Chapter Text
Thranduil walked slowly through the corpse-littered streets of Dale. Orcs, men, elves. He made his way around them, over them, looking for Bard. He had returned from Ravenhill where he had seen the fallen Sons of Durin and watched his own son leave him. He felt heavy with the deaths of his people, fatigued under all of the things left unsaid between he and Legolas. He could crumble under the weight of it had he let himself. He stepped over lifeless forms - once bright stars - still clad in their golden armor.
Blood stained the stones beneath his feet, its stench rising and lingering in the air as pools of it dried, crimson fading to brown. Weapons lay strewn. Cries of relief or of anguish rang through the air as loved ones found each other. The broken city had been torn to pieces even further, new heaps of rubble covering the old. New corpses covering blackened shells.
Two of Thranduil’s guards followed him as he passed through the market where the injured were being looked to - humans and elves and dwarves that had been brought from the battlefield. Any with skill were helping to bind wounds and stitch cuts. Bard was nowhere to be seen.
Thranduil continued on to the city’s square where bodies were being gathered and sorted like goods for sale. The men that were best able moved corpses. Armor was collected and rubble was cleared by those that were not as strong. Thranduil stood and stared at the efforts, searching, and slowly eyes were drawn to his silver figure.
One young girl looked to him, blinked, and then turned around to call out “Da! It’s the king of the elves!”
Thranduil followed the gaze of the girl and relief flooded over him as it led to Bard, guiding a cart in to place across the square. He was dirty and torn and bloodstained, hair in disarray, but as he heard his daughter’s voice and saw the Elvenking a grin broke over his face that Thranduil thought was the most beautiful thing in the world.
Bard left a command with the other man he’d been talking to and crossed to Thranduil, calling to his children, who were scattered across the square, to join him. He came to stand in front of the Elvenking with his usual triangle in front of him - Bain at his right hand, Sigrid at his left hand, Tilda in the middle.
“My Lord Thranduil, these are my children, Sigrid, Bain and Tilda. Children, this is Lord Thranduil, the Elvenking.”
They all dipped their heads in deference, quite excited to be introduced to another elf, and when Tilda looked back up she had a big smile on her face.
“You have very pretty hair Lord Thranduil.”
Bard laughed and Thranduil gave a small smile to Tilda, inclining his head. “Thank you.”
Thranduil looked then to Bain, who was standing straight at Bard’s shoulder. “Your father tells me that you aided him in slaying the great dragon.”
Bain seemed surprised to be addressed, blinking a moment before managing “Oh, yes well, not really. I mean I did help Da, but he’s the one who actually killed it."
Thranduil nodded, taking the three of them in. They looked like Bard, they had his bright eyes. “You all must be very brave. Like your father.”
They all blushed and nodded, and Bard squeezed the shoulders of Bain and Sigrid. “Even braver.” Then he looked down and nudged them gently, urging them off. “Go on now, go help, let us talk.”
They did so, giving little bows before hurrying away to what they had been doing.
Bard took a step closer to Thranduil as soon as they had gone, worry suddenly creasing his brow. The elf cut an impressive figure with his face bloodstained and his armor rent, a cold and beautiful and deadly warrior, only he did not seem so cold as usual. Battle had chiseled away some of that icy composure.
“And where have you been?”
“I have only just returned from Ravenhill,” Thranduil replied gravely. “Have you heard of Thorin?”
“Aye, I heard. Of course I heard. And his nephews too. Damn shame. After all he fought for...it still wasn’t to be.”
“Indeed. This is not the ending I would have wished for.”
Bard nodded solemnly. Their victory, though hard fought for, barely felt like one.
They stood in silence, looking out over the scene of the square. Snow fell gently around them, dusting the ground in its fine powder, capping their shoulders, blanketing the fallen.
The Bowman dreaded the first time he was caught alone with his thoughts. All that was keeping him afloat at the moment was staying busy. He was king of Dale indeed; the title seemed to come from everyone’s lips but his own. He wasn’t sure if he would ever get used to it.
“It is not an easy sight,” Thranduil suddenly murmured, and Bard turned to look at the Elvenking.
“It’s all gonna hit me the second I try and lay down to sleep. I can’t let it now, but it will, I know.”
“You will find yourself plagued by many sleepless nights to come, Dragonslayer. It is no easy task, forgetting.” Thranduil stared at the corpses of elves, his people piled like so many logs for firewood, and a shadow came over his eyes.
A frown tugged at the corners of Bard’s mouth. “I thought you were used to war.”
“No. It is never easy to see your people die on your command, particularly for elves. Wars are very difficult for us and we enter them seldom. We are not well prepared for the face of death. It causes a great grief. ”
“I understand. I lost a lot of good men today - friends, neighbors - who never once thought they would die as soldiers or warriors. They thought they had whole lives ahead of them.”
“Still, those men may have had but 40 more years given to them if they were lucky. I led elves to war who need never have died at all.”
“And? Does that make their lives more valuable?”
Thranduil gave Bard a measured look. In his eyes, this was not a question. “Yes.”
“I disagree,” Bard said with resolution, meeting Thranduil’s stare, holding it firmly for a moment before he turned away, deciding not to press the issue. He knew what battles he could win.
He took a breath before he spoke again, voice measured. “Everything is fragile. Whether you’re a deer or a man or an elf, it doesn’t matter. Life is very, very fragile.”
Bard looked to his children. Bain helped another man lift the corpse of an Orc, Little Tilda gathered discarded weapons, though she could carry but one or two at a time, and Sigrid dried the tears of a woman who had lived next door to them in Laketown.
“You did what was right,” Bard continued. “And your soldiers had a choice. They fought for you, but not because you forced them to. They knew the risk.”
Thranduil considered Bard’s words for a long moment, watching his soldiers, his remaining soldiers, working with the men of the lake. “You give noble advice for a king of two days who has never before seen battle, Bowman.”
“It’s just what I’m trying to tell myself right now. You know it all better than I.”
They looked at each other suddenly and realized how the distance between them ached. The air shimmered and strained, and they hesitated. They stepped forward, but neither seemed sure of what to do.
“Bard,” Thranduil said softly, breaking their yearning silence. He had this chance, he decided, to tell Bard what he should have told his son. “You...do not know how relieved I am to find you unharmed.”
Bard raised an eyebrow, unaware of the statement’s gravity. “Do my ears deceive me? Was the Elvenking worried about little old mortal me?”
“Bard-”
The delicate air broke and Bard grinned wider than he had right to. “Why, Lord Thranduil cares about the men of the lake after all!”
“Bowman, if you do not kiss me this moment I swear I will have that infernal tongue of yours cut out,” Thranduil warned him, not altogether exaggerating, smiling against his will.
“Was that a threat I heard? I don’t think I take well to threats now that I’m a king-”
And he got no further. Thranduil grabbed Bard by his coat and pulled the man against him, bending his head and bringing their lips fiercely together. They sighed in to each other and everything was simple once more.
The touch of the Elvenking revitalized Bard like bending to drink from a clear sweet mountain stream. The aches of battle sloughed off and his tasks ahead did not seem so bleak. Thranduil’s hand found the back of his neck and his lips were warm and soft though his mouth tasted of blood. Thranduil’s armor prevented Bard from pressing too close and they simply held each other’s heads as they kissed in relief, deeply and purely.
“Da! Da! Are you kissing an elf?”
Tilda’s voice rang out across the market and Bard could hear her footsteps rushing over as fast as she could as he broke away from Thranduil. Of course such an action would not go unnoticed, indeed the whole square seemed to be staring with wonder, and he offered an apologetic smile to the Elvenking before looking down at the awestruck face of his littlest daughter. “Ah...yes, I am, Tilda.”
“Are you going to marry him?” She asked with wide eyes, taking Bard’s hand in both of hers. “Is he going to be our father as well?”
“No, sweetheart, I don’t think so.”
And then the explanation sprung to her eyes. “Is it because you’re king now? Do you have to kiss all the other kings?”
“No Til, I don’t. But I do have to kiss all of my lovely princesses!” He scooped her up in his arms - she was the only one of his children still young enough for him to do so - and gave her the biggest kiss on her cheek that he could manage, making her giggle and squirm. “And do I get one back?”
She nodded and pressed a kiss to his cheek with big “Mwah!”
“Good girl,” he said warmly, lowering her back to the ground. “Now run along, you have work to do and I have things to discuss.”
“You just wanna kiss him again!”
“Tilda. We can talk about all of this later.”
She sighed the sigh of a martyr. “O-kay Da. Goodbye Lord Thranduil.”
Without awaiting answer she bounced over to Sigrid, who had a big, knowing grin on her face.
Thranduil had watched this with a conflicted heart. He was enamored to see Bard as a father, how tender he was with his daughter, the joy they took in each other, but he could not help jealousy seeping in. He had had that, once. He remembered suddenly all of the bright little laughs and curious hands, the crowns woven of flowers and grass and the tiny forehead kisses. That was thousands of years ago. It felt like more. It made him ache somewhere deep and hidden.
He buried deep that ache as Bard turned to him and apologized for the interruption. “There is no need for an apology. She is precious.”
“She is. I’m very lucky.”
They glanced around them and found conversation rushing through the square like a spreading wildfire, rising from a murmur to a buzz, everyone talking and pointing and staring. No one actually approached them, however, which Bard suspected had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the way Thranduil was squinting.
Bard shook his head, crossing his arms. “Well, seems like everybody saw that. Whole city will know by the end of the day.”
“I apologize if I acted irrationally -”
“No, no, it’s alright, let them talk,” Bard replied with a grin. “They’ve been through a battle. Trust me, the men of the lake don’t care what they’re gossiping about so long as they’re gossiping about something. And what a tale it is! The two lover-kings.”
Thranduil blinked. Lover? Did human attachment grow so rapidly? There was little that could frighten the Elvenking, but at that word he began to think that perhaps he no longer knew what path he walked.
Thranduil straightened up internally and hid the strange turmoil that had taken root. “You should tread carefully, Bowman,” he replied with a soft but great seriousness.
Bard’s eyebrows creased, confused by Thranduil’s sudden concern, but the Elvenking’s expression was impervious once again.
“Bard,” he said suddenly, before the other king could ask any questions. “I am afraid that I must return to my kingdom as soon as possible.”
It was Bard’s turn to blink. “You’re leaving? Already?”
“Yes. There is much there that I must see to that I cannot from Dale. I will remain for Thorin Oakenshield’s funeral tomorrow after which my people and I will depart. I will leave a small company here to assist you.”
“Oh. Ah, thank you. I just thought you might want to...celebrate our victory.”
An imperceptible raise of the Elvenking’s eyebrows. “I doubt there will be time for anything of the sort in the following days, but I will call you to my halls as soon as I may. I believe a council will be needed; two kingdoms must rise from the ash - it will be no small effort.”
Bard nodded, “Right,” but Thranduil could tell he was distracted and not swayed.
“Bard. Both of our attentions are needed elsewhere.” He crossed to his Dragonslayer again, putting a hand behind Bard’s neck. “Go be a king to your people. You may be one to me later.”
A sigh of heroic resignation. “Okay, okay.”
This time it was Bard who kissed Thranduil, pulling him down, pressing their lips together quickly and firmly before stepping back. “I’ll await that council.”
And then Bard turned around and walked away from him, which seemed quite the theme of the day.