[ @iduzbad answered the call]
Ever since their arrival and subsequent re-habitation of the Lonely Mountain, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had, upon request of their king, committed themselves in small groups to a tireless scouring of all halls, vaults and treasuries in an attempt to uncover the prized Arkenstone. Whilst there was work to be done on the Mountain itself to keep it secure from those outside, there were never fewer than two Dwarves still making their way through mountains of jewels. Exhaustive though these searches were, no soul had as of yet found the prized Arkenstone. Worse yet, every fruitless shift concluded with an often-brief report to the king.
This time the rotation for imparting the news had fallen to Bofur, and if rumour amongst the Company was to be believed it was not likely to be taken well. Every opportunity to procrastinate and distract himself was snatched with gleeful abandon on his way to the throne room, the miner often pausing for meandering conversation or offering his assistance with menial tasks. He hated himself for every wasted second. This was Thorin Oakenshield, the Dwarf he had sworn loyalty to; a king - his king - whom he would die for. He was not some tyrannical figurehead to simply be feared and avoided, he was a friend. He was kin.
And yet..it felt as though Erebor had exerted some unseen influence upon Thorin; altered him to such an extent that even the spacious confines of the Mountain itself had come to feel oppressive and heavy. Good humour had fallen by the wayside over the hours and spirits had wavered beyond the jolly miner’s ability to repair. It wounded him to see his kin so uneasy - or worse yet their false affectations of joviality - in such situations where he felt he should have been able to help. There was little he could do but weather the coming storms with them and help, in his own small ways, to try and bolster their moods where possible.
Now at the entrance to the vast throne room, Bofur could find no excuse nor means to hesitate any longer. Sturdy boots, which had seen him overcome all manner of obstacle since departing the Blue Mountains, carried him down the walkway with all apparent ease towards the figure seated on the throne. Beneath the bizarre hat his expression remained perfectly amiable and open, though there was something in his eyes which betrayed the underlying concern he held for Thorin. The more he observed of the king, the more he had heard of late, the more he could not help but recall their burglar’s earliest words when first he had reached Erebor:
“It’s this place. I think a sickness lies on it”. Now he understood.
“Evening Thorin,” Bofur chirped when he was within distance, unconsciously mindful not to let himself overstep the boundaries he had set - physically at least. His mouth, as usual, was running faster than his thoughts. “Glóin told me t’come see you about the Arkenstone. Well, he didn’t order me as such, only he’s takin’ on the next watch and it made sense to keep you informed seeing as everyone else has. Seems we’re still lookin’ for it but there’s a good chance we’ll find it soon, so I’d not worry too much about it.” A pause. A breath. “Is everything alright?”