The wind had brought Bofur to Bag End, wind that stank less of fire and ruin and calamity the more steps he took away from Erebor. The wind pushed at his back, twisted at his braids until it placed him at a door marked with a dwarvish rune.
He had not been entirely sure what to expect for his first meeting with Bilbo since the lake, the fire, the battle, the–well. Since everything awful. He wasn’t sure what to look forward to at Bag End, but the figure that answered the door made Bofur’s heart sink.