Chapter Text
As untrained as Bard might be in the finer arts of diplomacy and politics, he held no illusions whatsoever of being anything more than a mean to an end in the eyes of the Elvenking. Whatever courtesy he was shown was only to ensure that he remained partial to King Thranduil during the unfolding dispute, rather than any actual concern for Bard and his people.
The words they had exchanged when the Elves had arrived with supplies proved as much, since they had more to do with King Thranduil's greed than saving starving refugees. To go to war over a handful of gems was appalling, no matter how valuable they supposedly were. Bard would do well to remember that King Thranduil cared very little for the lives of Men — or those he had to manipulate in order to emerge victorious.
It was not normally in Bard's nature to be so harsh and suspicious after such a short acquaintance, but anyone could see that the Elvenking was as cold and ruthless as he was old and beautiful.
That was to say, very much so.
Bard was no fool. He might be a simple bargeman, but he knew more than enough about calculating rulers to be wary, especially since King Thranduil executed his schemes with far more grace and cunning than the Master of Lake-town had. Their motivations were not entirely different either, yet Bard felt less inclined to despise the Elvenking on sight.
Still, Bard knew better than to trust him.
He wanted to — they were in desperate need of allies — but Bard knew that he was nothing more than a pawn on a much bigger board than he could possibly comprehend. And a low value one, at that. He had no disciplined, trained armies at his command, nor did he want any. Even without them he was welcomed in the command tent and treated as an ambassador for his people, if not a king in his own right.
It unnerved him to have such a burden placed on his shoulders, but at the same time he felt hesitant to push it onto someone else's. Alfrid was one of the few of a higher position who had survived the wrath of the dragon, and he would surely only make matters worse. If not by betraying his own people and selling them out for whatever amount of gold he might get his hands on, then by insulting the Elvenking with his sickeningly false flattery.
So Bard might be the best choice to speak for the people of Lake-town after all, even if he felt painfully out of place in King Thranduil's lavish tent, facing a creature older than Bard could possibly comprehend. He felt filthy, clumsy, and unrefined in comparison, and disliked the fact that it was in all probability true.
It was therefore a small relief that they were there to discuss diplomacy, rather than whatever Bard might be lacking when placed opposite the ancient Elvenking. If there was one thing Bard excelled at it was prioritising. It became second nature when you were the sole provider for your family.
Bard's main concern was not the old dispute between Dwarves and Elves, nor did he seek revenge on Thorin's company for having awoken the dragon. What he wanted was to ensure that his people survived the coming winter, despite the pain and grief they had already suffered as Smaug burned their city to ashes around them.
He only wanted to save his people — to keep his children, friends, and kinsmen alive.
King Thranduil had other plans.
Bard had never met a ruler so set on war, and could not help but wonder if it was partly due to boredom that the Elvenking was willing to go that far. Granted, Bard's attempts at negotiation with the Dwarves had failed, leaving them with very few options, but he still found the decision reckless.
How many unnecessary deaths would they be facing? Their opponents might only be a handful of Dwarves, but a siege always involved more casualties on the attacking side, and waiting to starve them out was not an option with winter already on their doorstep. Not to mention that it was only a matter of time before the news spread and more armies arrived to lay claim to the treasure.
It would have been so much easier if Thorin had only kept his word, instead of allowing greed and spite to dictate his actions. The Elvenking was no better — ruthless in his decisions and blind to advice, even when it came from a wizard. Only the Halfling's gift had managed to stay King Thranduil's eagerness to attack Erebor, and Bard doubted that would last for long. There were no guarantees that Thorin would accept their terms either, consumed by the gold as he was.
In the middle of this stood Bard, feeling out of his depth and desperate to keep as many lives safe as possible, no matter their race. If only Thorin and King Thranduil would have shared his priorities. It was frustrating to be dealing with two rulers so set on war, for no other reason than their pride.
Bard knew better than to voice his opinions out loud, however, lest he wanted to lose the one ally he did have. Without King Thranduil's help Bard and his people would have starved, and he did well to remember that. He was of the impression that while King Thranduil was both poised and dignified, he could also be quite fickle.
Or maybe petty was the word Bard was looking for?
Bard pushed the thought aside and continued to pace restlessly inside the tent King Thranduil had set up as their command station. It was hardly dignified to show that amount of distress but Bard was long past caring. He ignored the pale gaze that followed his progress; if staring amused the Elf then Bard would let him.
There was little left for Bard to do that night. Those strong enough to carry weapons had been armed, armoured, and taught rudimentary lessons in fighting before allowed rest. It was the best they could do with their limited time frame, and the people were still weary after Smaug's attack and the march to Dale.
Bard's children were asleep, watched over by the others, and he knew that he would do well to follow their example. If only he could find enough peace to rest. The hours were slipping through his fingers and he felt absolutely powerless. There might be a war soon and he shuddered at the thought of how many lives might be lost.
Had they not sacrificed enough already?
The Arkenstone lay on the table where the Hobbit had left it, shining brighter than the flickering torches. Bard felt as if the stone was mocking him somehow, and he had half a mind to cover it. He was worried about Thorin's reaction upon seeing the gem; if he was lost to the dragon sickness he would not take kindly to being extorted.
"What troubles you?"
Bard almost flinched at the deep, melodious voice — a smooth and rich timbre, so different from the harsher voices of Men. He wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to a sound that seemed so otherworldly and foreign to his ears.
He stopped his pacing, turning to face the Elvenking.
"Do you honestly have to ask, my lord?" Bard made a poor attempt to keep the frustration out of his voice. That frustration only grew at the look of amusement on King Thranduil's face.
"It seems that I do. You are awfully restless." King Thranduil had barely moved for the past hour, sitting on his throne-like chair while Bard paced, his long fingers wrapped elegantly around a goblet of wine he had yet to taste.
They had both been surprised by the Hobbit's contribution to the negotiations, but ever since the wizard and Halfling had left the Elvenking's expression had reverted back to the impassive one he seemed to favour, with an added hint of artful boredom.
It was bewildering that an expression so juvenile could look so regal.
"I am restless because of what awaits us at dawn," Bard bit out. He gestured towards the table and the priceless gem lying on it. "Even with the Arkenstone, we might be looking at war."
King Thranduil's gaze never wavered from Bard. He seemed uninterested in the Arkenstone, in a way that was unmistakably calculated. As if the stone was something to avoid — something tainted. Bard could very well imagine that it was, even if he felt no pull towards it himself, except what it might bring them if they managed to negotiate an exchange.
He wished that he had more hope in that outcome.
"You seem very reluctant to fight such a war," King Thranduil remarked, with the barest hint of curiosity.
"And you far too keen," Bard countered sharply. He knew that he was but a small step from insulting the Elvenking, but the events of the day — the exhaustion, frustration, and helplessness — were catching up with him.
Not to mention that he could still smell the dragon fire on his skin, haunting his every step.
"Without the war and the treasure you will not be able to feed your people, Master Bowman. Out of the options we are given it is the most beneficent one." King Thranduil's voice was calm and steady — almost lazy. It made the syllables roll from his lips with an effortless grace.
"Fight a war to save lives," Bard summarised curtly, not hiding his distaste.
He felt no need to cultivate his speech with unnecessary embellishments. The Elvenking had already accepted him as ambassador — knowing full well that Bard was of humble means despite his noble family history — and since that was the case whatever words Bard chose would have to be enough. He had never been trained in the art of diplomacy, or how to sweeten his words for the sake of gaining favours. He was rather proud of that. He valued honesty much higher than lies spun by a skilful politician.
King Thranduil graced him with a smile calculated to show superiority rather than spread joy, but there was an unmistakable hint of amusement — maybe even interest — to it as well.
"Yes," the Elvenking drawled, somehow managing to make even that seem like an art, "a most grievous decision, but one a king at times must make."
King Thranduil looked everything but distressed at the thought of the coming war, sitting perfectly poised on his throne with his fancy robes spilling out in graceful, weightless folds around him.
Bard cast his eyes downward, slowly shaking his head.
"I am no king, my lord," he replied, making no attempt to soften the sharpness in his voice. He had never asked for that title, and nor did he want it. He was unsuitable to lead these people, but would do so — protect and shelter them, to the best of his abilities — until they found a better candidate.
"Your people seem to disagree, Master Bowman."
Bard met the Elvenking's icy, blue gaze, holding it firmly despite the coldness he could feel radiating from it.
"Aye, they do, but I have lived my life as one of them, toiling in the very same mud and dirt as they. I know nothing of diplomacy or ruling. What manner of king does that make me?"
"One chosen, rather than born," King Thranduil replied, putting aside his goblet of wine. Bard's stood forgotten on the table, not far from the shimmering Arkenstone. King Thranduil offered another smile, this one holding an edge of fascination. "I can assure you that your kind is much rarer."
"But not necessarily better," Bard countered, despite knowing that King Thranduil might in fact have intended it as a compliment.
It seemed to amuse the Elvenking that Bard was arguing the point so fiercely. Bard imagined that he must be an entertaining distraction to one as old as King Thranduil — but also inconsequential and fleeting. The thought left a bitter taste at the back of Bard's tongue, completely unrelated to the wine he had abandoned over an hour ago.
He had seen first-hand the effects the sweet, Elvish wine had had on the late Master of Lake-town and on his ability to care for his people. As a result, Bard had very little trust for the drink.
"I can never be a king in the sense and capacity that you are, my lord," Bard said after a short silence, meeting King Thranduil's gaze. He was surprised by the complexity of emotions he saw there. Most of the time the Elvenking seemed carved out of stone — beautiful, exquisite marble, but stone nonetheless — always perfectly composed, and all the more cold and ruthless for it.
Now his smile was amused enough to almost seem genuine, even if it was also slightly mocking.
"Well, you can hardly be blamed for that, can you?"
The arrogance was astounding, but not the least bit unfounded. Bard let out a sound reminiscent of a chuckle, although he was reluctant to admit it.
"No, I guess not," he agreed.
His gaze wandered unbidden towards the Arkenstone — the crown jewel of the King Under the Mountain. The fleeting moment of lightheartedness melted away; there would be no need for kings, if they could not survive the winter.
King Thranduil rose soundlessly from his throne, the movement drawing Bard's attention back to the Elf. He could not for the life of him understand how it was possible for a being to always appear so perfect. King Thranduil's robes draped elegantly and not a single strand of hair was out of place. Even his steps were unnaturally graceful, the movement so smooth that it appeared fluid.
It was vaguely unsettling to watch and Bard had to fight an urge to step back when the Elvenking walked past. They were not nearly close enough to touch, but Bard felt awkward and crude in comparison. For the first time in days Bard smelled something other than singed flesh and dragon fire. It was difficult to put a name on the scent, however, even if he knew who it belonged to.
It was clean yet sharp, like a snowy spring morning — cold despite its purity.
"The stone will be kept safe overnight, and at dawn you will carry it as we ride to negotiate with the Dwarves." There was no mistaking the contempt in King Thranduil's voice when he spoke of the Dwarves, but Bard's attention latched on to the other part of that sentence.
"Me, my lord?" he asked, baffled.
Surely something so valuable should not be put in his hands? Despite what King Thranduil said Bard was no king, and while they were allies he held very little influence or power. Their alliance was clearly more of a burden for the Elves than a blessing, and Bard had no intention of jeopardising that by being presumptuous.
The look King Thranduil gave him as he slowly walked up to the table was gracious, despite Bard having expected it to be taunting, or even worse — patronising. Bard stepped closer without knowing why, until they were standing on either side of the table, the Arkenstone between them.
"It would be my absolute pleasure to see the look on Oakenshield's face if I were to bring it to his doorstep, but I think it would be wiser for the sake of our negotiations if I did not. He would not take kindly to my gloating." The Elvenking's smile was knowing, with a tinge of teasing. "I am able to think beyond my sense of pride and personal enjoyment when necessary."
Bard stiffened ever so slightly before nodding. The comment was clearly meant to show that his opinions concerning King Thranduil's arrogance had not passed unnoticed, and he knew better than to deny them. The surprise was that the Elvenking did not seem the least bit insulted. If anything he looked intrigued, as if he was fascinated by the prospect of someone being bold enough to accuse him of being conceited.
Bard knew that it had to be far from the first time, but maybe the difference was that Bard did it not to strengthen his own position or because he thought himself better — he just genuinely found King Thranduil lacking in compassion and humility. Neither of those were traits necessary to be king, but Bard had no doubt that one might be a better king if they were embraced.
The silence lingered, Bard staring unseeing at the table between them. He had never quite understood how difficult it was to make decisions in the capacity of a ruler. Some were easy — the practical things, like salvaging what they could from the burning town and finding shelter. But to ask his people to face a war? To expect them to die because of an order he gave?
Bard never wanted that. But King Thranduil was correct in that it was their most viable option at this point, especially since Bard knew that without the Elven army he stood little chance of saving his people. He had even fewer options than King Thranduil, and they both knew it. He had to agree to the Elvenking's terms, since Bard's own resources were sorely lacking.
"Do you always carry so much weight?" King Thranduil asked curiously, as if Bard was some peculiar creature he was trying to unravel. It was probably not meant as an insult, but it certainly felt like one.
"When it concerns survival, yes."
"Survival is what we will go to war for — the survival of your people," King Thranduil said.
Were Elves always this talkative? Bard had been told that they were elusive and distant, reluctant to get involved with the outside world, and especially with matters of Men. The Elvenking, in contrast, was surprisingly keen, all too quick to ask Bard confusing questions.
"Survival is always a struggle," Bard replied, trying not to point out that it seemed less so for the Elves. They had fought their wars long ago, Bard knew that much, but they seemed almost complacent now, and set in their own ways. "Before I struggled to feed my children, and now I struggle to feed my people. I am not unaccustomed to the grim choices one has to make in order to live another day, but war — that will bring only death."
King Thranduil looked thoughtful. One pale, graceful hand reached out to wander along the edge of the table.
"But also life. Without this war, how will you feed them?" King Thranduil's blue gaze was coaxing, but Bard knew better than to surrender. The Elf was merely trying to amuse himself by manipulating those he thought easily swayed. "Think of your children, Master Bowman."
Bard felt a flare of defiance.
"As you think of yours?" Bard countered, raising his eyebrow in a challenge that was probably unwise. The Elvenking stiffened and Bard leaned forward, bracing his hands against the table between them. "Your son is a soldier, is he not? A war like this one would only endanger him, not protect him. You have no need of treasure to survive the winter, do you? So why place your son in needless danger?"
The silence hung heavy between them. Bard refused to succumb to King Thranduil's piercing stare, his own gaze steady. The Elvenking might be wiser, fairer, and a more experienced ruler, but he seemed less versed in how to care and love. Maybe he had forgotten over the years, or maybe he had never known — Bard could not be certain — but he was not going to let his children be used against him. Not so blatantly and by someone who barely seemed to know what being a father meant.
"Are you implying that I do not care for my son?" The steel was back in King Thranduil's voice — the very same one that had assured Bard that it was not for his or his kinsmen's sake that the Elves offered aid, but to right wrongs committed against them.
"I am merely pointing out that you should not use other people's children as tools for your manipulations, unless you want the same to happen to your own." Bard made sure to maintain his calm, his tone unthreatening. "I am well aware of what might happen to my children whether I go to war or not, but most of those discussions are fruitless at this point." Bard's gaze flickered to the Arkenstone, shining brilliantly between them. "The decision lies with Thorin."
King Thranduil tilted his head to the side, ever so slightly. The look he gave Bard was searching — maybe even a little amazed.
"Are you attempting to teach me a lesson, Master Bowman?" The patronising edge made it obvious that King Thranduil found the thought to be absolutely preposterous.
Bard calmly met the Elvenking's gaze.
"Maybe I am," Bard replied, fully expecting the scoff that followed. It could almost have been a chuckle, if Elf-lords knew how to do such a thing.
"What could you possibly teach me?" To King Thranduil's credit, he did seem intrigued underneath all the condescension.
Bard smiled. "You may be old, King Thranduil, but that in no way means that you have heard and seen all there is to hear and see. There are things even you have yet to experience."
This seemed to give the Elvenking pause, but he merely raised an eyebrow rather than grace it with a verbal reply.
"You are an ageless being," Bard continued, "but despite your many years you are far from all-knowing. Never belittle the wisdom that others might hold, for it may very well be more vast than your own."
"Says the bowman to the king."
The words were clearly meant to be a mocking reprimand — a reminder of the size of the rift between them and their difference in stature. King Thranduil must have forgotten that he had spoken of Bard as being a chosen king mere minutes ago.
Bard held no grudge against the Elvenking — they hardly knew each other well enough for that — but he had too much integrity and pride to simply surrender. It was reflex by then, to challenge unfairness and arrogance after so many years living under the poor rule of the Master.
Bard was known to be a troublemaker for a reason.
"Says the man who has slain a dragon," Bard retaliated. He would never claim fame because of it, but it was definitely worth mentioning as one of his more noteworthy accomplishments. "Says the man who has fathered three children and buried his wife." He straightened, even if a part of him felt like he should be bowing instead. "My existence might be insignificant compared to yours, my lord, but I have seen and done things not even you have. You cannot measure a man's worth by the years he has lived."
"Then how do you suggest it be measured?" The tone was not outright patronising, but close enough that Bard suspected that King Thranduil thought very little of his opinions.
Bard swallowed down the brief stab of insult; it was far too reminiscent of hurt to sit well with him.
"By the things he does. His accomplishments and achievements."
It was a beautiful notion, and Bard knew that it would never become reality — not with Elves, Dwarves, and wizards to outlive him by centuries — but that did not mean that he wished for it any less. It would mean fewer rulers like the Master, and hopefully fewer wars.
Bard was startled by King Thranduil's soft laugh, the sound so delightful that he paused involuntarily, if only for a second.
"You are bold, Dragonslayer." King Thranduil slowly circled the table, pinning Bard firmly in place with that sharp, blue gaze of his. "Your morals and ideas are naïve and innocent, yet remarkably insightful."
Bard automatically turned until they stood facing each other, mere feet apart. He could feel his heartbeat quicken, trying not to speculate as to why.
"It is most intriguing." King Thranduil's voice was lower now — gentle and captivated.
"I..." Bard was unsure of what he had intended to say, his words trailing off before they even began. He blamed it on the look in King Thranduil's eyes. It was searching and curious, as if he was attempting to understand something marvellous.
"You are intriguing." There was a hint of astonishment underneath King Thranduil's certainty.
Bard swallowed, trying desperately to calm his rampant heartbeat. The close proximity made him feel unaccountably nervous, and all too aware of that crisp, pristine scent that reminded him of spring snow. There was a flutter of something warm and excited in Bard's gut — he seemed helpless to stop it.
"Hardly," he managed hoarsely, embarrassed by the pleased look on the Elvenking's face. Bard wished he knew what King Thranduil was after, but it was impossible to glean it from his expression.
"Were you not the one who said to measure a man's worth by what he has accomplished?" King Thranduil challenged.
"Aye, but I—"
"Would exclude yourself? You are far too humble." It was only through sheer force of will that Bard managed to meet King Thranduil's gaze. The Elf was only slightly taller but seemed to tower nonetheless — impressive and regal where Bard was ragged and unrefined. "A man who still smells of the dragon fire he extinguished should surely be more confident."
Bard suspected it was meant as a compliment, but there was a clench in his chest all the same. He felt an urge to apologise for smelling so foul in the presence of royalty, even though he had attempted to clean off the worst of it. The acrid stench still clung stubbornly to his skin and hair, and while he had worries of higher priority, he still felt embarrassed.
He cleared his throat and averted his gaze, feeling uncomfortable enough to pull his hands behind his back, as if to make sure that he would not accidentally touch the Elvenking. Bard would hate to soil something so close to perfection.
It would be wrong to say that he was ashamed, but he did feel inadequate. It was one thing to boldly question injustice and quite another to be lacking as a person.
"I did what I had to do in order to save my family, nothing more. I want no glory or fame."
"You truly mean that." It was the note of disbelief that made Bard look back up, meeting King Thranduil's gaze. "You are being honest."
"Yes, of course I am." Bard frowned in confusion.
Why would King Thranduil doubt his sincerity?
Bard almost flinched back when King Thranduil moved closer, so seamless and fluent that Bard could barely tell how many steps he had taken. Amazement was shining in the Elvenking's eyes.
"You are quite remarkable," King Thranduil said, so softly that it was more of a distracted mumble.
A shiver travelled down Bard's spine and he had to remind himself how to breathe. His throat was so dry that he could barely swallow, and it was difficult to say if his heart was racing because of fear or anticipation — but he suspected the latter. He dared not speculate on what the Elvenking was up to, but the look in his eyes made Bard want to shift closer, as if yielding to some instinctive call.
The air felt thick and Bard struggled not to let his focus slip. It was surprisingly difficult not to be distracted by the brightness of those pale blue eyes, or that pure, tantalising scent.
"Maybe you are right, Master Bowman." King Thranduil's voice still held its melodious timbre, but his stern expression was softening with wonder. "There might be things I have yet to see and experience."
Bard knew that he should probably feel self-conscious or move out of the way when King Thranduil raised his hand, but there was no such urge. He simply remained where he was, looking up at the Elvenking without knowing what to reply — or if he should even make one.
The first brush of fingertips against his chin seemed to burn, sending a flare of warmth sizzling under his skin. It was shocking that such a simple touch could feel so overwhelming. Bard barely dared to breathe as King Thranduil traced the line of his jaw, a tiny smile quirking the Elf's lips when he encountered the rough texture of Bard's beard.
Bard's thoughts were spinning, trying to make sense of what was happening. He had always heard that Elves were reluctant to touch, even with those they held dear. This — the captivated, curious exploration — could not be within the realms of common Elvish practice.
In fact, it was far from common practice even among Men. For all its innocence, the touch was still undeniably intimate.
Bard swallowed thickly as those fingertips wandered down along his throat, leaving a searing trail of warmth in their wake. The touch was light, almost gentle, and achingly sensual. Bard could feel his gut tighten with a response unsuitable for the Elvenking, but he was not sure how to suppress it.
He might not actually want to.
How many years was it since he had last felt like this? It was inappropriate, for a number of reasons, but he welcomed it for the warmth it brought — the stir of breathless, heady desire. By the looks of it, he was not the only one. King Thranduil's entire focus was on the path his fingers were travelling, as if exploring the soft, vulnerable skin at the base of Bard's throat was the most intriguing task imaginable.
Bard could not help wondering when the Elvenking had last looked so enthralled by something; his previous disinterest and nonchalance was nowhere to be seen.
Was Bard allowed to feel flattered for being the cause, however unbelievable and confusing the situation was? He was fairly certain that someone like King Thranduil rarely allowed himself to show such unmasked interest, even if it was difficult to determine why he did.
Bard was reluctant to move, not wanting to break the spell. He feared that it would make King Thranduil retreat, and he would rather not ask himself why that would be such a terrible thing.
He could only remain motionless for so long, however. Bard's breath trembled when he inhaled, his lungs barely drawing in enough air to function, but it was enough to disrupt the perfect stillness. The movement jostled King Thranduil back to the present.
Their gazes met. Bard had no idea what could be seen in his own eyes, but he was left feeling bare and vulnerable. The surprising flare of yearning had to be obvious, even if he had never thought he would feel it — least of all towards the Elvenking. But the tension in the air was undeniable, like a living, breathing entity, whispering along Bard's skin.
A second passed — a loaded moment where neither of them moved — before King Thranduil pulled his hand back and retreated a step. His expression hardened back into the cold, impenetrable mask he usually wore, except for the slight curl of disgust on his lips.
Bard felt like he had been doused with cold water, the tender, breathless moment shattering into sharp shards of rejection. Humiliation rushed through him and only by stiffening his spine did he kept himself from succumbing to it.
There was no denying that it hurt, though.
"Return to your children, Master Bowman. Get some rest." King Thranduil was walking back towards his throne, as if the moment had never happened — or at the very least was already forgotten — his posture impeccable and graceful. "At dawn we will speak with the Dwarves."
Bard knew a dismissal when he heard one. His heart was still thundering in his chest but this time it was from shame and anger, for allowing himself to think that the touch had been anything but a brief lapse of judgement on King Thranduil's part. Or perhaps it was due to simple curiosity? Either way, it was clear that Bard had been found wanting, which should not have come as a surprise.
He was mortal, while King Thranduil had lived longer than Bard could comprehend — and would live on for thousands of years after Bard's death.
What could he possibly have to offer someone like that?
He bowed his head slightly, not meeting King Thranduil's gaze, despite how cowardly that made him feel.
"Yes, my lord." His voice was without inflection and he did not linger long enough to wait for a reply. He had already had his fair share of disappointment that evening and quickly left the tent before any more could be bestowed upon him.
He cursed himself for being so foolish. How could he, even for a second, have believed that the touch had been anything but a mistake? Bard could not compare to any Elf, be they king or not, and yet he felt wounded at the rejection.
What had he expected?
Not that Bard knew why King Thranduil had touched him so intimately if his intention was to deny it later. It made very little sense — like so many other things the Elvenking did. Only this had the unfortunate side effect of leaving Bard humiliated and hurt, but that was partly his own fault.
He must have lost his mind. He could feel the lingering touch of King Thranduil's fingers, warm like a brand against his skin. It was preposterous, plain and simple. An Elf and a Man? King Thranduil would never stoop that low and Bard knew that. He was hardly worthy.
It was surprisingly difficult to extinguish the tiny flare of budding hope and excitement, but he managed. By the time he reached the haphazard Lake-town encampment he had convinced himself to forget about that tender, breathless moment. He had other things to worry about.
Even as he checked on his children, to make sure that they were still safe and peacefully asleep, he kept telling himself that he only had himself to blame.
Bard swallowed as he stroked Tilda's hair, her tiny body burrowed down under one of the soft blankets the Elves had brought. Bard carefully breathed through the clench in his chest, smiling weakly.
He was such a fool.