Chapter Text
December 2nd, 2941, T.A.
He did not know what had woken him: the whistling of the wind, carrying the first snowflakes of an early winter or the thoughts that haunted him even in his sleep.
A deep sigh heaved his chest as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room.
An intense headache made his heartbeat echo in his temples.
He wondered if the pain had something to do with the drafts that swept through the room or if it had come while he slept.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning and then gently massaged his forehead with his fingertips.
Without really wondering about his current state – his mind was far too agitated while his limbs were heavy with fatigue and seemed to want to keep him for a few more hours in this bed – Bard straightened up and sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched on the blankets he had thrown away earlier.
His gaze slid to the window, like a gaping, wounded jaw. The bright, silvery moonbeams and the cold, distant starlight streamed into the silent room through the broken, blackened stones.
Another sigh escaped his lips as he ran his hands over his face, pushing away the last vestiges of sleep still clinging to him.
Bard put on his boots, a tunic over his pants and his coat. He got up and took in the two beds at the ends of the room for his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Sigrid and Tilda slept side by side: the former on her stomach, her face turned towards him, she had a protective arm wrapped around the latter’s curled up figure. In the other bed, Bain slept on his back: arms and legs spread out, blankets half on the floor.
With the shadow of a smile on his lips, Bard refrained from kissing each of their foreheads, afraid to wake them up. Then, quietly, he slipped out of the room, leaving behind the reassuring sound of the calm, measured breathing of his children.
He went through the ancient and noble fortress of Dale, partly in ruins but still fit to live in, his body and his mind having memorized the path to take as the nights went by.
Instinctively, almost automatically, he found himself outside the building and dodged the guards posted at the entrance, their tired faces lit by the torches battered by the wind.
Unaffected by the icy breeze or the flakes swirling in his dishevelled hair, the man moved with a quick and sure step through the labyrinthine alleys of the ancient city, moving farther and farther south from Dale.
In the middle of the night, he did not meet a living soul, except for the nocturnal birds which had returned to the Lonely Mountain after the fall of the terrible Smaug.
He passed almost entirely destroyed streets – once scorched by dragon fire, recently ravaged by the armies of Orcs that had surged. He meandered through the most inaccessible corners of the city. He went down broken steps then up other ones in even worse condition. He finally reached the extreme southern point of the City of Men, on an old terrace with once white stones, now faded, charred and certainly dangerous given the precarious balance they guaranteed. However, at this particular spot, where centuries-old trees had been set ablaze to the root, the view was breathtaking. Here, the Long Lake revealed itself in its entirety, on the horizon, sparkling under the silvery light of the Moon. Peaceful, motionless and quiet.
This was a majestic and chaotic view at the same time because, in the distance, loomed the shapeless silhouette of the now non-existent lakeside city of Esgaroth. Even in the middle of the night, it was not difficult for a foreign viewer to understand what had happened a few weeks earlier. The dwellings had been set on fire in a handful of minutes, seconds even, fragile twigs under the powerful devastating heat that Smaug’s mouth had vomited. Some people had not had time to flee their homes, surprised in their sleep. Bard still hoped they had not had time to figure out what was happening that night, when the dragon’s wings had passed over their city.
A painful sigh swelled in his chest and escaped him, as he leaned on the parapet and hid his face in his hands, thus removing himself from this nightmarish scene.
Despite the current cold, despite the wind scratching every part of his exposed skin, he could still feel the burning breath of the dragon on him. If he closed his eyes, he was able to relive that moment again and again. He even managed to imagine what could have happened next, if the Black Arrow had not achieved the intended goal. Smaug would have turned him and Bain into a smouldering pile of ash. This simple idea was terrible to conceive. However…
Bard removed his hands from his face and lifted his head, his weary gaze fixed on the scorched city.
However, everything would have been simpler if the Black Arrow had not touched the belly of the dragon.
He immediately felt his guts contract, inside his belly. His features froze against his pale skin and his jaw clenched. He gasped, as if the image itself wanted to come out of his body, physically. A hand on his chest, he focused on his breathing, aware that this kind of thoughts was not a new thing. It had developed within his mind, slyly, at times when his mental barriers had released the pressure – when falling asleep, for instance. He had thought he could keep those thoughts at bay, if he was careful enough. Unfortunately, it was clear that while one could remain in control, in most cases, of the words that came out of his or her mouth, it was more difficult when it came to thoughts and, in Bard’s case, those thoughts seemed to wait patiently for the slightest breach in order to creep into his already tormented mind.
He had not thought of such a thing since...
Bard closed his eyes, revolted. Turning away from the view of the Long Lake and Esgaroth, he slid down the parapet to the ground, his long legs stretched out in front of him, hands on his thighs. He stared blindly at a point on the horizon—perhaps the ruins of Dale, perhaps the lights of the Lonely Mountain.
He stayed like that for several minutes, unaware of what was around him – the bite of the cold, the snowflakes, the almost total absence of noise in the night, except for his own breathing… He was dazed, overwhelmed by the path his mind had taken. Was it to come to such a conclusion that he had come to this balcony, night after night, after what everyone called the “Battle of the Five Armies”? Was this the logical outcome of some introspection he did not dare taking time for? Could not things be different?
“No…” he heard himself whisper, the word flying away with the wisps of cold air that escaped his lips.
Eyes closed again, he forced himself to breathe calmly, focusing his attention on the air coming in through his nostrils and then out through his mouth.
He had no right to succumb to such thinking. If someone were to learn of the gloomy ideas that crossed the mind of the man known as “The Dragon Slayer”... It did not suit the image everyone had of him. Yet…
Bard pulled his legs up to his stomach, crossed his arms around his knees and rested his head on his forearms.
Yet there laid the crux of the problem. He knew his thoughts kept him from sleeping properly. This had ended up taking away his appetite and keeping him from smiling.
Long minutes passed thus, while the Moon and the stars seemed to dart their unreal rays on Bard’s brown hair, while the invisible fingers of the wind played with the latter.
He did not feel the cold, even more present as autumn faded away. He did not feel the snow against his skin still marked by the scars of the recent battle. He did not feel the wind blowing between the layers of his clothes and through his open coat.
He felt nothing.
Nothing at all.
Not even any regret at the prospect of his imminent death, a definitive step for which he would be the sole responsible.
If he felt anything, it was this: this deep and endless weariness that stuck to his skin for a time that he no longer counted.
Apart from that, nothing.
He felt completely empty. A simple shell, with nothing inside.
When it had started – this gradual lack of sensation, as if life had decided to abandon him – he had thought about the origins of this change in him.
He had put his finger on it after the battle.
While people began searching for the wounded among the dead, while comrades-in-arms mourned others, while people started to empty the streets of Dale of the corpses of Orcs and Trolls, Bard had been invited to a meeting.
There he had been reunited with Gandalf, Dáin, rightful king of Erebor due to the death of King Thorin and his two nephews, and Thranduil, king of Greenwood the Great, as well as other people, Elves, Dwarves, Men, whose importance had escaped him at the time.
Still stunned by the battle that had raged, his body wounded, his muscles aching and his mind exhausted, Bard had had to sit down when Gandalf had explained to him, in a calm voice, which suffered no argument, that as a descendant of Girion, last Lord of Dale, Bard would become the new king of the City of Men.
Everyone had agreed that Bard was clearly the man for the job, as the evidence of his courage, his determination and his righteousness had been legion.
King Dáin had rejoiced to count a Lord of his quality as a nearest neighbour, already making plans for future trade between their two kingdoms.
King Thranduil had only smiled politely and stared at the Dragon Slayer, as if trying to read the darkest thoughts of his mind.
Bard had said nothing.
An official proclamation had been made to the inhabitants of Esgaroth, now people of Dale, and in the following days Bard had been warmly congratulated by those he had known all his life.
Except that…
Bard lifted his head and his eyes, which have gone dull, fixed upon the ruins of Dale.
No one had asked him what he thought of this decision. Because it had clearly been a decision, that someone had taken in his place, and not an offer that he could have thought about.
From that moment on, the void had started to nest within him. In his heart. In his stomach. In his eyes.
He had understood that he was not able to play the part that someone had chosen for him.
Of course, everyone thought he was capable of managing, organizing, supervising, without failing.
Except that Bard did not want to.
He knew that accepting the crown of the kingdom of Men meant taking a step closer to what everyone hoped for from him. In return, that also meant taking a step further away from himself, from the man he once was, from a man he wanted to find and protect.
Carrying such a burden on shoulders that were not, in his opinion, specifically more valiant or robust than those of the other men and women of Esgaroth, Bard had ended up forgetting who he was.
People had made a leader, a decision-maker out of him. Deep within his heart, Bard knew that he was none of that.
His eyes fixed on Gandalf, that day, in the tent of the Elvenking, Bard had wanted to shout. Was this his reward, for taking up a destiny that was not written for him? New responsibilities, even more important?
With his hands resting on the ground, Bard only became aware of the pain when his fingers let go of the pieces of stone he had caught without thinking. He had squeezed so hard and so abruptly that the stones had cut into the palm of each of his hands.
He stared blankly at his injured palms, both fascinated and sickened by the blood that covered his pale skin. In the silver light of the Moon, a bright red liquid wound in thin interlacing along his wrists. The fingers of his right hand rested on the palm of his left hand and, still immersed in this strange state, as if hypnotized, Bard touched the cuts with his fingertips, gently, spreading the blood and the tiny rubble that had clung to his skin.
If only the wound could be deeper, then the blood would flow faster. He would lose consciousness, quickly weakened by this blood leaving his veins. Hidden in the most remote ruins of the city, his body would not be found immediately. Glancing up at the inky sky where a few clouds dispersed the light white flakes, Bard thought that if winter came soon enough, his body might even be covered in snow in no time.
A long, deep sigh broke the silence of the night. Bard let both hands rest on his thighs, palms up, aware of the biting cold on his cut skin. He leaned his head against the broken parapet and closed his eyes.
He was tired.
Who could blame him for wanting to find rest, one way or another? Was it not human to admit that he could not go on anymore, because he had nothing left to give? Could anyone blame him for being just a man? For having limits?
Bard remained in this position for a long time, his breathing so slow that one would have thought he was already dead.
Taken by surprise, he let out a curse that would have made even the most irreverent of Dwarves blush when he suddenly felt fingers close gently on his wrists. His eyes opened to those of the Elvenking. He frowned, taken aback for he had not sensed Thranduil’s presence – even though he knew that Elves were the quietest and most inconspicuous creatures in Middle Earth, if they wished to be.
“I could have slit your throat,” Bard grumbled, thinking of the dagger slipped into his boot – a necessary precaution, even outside wartime.
Thranduil raised a long black eyebrow on his pale forehead, but his expression remained unreadable – Bard could not stand not being able to read what his eyes were saying; this still made him to this day very suspicious of the Elvenking.
“I return the compliment to you, My Lord,” he replied in his naturally deep, low voice.
“I am not Your Lord,” Bard retorted immediately, cut to the quick (why was his anger manifesting itself in such a way when, in broad daylight, he managed to conceal it under a facade smile?).
Thranduil smiled a thin, mirthless smile, but did not bounce back from the remark. Instead, his grey-blue eyes fell on Bard’s hands, which he still held captive in his long marmoreal fingers.
The question: “What happened?” did not cross his lips. Bard expected no less. Thranduil was a several thousand years old Elf, sharp-witted and observant. He had obviously spotted the bloody stones thrown to the ground not far from him, even before kneeling before the heir of Girion.
“Why?” the Elvenking whispered.
Bard, who had in turn looked down at his wounded palms, looked up at Thranduil. He had detected something in the Elf’s voice. Something he could not identify. Concern? Bard frowned again, annoyed and mortified to have been caught in such a weak moment. He tugged at his wrists to free himself from the grasp of the Elvenking. A vain effort. The grip was more than solid.
“Why?” Thranduil repeated, his gaze now locked with Bard’s. His voice was a growl this time.
Bard turned his head away, his eyes drawn to the East and the dawn lights that would soon appear. They would ignite the Long Lake and the ruins of Esgaroth, bringing back memories of the true flames that had licked the surface of the water and the fragile dwellings.
A hand left his wrist and he felt Thranduil gently grasp his chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing him to face him. This time, Bard was certain to read concern in the Elvenking’s bright eyes.
He felt a weight on his own heart.
He raised his other hand, as if to free himself from Thranduil’s clutch, but changed his mind at the last moment: he would have stained the Elf’s clothes with blood.
“I would have liked to be alone, Your Highness,” he simply said as his hand fell limply on his thigh, curled up on itself to hide the wound.
Thranduil did not let go of his chin and regarded him gravely.
“That is the last thing you need. Even if you think otherwise right now.”
The benevolence that permeated the voice of the Elvenking was unbearable to him.
“I mostly see myself as an adult who is capable of making his own choices,” Bard snapped, jerking out of Thranduil’s grip this time.
He got up quickly and took a few steps away. This physical proximity to the Elf made him uncomfortable. He stared at Thranduil, annoyed, as the latter slowly rose with all the grace peculiar to those of his kind.
The Elf sought Bard’s gaze, remaining silent.
He did not blink. He stared. He held one’s gaze. Bard had noticed it when they met. It was typical of Elves or beings of royal blood. Legolas behaved the same way. This blunt and piercing look, in the father as in the son, was enough to unsettle the most valiant of Men.
Finally, Thranduil broke eye contact. He approached the parapet and placed the palms of his hands there, standing straight, scanning the calm and devastated landscape before him.
“Do you miss Esgaroth?” the Elvenking inquired after several minutes of contemplation.
Bard sighed, a knot in his stomach. In turn, he approached the rampart and leaned on it, taking care not to touch anything with his bloody hands.
“I do,” he admitted with a sad smile. “I sorely miss it, even though it was not the most beautiful city in Middle Earth. It was home.”
Bard was the first stunned by such an admission when, two minutes earlier, he had wanted to send the Elvenking flying towards the lake.
“Is this the reason why you have been coming here every night for a week?” Thranduil continued, still in that same calm, indulgent tone.
Bard glanced at the profile of the Elvenking to his right. His expression was neutral and his gaze still riveted on the quiet lake.
How can his blond, almost white hair, stay so neat in spite of the wind?
Bard decided that this was not really the time to ask this kind of question and was surprised, in his current state of mind, that this kind of question was precisely what interested him most now.
He saw the shadow of a smile on the Elf’s closed lips, for a second.
Considering Thranduil’s question – why did he come here every night, when sleep abandoned him? – Bard admitted, deep down, that he felt melancholy and sadness about losing his home. Esgaroth was all he had known since birth. However, if he had to face all his thoughts, and especially the ones that disturbed him the most these days, he knew very well why he was coming here… Except that it was impossible to voice it aloud. No one could understand.
No one for miles around could tolerate the answer that would come out of his mouth; it was despicable.
“I miss Greenwood the Great terribly. I abhor the fact that I have left behind my people, the trees and the animals, even if this separation is temporary,” Thranduil resumed in a calm voice.
Bard assumed that the Elvenking understood that he would not answer his questions.
He also noted, because he has not forgotten to be smart, that Thranduil changed the subject in order to bring it up again a little later.
“Although, unlike you, Aran Nín, my home did not disappear under the flames of the dragon. However, you should know that my kingdom is no longer the one I loved and cherished when I was a young prince, then a young king.”
“Are you talking about the spiders? Those invading Mirkwood?”
“That is exactly what this part of my kingdom is now called.”
Bard glanced sideways at Thranduil. He did not miss the slight grimace that distorted his yet so elegant features.
“I had to protect my people. I had to rebuild a home, similar to the one I had lost, yet different. It remains a wrench and I do not know if I will ever find this much-loved part of my kingdom again. Nevertheless, I can tell you this, Master Bowman: the home I have created fills me with joy, despite the pain that sometimes engulfs my heart. This is how it is: we cannot feel only one thing at a time. We cannot be only happy, or only sad, and that is the beauty of what we experience: this constant mixture, these unsuspected nuances. What do you think?”
Thranduil turned his face completely towards Bard and stared at him, waiting for an answer.
A few minutes earlier, Bard would have had the terrible urge to retort to the Elvenking to put his low-level philosophy in the most remote place of his anatomy, where the light of the day did not shine. At that moment, this desire had melted like snow in the sun.
Thranduil’s carefully chosen words had touched something inside him. He could not deny it.
“I think you are trying to get information out of me that I do not want to share,” he replied honestly.
He was not surprised at the smile that formed on Thranduil’s lips. The Elvenking looked like he was about to say something – his mouth opened slightly – but he frowned and remained silent. Bard took the opportunity to regain control over this puzzling conversation.
“For what obscure reason does the King of Greenwood the Great decide, night after night, to follow through the streets of a city in ruins what is only just another Man among many others?”
“Who says I followed you?”
“So you are saying that you walked these particular streets precisely when I did.”
Thranduil seemed to search Bard’s eyes for the answer that might satisfy him.
“Your Highness,” Bard said, seeing right through the Elf. “Honestly, tell me: why would my fate matter to you?”
“First of all, Elves require much less rest time than Men or Dwarves. It is, in fact, not surprising that I like to explore the surroundings at night, rather than staying locked in my tent. I belong to the forests and the trees, Aran Nín.”
Bard raised an eyebrow, not the least bit convinced.
“Then I did not follow you. I saw you leave the fortress seven nights ago. I was curious to see where your steps would take you.”
Thranduil paused, returning his attention to the floating city-turned-graveyard.
“You are not just another Man, Bard.”
Bard felt a shiver run through his skin. Thranduil had never before addressed him by his first name. Hearing Thranduil calling him that way was disconcerting and Bard could not understand the reason why.
The Elvenking turned fully towards Bard, one hand still resting flat on the parapet, the other placed behind his back. He stared at Bard, the delicate features of his face showing absolutely no emotion. Bard realized – consciously, at least, for he had probably already noticed it without paying the slightest attention – that Thranduil was several inches taller than him. Bard himself was rather tall, compared to the Men of the Rhovanion region.
“You are the heir of Girion, direct descendant of the former ruler of Dale. The crown is rightfully yours.”
Bard faced Thranduil, steady on his feet, his fists clenched despite the gashes on his hands. He glared at him, feeling all the animosity he felt for the Elvenking surge to the surface. He was like everyone else. He demanded of Bard what Bard now refused to give.
“I am a bargeman,” Bard growled between his teeth, shooting Thranduil a black look.
Thranduil smirked.
“You were a bargeman, Bard. You are so much more than that now. You are a bowman, you are a Dragon Slayer…”
“Stop calling me that, I do not…”
“You are a warrior, you are a leader, you are the rising king of the city of Dale,” Thranduil cut in, his gaze relentlessly searching Bard’s, erasing the distance that existed between them with a single step.
“I will not tolerate that you assume what I am in my place!” Bard thundered, stepping forward too, ready to spit in the Elf’s face.
“Embrace your destiny, Aran Nín,” Thranduil retorted, raising his voice. He smiled as if making fun of the person he was speaking to. Bard felt the rage rush through his veins.
“I will not be the king of this fucking city!” he yelled, glaring at the Elvenking.
“Why?” Thranduil replied immediately, asking the question for the third time.
Trapped by someone smarter than him and driven berserk by Thranduil’s attitude towards him, as well as his words, Bard acted on instinct and raised his clenched fist towards the Elf’s face. He tried, at least. Thranduil intercepted his fist with unnatural speed, spread Bard’s fingers without meeting the slightest resistance, and pressed with all his might, this time, into the wound that cut into Bard’s palm. Bard let out a cry of surprise and pain, his eyes locked in the cold, hard gaze of the Elf.
Thranduil pushed Bard back with a simple flick, as if he were just a rag doll. Breathing heavily, Bard did not take time to think, wounded in his pride, mad with anger. He threw himself on the Elvenking again, moved by the irrepressible urge to rain down a shower of blows on that impassive and perfect face. He aimed, however, at the Elf’s chest. Thranduil did not stop him. He did not move an inch as Bard’s fists slammed into him. Bard felt as if he had hit a stone wall head-on. He knocked again, until Thranduil’s hands gripped his arms tightly and pulled him back.
The Elvenking locked his blue-grey eyes into his, his jaw clenched.
“Daro, Bard!” he growled in a deep, threatening voice.
Bard freed himself from Thranduil’s grasp and brushed him away with the flat of his hands – he did not care anymore that his blood stained the Elvenking’s elegant clothes, he could go to…
Bard swore aloud before he could even finish his thought and he turned away, gasping, kicking the first thing in sight – a large piece of wood, a relic of a piece of furniture that once had been useful for someone in Dale and which ended up against a surrounding wall. His fists slammed into the stones of the same wall and he struck with all his might, uttering insults he never thought he could shout in the presence of such a being as the Elvenking.
“Why?” Thranduil insisted once again. He had not moved from his initial spot. “Am man, Bard?”
The urgency of his question mirrored the blind anger Bard poured out on the elements in his path. He finally fell to his knees with his back to the Elvenking, his injured palms on the ground. A lump seemed to block the passage of air in his throat, as if to prevent him from speaking – from crying? When was the last time he allowed himself to shed tears?
Several minutes passed like this, in almost complete silence. The wind still whistled in the void of the ruins of Dale. Snowflakes swirled in the autumn twilight. Thranduil waited, patiently.
Bard closed his eyes, aware for a moment of cold flakes melting into the hot skin of his face.
“Because I feel empty,” he finally confessed, his voice hoarse and broken by trapped sobs.
“Empty…” he repeated, more for himself than for Thranduil.
As he sat up, he caught his breath gradually, concentrating on the air flowing in and out of his lungs. He tucked his legs under his thighs and looked down at his hands, staring blankly at them. The cuts were deeper. They were bleeding openly now.
He felt a hand on his shoulder but he did not move, overcome with despair, as well as shame at his behaviour.
“Quite the contrary, mellon nín. You are not empty. Contemplate the emotions which are fighting inside your heart to come out and be heard. Free them.”
“Mellon nín?” Bard repeated in a distant voice, aware of his bad pronunciation and above all conscious of the softness he had perceived in the Elvenking’s voice when he had uttered these two words.
He did not see the enigmatic smile that flitted across Thranduil’s lips.
He felt the sudden absence of the Elf’s hand on his shoulder and this bemused him.
He heard the sound of a fabric being ripped repeatedly. He did not change his position and he was dumbfounded to see King Thranduil sitting in front of him, on the ground, among the ruins of the sleeping city.
Without a word, the Elf began to clean Bard’s wounds as well as possible, using pieces of cloth he had torn from his own outfit. His bright eyes fixed on his fingers tending to Bard’s hands, Thranduil was patient and skilful, brushing the wounds on the surface to rid them of the dirtiness.
If he had not been so harassed and lost, Bard would have felt a deep humiliation to see this elegant and ancient being behaving like this because of him.
Thranduil ended up using two more shreds of his tunic to make a temporary bandage for each of Bard’s hands. The latter was not surprised to feel the Elvenking’s fingers being light as a feather on his hands, almost airy.
Confused once again, he felt an odd sensation inside his body as King Thranduil’s white hands left his and came to rest on his long legs. The Elf had adopted the same position as him but he stood much straighter.
“That will be enough for now, but we will need to have these hands seen by a healer as soon as we return.”
We...
Bard frowned, puzzled. He knew the Elvenking’s eloquence from having witnessed it many times since they met. Thranduil did not use any random words. He was very thrifty and spoke only when absolutely necessary. What was he trying to do since the beginning of their exchange?
When Bard looked up, he met Thranduil’s grey-blue eyes and he was taken aback by the kindness he saw there, when that same gaze had been ice-cold only minutes before.
“Your anger is legitimate, Bard. Do not try to shut it or ignore it. The outcome could be dramatic.”
Thranduil spoke in a calm tone and Bard was not without noticing his smile, imbued with a deep melancholy.
“Why?”
Bard’s voice sounded raspy. As if he had just been crying for hours without being able to stop.
No doubt he had screamed louder than he had expected.
Thranduil looked at him curiously, inviting him to be more explicit about his questioning.
Bard went on, after trying to clear his throat (he wanted to look away, disconcerted by that almost intrusive look but he could not and he did not know why):
“Why are you here, with me? What do you want from me?”
Thranduil gazed for a moment at the man facing him and he tilted his face slightly. He gave a brief laugh. A sad laugh, Bard thought.
The Elvenking placed his hands over Bard’s, taking care to touch them carefully, avoiding the wounds.
“I have nothing to demand from you, mellon nín. You have already given so much. Far more than one would expect from any creature who lives and breathes within these lands. You have shown exemplary courage and unfailing dedication. It is more than fair that someone returns the favour.”
Thranduil’s words took Bard’s breath away. Did he have the power to read his thoughts, as an Elf?
Some of these words had raced through his tormented mind. He had formulated them in his head, alone with his innermost thoughts.
He probed the gaze of the Elf, lost, prey to a thousand questions. Thranduil smiled soothingly.
“Why you?” Bard asked, no longer able to hide his turmoil.
“Why me?” the king replied in an imperceptibly more casual tone.
“You owe me nothing...” Bard said, maintaining eye contact between them.
He was aware that Thranduil had not yet removed his hands from his.
The Elf watched him for a moment, seemingly thinking about the words he wanted to use.
“I owe you a lot, Bard. Nonetheless, that is not the subject of our discussion tonight. Only you matter for now. Accept it.”
Thranduil marked a voluntary pause. His bright eyes sank deeper into Bard’s, unblinking. Bard did not know where he still got the strength to hold Thranduil’s gaze.
“I am extending a hand to you, mellon nín. Do not see any trick on my part.”
Bard remained silent, etching the Elvenking’s words into his mind.
Despite the chaos raging inside him, Bard became aware of the subtle changes that had taken place over the past few minutes. He focused, in particular, on the appearance of the Elf. His outfit was not very elaborate: sober, in shades of grey and garnet; designed to move with ease, not to show off. The pale grey tunic Thranduil wore under a long crimson cloak was torn above the knees: even in the heat of battle, he had not looked so unkempt.
A hint of guilt weighed on Bard’s heart for a second.
When Thranduil finally released his hands, Bard followed his gesture with his gaze, and then returned his attention to the Elf’s face. He was surprised to notice that something was missing; the king’s head was not crowned. When he was not wearing one of his majestic crowns with a pride he did not hide, Thranduil appeared with a discreet diadem encircling his forehead in order to remind, if necessary, that he was a king to whom the deepest respect was due and no less. Tonight his hair, almost snow-white and twirling around his face, was free of any adornment, just braided in places, loose over his shoulders.
Bard found that thus, stripped of his imposing, almost menacing crown, which deliberately elongated his already very slender figure, Thranduil looked… fragile.
Was the Elf aware that he was showing, at this moment, that part of him that he usually kept hidden behind a condescending smile and an icy stare?
Bard looked into the Elf’s eyes, searching for an answer to this question. Thranduil did not seem the least bit embarrassed to be stared at like that. Instead, he met Bard’s gaze, his chin up, his hands – Bard noticed his blood had stained the Elf’s fingers – gracefully resting on his bent knees.
When he opened his mouth to speak, Bard did not know why the words came out.
“I wish I had not been able to kill the dragon that night...” he breathed, a lump in his stomach at this admission. “I have no right to think like this. However, if it could have avoided the chain of recent events, I would have preferred to perish.”
His eyes remained stuck to those of the Elvenking, who let nothing show. What did he think of this revelation? Had he expected this?
In a strange way, now that the barriers in his mind had given way, Bard felt the urge to tell it all. Then he spoke, in a voice still hoarse, broken by the emotions that were awakening in him. His own heart seemed to beat faster.
“I miss my old life, even though it was far from ideal. I did not want... to be who I am today... I did not want to be the one who slays the dragon, nor the one who goes to bargain with the Dwarves at the gates of Erebor. I did not want any of this.”
The words seemed to come out in a rush, as if someone had to hear them, absolutely, if the only way out of it all was the one he had envisioned earlier tonight.
“I did not want my life to change that much. In spite of that, it happened. I do not know why people expect me to solve every problem. I am not the right person, on the contrary.”
The eyes of the Elf did not leave Bard. Thranduil breathed calmly, seated with his characteristic natural elegance, while Bard felt his breath hitch as he made his terrible declaration, his shoulders hunched as if to disappear under the ruins of Dale.
“Am man, Bard?” Thranduil asked simply.
Frowning, Bard replied honestly.
“I am not the one people see, Thranduil. Do you not understand? I would have let the people of Esgaroth perish under the flames of Smaug in order to…”
“In order to?” Thranduil encouraged him. Did he feel that Bard might not be ready to tell everything?
Bard held his breath, his heart tightening because of the words that were escaping him. They were painful, heavy and violent but he also felt lighter as they flew from his lips to the ears of the Elvenking.
“To be free,” he let out with a sigh. “I… I am selfish, to the point of not even thinking of my own children when my thoughts wander like this…”
Bard suddenly looked away, filled with shame at the mention of his family. To think so was appalling. To hear it was even worse.
He did not see Thranduil frown.
“Selfish?” the Elvenking replied. “You are many things, mellon nín, but selfish is not one of them.”
A silence fell between the Elf and the Man. A comfortable silence, during which both of them seemed to weigh and observe the words exchanged during the previous minutes.
Thranduil resumed their conversation, his facial features relaxed and a mirthless smile on his lips.
“You seem to forget that you have just been through some excruciatingly difficult times, Bard. You could not come out of it all unscathed. You are hurt, and I am not talking about the scars on your body but about the scars inside of you. You are going to have to accept that. You are a living being, you feel things, and you experience joy, sorrow, pain… Currently, mainly negative emotions invade you. They make you too harsh on yourself. You are truly forgetting this: moments of weakness are part of who we are. They are necessary, even if for the moment you do not understand why.”
Bard felt as if he had stopped breathing listening to Thranduil’s words. These words took root deep within him, never to leave him. His eyes were once again in those of the Elvenking. The question “How?” fluttered over his half-open mouth, silently.
“I am six thousand years old, mellon nín.”
Thranduil’s remark made Bard smile in spite of himself (even if the topic of the age of the Elves still made him dizzy): he had understood that the Elvenking was trying, in his own way, to play down the situation.
“A very long time ago, I wish I had heard these words. They would have allowed me to accept some… circumstances with much more serenity and discernment.”
Although these words piqued Bard’s curiosity (at what point in his long existence had the Elvenking failed?), his mind was still far too fragmented and tormented to ask questions about it tonight.
He let a new silence hovering between them, his gaze leaving the Elf to embrace the sky whose shades began to change subtly, in the East. The starlight was becoming more discreet.
“That is not what is expected of me,” he finally said. “That is not the image I should give.”
“No, indeed.”
Thranduil’s answer felt like a dip in icy water. Was he hoping to reassure him with that kind of reply?
“This is not what is expected of those with responsibilities. We are quick to believe that they are a rock, solid and indestructible, and that their emotions are under permanent control. This is why they are warlords, implacable but just sovereigns, and models to respect. It does not matter how they feel, as long as they hold on.”
Bard could tell from the inflection of Thranduil’s voice that he spoke knowingly. It was disarming to realize that this Elvenking, of unparalleled majesty, endowed with a translucent gaze and sharp words, could be, emotionally speaking, so close to him.
“Bard,” Thranduil continued in a slightly more imperious tone, forcing the bowman to shift his gaze from the sky to meet the Elf’s. “It is a mistake to believe that as a sovereign you have to bury your emotions and your feelings. You have every reason in the world to feel angry, hurt and tired. You have the right to experience this shame that grips you at the mere thought of your family and loved ones, whom you could have abandoned to their fate. Why? Because they are just thoughts, natural, uncontrollable but healthy thoughts, mellon nín. These are the thoughts that remind you that you are alive and your heart is beating. Do not push them away. Learn to cope with them and you will see that they will no longer be a burden, over time.”
Bard felt those words echo within him. Was Thranduil aware of the effect his words had on him?
Could he have imagined the outcome, so different, of this night?
Even though his heart remained tight and the knot in his stomach did not disappear, he realized that something else was taking place inside him. Something very subtle, discreet, which made its nest, very slowly. Hope? Relief? The feeling of not being alone anymore…?
“When is this…” Bard whispered, searching for the words deep inside him. “Will it get better one day?”
He did not know what to make of the saddened smile that danced across Thranduil’s closed lips.
“It will always be in you, in your heart, in your thoughts. You cannot get rid of it. However, believe me: it gets easier with time. It is a part of you, which will make you stronger and wiser still and it will become an old friend, who will know how to accompany you when the need arises. This is why accepting it is essential.”
Accepting it.
The idea was puzzling but it was beginning to creep into his broken mind, thanks to the words of the Elvenking.
Bard realized, without knowing why, that the snowflakes had stopped falling. Behind Thranduil’s peaceful face, the sky grew clearer. Then he got up, taking the measure of the fatigue – physical, especially – which weighed on his aching body. He stretched out his arms and leaned on the balustrade that overlooked the view of the Long Lake. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Elf rise in turn and remain motionless at his side, straight and graceful.
The atmosphere between them had changed as this surprising conversation had progressed.
Bard could not deny that the Elvenking had opened his heart to him tonight without restraint, and he suspected that it was not something Thranduil had to do every day. The Elf seemed to have seen in the bowman a mirror image of who he had been, in a more or less distant past, and he seemed to have taken on the responsibility of reaching out to him and helping him to tame the emotions that invaded him.
The question that persisted was “Why?”.
Bard dared to ask, for he needed to understand the Elvenking’s motives.
“Why, Thranduil? Why do you take the time to… listen to me, to talk to me like you just did, to…?”
…take care of me, Bard thought, unable to say it aloud. It was as if, once he released the words, their relationship was destined to take a more intimate, much more personal turn. Was it not already the case, since tonight?
Bard turned his head towards Thranduil and he was struck by the smile the Elf gave him: an open, sincere smile that almost made his bright eyes gleam. He had never seen such a smile upon his face.
“I have plenty of time, mellon nín.” His smile even stood out in the modulations of his voice.
Bard raised an eyebrow at the Elvenking, falsely impressed by this unnecessary reminder of their obvious age difference and the time each had in this existence.
“In a more serious way,” Thranduil continued. “I do not know.”
Those four words surprised Bard, whose eyes widened. Was this Elvenking then able to express doubts? Did he not possess all the knowledge and wisdom of this world?
And, more importantly, had he just acknowledged it out loud?
“I saw you, Bard. I have seen your courage, your determination, your strength. I have also seen your distress, your flaws and your loneliness. Once again: I do not know why, but it touched me. Is it because we are destined to be neighbouring sovereigns, and I hope to see us have a good relationship in the years to come? Is it because I saw myself in you, at a time of my existence when I would have liked, with all my being, to be guided and helped because I was extremely alone? Is it because your race makes me more and more curious as I discover the tenacity you display, when your presence on the timeline is so fragile and so short? Is it because I am looking for excuses, because you are my complete opposite, when I see you hugging your children and kissing them as if nothing else matters, except their presence, their laughter and their warmth? A bit of all of that combined, I suppose.”
Bard remained speechless. Such a statement made his head spin. This moment between the Elvenking and him was definitely taking a turn he could never have imagined. Still, it all felt natural. As if it had been written somewhere that Thranduil, the lonely king, would come to his aid. As if their presence, in these places imbued with memories, at this very moment, had not been the result of chance.
The Man and the Elf remained side by side as, to their left, the first rays of the sun pierced a thin layer of clouds that dispersed lazily. The Long Lake seemed to burst into flames, suddenly tinged with warm colours, while its surface contrasted with the black reliefs of the charred ruins of Esgaroth.
Bard took a deep breath, as if the new day might smell different, enjoying the cool air filling his lungs for the first time since the beginning of his nightly trip. He turned his face to Thranduil, to his right. The Elf had closed his eyes, as if he was savouring the sunbeams warming his skin. It was fascinating to observe this perfect face, with fine and delicate features, depending on the light that illuminated it – the light of the diurnal star did it as much justice as the light of the Moon.
“We need to go. People are going to start waking up,” Bard said quietly, as if not to disturb Thranduil.
He tore himself away from the vision of the sun on the lake, aware, with a pang of regret that honestly amazed him, that this secret moment he shared with the Elvenking was ending. He faced Thranduil and met his bright eyes. As usual, Thranduil stared at him in silence and Bard wondered, once again, what was going through the Elf’s mind.
Each stood straight, facing the other, seeming to think about the right words to say, without daring to do so, for fear of breaking the fragile balance of the relationship they had started to build.
Bard thought of a thread connecting him to the Elf from that moment on. A single thread, of a shimmering colour, which he could find in the dark because Thranduil was the only one who had perceived what had escaped the others.
He had discerned the cracks in Bard’s shell despite Bard’s immense efforts to stay strong.
He had heard the silent screams and he had seen his shredding heart.
Tonight, he had been his equal, and he had spoken truthful words to him, from one living being to another. There had been no king, no warrior on either side. An Elf and a Man, nothing more.
Bard had yet to realize how hard it would be to accept Thranduil’s presence in his life in this way. He knew it was necessary because he was desperate for someone to see him, hear him, and hold his hand.
In the past few months, when everything had dashed, when his life had crumbled to pieces and he had felt completely helpless in the face of too many and brutal changes, he had had this urge – this vital and relentless need – for someone to pick him up and hug him and whisper to him that everything would be better, soon.
Being a hero in the eyes of some, a man, an adult, did not prevent him from feeling vulnerable and wanting to feel safe. Quite the contrary.
However, who would even guess he needed a simple hug to keep his feet on the ground and his chaotic thoughts in place?
While thinking about it (and that rekindled a well-known pain in his heart), Bard did not notice the sad look that crossed Thranduil’s face.
He suddenly felt two arms close around him in a soft embrace.
One hand in his brown curls and the other behind his back, Thranduil hugged Bard without a word.
At first disoriented and, above all, very embarrassed by such an intimate contact between them, Bard finally let go and relaxed in the arms of the Elf.
It was exactly what he needed right now.
It did not matter to him that Thranduil was able to read his thoughts...
Not knowing what to do with his clumsy hands and dangling arms, Bard hugged the Elvenking around the waist, with restraint.
His face buried in Thranduil’s pale, graceful neck, Bard was amazed at the scents that reached his nose. The Elvenking smelled of trees, the forest and the dry cold of winter. This odour was not without reminding him of his solitary trips aboard his boat, on the river, in the heart of the cold season. He missed those times so much...
The Elf and the Man remained thus for long minutes, in silence, bathed in the light of dawn.
Thranduil only broke the embrace when Bard made the decision to step back, pulling his face away from the Elf’s shoulder and removing his hands from his waist.
When their eyes met, Bard was the first surprised to feel the hint of a smile on his own face.
“Shall we go?” Thranduil said, leading the way back to Dale’s fortress.
Then, docilely, Bard followed him, well aware that his smile had not faded.