due to his girth.)

            Bilbo rushed into the kitchen and returned moments later carrying three sacks of food.  “Here, for your journey home,” he said.  “Take it, take it.”

            The three dwarves accepted the sacks somewhat quizzically. 

            “It’s food!” Bilbo said.  “For your journey.”

            Understanding came over the face of the dwarves.  “Ah.” They said, peeking inside the sacks.

            Bombur sniffled loudly.  “Bilbo, there aren’t any hankies in here.”

            Bilbo sighed loudly.  “Bombur, I would gladly give you some,” he said through clenched teeth, “but someone has used all of them.”

            “Well, how rude of some people!” Bombur said angrily.

            As much as I want to believe that he tried to not do it, Bilbo rolled his eyes. 

            Bifur cleared his throat.  “Well, Bombur, we must be off.” He turned and bowed to Bilbo; and Bofur followed suit. 

            Bombur winked at me.  “Remember, Master Pippin, the true story of what happened in the mountains.”

            I nodded and smiled.  “I will,” I promised.

            “Master Merry, never fling doors open.”  (Was that a growl I heard from Merry?)

            “And Master Frodo, never listen to your cousins.”

            “Believe me, I won’t,” Frodo muttered.

            Bombur laughed, bowed to Bilbo, and followed his cousin and brother out the door.

            Then they were gone.

            All was silent for a moment.  Then it was broken by Bilbo...was he cheering?  He was!  (Very loudly, might I add.)

            Bilbo did a little jig in the hall and ran into the front room.  “Let’s move the beds back, lads!” he called joyfully.

            “But Bilbo, we’re sick!” Merry said weakly.

            “I don’t care!  If you want beds to sleep in tonight, help me move them back!”

            Merry and I glanced at each other; then ran to help Bilbo.

            Within a couple of hours, everything was back in place.  You never would have known that a dwarf had been there, except for the food stains on Bilbo’s beautiful sheets.  Bilbo was devastated about the untimely demise of his other sheets, for which I apologized profusely. 

            “That’s all right, lad,” he had sighed.  “We all went a bit crazy, I suspect.”

            There was another sign that the dwarf had been there: the food that was flowing out of the pantries.

            “Well, we won’t need to go to the market for a while, will we now?” Bilbo had said when Frodo pointed it out to him.

            Bag End had now returned to its once-peaceful state.  Merry and Frodo were in their respective rooms, resting from the hard manual labor they had done these past few days.  (Cough)  I was in the front room, looking sadly about it.  As trying as it may have been to have Bombur here, his entertaining presence would be missed.  By myself, anyway.

            Bilbo walked in, carrying a hot cup of tea.  He sank down into his favorite chair and closed his eyes.  All was right in his world.

            Suddenly, our state of bliss was interrupted by a knock at the door.  Bilbo sat up, looked about in confusion, and sighed.

            “Who could it be?” he grumbled.

            Walking up to the door, he didn’t open it, but simply yelled through it.  “Who is it?”

            “Bilbo!  It is I, Gandalf!  I do say, let me in.”

            Bilbo studied the door for a moment.  Then, to my shock he turned around and walked back to his chair.

            “Don’t answer it, Pip,” he said.  “He’ll go away.”

            I shrugged and followed Bilbo back into the other room.

            Bilbo turned out to be right: Gandalf did go away.  I never met him either, until two years later at the infamous party that Bilbo threw.

            Throughout all my life, no matter what happened, I never forgot Bombur’s visit.  Many a time on the quest, Gimli would glare at me while I burst into laughter.  He never dreamed that when we were in Rivendell, while he was primly walking through the doors; I was remembering another dwarf who got stuck in the doors of Bag End.  Nor did Gimli dream that during those nights when I was on watch, I was contemplating various ways of stopping him from snoring.

            No, he never knew of those thoughts.  I kept them to myself, until now.

            And that, my friend, is the story of the first time I saw a dwarf.  Threes dwarves, actually: Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur.  

            Also, a word of warning to you: unless you have a stout heart, large beds, and plenty of food, never let a dwarf come visit.  Bilbo did, and the trauma of it persuaded him to pass over the sea, to Valinor, where all traumas of dwarves visiting were cured.

            I will never forget Bilbo or Bombur.  And, hopefully, neither will you.

The End

~Thain Peregrin the First

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Author’s Notes: Yes, the story is complete!  Hooray!