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Once in a very rare while, Bard would find himself with a moment void of townsfolk, children, and chaos. Though it had been only a year since the destruction of Laketown, he would admit that life was far better now. The people of Dale were still rebuilding and sowing crops, but the work went faster with assistance from the kingdoms of Erebor and Mirkwoord.
The agony of those days of fire and death was fresh still in the minds and hearts of the people, but they were of strong stock. There was no doubt in Bard’s mind that the people would carry on. However, it would still take much hard work and headache filled days for the city to be returned to its former splendor.
But there were moments.
Quiet moments.
Moments of calm and safety that threw the bowman through a loop. When the clanging of hammers and the bustle of day gave way to nearly silent eves and his children were tucked into bed. These times gave Bard pause and made him almost uneasy. He’d hurried through life for so many years, raising a family and providing for them. He would sit in his study remembering the days when he’d been so taxed that he would fall asleep in his chair after supper.
Now, there were late nights of quiet introspection and sweet Dorwinian wine. A gift often sent by King Thranduil.
It was such a night that found Bard staring out the window at the city below. There was music coming from one of the makeshift taverns and the sounds of guards making their patrols, but the evening was relatively silent all things considered.
Thranduil and his court had come for yet another trade agreement and the Elfking seemed to think that if such discussions took place in Dale that would mean that the dwarves would “behave with a little decorum”.
The dwarves, led by Thorin (who’d surprisingly survived the battle), were still as stubborn as ever when it came to dealing with the elves. Bard would readily admit that when the hobbit Bilbo Baggins had decided to stay in Erebor (calmly stating the “SOMEONE has to keep these Durins from getting themselves into trouble”), he’d breathed a sigh of relief. The little fellow had a wonderfully calming influence on the King Under the Mountain.
The hobbit was still a bit in over his head though when it came to calming the tempers of both the Dwarf and the Elf. The two got on like oil and water, thought Bard. They’d argued over petty insults for half the day whilst their comrades and advisors looked on in a mixture of contempt and (in Bard’s case) boredom. They’d never reached an agreement on the trade restrictions from the South and Bard had called an end to the meeting with a sigh and a strong desire to drink.
So, here he stood in his chambers with a glass of the saccharine wine in his grip as his gaze swept the rooftops. The fire in the hearth was small but strong, as the chill of autumn had begun to sink into the air. In front of it, a ginger tomcat stretched lazily. Bard had been skeptical of the animal at first, but it was a good mouser and often he found it sitting at the foot of Tilda’s bed silently guarding his young daughter.
The cat, Geoffrey, turned its gaze to the door and quickly rolled to its feet. Bard was about to raise a brow at the feline’s odd behavior when a soft knock echoed through his rooms. Odd thing: cats, he thought with a smirk, far too smart to be considered mere beasts. He bid the visitor enter and was surprised to see the imposing figure of the Elvenking standing within the doorway. Geoffrey scrambled under the bed at the sight of the king. Perhaps, Bard thought, smarter than I.
“Good evening, I hope I’m not disturbing you.” The elf stepped inside the room, making it very obvious that he didn’t actually care if he was or not.
“No,” Bard sighed. “No, I’m just…” He gestured to the bottle on the table as if that explained everything. Oddly enough, it seemed to. The elf’s lips quirked up into a brief smile as he nodded. Bard once more motioned to the bottle and a second goblet that sat beside it. Thranduil seemed to be very adept at communicating without words and began pouring himself a glass of wine.
Bard looked out the open window once again, the sounds of the townsfolk growing more and more quiet as the stars began to sparkle in the inky expanse above the city. Somewhere nearby a flute played low, the tune seemed otherworldly and yet all too familiar. Bard was so focused on the strange sound that he didn’t notice the elf standing beside him until he spoke.
“Some of my guards brought their instruments to play whilst they are here. Though I don’t believe this is any of my people’s music that we hear. Perhaps they are teaching your men to play.” Thranduil’s voice was suddenly lost in the sound of pastoral pipes joining into the tune.
Bard looked over to find the elf’s eyes closed gently, with his lips parted and red with wine. The sound of a fiddle joined into the soft song that rang out over the battlements and cobblestones.
Bard smiled as the song became clear, it was one he’d heard sung many a night to his own children. He leaned his forearms against the window sill, whispering the words into the wind.
“I love my love and well he knows
I love the grass where e’re he goes
If he on earth no more I did see
My life will quickly fade away.”
Behind him, Thranduil stiffened and his eyes flashed open to stare at the King of Dale. The words were whispered and tuneless, but they matched the tempo of the song below with perfection. The elf stepped closer to the man before him. Bard stood with his shoulder’s a bit hunched from the chill of the autumn breeze. The words were more chilling than the wind to the Elvenking. The verses went on, speaking of a black haired man and declarations of love. But Thranduil stood stock still, still reeling from those first words
“The winter is past and the leaves are green
The time is gone that we have seen
But still I long for the day to come
For you and I to be as one.”
Thranduil’s gaze was unseen by the bowman, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of it. The man could feel the weight of the elf’s stare on his shoulders. The cold demeanor of the Elvenking may have been imposing, even frightening to some; however, Bard had met many a man hardened by the slings and arrows of time and loss. It was the eyes. The eyes of stoic men betrayed their true thoughts and fears. The silver eyes of the elf held no real secrets from a man who’d seen as much as Bard. Each shade of cold metal was a sign of what the elf truly thought. Bard pulled himself back inside and turned to look at the king beside him. Looking for the tell in the other’s eyes.
Dove grey. Neither steel nor iron, not even the shine of mithril alighted in the Elvenking’s eyes. No, it was a soft grey, much akin to the clouds that appeared before the first snow. And perhaps it was the wine or the toll of the day upon him, but Thranduil looked almost lost. Lost and alone.
Bard watched as if separated from his body as his hand, calloused by years of hard work and archery, found the elf’s pale cheek. The sound of the flute floated in the air as his fingers smoothed the frown from Thranduil’s brow. He vaguely noticed how the elf set aside both their goblets. There were long fingers brushing at his stubbly cheek. He leaned his face into the palm of the elf’s hand. They didn’t speak, but they said much in those small touches. They spoke volumes about pain and care and concern and something else that didn’t yet have a name but felt like the warmth of the sun on a winter’s day, like clean water on a wound. It felt a bit like happiness, but sorrowful in its own way.
The night continued on and the candles began to burn low. The music eventually faded into silence, but neither of them heard it. They were too busy listening to one another. Geoffrey came out from beneath Bard’s bed only to find the sight of two lumps in the bed instead of one. And that made no real difference to the tomcat as it settled at the foot of the bed. The only real difference was that this new person was kind enough to scratch at his ears in just the right way while it waited for Tilda’s father to awaken.