Disclaimer: The Hobbit, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J. R. R. Tolkien's estate, and Warner Brothers, New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and WingNut Films.

Author's Note: Fill for a prompt on the hobbit-kink meme.

Unaccounted For

I.

Stepping out of the Green Dragon, Bofur breathed in deeply. It was a fine morning. The toymaker felt an odd desire to linger and take in properly this place called the Shire. Whistling under his breath, he moved to his pony and patted its nose. Looking around at the rest of the company making final preparations, his brow furrowed a little. His gaze traveled over the group a second time carefully.

"Where is Master Baggins?" he asked Gloin who was near.

"Almost late," he snapped, antsy to be off. "How should I know?" he added with a huff.

Bofur's frown grew. He hoped the hobbit would show. An unusual, soft little creature he was. And the dwarf already had a few jests he wanted to play on the lad just to see that wide-eyed, startled expression of his.

II.

It was not until Bofur had finished his bowl of stew that he thought about Master Baggins, whom he had sent off with food for the young princes...and had yet to come back to eat his own dinner. Giving his empty bowl to Dwalin who was on wash duty along with Nori, he wondered whether to go and see what their burglar was up or just wait for him to return.

The matter was taken out of his hands a moment later as Fili burst out of the woods, eyes wide and panicked.

"Where's Master Baggins?" Bofur demanded, sensing something was terribly wrong.

"Trolls—"

Not waiting to hear anymore, the toymaker growled, grabbed his mattock, and took off. First to rescue the Halfling. Afterwards he was going to knock the two lads' heads together. They needed their burglar to make it to the mountain!

III.

The company had been in Rivendell for two days. Currently the dwarves were quiet, satisfied after enjoying a dinner that didn't consist of just greens and bread. Sitting cross-legged before the fire, Bofur worked on carving a small bit of wood. His motions did not stop when he noticed Balin enter the pavilion – alone.

"Where's Bilbo?" he questioned when the white-haired dwarf was passing him.

Balin tilted his head. "I overheard one of the elf maidens offer to show him...I forget what exactly now, when we'd finished our meeting with Lord Elrond."

"Ah!" Nodding his thanks, Bofur bent his head once more over his work, pushing away his slight disappointment.

He had gotten used to the small creature beside him before the campfire, exchanging stories or sitting in silence while Bofur carved and Bilbo watched in fascination. Yet apparently elves were much more interesting than noisy dwarves to the Halfling.

IV.

The early morning air was chilly as Thorin's Company marched single-file up the path. Even though they were out of the valley, the dwarves were quieter than usual, as though worried about somehow drawing unwanted attention to themselves.

Rubbing the lingering tiredness from his eyes, Bofur strained to look up and down the line. When Bombur raised an inquiring eyebrow at him after the third time his brother did this, the miner asked:

"Where's Bilbo?"

"He was at the back of the line last time I saw him. Kept looking back."

"He liked Rivendell very much," Bofur murmured. Glancing over Bombur's shoulder, he decided to drop back and check on the hobbit. Thorin's booming voice stopped him.

"Keep up, Master Baggins!"

Uncertainty swirling in his eyes, the toymaker focused on following Bifur.

V.

The terror that had paralyzed Bofur moments ago – suddenly face-to-face with the very real possibility of dying in the middle of the quest, of losing his family – was gone in an instant as he discovered his relatives and friends not crushed to death by stone as he had feared. Never had Bofur grinned so widely and brightly before; he almost burst out laughing with overwhelming joy as he looked around at his companions.

Abruptly his smile disappeared, realizing he was not spotting a creature barefoot and smaller than he. Frantically, his head whipped about, searching…

"Where's Bilbo? Where's the Halfling?" he yelled desperately.

A lump formed in his throat when no one knew. Then his heart all but stopped when he saw Bilbo dangling off the ledge.

VI.

"Fili, Kili...eleven, twelve. And Bombur, that's thirteen!" Gandalf counted the dwarves off as they stumbled down the hill, finally pausing to give their aching muscles a rest.

Leaning against a tree, Bofur wheezed, wincing in pain. His heart was pounding in his ears as he struggled to fill his lungs with oxygen.

Safe. We are all safe, the dwarf tried to calm himself.

"...Where's Bilbo?"

The toymaker's eyes flew open at the wizard's question. Bilbo… Forgetting his pain, he straightened up and looked at his companions. He was met with searching, confused looks that matched his own.

"Where is our hobbit?" Gandalf's voice rose, furious.

Bofur pressed his lips into a firm line, glancing back up the hill. He had watched out for the lad, offering a helping hand, making sure he was safe. But this time he had not. And Bilbo was back there, somewhere, in the dark tunnels. Alone, possibly hurt…or worse. The dwarf swallowed hard. They had to go back for Bilbo.

VII.

Reluctantly, dazed and exhausted, Bofur was guided by his cousin from the massive battlefield littered with bodies, protesting that he needed to keep searching. Bifur only grunted and tightened his arm around his cousin.

It was three days since the battle. All of Thorin's Company had been accounted for except little brave Bilbo Baggins. Those of the group not too gravely injured had been searching for the hobbit. Each day passed with no sign of him.

A burning lump formed in Bofur's throat and his eyes stung. Please don't let it end like this, he silently prayed as he and Bifur entered the camp. Not after Bilbo betrayed them because he loved them, wanted to keep them safe; and Thorin – all of them – turned away from him, casting him out of the mountain. For him to be out there somewhere, broken, cold, lifeless after following, defending the dwarves still to the bitter end… The thought made the toymaker feel ill.

"Where's Bofur? Have you seen him?"

The sound of his name broke the haze over the miner, and for the first time in days he clearly took in his surroundings as he and his cousin walked around the corner of Thorin's tent. He froze.

Outside the tent entrance a dirtied, pale, bandaged up Bilbo Baggins stood gazing anxiously up at Oin.

"Bilbo," it took three tries for the toymaker to form the word, his voice hoarse, frightened.

But the hobbit heard. Bilbo turned swiftly and met his disbelieving stare. For a moment he was still. Then slowly his face crumbled and he stumbled the few feet to Bofur, breaking down into heart-wrenching sobs.

Bofur's arms encircled the hobbit carefully, protectively, tightening as the smaller creature clung to him like a scared dwarfling. Breathing shakily, swaying between sadness and relief, Bofur buried his face in wild dark curls, tears streaming down his face. Now he believed this was not a dream.

Thank you, Mahal.

THE END