A/N: So many tiny dwarves, so many naaamess… Apparently movie-verse Bombur has about a 12-14 kids, and Bofur would be the best uncle EVER! So this happened. :) I almost named them the Bountiful Bunch, but eh, that reminded me of the Brady Bunch, so I went with Brood. Like a bunch of fierce little chickens! ^_~ Twelve of the kids appear in this little ficlet; it's set quite a few years before the events of The Hobbit take place. :) Khuzdul is in italics (sorry, I don't have time to learn it right nooow, shame on meee! *hides from Bifur*)!

The Bountiful Brood

Bofur shifted his heavy mattock on his shoulder as he trudged toward home, weary feet dragging. It had been a long day in the mines. They had spent most of their time reinforcing the support beams in a tunnel that had been damaged during a recent flood, and it had been backbreaking work. Not to mention wet. He would be quite happy to go collect Bifur from his workshop at Bombur's home and head for a good night at the pub. Seeing the bottom of at least three mugs of autumn ale would heal all of his wretched, good-for-naught muscles.

"Uncle Bofur! Uncle Bofur!"

"Unclebofurunclebofur!"

"Nuncle Booooo!"

Well, there was a welcome surprise. He turned and was able to drop his mattock just in time to catch the blur of orange hair and green dress that leapt into his arm. One of his nieces, Ninna, threw her pudgy arms around his neck and smacked a slobbery kiss on his cheek. Her wild, untamable hair was getting in his eyes and brushing his nose, and he laughed as he reached up and pushed the frizzy, fiery locks back.

"I bet there's a pretty girl under here somewhere," he teased, shifting her to his hip as she giggled. When he could finally see her face, he grinned at her. "Ah, look how wrong I was, it's a gorgeous girl!"

"Nuncle Bo, you silly," she said as she leaned her head on his shoulder and looked up at him with soft blue eyes.

"Hey, hey!" Someone tugged hard on his clothes, and he looked down to see meaty little Jory at his hip, his chubby fingers wrapped around the dirty hem of his jacket. The boy's blond hair was braided neatly into a tight rope and wrapped around his head once so that it resembled a crown. His round face, barely any whiskers on his chin, was imperious as he put his fists on his hips. "Mum says you're to come to dinner." He waggled his finger at Bofur. "And she won't be having no for an answer or she'll get your beard!"

Bofur smirked. "Well, that don't leave me much choice, now does it?"

On his other side, Nola twirled, her hands in the air, skirts flaring out along with her multitude of strawberry blond braids. She was ever proud of her clothes, that one, probably because she stitched them all herself with only a little help from her mother. Impressive for such a little thing, though her color choices were, er, most interesting. Right now, she was dressed in blinding shades of yellow and green that made her look like an overgrown dandelion.

"She also said," Nola said then took a breath and whirled back the other way, "She also said that if you tried to not come, we could bother you as much as we want 'til you came." She whipped around again to face him and smiled at him as she took her skirt in her hands and swished it back and forth. "Do you like my new skirt, Uncle Bofur?"

"It's wonderful, Nola," Bofur said with a chuckle, though he was thinking of the consequences of not coming to dinner more than he was the dress.

Bombur's wife, Nos, was not a woman to be crossed. Forceful and terrifying when wielding any weapon of the kitchen as well as her set of battle daggers, Nos truly would cut off his beard if he ignored her invitation to dinner. Not to mention a 'no' would make these three very unhappy, and he didn't want them to start bawling here in the hallway. 'Sides, his sister-in-law was a renowned cook. All you had to do was take a look at his brother's girth to properly estimate the sublime culinary skills that Nos possessed in her more than capable hands. Bombur had always been a hefty lad, but after he married Nos, he had blown up like a bullfrog on a plentiful summer's night. A lovable, carrot-topped bullfrog, but still.

On top of all that, he liked spending time with the family more than he liked his ale.

"So you'll come?" Jory asked, tugging his jacket again.

"Aye, I'll come," he said which caused the three of them to cheer. Ninna tugged on one of his plaits in her excitement, and Bofur tilted his head in that direction as he reached over to extract his hair from her grip. Before the night was over, he doubted he would even have his simple braids anymore. His hair was far too enticing to small hands that were obsessed with learning and practicing braids and plaits. "But only if you don't pull my hair out of my head, you snipe!" He tickled her side until she finally let go.

"I'll get this!" Jory exclaimed before he puffed out his chest and reached down for Bofur's mattock. He grabbed the handle and lifted it. Or tried to. His eyes nearly bugged right out of his poor little head as he picked up the handle. "Got…it…"

Bofur shared a look with Ninna, who then glared down at Jory with infantile disdain.

"You dumb."

"Shut it, Nin," Jory growled. He started pulling the mattock behind him, grunting each time it shifted a few inches forward.

"Not being able to pick up a weapon isn't a sign of low intelligence, Ninny," Bofur told the little one as he lifted her up and onto his shoulders. She promptly grabbed the wings of his hat and half-wrapped herself around his head, her chin resting on the top of his hat. "Now, trying to carry something that's 'bout as heavy as yourself…"

"Means you are stupid," Nola finished in an airy tone.

Bofur rolled his eyes. "Nola…"

"You're stupid, Nola!" Jory huffed back. "Stupid sisters."

Nola ignored him and gave an innocent smile to her uncle as she swished around to Bofur's side and tucked her hand into his gloved one, not seeming to care that he was filthy and she was clean and prim. Bofur ran his thumb over the back of her hand and reached down with his other hand to take hold of his mattock near its heavy metal head.

At the other end, Jory spluttered a protest and pulled at the mattock's handle. "No, Uncle Bofur, I've got it, I've got it!"

"I'm just carryin' this end," Bofur replied, "Don't you worry, I know you've got the rest of it."

Jory frowned and then nodded. "All right. But I've really got it."

Bofur smiled to himself as they walked toward his brother's home, the three children chattering to him about their day. Apparently Ninna had spent the day checking the chicken coop and yard for eggs and playing house with her dolls while Jory had been forced to learn about toymaking techniques from the eldest of the brood, their brother Haran. Nola had, of course, been sewing, which was a help to the large rowdy family. With twelve children in the house, patches and extra repair stitches in clothes were expected.

Eventually Bombur and Nos's home, a house half-built into the moutainside, came into view. A few more of the brood was out in the yard playing, and one of the windows was open, allowing golden-haired Ara to lean out and whack a carpet against the side of the house. When she saw them coming, she waved the carpet at them enthusiastically. Bofur took his hand out of Nola's to wave back.

The weight of the mattock was suddenly lifted out of Bofur's hand, and Jory let out a furious squeal as the handle was pulled from his grip. "That's mine!"

"No, actually, it's mine," Bofur said, glancing over as Garan appeared beside them, a cheeky grin on his young face as he hefted the mattock onto his shoulder. Bofur did a double-take at his nephew. "Oi, what happened to you?"

The boy was sporting a blossoming black eye beneath his mop of thick dark brown hair and his hat. The hat was similar to Bofur's own, except the wings were shorter and pointed straight out, parallel to his shoulders, instead of curving down like Bofur's. Well, they had both been made by the same clever lass… His nose was like Bofur's but his grey eyes were actually the same shade as Bifur's. He was a muscular lad, but not overly rotund like his father, and he was a more than capable fighter.

Garan shook his head, his braids whipping about. "Nothin', I was wrestlin' Fili, and then Kili joined in and jumped on my face. Got me an elbow in the eye."

"I'm gonna give you a fist in your gut!" Jory growled, bouncing around Garan and looking indignant as he tried to reach the mattock, "I was helping Uncle Bofur, you give that back!"

"You can help Uncle Bofur when you're as tall as his mattock," Garan teased. He put his palm to his brother's forehead and kept the boy back as the five of them headed to the house.

By now, the lads in the yard had spotted them and were trying to come to them, though there seemed to be a hold-up at the gate. Eventually one of them figured out how to work the mechanism with the others oh-so-helpfully shouting at him, and three of them piled out, running toward the group coming home. Toli and Bombin were racing as fast as their sturdy, short legs would take them while little Non hurried after them, yelling for them to slow down and wait for him.

Bringing up the rear at more sedate rate was Buran, second-oldest of the clan. He was a stocky, solid red-haired lad with a curly short beard; he was perfect for the work he did in the mines, clearing out the biggest of rocks with a hefty pickaxe. He had a calm, gentle soul that was at odds with his strength, and more than one lass had their eye on the boy who would come of age soon enough. Unfortunately for them, outside of his family, Buran was as shy as a newborn colt and nearly fainted any time a girl saw it fit to speak to him. He called out a hello to his uncle and then laughed as Garan barreled toward him; the brothers met each other with a powerful headbutt, as if they had been parted for a week instead of a few hours.

Bofur, meanwhile, was finding it very difficult to sort through the babble of the dwarrows and fell back on the reliable response of nodding to everything. Towheaded Non had grabbed his free hand and started tugging him toward the house while Bombin explained the intricacies of dinner.

"…loads of honey rolls, Uncle Bofur, and a big fat hog, fat as a pony, maybe fatter!" Much like his father, Bombin was portly and orange of hair, though he was much more talkative than Bofur's brother. They shared a love of food though, and always in great quantity; he expected that Bombin might take after his mother and become a cook or a baker one day. As number six out of the twelve, Bombin was 31 years old and about as near to being the middle child as could be in the Broadbeam clan.

Nola was fussing at mischievous Non for something he had done that morning involving her hair and goat's milk, and Non was snipping right back at her and trying to get Bofur to take his side. Nola's twin Toli, who was energetic as a wild hare, had decided that his time was best spent running around the rest of them in a wide circle, yelling war cries.

However, nodding soon became hard as well. Still on Bofur's shoulders, Ninna was pulling back on the wings of his hat, making the front of it smash against his forehead, and she was screeching down at the others. "It's mine! Mine! My Nuncle Bo! My hat! Nooo!"

And both his hands were trapped in stubby-fingered vices, leaving him no way to stop her.

"Ooof, Nin, lass, y'might want to ease up, I can't think."

The dwarrow was relentless as she tugged on his wings. "Mine!"

"Since when did you start thinking, Uncle Bofur?" Garan asked with a sly look, "That's a new development."

Bofur smirked. "Wish I could say the same about that smart mouth of yours."

"Learned from the best." Garan declared as he came to Bofur's aid, growling playfully down at the passel of dwarrows. "Hey now, get off with you, you lot, leave Uncle Bofur be! He's getting too old for you to be tugging on him like that! Look, he's getting grey just lookin' at all of you, you might break his frail ol' bones."

Bofur gave the teasing lad a half-hearted glare. "I'll show you frail. I could always have a go at making your face a little more symmetrical…"

Buran joined in helping Garan, and the two older lads swooped down on the others with roars and monster growls and exaggerated threats about cutting their braids, scattering the littler dwarrows and sending them running off to the house laughing and giggling. Soon Bofur's hat was lifted off his head along with Ninna, but at least blood was getting to his brain again. Ninna seemed at least somewhat pacified since she got to keep the hat as well as get a new "horse" as she was set on Buran's shoulders. At least he still had his scarf, for the moment. Bofur walked in-between the two lads as they followed the youngins to the home.

As they all headed through the gate, the door opened, revealing a smiling Bombur with the wee little babe, Binni, in the crook of his arm. He grinned as the little ones ran by and reached down to spin Toli in the right direction before he could bump into the doorframe. The boy could hardly see through that untamable mane of strawberry-blond hair that he refused to allow anyone to braid. Both of the oldest boys greeted their father with rough one-armed hugs and spared a moment to smile at their sleeping baby sister before heading inside.

When Bofur reached the door, Bombur smiled and tapped the top of the bald spot in the middle of his orange-haired head. "Lost your hat again, brother."

"Aye, I'm thinking about getting it nailed to my head, 'cept I fear Fen would be spitting mad I put a hole in it," Bofur replied, clasping his brother's unoccupied arm and grinning. He peered down at tiny Binni and traced her face from her reddish-gold fuzzy hair to her round, chubby chin. "She's a right good sleeper, isn't she?" They had been blessed by Mahal with this particularly snoozy, quiet little lass; she spent most of the day sleeping or quietly watching everything. It was rare to see the girl fuss.

"Best napper we've had yet," Bombur said proudly.

Ara, a golden-haired lass with a thick set of braids and wide skirts and the well-beaten carpet in her arms, appeared at her father's elbow. She was the fourth child in the family and the oldest girl. While she was a sweet lass, she was rather obsessed with gold and jewels and lads, and when she wasn't helping her mother around the house, she could be found daydreaming about a life where she was married to Thorin and was the future queen of Erebor. A harmless infatuation, it was, though it was a little embarrassing that time she had burst into joyful tears when the dwarven prince had once said 'Excuse me' to her after nearly stepping on her.

"Pa," she said, touching her father's arm, "Mum said to stop standing in the doorway and let your brother come inside." She darted forward to give Bofur a quick hug, squishing the carpet between them. "Hello, Uncle Bofur."

He hugged her back. "Evenin', Ara. How're you?"

"Well as any!" she said, stepping back and through the doorway, "Dinner's nearly finished."

"Now that's what I like to hear," Bombur said with a grin as they moved into the house.

It was a fine home, part wood and part stone, becoming one with the mountain as you moved further inside. The walls were mostly colored in deep greens and muted yellows, but murals covered some of them; Haran, the eldest, was something of an artist, and he liked to paint when he wasn't in the workshop with Bifur. In a few places, weapons were hanging on the walls, old family heirlooms that they didn't use anymore. The actual weapons they still used were kept closer at hand in a cabinet in the hall that the little ones were warned to stay away from.

Toys of all sorts were strewn about the house. Little figures of dwarves and orcs did battle beneath the legs of a couch, a doll with brightly painted eyes lay in a wicker basket, a tiny five-armed monster with fangs for teeth hulked by the door. A rocking horse with a real mane and tail, taken from trimming a real pony's tail, was in the corner beside a delicately-carved castle that had taken ages to get perfect. On the carpet in the great room, a few of the children had wooden puzzles spread out while a game of checkers had been left out on a table. Someone might say that these children were spoiled, and maybe they were, but that's what you got when toymaking ran in the blood.

"Sit down and take a load off, Bofur!" Nos yelled from the kitchen, her voice rising about the clatter of pans and the voices of Ara and Bombin, who had gone to help her. Queen of the Crockery, she was, Mahal bless her and her abundant ovens.

"Yes, ma'am!" Bofur breathed in deeply as the smell of the roasting pig caught his nose, but before he could go to the kitchen to test everything single last thing for "poisons," Non came running up to him holding out a toy sailboat.

"It don't swim no more!" Non said, shoving it into Bofur's hands as he looked up at him pleadingly, "Fix it? Pleeeeeaseeeeee—"

"All right, all right!" Bofur said as he lifted the sailboat up and inspected it. "What've you been doing with it, sailing it on rocks?"

"No!" was the too-quick defensive answer.

"Mhmm."

It was a hand-me-down from Haran to Non, something Bofur had made years ago. But Non was rough on toys where Haran had always been careful with them. Bofur smirked down at Non. "Go bring me some tools from the workshop."

While the children played on the floor and in the halls and about his feet, Bofur worked on the little sailboat and talked with Bombur about the mines. Bombur usually worked during the night so he could spend the days with the children; when he slept, Bofur wasn't entirely sure. His younger brother loved each and every one of his little ones fiercely and enjoyed playing with them or just watching them at cavort around the warm, welcoming home. Bofur had to admit, he could often be found at his brother's home as well. He hadn't had the fortune of being given the gift of children…

His hand reached up to brush the warg-fang earring he wore before he went back to working on the boat. The chance for children of his own had passed years ago, but his nieces and nephews were like his own, in a way. And though he had no favorites, or would never admit to it, two of his brother's children had perhaps wheedled their way a little deeper into his heart than the others. His brother had children of all shapes and sizes and hair colors, but these two… They were the only brown-headed ones out of the bunch and, more importantly, they had bits and pieces of him in their spirits, like they were more marked with him than the others.

Like they could've been his.

Non, who was playing by Bofur's chair, poked him in the side. "You finished yet?"

"Almost…"

"You're taking foooorever."

Bofur nudged him with his boot. "You're a most accomplished whiner, didja know that?"

Non replied by grinning and sticking his tongue out at him.

Bofur was putting finishing touches on the hole in the boat when a pair of small, familiar callused hands came from behind and covered his eyes. Ah, there she was; he'd been wondering when she'd come in. Smiling, he paused in his work and tilted his head to the side. "Want me to guess who, then?"

"Fen! Stop it, Uncle Bofur's already taking a long time," Non shouted, "Now he can't see!"

The hands fell from his eyes as Fen leaned down and hugged him around the neck, smooshing the side of her face against his. She turned and pecked his temple. "'Lo, Uncle Bo," she said with a grin.

"'Lo, Fen." He tweaked one of her braids and kissed her cheek.

She nuzzled him, rubbing her head against his, before releasing him and coming around to his side. "Don't let him pester you with that annoying voice of his," she said to Bofur as she gentled shoved her palm against Non's head, "He's part elf, y'know. That's what makes him sound that way."

"Am not!"

Fen was a lovely girl with dark brown hair like Garan's; it was braided into two plaits that were pulled back and braided into one that laid against her back. Her hazel eyes usually glinted with good humor or an occasionally flaring temper, though she was truly a sweetheart. The fifth child in the family and the second girl, she was good with her siblings and just as capable of caring for their sometimes volatile, often confused cousin Bifur; she was a milliner and helms-maker in training, and both she and Haran, the eldest, worked in the same workshop as Bifur, right at the home.

Bofur laughed and handed the boat to Non. "You couldn't be, lad, you're much too hardy."

"That's right," Non said, shooting a frown at Fen as she laughed and headed toward the kitchen. On her way, she bent down and plucked Bofur's hat from Ninna's head and tossed it back to him. Before the little one could put up a fuss, Fen had grabbed her up and headed into the kitchen, tickling her sides.

Bofur fitted the hat that Fen had made a few years ago back onto his head as Bifur and Haran came in through the side hall. Haran stood at the same height as his uncle, perhaps a few fingerwidths higher, and he even had some of Bifur's strong features, but he was bright and red where Bifur was dark and silver. Haran had a bright red beard that was quickly becoming impressive as he was on the eve of adulthood. A toymaker who also dabbled in metal-smithing, Haran was dedicated to his family and loyal to a fault. He reminded Bofur of a younger Bifur…

Some of the children sprang up to swarm the pair, pulling on Haran's hands and searching through Bifur's vest for the strange, whittled toys that he usually slipped into his pockets. The older dwarf quietly reached out and patted their heads, though at one point, he let out a loud laugh and bopped Toli and Jory's heads together. Both of the youngins rubbed their heads and looked like they were considering crying but Toli eventually giggled and hugged Bifur. The dwarven elder patted the lad's before walking over to the table and clasping Bofur's shoulder and then patting Bombur's head like he had the children.

"Evenings are good," he said as he sat down across from Bofur. Haran nodded to the older dwarves and fished a bit of whittling wood out of his pocket before he sat in the chair by his father.

"This one especially," Bofur replied. Yes, he liked nights like these most of all. An evening at the pub was all good fun and laughs, but being with the family was better.

By the crackling fire place, Buran started piping a cheerful melody on his clarinet and Jory soon joined in on his father's big drum. Nola grabbed Toli by his hands and the twins began to kick up their heels in a made-up jig while Non started jumping up and down by Buran.

Three mugs plunked down, splashing amber ale onto the table, and Garan's laugh was as loud as his grin was bright. "Broadbeam hospitality, at your service!"

Bofur grinned and tipped his hat to his nephew.

Now everything was perfect.

A/N: This was fun, I might have to write more Broadbeam ficlets in the future. :)