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Bofur whistled a merry tune he’d picked up in the Shire as the ran one of Dori’s many wooden combs through his brown hair. It was nice here in Rivendell, he decided, even if he felt like a right pauper amongst all the finery and frillery. His hat and jacket and shirt were draped over a railing, drying in the sunshine. Stretching back in the sun himself, Bofur decided to let his hair dry a bit more before trying to braid it or else it’d be damp the rest of the day. After all, there was no rush here in Rivendell.
Just as his eyes were starting to drift closed, a polite voice said, “Master Dwarf?”
Bofur opened his eyes and smiled up at the purple-clothed elf standing above. What was the polite fellow’s name? “Yes, Master Elf?”
The elf smiled and said, “I was wondering if you needed anything.”
“Oh no, sir. I’m quite content.” Bofur sat up and stretched his arms, flexing and twisting his back contentedly. “I’m not in the way here, am I?”
“Well, we normally do our washing in the washing rooms, but you’re in no one’s way. Perhaps, I could bring you a shirt, while yours dries if you like.”
And if Bofur’s eyes weren’t deceiving him, he’d swear two spots of color appeared high on the elf’s cheeks. “No, laddie,” said Bofur with a grin. “I think I’d be swimmin’ in one of yer elvish shirts.”
The elf’s polite smile grew into an honest one. “Now, it might be a bit long on you, but I think it’d fit across your chest well enough.”
Bofur cocked his head and gave the elf a critical look over, considering his form. Now the elf was a bit flushed to be sure. “You might just be right there, Master Elf. You elvish folks are quite slim for being so tall. Just like trees, you are.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, the elf shrugged and said, “If I am a tree, then what are you, Master Dwarf?”
“Oh, we dwarves are always boulders, didn’t ya know?”
The elf nodded sagely and asked, “Then what are hobbits?”
“Hobbit are rabbits, of course.”
A startled laugh burst out of the elf. Bofur joined him. “Rabbits! Dear me, don’t let Master Baggins hear you say that. I’m afraid he’d be most furious with you.”
“You’re right. Our dear hobbit would have my beard if he heard me say that.”
“Now that would be a shame,” the elf said with a smile.
And then it was Bofur’s turn to blush.
“Let me fetch you a shirt,” the elf said, once again all politeness.
“You’re most kind, Master…?”
“Lindir,” replied the elf.
“And I’m Bofur,” he said, jumping to his feet and bowing, minding his own manners well.
“I shall return in a moment,” said Lindir, and he did, bringing a nice shirt, before leaving him to his nap in the sun. The shirt was as soft as a dream against Bofur’s skin and if he didn’t return it after his clothes dried, well, Lindir said nothing about it.
After that dreadful incident in the library with the twin brats and the fighting, Bofur felt most ashamed of himself. He had gotten in the pleasant habit of wandering around Rivendell, greeting any elves he passed. (And if it seemed like he was greeting Lindir more than the others, well that wasn’t so strange, because Lindir was in charge of them after all.) But now, he felt too embarrassed to do so. For even if the fight hadn’t been his fault, he hadn’t done much to stop it after all.
So the next time he dared to venture out of their quarters, Bofur had decided to avoid the elf. His plan was going well until he ran right into Lindir as the both came around the same corner.
“Hello, Bofur,” said Lindir with a polite smile.
Bofur missed his sincere one. “Hello, Lindir. On some mission of Elrond’s?”
“Not at the moment,” replied the elf, turning around to walk in the same direction as Bofur. “Do you need anything?”
Bofur didn’t need anything, but he felt compelled to say, “I’m sorry for my behavior earlier. I should have stopped the dwarves from fighting.”
Lindir snorted. Bofur stumbled a step in shock before catching up with the elf. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you, Bofur. I doubt the Valar themselves could have stopped a fight once Elladan and Elrohir start their teasing. Those two were the bane of my existence while they were young elves. Honestly, most days they still are, when they’re not away on their adventures causing trouble for everyone else they meet.”
Bofur murmured, “I was surprised to find that they belong to Elrond.”
“Is that not the truth? They were always naughty children, but they behaved for their mother and father. However after their mother was slain, they went absolutely savage and stayed many years in the wild hunting orcs and all manner of evil creatures. When they came home, they had to relearn how to live in polite society. If you can believe it, they’re actually doing much better now.”
Bofur nodded; that explained a lot.
“That’s not an excuse though, for they can behave when they chose too. They have always been as docile as kittens with their little sister, the Lady Arwen, even now when she’s all grown up. Lord Elrond has them busy now, patrolling our borders until your Company leaves. There will be no more trouble from them, while you’re here.”
“That’s good to know,” said Bofur with a sigh of relief.
“Now,” said Lindir clasping his hands together. “I understand from your brother that you are a toymaker.”
“That’s true,” replied Bofur, slightly stunned that Lindir had not only gotten his normally shy brother to talk about him, but had talked about him.
“We only have a few elf children in Imladris at the moment. I thought it would be a treat for them to meet you, if you don’t mind an unending stream of curious questions.”
A huge grin split Bofur’s face. “Nothing would give me more delight.”
Lindir smiled broadly back, “Good. This way then.”
For the next several hours (and again several times over the next few days), Bofur entertained the young elves and Lindir with tricks and toys and stories and songs. They all had a most delightful time.
“I was afraid little Déorwyn was going to pull your back the way she kept climbing all over you.”
Bofur rolled his stiff shoulders. “She needed a pony ride,” he explained, “who was I to refuse?” He had discovered that it was impossible to refuse anything those doll-sized, bright-eyed, pointy-eared, wee darlings demanded.
“She didn’t need ten,” chided Lindir. “Come along; to the healers with you. I doubt Master Óin has a muscle-relaxing salve as good as ours.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Bofur said, following along.
“Oh, I doubt he’ll mind; he’s been swapping medical techniques and recipes with the healers all week. I’ll give him a tin to take along for the rest of your journey.”
“It’s on your head then,” Bofur said with a laugh, following the elf to the infirmary. When they arrived, no one was present, but Lindir confidently opened a cupboard and pulled out a jar of pale, greenish ointment. Deftly, he unscrewed the lid and scooped out a small amount with a small wooden spoon. He held it to Bofur for inspection.
Dubiously, Bofur took a sniff and wrinkled his nose. “Smells like pine pitch.”
“Nice, is it not?” replied Lindir. Bofur grunted uncertainly. “Well, take off your shirt then.”
Bofur paused, but then he would have shrugged, but remembered just in time how much that would hurt. So he carefully pulled off his shirt instead. Lindir handed him the spoon. Bofur stuck his finger in it slowly.
Lindir sighed. “Oh, give it to me. Estë knows, I’ve done this for my Lord Elrond often enough after he’s been on a horse too long.”
Bofur tried to squash unreasonable feelings of something that definitely wasn’t jealousy, as Lindir’s cool hands rubbed the salve into his sore back. “Do you have to do this often?”
Lindir said, “Not very often.” He paused, and Bofur could swear that he could hear a smile in his voice. “Of course, my Lord Elrond is not nearly as hairy as you.” When Bofur bristled, Lindir did indeed laugh. “Oh my friend, you know I am in jest! Now, don’t tense up or this won’t work. Hold still.”
Bofur relaxed into Lindir’s hands that had grown warm. The salve felt wonderful as it was absorbed into his skin. Already he could feel the tenseness leaving his body. Lindir kept at it long enough for Bofur’s eyes to start drifting closed.
Then all too soon the elf’s hands left his back. Bofur sighed as Lindir stood and wiped his hands off on a clean towel. “There, the salve is all rubbed in - you can put your shirt back on.” Lindir watched Bofur as he did so, surely to make sure that Bofur felt no more lingering stiffness, which he did not; Lindir had done a wonderful job.
Together they left the infirmary, and Lindir cautioned him, “Now, no more pony rides for Déorwyn, no matter how much she begs.” Bofur groaned in mock despair. “I mean it!”
Later while the Company was climbing through the mountain pass, Bofur spared one last look at Rivendell below. “I don’t mind if I see a few of those elf fellows again someday,” he said to Bifur who was munching on some green plant-thing.
He ignored Bombur's shocked gasp, and hiked his pack up higher on his back. It was full of travel food and supplies for their journey and one soft shirt shirt.
When the Company found themselves in a cave, Bofur asked Óin for some of that elvish salve for his stiff back. Óin complied, hastily smearing it over the dwarf’s back and shoulders.
“Don’t you need to rub it in, Óin?” Bofur asked.
“What’s that?”
Bofur repeated his question, louder. “No need, laddie. The elves said it would soak in on its own - just give it a minute or two before you put your shirt back on.”
Óin shook his head as Bofur walked off and sat down on his bedroll by his family. He hoped the lad didn’t have a fever, but surely that glow on his cheeks was just from sitting near the fire.