Chapter Text
It’s a Monday when they arrive in San Martin. Ten thousand miles of travel on both land and air comes to a stop here: a provincial seaside town in a small country in the South Pacific, where Thranduil has never been, knows nobody, and does not speak the language. He’s read about it yes, has done ample research and has memorized statistics, but as the plane descended and revealed the realities of patches of semi-developed land, three-fourths of which is surrounded by water, and with nary a building taller than 4 storeys in sight, his heart pace quickened and he wondered how much it would be to just reverse this entire decision altogether.
For one thing, San Martin is horrendously hot.
He will never forget that moment they first stepped out onto the tarmac from the plane. It was not the soft, warm breezes he’d expected, as the glossy guidebooks he’d consulted had described; the heat felt like an actual physical assault. 7AM and already the air was sticky and hung over them like a heavy blanket, urging Thranduil to quickly peel off the layers of clothing he and Legolas had put on for the 16-hour flight coming in. Legolas, thankfully, was compliant, and probably too jetlagged to even have a clue what was going on. By the time he had stripped himself and his son down to only a single shirt and trousers, the fabric of his button-down was already sticking to the skin on the small of his back. In addition, he was already getting a budding headache.
They’re in the rental car now that Thranduil had pre-ordered and it’s mercifully cool, although the interior smells like stale crisps. They have no carseat ready despite him telling them beforehand that he’s traveling with a young child, but Thranduil is too exhausted to argue and unpack Legolas’ own. To make do, he sits at the back behind the driver, wrapping his arms protectively around his son who sits, heavy and docile – his living, breathing anchor, in his lap. It’s still a half hour ride to their new residence, and Thranduil watches the rural scenery with disinterest as it whizzes by. He has never seen so many coconut trees in his life.
“Ada,” Legolas suddenly whines, uncomfortable at possibly everything. It’s the kind of whine that makes Thranduil feel like he’s a terrible father, dragging his young son to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. He looks down and Legolas reaches out for him, wrapping his small arms around his father’s neck in that terrible, clingy way four-year-olds are wont to do when they’re about to have a meltdown with an unknown cause. Thranduil knows this, and rubs his son’s back in slow circles to soothe him, shushing gently into his ear. It doesn’t work, however, and minutes later, Legolas is a sobbing, wriggling mess in his father’s arms, pushing away when Thranduil attempts to hold him close while simultaneously wanting to be cooed and fussed over which, honestly, Thranduil has no patience for.
“Dear heart,” he murmurs, internally wishing for a miracle for his son’s unsolicited tantrum to cease. His headache has grown, he’s sweaty and can do nothing about it, and tendrils of his hair are sticking uncomfortably to his nape. All in all he already feels like shit, and the day has just started on this side of the world. “Darling, ssh. Ssshhh.”
Legolas sobs as though a tragedy has befallen them, and Thranduil briefly wonders if he isn’t just expressing what he himself can’t. His son is inconsolable, repeating “Ada” over and over, unable to coherently articulate his distress. The front of his shirt is soaked through with tears but he holds Legolas against his chest, brushing soft flaxen hair out of his eyes and off of his sweaty forehead, and bounces his knee to comfort him. He tries to clear his mind despite the chaos, wanting nothing more than a shower and a strong cup of coffee in order to survive the next 24 hours.
The roads get rougher as they turn from the main thoroughfare and onto a smaller street, and here Thranduil sees the houses up close for the first time. They’re lined up along both sides in a variety of shapes, sizes, colors, and conditions. Tin roofs and concrete walls mostly, some with a splash of paint while others have been left with the dull gray of cement. Most are gated, although Thranduil briefly wonders what they’re gated for if not to just mark the property line. It’s certainly no upper-class neighborhood but then, Elrond had told him San Martin has no such thing.
The car eventually slows to a stop. They’re in the middle of a cramped street that’s only wide enough to fit one lane, and the moving van is up ahead, its massive size acting as a stopper to anyone attempting to traverse through it. Thranduil can’t see their house yet and he cranes his neck with difficulty to see, momentarily forgetting he has a preschooler still clinging to him like a limpet. Legolas had thankfully quieted down the last ten minutes of the ride, but his breath hitches again as Thranduil makes to move, a warning of another bout of tears.
“Ada, noooo,” Legolas moans, quickly becoming upset again as Thranduil maneuvers him so that they can alight the car.
“Sshhh, it’s alright, little leaf.” Thranduil gathers his leather satchel that’s momentarily storing their discarded clothes from the airport, as well as some of Legolas’ snacks, and secures his son with his other arm. In his haste, he’s forgotten it’s his left one, and he nearly drops Legolas as soon as they’re upright, the familiar pain shooting down his side like lightning traveling through his scars. A gasp of pain comes unabated from his lips and he only manages to switch the grip he has on his son to his other arm, letting the satchel instead drop towards the dusty ground instead with a heavy thump. Legolas starts screaming bloody murder soon after, his cries so distressed and terribly frightened that Thranduil’s own distress increases, making the pain down his side flare so viciously that he can barely see straight.
“Whoa! Whoa!”
He’s not all too sure what happens next. One second, Legolas is in his hold and the next he’s not. The cries are increasing in volume and Thranduil is certain he’s going to simultaneously go deaf from the noise and blind from the pain.
“Whoa, easy there. Are you all right? I’ve got your son so you don’t need to worry about dropping him.”
Someone’s hand is suddenly on his back and Thranduil’s senses sharpen and focus at the unfamiliar touch, his mind wary and crackling with warning. He snaps his eyes open and attempts to locate his son, which is easy enough. Legolas is red-faced and screaming in another man’s hold, although he doesn’t struggle against him. The man in question is peering at Thranduil worriedly, seemingly unperturbed that a child that’s not his is wailing in his ear. His hand is still on Thranduil’s back, and the small patch of fabric that makes contact with his skin feels enflamed.
“Take it easy,” the stranger says. His voice makes Thranduil think of waves breaking on the shore. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“I’m fine,” Thranduil says, although his statement comes out as half a hitched breath. Pain is still lancing through him but it’s already more manageable. He straightens, and his vision clears. His sight of the man is more focused now: short dark cropped hair, laugh lines, the kind of half-stubble that makes you want to ask whether or not he grows it on purpose or just forgets to shave on random days. He also has a faded farmer’s tan, visible underneath the wifebeater he’s wearing over cargo shorts. Not a local, Thranduil decides. Definitely not. If not the soft lilting accent, the rust-orange Esgaroth Warriors baseball cap the stranger is wearing gives him away entirely.
“Warriors fan?” he asks, straining his voice to carry over Legolas’ din. The stranger’s eyes seem to light up.
“You know the Warriors?” Thranduil notices for the first time that the man is rocking Legolas in an attempt to comfort him. The gesture makes him trust the stranger a bit more. “How…? Do you play?”
“Me? No.” He really was never a fan of playing under the sun, or of heat, in general. A tide of annoyance washes over him as he feels sweat trickle down his temple. He can almost hear himself sizzling. “I never signed up for Little League but I was quite a fan.”
At this, the stranger looks absolutely elated. “Oh wow. I haven’t met anyone else but me the past two years who even knew where Esgaroth was, let alone that it has a major league team.”
Thranduil nods, means to chat a little more, but Legolas starts reaching out for him and he obliges, using his good arm this time, if only to get him to calm down so nobody would attempt to call the police for disturbing the peace. Thranduil can tell by his cries that he’s not so much afraid of the stranger as he is terrified of what has just happened, that he’d hurt his father. The stranger himself smiles as he watches Thranduil masterfully pacify his son, crossing his arms over his chest now that they’re devoid of blubbering four-year-old.
“I miss those years,” the man says fondly. Thranduil spares him a glance.
“How many?”
“Three.” The man beams, obviously proud. He seems the man to be easily impressed by the simplest things, his emotions dancing across his face like ripples on water. “My youngest is seven, but no longer nearly as small as I still want her to be.” He motions towards Legolas. “You?”
“Just this one.” Legolas’ cries have softened to sighing now and the occasional hiccupping. He peers at Bard curiously while sucking on his thumb, his eyes wide and inquisitive. Thranduil almost does his usual habit of moving his son’s hand away from his mouth but decides to let him have this moment, if only to make up for the hellishly long ride they’ve endured and the awful weather they now face. The air is thicker now, and feels like soup. Thranduil wipes at Legolas’ face with his sleeve. Just standing on the street has left dirt streaks on his son’s cheeks; Thranduil is mildly horrified but makes an effort not to show it.
“Well he has a good set of lungs on him. Would probably make a good swimmer, if he isn’t already.” The stranger glances towards the movers, who are busy transporting boxes from the truck and into the inside of the house adjacent. Thranduil can’t help but peer towards what’s supposedly their new home, just to make sure he isn’t on the losing end of the house lottery. The stranger probably sees the worry on his face and breaks into an easy smile.
“Don’t worry, it isn’t haunted,” he chuckles. “They’ve also recently renovated it.”
Thranduil supposes the house isn’t too bad. It’s one of the more decent-looking ones on the block, save for the pseudo-jungle overtaking more than half the front yard. A lush variety of trees and shrubs give the squat concrete bungalow ample shade, but also make for a lot of shadows, leaving a large portion of the property shrouded. The gate fencing it off is dark metal spires that have currently been flung open to let the movers in, although the access does not make it still seem all that welcoming. All in all, their new home looks exactly how he feels: pensive and waiting and perhaps just a little bit lonely.
“I don’t know what you mean by renovation,” Thranduil says, eyeing the overgrown vegetation, “but I’m not sure it’s implanting half a dozen jungle plants into what was supposed to be an ordinary yard.”
To his surprise, the other man lets out a bark of a laugh. Thranduil must have looked startled because he looks almost immediately apologetic.
“Forgive me, I’ve missed that brand of humour. Haven’t really had a neighbor here I could converse with…not that they don’t speak English, of course. It’s just…” He thrusts his hand forward, perhaps to stop himself from saying anything further. The skin around his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “I’m Bard Bowman. Welcome to San Martin.”
Thranduil shakes his hand, forcing his grip to be tighter despite the low thrumming pain that’s still coursing through his nerves. “Thranduil Greenleaf. My son, Legolas.”
“On mission or assignment?” Bard inquires.
“You can say that,” Thranduil says, slightly surprised his new neighbor knows the jargon. “You work in development?”
Bard rattles the name of the biggest development bank in the region. “Rural development specialist. We have a project ongoing about sustainable development for coastal areas.”
Thranduil really shouldn’t be surprised; after all, San Martin is the kind of place that would be sniffed out by the big development banks in order to be ‘saved’. Bleeding-hearts that want to thrust money to unknowing governments and even more clueless people in order to clear their conscience. He’s worked too long in the sector to be rattled or excited by Bard’s words, although he does note that Bard actually seems genuine in his noble intentions.
“You’re on assignment?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of himself.
“Yep. Three years. Now on my second.” Bard puts his hands on his hips, a wide grin on his face. “It’s been a wild ride, I’ll tell you that, especially with kids.”
“They’ve adjusted though?” Because that’s Thranduil’s biggest worry. He has no idea whether Legolas will adjust to here, if he ever will.
“They did fairly quickly, yes. They speak some of the language now, more than I can ever learn probably. My youngest is nearly fluent. My oldest and my second have now developed a palate for things like bitter gourd salad and goat stew, something they would have probably never learned back home. Plus,” Bard leans over conspiratorially, “I’ve learned the delivery schedule of the supermarket so I know exactly when the Cheerios and Blue Mountain beer arrive.”
The easy way in which the other man speaks calms Thranduil’s frayed nerves. Bard is unhurried and seems at ease with himself, somewhat fitting into this ramshackle coastal town despite his current work. Thranduil means to talk longer, preferably while splayed out in a dark air-conditioned room while taking notes on how he’s supposed to survive out here, but Legolas starts whimpering again and his arm is still hurting and he’s still a sweaty, sticky, overheated mess.
“You’re more than welcome to camp out at our house first while the movers get your stuff in,” Bard offers, probably sensing his distress. Thranduil shakes his head. Although the man is nice, he isn’t in the mood to socialize, especially when he’s two steps away from getting heatstroke while still being severely jetlagged.
“You’re very kind, but maybe another time.” He rubs Legolas’ back.
“Tired huh? No problem. We’re just over there,” Bard points to the house across the street from his: another bungalow but with a red roof and white concrete walls, fenced in by a low red gate which is also flung wide open. A lone, dusty four-wheel drive is parked in the one-car garage, and Thranduil doesn’t miss that it has local plates on rather than diplomatic ones, which he knows Bard should have. There are an assortment of items on the other man’s lawn, ranging from slippers to Nerf guns, a clear evidence of children living in the home, but oddly no wife.
Thranduil feels his heart clench at the thought. No, he isn’t going to ask.
“…so if you ever need anything, a cup of sugar, some butter…don’t be shy.”
Bard doesn’t seem to have noticed his few seconds of being distracted. Thranduil manages a small smile at his new neighbor, already feeling a budding kinship.
“Appreciate it.”
“I’ll leave you two to it then.” He notices Bard glancing at his left shoulder and then watches as he raises his hand in farewell. “If you need me I’ll be cleaning up after three messy kids and then hopefully find some time later to do my actual day job.”
He watches as Bard ambles back into his own house, automatically picking up the child’s slippers haphazardly strewn across the lawn as he passes and propping them up against the wall by the coiled garden hose. Despite external factors not changing, Thranduil’s spirits feel a bit lighter, and something like relief passes through him like a wave. He chose this location exactly for its remoteness and sheer distance from his old life, but even he has to admit he’s more than a little fearful for what the next day will bring. Bard is a practically a stranger but Thranduil already knows he can trust him. If anything, it makes him stand a little straighter and the pain in his left side seems to cease. Elrond would of course be highly against the thought but it’s not him starting a new life on a sun-battered, godforsaken island, is he?
“Ada, let’s go home,” Legolas whimpers, shaking Thranduil out of his thoughts. He has never been a clingy child until recently. Thranduil wonders now whether this move is really something that will benefit his son as he initially thought. He still doesn’t know, but he makes up his mind, if only for Legolas’ sake, that he will try his damnedest.
“Okay, little leaf,” he whispers. “Okay.”
Heart thudding against his ribcage but spirit now resolute, Thranduil gathers his satchel from the dusty ground, gives his son a kiss on his forehead, and squares his shoulders before walking towards their waiting new home.