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“Percy!”
“Aye, Bard!”
Bard looked around as the people made their way into Dale, nothing but a ghost of its former glory. “Find Gerard and Tom, meet me by the front gates. We’ll go back to Laketown, pick up what resource we can find.”
Good ol’ Percy was happy to oblige and didn’t question him. “Of course, Bard.” He gave Bard a pat on the shoulder and went to find the other two.
Bard addressed the rest of the people. “Make for the Great Hall, we’ll shelter there for the time being. Find what food and water we can. The women, the children, and the wounded come first.” The people all nodded and made their way to the large building, dragging what meager belongings they had, what animals they could rescue were tied to broken fences and old posts until a more suitable area could be found for them.
Bard went to help two men who were unloading a rickety wagon pulled by a small donkey. The firewood that had been gathered would be put to good use tonight. He took the donkey’s lead and led it and the empty wagon to the front gates where Percy, Gerard, and Tom waited.
“It shouldn’t take us more than an hour to get there.” He said gravely, “We’ll be back by noon. There ought not to be that much left to save. What dry wood we can find will be as good as a blanket. Let’s not waste time.”
“Might catch us some fish while we’re at it.” Gerard mumbled, “Salvage some weapons. Might not be good for defense but still good for hunting. Although Dale’s weaponry may not have been raided by bandits yet, I wouldn’t get my hopes up though.”
“True that.” Tom nodded, “Tyrr rescued some of our hounds too, there’s got to be some deer and rabbits in the area.”
Percy chuckled dryly, “Might find a hen or two, if we’re lucky. Perhaps the coop didn’t burn down entirely.”
Bard listened to them chatter behind him, not really feeling like joining in. The wheels of the old wagon creaked as they rolled down the hill. Poor little donkey, the thing had barely gotten any rest. Good thing donkeys were made tough. He patted its neck distractedly as Laketown came into view. If he had more options he’d rather not return there. Unfortunately, as the saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers.
The donkey gave a nervous bray as they stopped at the shore of the lake, no doubt being able to smell dragon and charred wood. Bard tied its lead to a small tree growing on the lake-shore and removed its harness. He pulled the wagon closer to the water.
Bard turned to the other three, “Well, let’s go.” He made his way to one of the many boats that had been abandoned at the lake.
In just a few minutes they found themselves tying off the boat on a surprisingly intact deck. “What do we look for, Bard?” Tom asked.
“Anything that may be of use to us.” Bard answered. “If you need help whistle. I’ll call us over when it’s time to leave.”
With that they all set out to search for what they can. Bard made his way over some rickety planks, he was kind of surprised that this place hadn’t fallen apart after the fire. He could see the tall hump of Smaug’s chest a couple of houses away and the large wings blanketing several houses each.
“Oi, Gerard!” He heard Tom’s voice, “Come give me a hand! I think I found a goat!”
Bard shook his head. A goat? How on earth had it survived? Poor thing must be terrified.
A metallic glint under a pile of broken and burnt wood caught his eye. He hoped it was a weapon of some sort or an axe, an axe would be more than useful right now. He carefully climbed the planks until he was a little above eye level with the glint.
He really should have figured that old, partially rotten, slightly burnt wood wouldn’t hold his weight. As he reached between two long planks to feel if the metal was bent or damaged the piece of wood he’d chosen as a footrest gave away. He pitched forward and his arm sunk under the wood. Thankfully his knee came to rest on yet another piece of wood. He hissed at the sharp sting of pain as he pulled his arm back.
A long diagonal tear now resided on his coat’s left sleeve just over his biceps. He cursed slightly as he climbed off the wood pile. Taking off his coat and rolling up his shirt sleeve, he was relieved to see that the actual cut wasn’t as long as the tear, just two or three inches long. It wasn’t a clean cut though, it would definitely scar and his shirt would probably stain permanently.
He tore off a long strip from his shirt and tied it over the cut before it bled too much. He tightened the knot with his teeth and grimaced at the taste of the filthy fabric, the flavor of sweat, soot, and whatever grime had been picked up along the way not being too pleasant.
He tugged on his coat and made his way up the pile again, this time with much more caution. He pushed away pieces of wood and tid-bits of rusted metal until the ever persistent glint was revealed. It wasn’t an axe, or a sword, or the smith’s hammer, rather it was some type of silver brooch or elaborate coin. What surprised him most was that it was imbedded between two large scales, each larger than his hand. One of the scales shined with a wash of his blood.
He climbed off of the pile and walked around it until he could clearly see where it came to cover a part of Smaug’s tail. It had been difficult to see in the dark of the night and in the panic of the moment but now Bard could clearly see the hundreds of bits of precious metal and gems that littered the drake’s underbelly.
His wound stung again almost as if caused by the sight of the beast. Bard looked away from the dead creature and made for the slightly more intact part of town. He picked up several blankets that weren’t too damaged. He found some rope, and a few knives, and some shirts of different sizes. With his hands full he made his way back over to the boat.
He set down his load and looked up to judge the sun’s position, it was a couple of hours before noon. There were two small goats standing idly at the deck by the boat. He knelt by them and looked them over, one had a partly healed cut running down its side and the other’s ear was half charred off, but they were for the most part alright. He stood straight and gave a sharp whistle, the animals barely reacted.
It didn’t take long before he saw Percy walking his way over with a large pile of wood in his arms. Then Tom and Gerard arrived, Tom had several rolled up sleeping bags under his arm and was resting the end of a long pole of wood over his left shoulder. Gerard held the other end of the pole and had several more sleeping bags under his other arm. Tied up on the pole were a net full of fish and a blue sheet of fabric that had probably been a curtain. Something was moving inside.
“Turns out,” Tom began cheerfully, “Tyrr’s coop did in fact have some chickens left.”
“And a chook too.” Gerard added. “There was a fishing net left at the docks.” The number of fish in the net wasn’t nearly enough to be half of a full catch, most of them must have wiggled out when the dragon had attacked, and the rest must’ve died trying to escape.
Bard brightened up a little, “It seems we’ll have to make two trips.”
It did actually take two trips to get everything across. Gerard, Tom, and Percy went first with the wood, sleeping, bags, blankets, ropes, and fish, leaving Bard with the goats and blanket of hens (and chook).
Percy came back while the others harnessed the donkey and loaded the wagon. The hens clucked nervously as the boat rocked. They quieted down though as the blanket was set on top of the pile of other blankets in the wagon. They tied the goats to the wagon with the ropes they found. The fish they set on top of the wood pile.
They trekked slowly up the hills back to Dale. This time Percy kept hold of the donkey’s lead while Bard and Gerard walked behind the wagon, occasionally giving it a push when the hill became too steep. Tom hung at the back holding the ropes of the two goats. They had untied them from the wagon when they started pulling back and stopping to graze. Bard didn’t want to stop until they had reached at least the top of the hill.
They stopped to rest at the top of the hill. Tom still held the goats’ ropes as they grazed the nearby grass and the donkey grazed some too, it seemed to be a blissful respite. The grass was tall and drying, left over from the summer and the autumn showers, now dry and yellow.
“What are you doing, Gerard?” Percy chuckled.
Gerard was bent over collecting handfuls of grass and tucking them in a net that they had found. “The other animals we brought over will need to eat too. Until we’re settled enough to have someone consistently bring them here to graze. Not to mention that winter is upon us, we best stock up.”
“Gerard and I can come back here tomorrow and gather some hay, good thing all the grass has dried up, it might last if we ration it.” Tom voiced.
Gerard tied up his haynet and tossed it over the wood. There was enough hay to feed the goats, donkey, and three pigs they had back in Dale for about a week, if someone came back and collected a good few wagon-fulls of haynets they may have enough for most of the winter. Bard nodded to their idea, this was good, if they could store up enough for the animals then if worse came to worst they’d have a lifeline for the winter.
“We must go now.” Bard said, “It’s nearly noon and the villagers are starving.”
On the way down to Dale, they had to hold the wagon back slightly to keep it from pushing the donkey down the hill.
…
“Oh, you lot are a Godsend!” Hilda, a lovely friend of just about everyone, exclaimed, “Thank you!” She said as she picked up several blankets and moved to distribute them.
“Get a fire going.” Bard said to Percy, “We’ll cook the fish now. It’ll last us until tomorrow. We can get more then.”
Percy took an armful of wood and others came around to help. Bard brought over the net of fish with the help of several others, it might not be a full catch but it was definitely enough for everyone there.
Gerard and Tom gathered the animals, the ones they brought in this morning and the ones they rescued just then, and herded them to a walled of court yard they had found. The hens and chook were left there too until further notice.
Laketown had never been a big town, however the amount of people that had survived was miserable. There was probably barely a hundred adult men and women and thirty or so children, probably less. If the kids ate a-fish-per-pair and each adult ate one there may be enough for everyone, but just to be sure Bard once again said what seemed to become a mantra, “The women, the children, and the wounded first.”
“Da!” Bard turned to be greeted by an armful of Tilda. He picked her up in a tight hug.
“Hello, darlin’.” He mumbled softly.
“You were gone a long time.” She said accusingly as he set her down.
“It was just a few hours, darlin’. I’ve been gone longer.” He chuckled, “I might have to go again tomorrow.”
“I don’t want you to go, da.”
He smiled at her, “And I don’t want you to ever go hungry.” He knelt down to her small hand in his, “For that to be the case somebody has to get food.”
“Can’t somebody else go?” Tilda asked pleadingly.
“Perhaps, if nobody is too tired.” Bard said, “I’ll ask.”
Tilda hugged him again as Sigrid came into view, “Da, I heard you were back. How are you?” She asked.
“As well as I could be.” He wrapped her up in a hug too. “What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been helping Hilda with the injured.” Sigrid said with a happy look, always glad to be of help.
“That’s good, darlin’. I’m proud of you.” He stroked her cheek as her eyes narrowed on his sleeve.
“What happened?” Sigrid seemed concerned, “How did you tear it?” She traced a finger along the tear. “Did one of the animals have a go at you? Hilda said you lot came back with a couple of goats.”
“Some wood broke under my foot. Nothing you should worry yourself over, sweetheart.” Bard smiled.
“Whatever you say, da. Just be sure to hand it over to me so I can fix it.” She smiled, “I managed to save several lots of string and some needles I figured we’d need them.”
“That’s my girl.” Bard said, “Where’s Bain?”
“He’s been helping Tyrr and Tevv build a proper pen for the animals!” Tilda said excitedly, “Come see!” Tilda pulled him away.
“I’ll see you again later, darlin’.” Bard said to Sigrid and she waved to him as Tilda pulled him out of the building.
…
Near the end of the day the animal pen was mostly built and Bain was very proud of himself. The fish had been eaten but some were still hungry, not as much as before though which was good. Almost everyone had some type of cover, though some had to share. All in all, everyone was exhausted.
“Sire! Sire!” Alfrid’s voice reached Bard from one of the watch towers. “Come and see this!”
Bard hurried up the stairs for as much as he disliked Alfrid this sounded urgent. He came to stand by the sleazy man.
“Look, Sire!” Alfrid pointed towards Erebor, “The braziers are lit!”
Bard sighed slightly, “So the company of Thorin Oakenshield survived.” He muttered.
“What?” Alfrid looked as though he’d just discovered something scandalous, “You mean there’s a bunch of dwarves in there with all that gold?”
“We take and need only what was promised to us, Alfrid.” Bard said as he began to make his way back down, “We need money for resource, not accursed treasure.” Alfrid seemed as though he wanted to argue more but remained silent, “You can take first watch.”
“Yes, Sire.” Alfrid grouched.
Bard made his way through the hall, counting heads and making sure that everyone did indeed have some sort of cover. He found his children huddled together under a blanket, with Bain and Sigrid sleeping on either side of Tilda, one of Tevv’s hounds was cuddled up next to Bain. Bard smiled fondly at the sight and moved to raise the blanket so it covered Sigrid and Bain’s shoulders. Tevv’s hound raised its head curiously but laid back down after a moment, going back to sleep with little effort.
Bard, thankfully, didn’t need a blanket, his coat was enough. He sat in the corner of one of the rooms, in the moonlight that seeped from one of the windows. He pulled his left arm out of his coat and looked at his make shift bandage, the cut throbbed constantly throughout the day although the pain wasn’t unbearable, just enough to remind him that it was there. He pulled out a roll of proper bandages that he had picked up along the way and slowly undid the soiled piece of fabric and winced slightly as it pulled at the newly forming scab.
He tore off some of the bandage and pulled out a rather small waterskin, soaking the bandage. He dabbed at the wound, trying to remove all of the dried blood surrounding the cut. He scrubbed harder when several spots refused to come out. He stopped as the wound began to throb again. He dropped the bandages and looked closer at the skin surrounding the cut. He traced the darker spots. They were hard and rough.
Like scales.
Bard scoffed. That’s impossible. He wrapped up the wound with clean bandages and pulled his coat on again. He stared out the window at the surprisingly cloudless skies and slowly drifted to sleep.
…
A sharp throb of pain shocked him awake and Bard jerked as he realized that he’d come to lain against the wall with his bad arm. He leaned back against the cool stone until the pain subsided. He covered a yawn with his hand and raised himself to his feet.
It was early, just before dawn, and everyone was still asleep. He paced through the rooms, checking up on everyone. He idly rubbed a hand over his wound, feeling like he was a child with a bruise that he couldn’t resist to poke.
He found himself observing the scenery as the Sun peeked over the horizon. His throat felt dry and scratchy, that wasn’t good. Now was not the time to get sick. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit.
Bard made his way to the entrance of the hall, “Morning Alfrid,” Bard greeted, “What news from the nightwatch.” Bard knew very well that the weasel of a man had been sleeping the whole night, it was a very Alfrid thing to do.
“All quiet, Sire.” Alfrid yawned, “Not much to report. Nothing gets past me.” Alfrid stood as Bard passed him.
Bard froze at the entrance. “Except an army of elves it would seem.” He muttered. He wasn’t ready to deal with this.
He walked down the steps slowly and approached the neat lines of soldiers, hoping to ask somebody for an explanation. He approached one of the elves and they parted, making a path for him and he froze again. Alright-y then. He cleared his throat again and stepped between the soldiers, hearing them fall back into place as he passed each row.
He finally exited the rows of soldiers only to see the hundreds of elves that littered the streets of Dale. He felt a headache coming forth. The rhythmic clip-clop of hooves caught his attention just as a party rode into the square and the soldiers turned to face them, a party led by none other than King Thranduil himself.
Bard barely kept his mouth from falling open as the Elvenking trotted over on his absolutely enormous elk. He collected himself enough to actually address the elf, “King Thranduil.” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as scratchy as it felt, “We did not look to see you here.” He tried to clear his throat, yet again, as quietly as possible. He either succeeded or Thranduil had ignored his discomfort.
“I heard you needed aid.” The fair elf said as he looked down the street.
Four large, harnessed horses walked into the square. Behind them was a wagon full of food. Bard was confused for a moment. What would a salad do to feed over a hundred hungry mouths? That was until he saw the bags of potatoes, carrots, flour, grain, and seeds beneath the greenery, and there were more wagons coming down the street. He looked up at Thranduil as the recently awakened men and women quickly gathered around the wagons and began to pass out food.
“You have saved us.” He rasped, “I do not know how to thank you.”
Thranduil settled his cool gaze on Bard, “Your gratitude is misplaced.” He spoke smoothly, “I came to reclaim something of mine.”
Bard’s grateful smile slipped away. He was about to question the elf when a coughing fit overcame him. He felt as though he were coughing his lungs out, truly.
“You are ill.” Thranduil stated. He sounded curious.
Bard took a couple of deep breaths, “I’ve had worse.” He muttered.
“Is this normal?” Thranduil asked.
“Is what normal? Getting sick or feeling like you’re coughing your lungs out?”
“Could that happen?” Thranduil asked again.
“Pardon?”
“Coughing your lungs out?” Thranduil said, “Is that a possibility?”
Bard almost laughed, the elf was actually worried about that. “That’s just a figure of speech, Your Highness. It just exaggerates a description of the feeling of a scratchy cough.” Bard cleared his throat… Yet again.
“You need medical attention.” Thranduil stated.
“Others need it more than me.” Bard was quick to answer.
Thranduil raised a brow, “You are ill, you sound very ill.”
“Nothing a warm cup of tea and a good night’s rest won’t fix.” Bard waved off the concern, or at least what sounded like concern.
“I do not see you getting a ‘good night’s rest’ anywhere in the foreseeable future.” Thranduil stated, “Besides, you are their King, a leader gets healed first so he may then tend to the rest.”
Bard paused, “I’m sorry, I am their what?”
“Their King.”
“I am not a King.”
“Oh, but you are.”
“But I am not.”
“You are Girion’s descendant.” Solid statement, no question. “You are the rightful King.”
Bard looked up at the elf for a few moments, “I am not a King.”
Thranduil didn’t seem phased with Bard’s stubbornness, “They have chosen you for a King. You cannot change their minds.”
“I did not choose that.”
“Often times a King finds himself without a choice.”
Bard stared at the elf for a long moment, “Alright, let’s say that I am a King. So what?”
“So you get medical attention.”
The elf was still on about that. “How about instead of medicine you give me some answers? Then you will have given me something to ease my wellbeing.”
“My answers will ease your wellbeing?”
“So to speak.”
Thranduil considered him for a moment and looked him over, “Answers and better clothes and you have a deal.” If the human wished to suffer with his illness then so be it. He tried being nice.
Bard didn’t want new clothes but if it would get the elf to leave him alone then fine, “You have a deal.”
Thranduil smirked, “Very well. Do follow me.” He turned around still on that damned elk and rode off at a slow walk and Bard trailed behind him.
He found himself staring in slight disbelief at the large tent that had been set up there. Thranduil dismounted and his steed was led away by another elf. Several others swarmed around him and in barely any time the King had been freed of his armour and padding and left in a smooth tunic, trousers, and boots, before he was brought his coat and shroud. He murmured something to one of the passing elves before looking at Bard, “Come inside.”
After a moment of hesitation Bard ducked inside the tent after Thranduil. He gaped at the interior. Each individual piece of furniture (especially Thranduil’s rather unnecessarily lavish chair) seemed more expensive than his old house and all of his belonging combined.
“Now,” Thranduil said as he lounged back in his lavish chair. “What are your questions?”
Bard thought for a moment before speaking, “What is it that you seek in the mountain?”
Thranduil’s gaze hardened for a moment, “You desire the gold that Oakenshield promised you.” He said, “I desire the gems his grandfather stole from me.”
“You would go to war over a handful of gems?” To Bard that seemed ridiculous.
Thranduil’s eyes idly avoided his, “The heirlooms of my people are not easily forsaken.”
“Then let me speak to Oakenshield.” Bard offered, “My people also have claim upon the riches of the mountain.”
“You would attempt to reason with a dwarf?” Thranduil scoffed.
“To prevent war?” Bard said, “Yes.”
“I admire your determination.” Thranduil said, “Fruitless though it may be.”
Bard felt a sudden and rather irrational bout of annoyance spark in him; it was gone in an instant. What on earth? His shoulder throbbed again. He attempted to distract himself from the pain by talking more, “How did Thror steal the gems from you?”
Thranduil hummed to himself for a moment as he mulled over the wording of his answer, “It wasn’t theft per say.” He began slowly, “Though it was no doubt an act of dishonesty. I had requested that the dwarves make a necklace of the gems, in memory of my late wife. They demanded a high price and a high price was paid the very same day.” He toyed with one of his intricate rings, “That had been barely a week before they’d discovered the Arkenstone. I returned to pay tribute and to retrieve the necklace which they’d proudly presented. It was beautiful.” Thranduil sighed, “They slammed the chest shut and refused to give it to me. Thror demanded a price much greater than what had originally been paid. At that point the Arkenstone had muddled his brain, he’d become hungry for gold and riches, he was bleeding the mountain dry and only wished for more. I refused and demanded what was rightfully mine. I did not get it.” His eyes hardened, “But this time I will. The last memory of my wife lies in that forsaken cavern and I’ll be damned if I let that miserable dwarf get in my way.”
Bard really did not wish to ever be on Thranduil’s bad side.
“So tell me, King…”
“Bard… And I am not a King.”
“King Bard, why do you refuse medical attention?”
Bard sighed but that only irritated his throat more, “Coughs are common around this time of the year. I’ve had them before. It’ll go away eventually.”
...
It didn’t go away. Bard drank lots of tea thanks to the herbs the elves had brought. He was also pretty sure that they slipped him some medicine anyways.
He got up from his corner that had become his sleeping place as a coughing fit overcame him. He covered his mouth with his hand as he made his way out, he didn’t wish to wake anyone up.
As he made his way through Dale’s streets he was sure that the elves noticed him but it didn’t seem as though they were about to stop him. He stumbled, occasionally stopping to support himself against a building. The throbbing pain had spread from his arm to most of his body. His fingers felt as though somebody was trying to tear them off and his skin felt as though it was being torn to shreds.
He gasped in pain as his chest burned. Everything was too hot. He felt as though he was suffocating amidst the tall, crumbling buildings. The ruined back gate of Dale hung open further down the streets. Bard’s feet carried him towards the gate as if without command, he needed an escape.
He almost collapsed as he stepped out, his feet continuing to move him towards the treeline barely ten yards away but to him it felt like miles. He leaned against trees, nearly toppling over as his skin began to burn. It was too hot! He pulled off the nice blue coat Thranduil had given him, it had been a comforting warmth when he’d first put it on but now it was overbearing. He pulled his shirt off as well as his body ached as well. It was almost as though he was steaming.
The rough scale-like patches had spread from his arm to his chest and running down his torso and his other arm. He pulled off his pants as they ran under his waistline, gasping in pain as he collapsed to his knees. He clawed over his skin as the pain spread as though he’d be able to physically remove the pain.
He hissed as a sharper pinch of pain sparked over his chest as his hand ran over it. He pulled his hand away and gasped at the blood that shone on his nails, his nails that had lengthened and pointed in claws. He felt like shouting in terror but as he heaved for breath he began to cough again. He covered his mouth with his clean hand and bent over in half as his chest burned. Bard pulled his hand away and froze, shaking as he looked over his palm. It was covered in a black substance, like soot mixed with his saliva.
His breath quickened but he could barely breathe. His eyes wildly shot over and between the trees as though he’d be able to find the cause of his suffering. His lack of explanation or understanding channeled a deep fear in him and the more afraid he grew the more frustrated he became. What is this? What is happening? Everything was fine just a day before!
His frustration built and built like a dam waiting to burst. Was he dying? What about his children? What about his people?
He leaned back on his heels and gave a soundless cry of pain as his body seemed to be pulled in all directions at once. His vision clouded over with fire and smoke. His hands came up to cover his face as the pain pulled at his bones. He felt more than heard his bones cracking, shifting under his skin, like frenzied percussion in a symphony of aches and throbs.
Then, as surprisingly as it had arrived the pain was gone, any aches left in his muscles were due to him still being tense, awaiting more pain to come. His chest no longer burned and his throat felt as though he’d never been sick. His fingers felt as though they were bent at an odd angle, except his thumb and index fingers and even they felt odd, but there was no pain or was it uncomfortable.
Bard groaned, though it felt deeper than it usually did. He raised an arm to lean against a tree and help himself up. He was startled to feel and hear the tree creak as weight was put on it. His eyes snapped open in alarm.
Instead of his hand on the trunk there were two large, sharp claws digging into the bark, the other three fingers bent in the opposite direction and seemed to be covered in dark leather. He stepped back in surprise only to feel another part of him hit a tree, a part that he probably shouldn’t have. His head snapped around to look behind him.
A set of spines ran down his spine, elongating towards his mid-back and shortening down his tail only to lengthen a bit again towards the tip. His very scaly tail that wrapped around a tree and was attached to him.
He then realized how far back his head had turned and that it should be impossible. He raised a hand-paw-claw and carefully traced it down his neck. His rather long neck, thankfully not as long as it could be. The scales on his chest were slightly lighter than the rest of his body.
He ran a hand-claw over his head as the situation dawned on him, then hissed as he accidentally pulled his head back as his claw got caught on something. He traced the thing, realizing that it protruded from his own head. He had horns, slightly curved and pointing backwards, they weren’t very long. He ran his paw down his cheek or rather his jawbone and felt a set of spines extending from the back of his jaw.
He looked down at the ground and saw the clothes Thranduil had given him. His underwear was absolutely ruined but thankfully he had taken off the shirt, pants, and coat. He’d feel horrible if he ruined the garments Thranduil had so generously given him. He scooped them up with his teeth, careful not to damage them, he figured his teeth were also changed to fit his physique.
He couldn’t go back. Not as a- Not like this, in this state. The smell of charred wood still carried from Laketown and he followed it. The further he went from Dale the more relaxed he grew. It felt odd, moving in this form. It was as though he were crawling, except he wasn't on his knees, it was also strange to have his legs being shorter than his arms. Not to mention his fingers were about as long as his body. That and he had a tail. The tail was perhaps the most baffling thing to him.
The moon was still high in the sky when he reached the lake. The shore still littered with fragments of wood and shredded fabric from makeshift tents. He startled slightly as something cracked under his feet. A boat, a now very broken boat. He made sure to watch where he stepped this time as he moved closer to the water. He could feel his tail dragging along the rocky shore and could only image the kind of trail that left. He dropped the clothes a couple of feet from the water’s edge.
He looked at the surface of the water. The first sight that greeted him were a set of startling green eyes. His eyes but brighter… and slitted. Next were his horns, not too long and not too curved. Then his neck, significantly shorter than Smaug’s in proportion to his body and thicker. He tried his best to shift his tail hoping to bring it up in the air to view next to him. He only succeeded in flopping it in the water. He made a displeased sound as water splashed in his face.
He couldn’t stay like this. He didn’t wish to be like this. He is a man… or at least he was a man. Now he didn’t know what he was. He didn’t want to acknowledge what he was.
He sat down and looked up at the stars. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to be back the way he was before. He wanted to go back to his children. He closed his eyes and imagined what it’d be like if he went back in this form. He imagined their terrified looks and the villagers pulling them away from him, away from danger. Bard felt like crying, he hadn’t cried in a good number of years. He felt like raging, wreaking havoc and freeing his frustration.
An itch found its way somewhere near the back of his throat. He rumbled and growled trying to relieve the irritation. He coughed and a plume of smoke burst from his mouth. He breathed deeply a couple of times, each breath growing hotter and hotter. Then he felt something open up, down near where his neck connected to his body and as he released the breath he’d inhaled instead of smoke a bright flame shot out, illuminating the river for the whole of five seconds.
Bard’s mind shot back to when Smaug had first rained fire on Laketown. He jerked back trying to get away from himself. No, no, no. He didn’t want this! He wanted to be back the way he was!
Pain spread through his body for the second time that night. His bones cracked and shifted. His skin burned and ached. He gave a soundless cry of pain.
He opened his eyes again to find himself lying on the ground, no scales and no tail. His fingers were back to normal, his neck was short again, he had no horns, and his teeth were back to normal. If he hadn’t been naked and freezing in front of the Lake he’d have assumed that this had all been a dream.
He quickly pulled on his clothes, unfortunately with no underwear but he could nick some from the clothing line in the hall. Hilda and some others had gone through the salvaged pile of clothes and washed what they could, he could grab some undergarments there.
He began to walk back to Dale, deciding to try and not think about what happened, he didn’t want to trigger another transformation. He would be able to though, wouldn’t he? He could change at will. Somehow while it terrified him it also brought a sense of safety, knowing that he’d be able to protect the villagers if it ever came to it.
Just past the back gate of Dale he was stopped by Thranduil.
“Where have you been, King Bard?” Thranduil asked.
“Please, just call me Bard,” The man said, “And I just went for a walk. I couldn’t sleep.”
Thranduil gave him a once over, “You sound better.”
Bard forced a smile, “I told you it would go away with a nice cup of tea.”
“No need for a good night’s rest then?” Thranduil smirked as the two began to walk back to the center of town.
“Apparently not,” Bard said, “What of you, Your Highness? Could you not sleep either?”
Thranduil shook his head, “Elves do not sleep.”
Bard chuckled, “Is that why you always look so grumpy?”
“Pardon me?” Thranduil raised a questioning eyebrow at Bard.
The man was quick to correct himself, “Apologies, Your Majesty, I was too forward.”
A rare smile tugged at the edge of Thranduil’s lip, “Do not worry yourself. It’s been a long time since someone has jested with me in such a manner. Do refer to me as Thranduil, we are equals now.”
Bard would’ve protested but decided against it, “Very well, Thranduil.” He had said the name and heard it being said a number of times in the past but had never said it in such an informal manner.
Thranduil, similar to Bard, had rarely been referred to so casually and it was a welcomed respite from the regalities and formalities of Kingship. “So tell me, Bard,” Thranduil began as he sat down in his chair watching the other settle across from him, “Where did your midnight stroll lead you?”
Bard shrugged, “Just up the hill and back.” He said as he toyed with an apple from the fruit bowl on the table.
“You brought no weapon with you.” Thranduil stated, “The woods in these parts have grown dangerous.”
“I know.” Bard said, “I’ve spent much time on the outskirts of your woods.”
“So it seems.” Thranduil murmured.
They basked in a companionable silence for several long minutes before Bard spoke again, “Do you have children?”
Thranduil seemed startled at the question, “Yes.” He said slowly, “May I ask why?”
Bard shook his head with a dry chuckle, “It’s just that you mentioned that you had a wife.” He explained, “So I wondered.”
Thranduil was nodding slowly while Bard spoke, “I have a son.” He said after a moment.
“Single child.”
Thranduil nodded again, “The opportunity for more didn’t come in time.” He gave a rueful smile.
Bard frowned, “I wondered if you had any children because I saw an elf bearing a striking resemblance to you.” He said, “I figured he must have been a close friend at least.”
Thranduil seemed to perk up at that, “Where did he go?” Bard seemed confused, “The elf you saw, my son, Legolas.”
“He rode off with a redheaded elf,” Bard recalled, “They went in the opposite direction than we did.” Thranduil frowned deeply, “Was he not meant to?”
“No.” Thranduil murmured, “The redheaded elf, Tauriel, she is- was my Captain of the guard. She disobeyed direct order, so I banished her. Legolas went after her and I sent an elf to bring him back. I was told that he left with her.”
Bard listened closely, “Do you not get along?”
“Our relationship has been… strained for the past few years.” Thranduil said.
Bard nodded in understanding, “It happens to everyone.” He said.
Thranduil tilted his head in question, “Happens?”
Bard smiled tightly, “Every child, when they near adulthood, goes through a stage of rebellion.” He chuckled, “They push the boundaries a parent sets, trying to see just how much they can get away with, even if they don’t realize it. Some kids simply cross the boundaries without a second thought. I do believe your son may be of the second kind.”
“Perhaps.” Thranduil did not seem overly happy at the thought of his son’s actions and Bard didn’t blame him.
“I wouldn’t worry.” Bard assured him, “This is a point in their lives where they realize that they can fend for themselves. However that doesn’t mean that they don’t still need support.” Bard gave a proper smile this time, “Your son will be fine. He’ll come around.”
Thranduil smirked though a hint of a smile could be seen there, “I am going to have to take your word for it.”
…
It was a couple of hours before noon when Bard rode into Dale on the back of a gorgeous white horse. He was near shaking with fury, he had never felt such unadulterated rage. It had taken no more than a minute of negotiation before he felt like singeing the dwarf’s mangy beard off. Now Bard was a kind man, he was selfless, and he was polite but ever since that episode the previous night any negative emotion seemed to have a doubled effect on him.
He felt only a little smug when he remembered the claw marks he left on their ‘wall’ when he hit it in frustration. He almost wished to transform right then and there but refrained. That wouldn’t end well for anyone.
“I assume you were unsuccessful.” He heard Thranduil’s voice from ahead. He had ridden up to the elf’s tent.
“They will give us nothing.” Bard said grimly as he dismounted.
“Such a pity.” Thranduil smirked, “Still, you tried.”
Bard frowned at the elf’s nonchalance, “I do not understand. Why would he risk war?”
Thranduil turned to look towards Erebor’s entrance. They watched as the dwarves ruined one of their admittedly impressive statues. It fell and with a loud crash broke the bridge leading up to the entrance. “Dwarves are simple creatures.” Thranduil commented, “They understand only one thing.” He left the sentence hanging as he turned to one of his generals, “We ride at dawn.” The general nodded and walked away. Thranduil faced Bard again, “Are you with us?”
Bard sighed. They would be brought in the middle of this regardless of his answer. Might as well pick a side. “Yes, we are, after all, allies now.” Besides at least this whole alliance seemed to come with aesthetic benefits. Bard thought to himself as his eyes trailed up the flowing robes as Thranduil retreated to speak with some other important looking elf. His gaze settled on the curtain of silver hair that flowed down his back smoothly. Perhaps a dragon’s possessiveness over treasure was indeed a natural trait. He left the elves before he was caught staring.
He went back to the Hall wanting to check up on everyone, to see that everyone was fed, watered, treated, and rested. He then gathered them all together and spoke to them.
“We are allied to the elves.” He said, “And the dwarves are ready for war. I want every able bodied man to take up arms. The dwarves wish for war. We need to be able to defend ourselves.”
The men and women all seemed shaken at the thought of more battle and Bard didn’t blame them. They had all been through so much already that it seemed unfair to push this onto them also. “I am sorry.” Bard said and Hilda patted his shoulder comfortingly.
“You’ve done more than anyone could ask for, Bard.” She said, “This is out of your hands. Do not blame yourself.”
Percy spoke up after her, “Besides, you’re right. We all knew a time would have come for us to take up arms. It’s just our rotten look that time came sooner rather than later.” He chuckled. “We trust you.”
“Of all who are able,” Bard said, “Who wishes to defend their own?” The men all gave a nod and determined grin of agreement.
The weapon’s storeroom was stocked full of old swords, and bows, and spears. All of those were taken out and the men set about to repair them as best as they could. The elves had agreed to help train the men in proper swordplay, as for archery they only helped those who already had some previous skill. Bard was again unable to express his gratitude.
“It is our duty and honour to aid our allies.” Thranduil had said.
Bard frowned, “We have no way to repay you.”
“You do not need to,” Thranduil said smoothly, “You aiding us in this is payment enough.”
“It is not and you know it.” Bard insisted.
Thranduil eyed him for a moment, cool blue eyes scanning Bard’s face carefully, “We’ll figure something out once all has been said and done.”
Bard’s left shoulder began to itch suddenly and he scratched at it with a slight grimace. The wound that had been quick to scar twinged slightly as he irritated it.
“Are you well?” Thranduil asked, no doubt wondering if Bard was ill again.
“It’s just an old injury acting up.” He waved off the other’s concern.
“I assume you will still refuse treatment.” Thranduil murmured.
Bard smirked at the elf, having to look up slightly to meet the other’s eyes, “How lucky I am to have such a rare beauty worry for me.” He teased, “Am I dreaming?”
Thranduil smirked though there was a slight pink tint dusting his cheeks, “Well if you won’t take care of yourself then somebody must.”
“And I am lucky enough to have that somebody be you.”
Thranduil, the vain git, grinned, “You should feel privileged.”
Oh, he had no idea. There must be some type of magic, Bard thought, nobody, not even an elf, could look like this and not use magic. Unless there was no magic and Bard was both a lucky dog and a poor bastard because he had no chance with that elf. That and he’d only started having proper conversations with Thranduil yesterday.
He rubbed at his scarred shoulder again and tensed. He could feel the rough bumps of scales forming under his coat. He saw Thranduil looking at him in concern again. He was about to excuse himself and leave when Percy showed up.
“Bard.” Percy said, “I was just looking for you.” He bowed to Thranduil, “Greetings, Your Majesty.” Thranduil inclined his head in acknowledgement.
“What is it, Percy?” Bard asked.
“Remember the other day Gerard and Tom said they’ll be going back to fill up some more haynets?”
“Aye.”
“Well, they went,” Percy said, “And when they came back they said they’d seen some pretty odd tracks in the dirt.”
Bard tensed even more, “What tracks?”
“Somethin’ real big, Bard.” Percy said, “Tom says some of the prints were a foot wide. And there was a long trail going too. As if it had been draggin’ somethin’. Stopped right at the water’s edge, Tom said, as if it disappeared there.”
Bard didn’t know how to answer, thankfully Thranduil had something to say, “Stranger and Stranger beasts have come to pass in these lands over the years. This could have been another orc beast. It may have dragged a kill.” Thranduil looked at Bard, “I will send some of my own to look into it. In the meantime I suggest you keep your people within Dale’s walls.”
“Spread the word, Percy.” Bard said, “No one is to leave, there are dangers we are not prepared for.”
Percy nodded and left to do as he was told. Thranduil turned to Bard, “This Percy.” He began, “Is he your friend?”
Bard raised a brow at the elf, “Aye.” He grinned despite the persistent throbbing in his arm, “Are you jealous? I do have friends besides you, you know.”
Thranduil seemed surprised, “You consider me your friend?”
Bard’s heart clenched, “What else would I consider you? If we are to be allied then we might as well be friends, it strengthens the bond.” Not as much as marriage but still, beggars can’t be choosers.
“I’ve not been called a friend in years.”
Bard frowned at how casually that was said, as though being lonely was normal. Then again it explain why Thranduil appeared so withdrawn. He winced as his arm throbbed again, “I am afraid you will have to excuse me for the moment.” He said tightly.
“Are you certain that you are well?”
“It’s just a minor issue.” Bard grimaced as he walked away to the less populated part of Dale, out of sight of the men and hopefully the elves. He stumbled his way into some building. The room he entered was spacious and the ceiling was high. It must’ve been some nobleman’s home.
He flung off his coat and shirt, his pants following them on the dusty floor. The scales from around the scar had already begun spreading over his body. The aches were duller this time, even as he shifted. He still barely withheld his scream of pain as he collapsed on all fours.
He breathed heavily through his nose as his surroundings came back into focus. Suddenly the room seemed much smaller than it did originally. He raised his head carefully and jumped when his left- or maybe right horn knocked into the chandelier that hung just over him. Large wax candles fell from the metal decoration and broke at his feet. He moved back from the damage and started as his tail slammed into an old cupboard, smashing it to pieces.
“Damn it!” He growled into his breath. He paused pleasantly surprised to find out that he still could speak, “Well, add that to my list of good fortune.” He mumbled to himself again just to test his own voice.
He carefully curled his tail until it mostly wrapped around his body. He sat down on his haunches and kept his head significantly lower than he had before. Perhaps this dragon thing was like a dog, it needed to be brought out every now and again. Now to bring it back in. He closed his eyes and attempted to picture himself as a human, he almost wished to have had the opportunity to look into a mirror more often.
“Bard?”
His eyes snapped open. A knock on the door alarmed him further.
“Bard, are you in there?” It was Thranduil. Why was Thranduil here?
“What are you doing here?” Bard asked as he looked around the place. There was no real escape and he had no chance of turning back now.
“I heard commotion.” Thranduil said, “In fact most of my elves did. May I enter?”
Bard tensed, “No.” He answered all too quickly.
“Are you injured?”
“No.” Bard answered as he looked at the fallen door of one of the other rooms. He tried to fit through the doorway but his horns prevented him from even just his head entering. He knocked a few stones off the wall as he got unstuck.
“Bard, I am this close to entering.” Thranduil’s voice sounded stern.
“You can’t!” Bard shouted.
There was a pause from the other side of the door. Bard panicked a little and looked at the staircase leading to the second floor. If he could make it up there and hide behind the railing (and if he had an insane amount of luck) Thranduil might not see him.
“Why not?” He heard Thranduil say.
Bard’s eyes caught his clothes on the floor and the first thing that came to his mind was swiftly blurted out, “I am naked!”
At the silence that greeted his exclamation Bard found himself wishing that he could burst into flames and disappear. He set a paw on the stairs and they creaked dangerously.
“Why is that an issue?”
This time Bard paused, “Shouldn’t it be?” He asked as he set another foot on the stairs. He suddenly felt stupid, how on earth did he expect to hide from Thranduil when he was currently conversing with him.
Thranduil chuckled, “Elves have both private and communal bathing chambers.”
“Communal-” Bard was interrupted by a loud crash as the staircase gave way beneath his weight as he set his full weight on top. He gasped as several stones pinned his wings and body to the ground.
“Bard!” The excessively loud creak of the opening door was the only indicator of Thranduil entering. The elf’s footsteps were feather-light and the plume of dust that had gone up concealed his figure.
A gasp. Bard closed his eyes and sighed. He had never thought he’d see Thranduil show genuine shock on his face, though he expected it to be the negative kind of shock, so he didn’t want to see it.
“I know,” Bard began when Thranduil failed to say anything, “I know that this would be an apt opportunity to say that I was planning on telling you. The truth is though, that I really wasn’t.”
The dust began to clear and Bard could make out Thranduil’s face. He couldn’t really describe what he saw there. A fair deal of shock (unsurprisingly), a good deal of confusion, and a hint of fear. That last one hurt a bit.
“I didn’t want anyone to know.” Bard continued, “Not my children, not Percy, not Hilda, not you. Despite the wisdom you could probably offer.” A dry chuckle, “I don’t know what to do with myself in this state. My people would fear me, hate me. The dwarves would rain weapons upon me without a second thought. And I hear the elves are not very favourable of dragons either. Although I promise, I promise that I never planned on hurting anyone.”
Thranduil remained silent, staring at the pinned dragon before him. His hands faintly trembled at his side and his voice was caught in his throat. The scales were dark, and the spines ran down the length of the dragon’s back, the two horns were elegantly curved and the eyes… goodness, the eyes. They were Bard’s without question. One may forget the colour, the shape, the size of another’s eyes but one can never forget what they feel when they look into them. Bard’s eyes, even in this form, felt kind, and warm, as though they were offering protection, even when the grim expression took hold of his face.
“Well,” Bard prompted, he barely managed to lift his head from where his neck was pinned by several large stones and a long wooden pole, “Get on with it. I am uncomfortable and in slight pain, so if you plan on killing me I suggest you do it soon.”
“I,” Thranduil paused, anxiously running a hand over the left side of his face and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, “I am not going to kill you, Bard.”
“What?”
Thranduil gave a shaky smile, “You said you wouldn’t hurt anyone. I am going to take your word for that.”
Thranduil moved closer to Bard on slightly unsteady feet. Bard shifted as the elf rolled the stones on his neck away. Thranduil didn’t have his shroud on him, which was good considering the amount of dust in here. With his neck freed, Bard helped Thranduil free his wings and he sat up. It felt odd to actually be taller than the elf.
Thranduil stood before him and they stared at each other silently. Thranduil raised a hand slowly and hesitated for a moment before placing it on Bard’s snout lightly. Bard leaned into the touch and tried to ignore Thranduil’s slight flinch.
“How did this happen?” Thranduil asked as he traced Bard’s scales. “How is it possible?”
“I cut myself. I was being reckless and I wasn’t thinking. The cut… it infected me I suppose.” Bard admitted, “As for your other question, I don’t know. In a world of magic, what isn’t impossible?”
Bard looked over Thranduil’s face, his eyes, his hair, the high cheekbones, and the long lashes. Looking at him as a man, he seemed normal or rather as normal as an elf could be. Now however, with these new eyes, there seemed to be a soft glow radiating from him, glowing brighter over the left side of his face. Bard frowned and leaned closer, slightly hurt at the uncharacteristic nervous flicker in the elf’s eyes.
“What is this?” He asked,
Thranduil frowned, “What?”
“Your face. On the left.” Bard explained, “It glows brighter than the rest of you.”
Thranduil’s hand fell from his face and the elf stepped back. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” How the tables have turned.
“Alright then.” Bard wasn’t going to push.
They stood in silence for a moment, neither making eye contact with the other.
“Well?” Thranduil said eventually.
Bard’s head tilted in confusion and his horns scarped against the ceiling. He ducked a little, “Well what?”
Thranduil smirked, “Will you not change back?” He said, “Or am I to assume you plan on revealing your secret to the world?”
Bard shook his head, “It takes time and concentration to… revert, I suppose. I have no plans of displaying… this,” He nodded to himself, “To anyone else, you were an accident I plan not to repeat. They need not know of this curse.”
“It’s not a curse.” Thranduil said after a moment, “It is a great power that has been granted to you. It is your reward for your victory. If you learn to control it, it may even be a gift.”
“What a reward!” Bard scoffed, “The universal symbol of death, hatred, and withering.”
Thranduil didn’t seem affected by Bard’s remark, “Think of it what you will. You’ll come to your senses eventually. Now, for your secret’s sake, I suggest you change back.”
Bard nodded, “Yes, just give me a minute.” He awkwardly moved past Thranduil to collect his fallen clothes off the ground. He turned with them still in his mouth, “Would you mind just… turning around?”
Thranduil’s eyes sparked with amusement, “Why?”
Bard dropped the clothes and gave Thranduil a look, “Well, the last time I changed back I ended up on the ground... naked.”
Thranduil raised a brow, “So?” He asked with a cheeky look.
“This may come as a shock to you,” Bard began, “But we of mankind prefer to keep ourselves to ourselves, with some exceptions.”
Thranduil chuckled, “Very well.” He turned and faced one of the torn tapestries that hung from the walls, “Just so you know, nothing you have would be anything I’ve not yet seen.”
Bard hummed, “Oh, I don’t doubt that.” He closed his eyes and attempted to picture himself as a man. No claws, a proper set of teeth, actual arms and feet, no tail, no horns or spines or scales. The change was little more than a set of dull throbs and sharp pops as his bones shifted, similar to cracking one’s knuckles.
He was on his knees when he opened his eyes and slightly out of breath. He tugged on his underwear and pants quickly not wanting to make Thranduil wait more than necessary.
Bard could feel Thranduil’s eyes roam over his exposed upper body, resting for a moment on each of the various scars that littered his chest, arms, and abdomen before finally stopping on the thicker patch of raised skin that sat on his left upper arm.
“Is that it?” The elf asked as Bard picked up his shirt.
Bard startled as Thranduil had moved soundlessly to stand next to him. “What?”
Thranduil didn’t answer and instead gently traced the pink scar. Bard felt a warm tingle spread over his body as the pale hand moved to trace his other scars. The careful fingers glided over his chest and paused over a green-blue bruise. Bard hissed as Thranduil pressed on it slightly. Thranduil only caught his eyes for a moment before going back to the bruise, settling his hand over it and chanting softly in elvish.
Bard gasped in wonder as Thranduil’s natural glow grew until he was the only focus in the room. It was over as soon as it had begun and the light diminished. Thranduil’s fell from his skin and Bard was amazed to see his now bruise-free chest. “I’ve heard stories of the healing magic of elves but I never thought I’d live to see it in person.” He said with child-like wonder.
“As I said,” Thranduil’s usual smirk returned to his face with a hint of mischief, “You may consider yourself privileged.”
“I sure do.” Bard pulled his shirt on, entirely missing the way Thranduil’s eyes scanned over his arms and toned back. “Might as well head back.” He said as he grabbed his coat and threw it on, “No doubt somebody’s worried.”
“Indeed.” Thranduil said, “Just one thing, Bard.” At Bard’s questioning look he continued, “Those tracks that your men saw. They were of no orc beast, were they?”
Bard hummed as he pushed open the creaky door, “No, they weren’t.”
…
Thranduil had gone back to his tent, no doubt to mull over Bard’s situation. Said man, on the other hand, made for the town square where his men were practicing with the elves. He’d have asked for a sword and a sparring partner himself if he hadn’t heard Alfrid at the front gates.
“No. No. No! Oi! You, Pointy hat! Yes, you! We’ve got our hands full here already! We don’t want no tramps, beggars, no vagabonds around! So off you go! On your horse!” Alfrid’s voice, while no one wished to hear it, carried quite the distance.
Bard rounded a corner to see Alfrid standing before an old man with an actually pointed hat. He had a long beard and a tall staff in his hand, which held a precariously balanced blue stone at the top.
“Who’s in charge here?” The man asked.
Bard approached him cautiously, “Who’s asking?”
The man gave him a once over before inclining his head, “I am Gandalf,” He said, “Gandalf the Gray.”
Bard’s eyes widened in recognition, “We’ve heard plenty of you.” He said. Stories were often told of the wandering wizard in the gray robes.
“I come bearing ill news, I am afraid.” Gandalf said solemnly. And elf came by and took Gandalf’s horse’s reins.
Bard nodded in understanding, “Let us not discuss them here then.”
Gandalf glanced about the people swinging swords and shooting arrows under the instruction of the elves. “You are lucky to be granted aid by the elves.” He said.
“Aye.” Bard agreed, “King Thranduil has been most generous.”
“So it seems.” Gandalf mumbled as Thranduil’s tent came into view.
Thranduil had been speaking with one of his elves and had just sent them away when the man and wizard arrived. He inclined his head t Bard but his expression prickled at the sight of the wizard.
“Thranduil.” The wizard said with a slight nod.
“Mithrandir.” Thranduil’s tone was clipped. “To what do I owe this… pleasure?”
“I must discuss with you a matter of great importance.” Gandalf said urgently.
Thranduil’s irritation rolled off him in waves though he composed his expression perfectly. “Do come inside then.” He led the way into the lavish tent.
Bard was happy to stand back and observe their interactions. He did not know what the cause of Thranduil’s ire towards the wizard was but he felt it was not the right time to ask now.
“What is it, Mithrandir?” Thranduil asked as he sat back on his chair, “Can you not see I am arranging to negotiate with the dwarves?”
Gandalf scowled, “You must set aside your petty grievances with the dwarves!” He demanded, “War is coming! The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied.” He paced through the tent.
Bard caught Thranduil’s eyes as they rolled to meet his own in exasperation. He almost snorted as Thranduil turned back to the wizard as Gandalf turned to face them again.
“You’re all in mortal danger!” Gandalf exclaimed.
Bard frowned, “What do you mean?” Insane dwarves and orc packs were one thing, but mortal danger warranted a different level of concern.
Thranduil sighed dramatically, “I see you know nothing of wizards.” He said, “They are like winter thunder on a wild wind, rolling in from a distance, breaking hard in alarm,” He poured wine into two goblets and handing one to Bard who watched with only slight amusement as he entirely ignored the wizard, “But sometimes a storm, is just a storm.” He finished with a sneer.
“Not this time!” Gandalf fought, “Armies of Orcs are on the move. These are fighters! They have been bred for war,” Bard sent a concerned look to Thranduil but the elf remained impassive, “Our enemy has summoned his full strength.”
“Why show his hand now?” Thranduil asked.
“Because we forced him!” Gandalf said.
Bard frowned. We?
“We forced him when the Company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland.”
This time Thranduil frowned- no, glared at the wizard, “Let me clear somethings right now, Mithrandir, before this discussion goes too deep. Firstly, there is no ‘we’, it was all you. You set Thorin on his course. You sent him to reclaim his homeland. You sent him to fight the dragon.” Gandalf seemed taken aback at Thranduil’s retort, “Therefore, this,” He gestured about himself, “Is entirely your fault.” Bard had to agree.
“Secondly,” Thranduil continued, “Nine of my guards and hundreds of men lie dead because your dwarf dragged a torrent of misfortune behind himself. He is now unwilling to pay for the damage he caused. I will not have him go unaccountable.”
“Lastly,” Thranduil sank back down in his seat, “If you truly want me to fight in this battle, then this will be a unified effort. If I am to fight alone then I may as well return to my Kingdom, where both my natural and built defenses are intact. My son is in danger because one of my own had a sense of justice stronger than her sense of reason, which would not have been an issue had it not been for your dwarves. My people are in danger because you never stop meddling. My currently weak and broken allies are in danger because all your meddling resulted, as always, in disaster. If I am to fight in this battle, if what you say is true, then I will not do it alone.” Thranduil’s glare had not diminished at all during his speech and Bard had to admit that he would hate to be on the receiving end of that.
Gandalf seemed to be stuck in a stunned silence and Thranduil seemed quite content to continue glaring at the wizard, so he spoke instead, “It seems you will only need to convince Thorin to join us.”
Gandalf turned to look at Bard, “I need to?”
Bard raised a brow, ignoring Thranduil scoffing in the background, “Aye. Thranduil and I have already attempted to treat with him and failed. It’s up to you now. Besides, you’ve gotten him this far, you hold a greater influence over him.”
“I am afraid he may not listen to me.” Gandalf said grimly, “He has spent several days in the mountain, the gold sickness may have taken his mind.”
“Then you can hardly expect a mortal, with no influence and an elf which they hate to have any influence at all.” Bard reasoned. “Besides if it really was you that set Thorin on his course, knowing what would happen, shouldn’t it be you that should dissuade him?”
Gandalf didn’t answer. He looked at Bard grimly and it made the man uncomfortable.
Thranduil, bless him, either noticed the man’s discomfort or got fed up with Gandalf’s silence, he spoke with authority and power as he glared down at the wizard, “If you will not be joining us then you are not needed here.” His voice was even and low, he moved with an uncanny grace as he came to the tent entrance, “Are the archers into position?” He asked as one of his own came to stand before him.
“Yes, My Lord.” The elf said.
“Give the order.” Thranduil said, “If anything moves on that mountain… kill it.” The elf bowed and walked away, “The dwarves are out of time.” Thranduil turned back to Bard and Gandalf, though his gaze mainly focused on the wizard, there was a certain edge to his voice that hinted at something dangerous, “You started this, Mithrandir. You will forgive me if I finish it.”
Gandalf’s eyes hardened, but instead of answering Thranduil he rounded on Bard, “Bowman! You do not agree with this, do you? Is gold truly worth that much to you that you would buy it with the blood of the dwarves?”
“It will not come to this.” Bard said not knowing who he was trying to assure, “This is a battle they cannot win.”
“That won’t stop them!”
All three occupants of the tent whirled to face the source of the voice. Not even Thranduil had noticed anyone arrive.
Bard was taken aback at the sight of the small creature. No taller than a child with a messy mop of chestnut hair. It was the little hobbit Bard had picked up with the dwarves, the one that asked for his name.
“If you think that the dwarves will surrender, they won’t! They will fight to the death to defend their own!” The hobbit said fiercely.
Gandalf gave a jolly laugh as he saw the hobbit, “Bilbo Baggins.” The hobbit- Bilbo smiled at the wizard.
“If I am not mistaken,” Thranduil drawled as he moved back to his chair, “This is the Halfling that stole the keys to my dungeons from under the nose of my guards.”
Bard gained anew respect for the little thing and tossed a fatherly sort of look Bilbo’s way as the hobbit sheepishly apologized. He frowned however as the hobbit reached into his coat, something in him wanting to run away from whatever the hobbit held. His scar throbbed.
“I came to give you this.” Bilbo placed a cloth-wrapped object on the table. Bard was curious as to what it was, even though it wasn’t what was causing the feeling. The cloth was pulled away to reveal a smooth stone that shone brilliantly in a multitude of colours.
Bard came closer to take a better look at the stone and Thranduil moved to stand by him. The light of the stone seemed entrancing, he knew what it was, “The Heart of the Mountain.” He whispered.
Thranduil seemed equally amazed, “The King’s Jewel.”
“And worth a King’s ransom.” Bard turned to Bilbo with a confused and slightly worried look, “How is this yours to give? You owe us no loyalty.”
Bilbo chuckled dryly and shook his head, “Oh, no, I didn’t do it for you. Now I know that the dwarves are rude, pigheaded, and stubborn. With the worst manners you could possibly imagine.” The laugh Bilbo gave sounded kind of sad, “But they are also brave, kind, and loyal to a fault. I have grown quite fond of them and I will do whatever I can to save them. Now Thorin values this stone above all else,” Bilbo said, “In exchange for it I do believe he will give you what are owed. There will be no need for war.”
Bard and Thranduil shared a look. It was odd, there was no need for words, only the slight nod Thranduil gave to Bard and the man’s answering shrug were enough for the decision to be made.
“Very well.” Thranduil said, “We thank you for your contribution. Let it be known that here you will be thrice welcomed. May you be an honoured guest in my halls someday, for you may have just prevented a war that would have cost lives.” Thranduil inclined his head in gratitude.
…
The thought that conflict could have been prevented had been a nice comfort. Nothing more.
“Stand your men down! I’ll deal with Ironfoot and his rabble!”
Revealing the Arkenstone had only served to rile Thorin more rather than subdue him as they had hoped. The hobbit whom they had sent to eat and sleep had returned to the mountain and that had almost cost him his life. Bard and his poorly trained but hopeful men had been placed amidst Thranduil’s army, surrounded and protected from all sides.
“Leitho!”
The elven arrows, while sturdy and fast had been nothing put flying toothpicks to Dain’s metal weapons. Their shields could not protect them from the twirling spears. Thranduil looked stricken and enraged at the same time. The second firing bore the same results.
“Send in the goats!”
Despite the brute strength the dwarves possessed and the brute force with which they charged, the elves’ grace and coordination was an even match. Bard was inclined to believe that if the battle had been allowed to continue then perhaps the elves would have pushed the dwarves back.
There was no opportunity to find out.
The ground trembled and all, men, elves, and dwarves froze. The hills in the distance shook and crumbled as the long bodies of underground beasts pushed to the surface, crushing rocks and crumbling boulders. Bard had never seen such creatures in his life. His scar reminded him of its presence, always an option. A last resort.
The beasts retreated, leaving in their wake gaping holes that reached into the depths of the earth. All waited with baited breath. The low, long sounds of a war horn echoed from Raven Hill. None had the time to look where exactly as the thundering sound of feet against the earth.
From the dark depths rows upon rows of hideous creatures in dark armour emerged. Their armour, made of metal no doubt, reflected no sunlight seemingly draining all warmth and light that may have been left around them. They ran, coming from out of nowhere and charging like a flash flood of darkness.
The dwarves separated from the elves, charging straight for the threat. The elves reformed their lines but moved no further. Bard looked to Thranduil but the King stored at the approaching wave of orcs. Bard could not see his face but he could somehow almost feel Thranduil’s apprehension, he wished to reach out and place a hand on Thranduil’s shoulder but he was too far away. It seemed that the sentiment was felt for Thranduil turned slightly to share a look with him.
There was fear in Thranduil’s eyes. Something Bard never thought he’d see, something he never thought he’d hate so much in those blue eyes. Something ignited within him, it felt like the same possessives he had felt not a day ago, but not quite the same. There was a drive, a fuel for the fire, a need to protect. It was no longer just the silver of his hair, or the precious blue of his eyes, it was the safety, the haven he had created in Thranduil, the one person he could confide in truly. He needed to protect this, his safety, his friend, his Thranduil.
His Thranduil. The beast within him purred.
The elves had charged. Bounding graceful and deadly over the dwarves and the wall they had formed. They sliced and spun with a terrifying but beautiful precision. Thranduil, atop his elk, cut through the enemy lines with speed, efficiency, and power.
Bard’s men hung back. They were a desperate measure, if all else failed. Neither Thranduil nor Bard wished for them to fight. As for Bard, Thranduil still believed that his curse was a gift and as Bard watched the orcs pour, endlessly, from those holes he began to believe him.
The war horn sounded again and suddenly there were heavy, slow stomps accompanying the thundering army. Enormous, deformed giants crawled from the tunnels. Metal dug into their skins and some of them had their limbs entirely replaced by metal, swinging maces at the whim of their riders. Bard would have felt pity had his heart not stuttered in fear.
The dwarves had heavy, metal carriages pulled by goats cutting through the enemy lines. Literally cutting, with blades extending from the wheels they left trails of gore as they ran through the hordes of orcs. Some of them were intercepted and beaten down by giants. Dwarves were smashed and flattened by the feet, clubs, and maces of the beasts. It seemed that the number of orcs appearing was endless.
The horn blew again. Bard’s face drained of colour as a portion of the army turned to Dale and began marching, uninhibited by the surrounding chaos.
“Fall back to Dale! Now!”
He made it back before his men, just in time to see rocks crumbling Dale’s walls and buildings. Then the orcs streamed in. Bard rode past screaming people and crumbling buildings before stopping as the streets grew narrower. He slipped off his horse and left it, not tying it down, free to escape if need be.
“Where are my children?” He asked attempting to conceal his panic, “Has anyone seen my children?”
A crowd of people ran past and Hilda stopped by him for a moment, “I saw them down at the market!” She said before being swept off by the crowd.
The market! The market was just a few streets from the gates! He raced through alleys and backstreets shortening his path. He was intercepted by another group of people, running from danger. “The market’s overrun!”
Bard’s blood ran cold. His scar twinged sharply. Still an option. Not yet.
He encountered Percy and instructed him to get his archers up on the towers. The rest of the men that were battle ready he led into battle. He drew his sword and sliced angrily at the orcs. Every few hits he would miss and his sword would jump off of the black armour, fueling his ire.
“Da!”
His head snapped faster than what should be possible towards the source of the shout. His kids, Sigrid, Bain, and little Tilda stood not fifteen yards from him. Both his and their eyes shone in relief at finding him.
He paled at the ugly giant that came up behind them. One of its arms was disproportionately small and the other held an enormous, wooden club. It released a horrible roar and Bard almost stopped breathing s Tilda screamed while Bain and Sigrid moved them back and away from the creature which began to advance with its club raising to strike.
An old wooden wagon caught Bard’s attention. He barely spared a thought for his own safety as he pushed it into motion and jumped on it as it rolled down the cobbled street. “Get down!” He shouted and the kids barley managed to spare him a glance before they were dropping to the ground. Bard rolled over them and the wagon lifted into the air as it rolled off a set of stairs and bard flew with it, preparing to strike. For a moment he wondered if that was what it would’ve felt like to actually fly before his sword sank into the giant’s chest, killing it.
Relief flooded him as he got to finally wrap his arms around his children. He kissed each of their heads and barely withheld his relieved sobs, for their sake. “You’re safe.” He breathed, he finally could breathe.
“I want you to get to the Great Hall. All of you. Gather as many as you can. The women, the children, and the wounded only.” He said to them urgently.
Bain began to protest, “Da, we can’t leave you!”
Bard would have said something had someone else not spoken first, “Show your father some respect!”
Alfrid walked out of a building he must have been hiding in, “I’ll get them there safely, sire.” He said before pushing Bain none too gently, “Come on, get going!”
Before he could get too far Bard took hold of his shoulder, “Women, children, and wounded only, Alfrid.” He reminded the man.
Alfrid nodded, “Of course, sire.” He slunk off, herding the children and whomever else he passed towards the Hall.
Further down the street Bard saw a large group of his men charging at a rushing band of orcs. He ran to join the fight.
…
No matter how many of the orcs and giants were felled, more and more seemed to spill from the tunnels. Bard was tired. His men even more so. Many of them lay dead, littering the streets with bodies, men, elves, and orcs alike.
Bard had climbed to the top of one of the watchtowers to see where his men were most needed. All of whom remained standing and fighting had gathered either in a large group of swordsmen guarding the Hall or solitary or paired of archers shooting down orcs from the roofs of buildings.
Many of the orcs seemed set on causing as much structural damage as possible. They burned buildings and the giants just outside the walls were used as supports for catapults with which they flung large boulders at the buildings of Dale. There wasn’t much that could be done about those.
The fire- the dragon within him ached to be let out. To finish the orcs off and be done with it. Bard refused to let it, the orcs were not the only occupants of the battlefield. But oh, how the fire had built within him.
He saw Thranduil racing towards Dale atop his elk. He trampled and sliced all in his path with grace and brutality, two traits one wouldn’t normally see combined. He felt a wave of relief rush over him at the sight of the elf, alive and well. The possessive, protective feeling from before had not diminished at all. Thranduil was charging straight for the gate, ready to finish off the group of orcs preparing to intercept him.
The orcs were laughing.
Bard’s eyes widened in fear as he saw the approaching giant. It wasn’t as big as the others and wasn’t visible over the walls of the city. It came to stand right by the gate, wielding no weapon but its iron-clad fists. Thranduil was unaware of it. Bard wouldn’t make it down in time.
He watched in terror, his field of vision narrowing only on Thranduil and the giant. In one graceful swipe Thranduil decapitated several orcs. In one fell swoop the giant’s fist slammed into the elk’s flank. It missed most of Thranduil much to Bard’s relief, but the elk was beyond hope.
Both steed and rider fell and tumbled in a heap. They slid to a stop at the remains of a fallen building. Bard’s vision began to cloud as his breathing grew heavier. The elf struggled under the weight of the elk as the orcs advanced, cackling, not a hint of fear showed on his face, only a sneer. The orcs seemed happy to gather around him and make way for the giant to finish him off.
That was the last straw. Bard’s scream turned into a roar as his body tore itself apart and then put itself back together. He jumped off of the now crumbling tower in a fit of rage. He clawed over the rooves of the buildings, ignoring the stunned men and elves.
He landed before the orcs surrounding his Thranduil and in a flurry of teeth and claws had them all torn, ripped, and mauled. He jumped right on the giant and bit and clawed at its armour, tearing it off and out of its skin. The giant roared in pain and wrapped its hands around Bard’s neck, tugging him away but not far enough to escape Bard’s claws.
Bard saw red as his air supply was cut off. He swiped his tail at the beast, his spines catching on exposed skin and tearing it open. The beast cried out in pain and loosened its grip. Immediately Bard took a deep breath and on the exhale…
An enormous torrent of flames consumed the beast. It screamed and writhed in pain while Bard’s supply of fire seemed endless. He finally stopped once he noticed the creature had stopped moving. He stood there, glaring at the charred remains with slitted, green eyes. Then he remembered the reason for his rage.
He turned around slowly. A crowd had gathered a little ways away, both men and elves. They stared in fear, nothing else. Perhaps a bit of gratitude from the elves but that was it. The orcs from outside the gate stared in confusion. Most of those near enough to hear and see the commotion were stunned silent.
Thranduil was silent too. He stared at Bard eyes glazed though filled with apprehension. He didn’t seem to be looking at Bard rather he seemed to be looking into and beyond him as though remembering a memory meant to remain forever buried.
Bard felt the surrounding elves stare apprehensively as he took a step and then leaned down, closer to their King. They were ready to fight a dragon for Thranduil. So was Bard.
He nudged Thranduil’s frozen face and the elf flinched. He slowly looked up into Bard’s eyes. Bard inclined his head, blinking slowly and cooing softly (as softly as a dragon could). Slowly Thranduil mimicked the motion and hummed gently.
Bard pulled back to move his jaws around the body of the fallen elk. He lifted it away carefully, somehow knowing that Thranduil would not want the body damaged. Thranduil hissed in pain as he was freed from the weight, his leg was damaged in some way. Bard judged either a sprain, a fracture, or a dislocation. Nothing Thranduil couldn’t handle.
The elves did not attack Bard but they did not move any closer until they noticed that their King was in pain. Even then they hesitated before approaching, helping Thranduil sit up before assessing his knee.
A loud pop echoed as Thranduil’s knee was set into place, he barely grunted. Just a dislocation, thankfully. Thranduil stood with the aid of Feren, if Bard wasn’t mistaken, and looked up at Bard.
A tense silence passed between them. Bard didn’t know if he should speak or not. Thranduil looked almost stunned though he hid it well. The elves surrounding them stood stiffly, waiting for a cue to re-enter the battle. The men were simply frozen in place, there was no other way to describe it.
In the end there was no need for speaking.
A distant roar was heard moments before a large boulder slammed not even a foot from Bard’s tail. He jerked away from it and nearly pummeled several elves. A smaller rock that had probably been a part of the larger one hit him right on the head. He collapsed to the ground, dazed, writhing as he attempted to right himself, finally standing with a chilling shriek.
He couldn’t fly, he didn’t know how but he ran the distance just as fast. He made a beeline for the giants that carried the catapults. With a great leap he latched onto one of them, knocking it back a step or two before it recovered at tried to grab at him. His claws tore at the ropes and chins that held the catapult up and it fell, crushing the orcs that were on it. The other two catapult-carrying giants met the same fate.
One of the small-armed ones had begun to climb its way into Dale. Bard’s numerous teeth were quick to clamp over its head and with a sharp flick that ran up his neck to build up at the head Bard snapped its neck. The creature fell to the ground and Bard looked at the person that it had been facing. Bard had to take a moment to register the sight… Alfrid in a dress filled with coins. Was he wearing a corset? No time to ponder that now. Bard abandoned the near unconscious man.
Several lines of orcs surrounded him. He growled. They aimed at him, shooting crude arrows with black tips. They bounced harmlessly off his scales and as the orcs began to realize that Bard struck forward, crushing one with his jaws and flinging it at the others. The rest he knocked down with a swipe of his tail.
The war horn echoed through the valley again.
Bard grew nervous as the giants with the maces and chains in their eyes were directed away from the major battle and towards him. His nerves turned to frustration as they moved around him, which soon bled to anger as they closed their circle.
The spiked metal balls swung threateningly and dangerously close to him. The mace-beasts took another step closer and Bard spread his wings, raising himself on his hind legs and swiping across their faces. The beasts flailed in confusion as their riders attempted to right them. He flapped his wings with powerful strokes, pushing the beasts back constantly.
He couldn’t keep doing that forever, unfortunately as the mace-beasts continued to get closer. The wide flaps of his wings began to raise him off the ground and he was dancing on the tips of his feet before he noticed it. He tensed his legs before jumping off the ground on a downstroke. He lifted off the ground and, fortunately, didn’t come back down. His tail smacked one of the beasts in the maw as it swung for a moment.
He got into the natural rhythm of downstroke, fold, upstroke, and repeat and raised himself higher. The riders of the beasts attempted to swing up at him but only succeeded in throwing their beasts out of balance.
Something malicious sparked in Bard. The feeling of power, of being above all others and their inability to do anything about it excited him. He was sure that that was Smaug’s essence or magic, the thing that had infected him, that was prompting that feeling.
Bard was an honourable man. He was not one to give into the temptation of power. He pushed down the feeling, though not enough to not feel satisfaction as the flames spilled from his mouth, charring the beasts.
Next he would tear down the watchtower of Raven Hill. It was the obvious choice. Bard had seen the odd flag like thing that moved each time the horn was blown. It directed the armies and it needed to be taken down.
He was interrupted however by the sound of crumbling rocks at the entrance of Erebor and the smooth, long sound of the enormous, enormous bell that knocked them down. The falling debris fell, quite coincidentally, to form a semblance of a bridge along which a band of dwarves, Thorin’s band of dwarves, ran to join the battle. Finally.
Bard was about to fly towards Raven Hill when a boulder flew past him. He thought he got rid of all the catapults. There was a number of giants gathered some distance away, hurling rocks at him. He roared at them and dipped into a dive, barely avoiding the next three stones before he was close enough to burn them. The same sick sort of glee sparked within him as he watched them writhe in pain.
In the distance, small shapes making their way up the ice towards Raven Hill caught his attention. The dwarves had the same idea Bard did. Although with a much lower chance of success.
He’d have followed them had a shrill screech not stunned him slightly, causing him to drop several feet. A body slammed into his back, and another on his neck, a third on his chest, a fourth clung to his tail. Bard could feel their claws, significantly smaller than his, attempting to scratch through his scales.
He snarled as the one on his neck moved its way up and locked a claw around his horn. He spun in the air and felt the one on his tail lose its grip, whatever it was. He snapped his jaws at the others, managing to tear off the one on his chest easily, the one on his back fell as he spun sharply again. For the last one he blew a ball of flame up in the air and flew right in it. He rumbled in satisfaction as the weight disappeared from his head.
The sky was practically blackened by the large bodies and wings of black bats. They swarmed over the battling armies and even over Dale, swooping down into the streets. They latched onto the roofs of houses and crawled over them like roaches.
He circled the city, a swarm of bats following him and nipping at his tail. He roared, spooking the bats off of the houses. To further drive them away, and partly for his own sake, he snatched one right out of the air and tossed it back at the others, dead.
He dropped harshly in front of the Great Hall of Dale, and raised himself on his hind legs with his wings spread wide. He blew a stream of fire and the bats seemed to get his message as their swarm moved to mainly cover the valley.
He set his wings down, catching his breath. He glared up at Raven Hill, perhaps he was just not meant to get there. His attention was caught by the large number of elves grouping by the building and more were coming. Thranduil stood at the head of them and his face seemed stricken.
Bard didn’t like seeing his Thranduil show hold such emotions, such sorrow. “Thranduil.” He said, not caring if anyone recognized his voice, “What is wrong?” Besides the obvious.
Thranduil’s eyes traveled slowly before landing on his, “So much death.” He whispered, “So much darkness but where is the light? There is only pain. No more.” His eyes hardened, “Take me to Raven Hill.” It was not a request.
Something inside him bristled at the commanding tone but yet another part was glad to hear the strength in the voice. “Why?” He asked as he lowered himself.
Thranduil hesitantly laid a hand on Bard’s hide, running a finger over the large scales, “I leave none behind.” He swung himself onto Bard’s back just in front of his wings just before where his spines began. It seemed the pain of his leg had worn off.
Being in contact with the elf seemed to numb him. In a good way. The sounds of battle and beasts faded into nothing more than a background hum. Thranduil’s hand tightened over his scales as one of the towers of Raven Hill collapsed and moments later as the waterfall turned black under the ice Thranduil gave a shaky breath.
A screech in the distance cleared the haze that Bard felt. It was a more welcomed sound, in fact it was the best sound either of them had heard for the past few days. The eagles had come.
...
The battle had been won and the losses were almost too great. Thorin had been lost. Kíli had been saved, thanks to Tauriel and Legolas, and Fíli… there was still hope for him. It had been decided for Dain to rule until Fíli (or Kíli if he doesn’t make it) is old and well enough to take his place. Tauriel has been granted her old post, too much had been lost for more to be taken as punishment. Legolas, well, Legolas left, Thranduil hadn’t said exactly where to, for he wasn’t sure if his son would follow his advice.
Bard sat in Thranduil’s tent, a soft blanket wrapped around his shoulders, waiting for a shirt to be found for him.
“Bard.” A soft hand was laid on his shoulder.
Bard sighed and leant into the touch, “They know don’t they?” His voice was soft, resigned.
“They do.” The hand squeezed his shoulder gently.
Bard groaned in what some may have mistaken as pain. He placed his head in his hands as his shoulders shook, “I am a monster.” He mumbled.
His companion crouched in front of him with slight difficulty, “You are not.” Never did Bard think that such a deep voice could be so light. Thranduil took Bard’s hands in his own and looked him in the eyes, “You saved lives.”
Bard shook his head and a hysterical sob, “I know that.” He laughed, “You weren’t there. You weren’t me! You don’t know what it was like!” He released one of Thranduil’s hands to run it through his hair.
“Tell me.” The elf urged softly.
Bard stood and moved away from him, blanket falling from his shoulders. He paced the width of the tent as Thranduil slowly raised himself into a standing position. The hand that had been trying to sort out his hair now gripped it tightly, painfully, “I enjoyed it!” He exclaimed after a moment.
Thranduil frowned, teeth worrying his lip, “Enjoyed what?”
Bard faced Thranduil with a frenzied look, “Their pain! You saw what I did, no doubt!” He said, “I watched them burn and I relished in their anguish! Their torture! Do you not see? I am a monster! I have been cursed! And for what?” He cried.
Thranduil stood in his path and stopped his pacing. “You are not cursed.” He said calmly.
“I am.” Bard fought back weakly.
“We spoke about this.” Thranduil said softly. He raised a hand and ran it over Bard’s cheek, smoothing over his scruff, “If you learn to control it, it can be, and it was, a gift.”
“I am not the man I used to be.” Bard protested, “Am I a man anymore?”
Thranduil gave a soft smile, the kind people save only for moments of emotions raw and unbound, “You are the man from before. You are that man and more.” Thranduil’s hand toyed with a lock of his hair, “You were- are a man of honour, you are selfless, honest, kind, brave, all of those to a fault and I’ve no doubt that you always have been. Now you are all that and a hero.”
Bard smiled ruefully, “What kind of hero is transforms into what is a living nightmare to his people? To his friends? I saw your face when you first found me. You have a past with dragons, with- with my kind. And it’s not a tale of friendship like ours is.” Bard said to a silent Thranduil.
Bard raised a hand slowly and cupped the left side of Thranduil’s face, “Something happened here,” He mumbled as Thranduil remained still, “It makes me wonder. What if I do something wrong? If I hurt you? Do we remain friends?” Or does one of us end up alone?
Thranduil’s hand came up to cover Bard’s and he leaned into their combined touch. Something inside Bard purred possessively at the gesture. The very part Bard feared. The part he will learn to control.
“You will not harm me.” Thranduil said confidently, gaze locked on Bard’s, “Because I trust you.”
Bard smiled as he leaned closer to Thranduil, to those now soft, blue eyes, those red lips, that moonlit hair that cascaded down his shoulders and his back, “I am going to have to take your word for it.” He mumbled as he closed the distance between them.
Their lips settled over one another softly, smoothly, perfectly. They stayed that way, in each other’s warmth. Their comfort. Their safety. Not moving. Barely breathing. Living.
They pulled away and Thranduil looked at Bard coolly, “You dare be so bold, bowman?” He smirked.
Bard’s hand stroked over Thranduil’s cheek and threaded into his hair, “Just bowman?” He chuckled, “You were adamant that I be King.”
Their foreheads touched gently and Thranduil looked into his eyes, “You will be King.” He murmured, “King Bard of Dale.”
“What’s in it for you?” Bard asked cheekily as Thranduil’s arms looped around his shoulders loosely.
“I wonder.”
Their lips met again, hungry and eager. Desire had been building in Bard for some time now and it seemed that the same could be said for Thranduil. Bard’s fingers tangled in the long, golden tresses and he pressed roughly against the elf’s lips. Thranduil matched him move for move gracefully and firmly, hands grabbing fistfuls of Bard’s hair, giving a small moan as the man accidentally tugged on his hair. Their contact was fire, unbridled and wild.
“Excuse me.” A voice by the entrance caused Bard to jerk away with wide eyes and for Thranduil to turn with evident irritation, circlet slightly askew. An elf stood there, holding the tent flap in one hand and a folded shirt and coat in another, their face was slightly red, “It’s the clothes you wished for, Your Majesty.” The elf placed the clothes on the table and made their way out swiftly, “My apologies for the interruption.”
Thranduil smirked slightly as he saw the red tint on Bard’s face. Some men were so modest.
…
Dale was rebuilt slowly with the aid of dwarves and elves. Buildings, streets, and markets were slowly brought to their former glory. The Lakemen settled into the new environment easily, becoming the first citizens Dale has had in over sixty years.
Bard was at first met with apprehension and uncertainty. To be honest, it was better than he expected. His children put their faith in him from the start, little Tilda was excited to have a dragon in the family, bless her soul.
Traders and merchants began to filter through Dale within just two years. News spread quickly of Bards feats and his transformation. In distant lands the story of a man who slayed a dragon and stole its skin became legend.
There were times when conflict would arise. When bounty and trophy hunters would look for a dragon’s head to put on the market or on their mantles. Fools though they were Bard and Thranduil admired their determination.
The years passed slowly at first as Bard grew to accept and control his powers. Each year Thranduil would come to dread the coming of the next. Each year Thranduil would love more than the one before.
Sigrid met a lovely young merchant’s son. Their family was beautiful. A lovely little girl and a set of twin boys.
Bain joined the royal guard. He often accompanied the patrolling and escorting parties, until he came to lead them. There was no doubt in the people’s hearts that he would come to make an excellent King.
Tilda gained an apprenticeship with the tailors. She had become a talented young woman, making beautiful dresses, which traded for high prices among the merchants.
The children grew fast and Thranduil watched them do so wistfully.
…
It was a grey day on Bard’s sixtieth birthday. The pouring rain was a fitting backdrop to the gloom of Dale. None spoke a word that day, for their King was nowhere to be found and had been so for months.
News traveled fast. Bard’s disappearance was attributed to an early death. Many assumed that he had taken his own life.
Speculation as to why he would end himself passed from mouth to mouth. Each idea as to the reason grew more and more bizarre.
A common assumption was that he failed to shoulder the weight of a Kingdom on his shoulders. That he’d given up.
Some assumed that he had run away. That he had lost his grip on humanity and taken to the skies. That he had followed the path of a beast.
Others thought that the dragon’s rage had torn him up from the inside. That dragon-madness had driven him insane to the point where he’d lost his better judgement and been pushed into suicide.
Some fairy tales were spun to fit the local legends. The man who stole the dragon’s skin was driven mad by its power. Or that he gave his mind to the drake and ran away. Many versions floated about.
But Thranduil knew the truth and he was happy with it.
And Bard felt a bittersweet happiness.
For as the children grew and friends passed.
He didn’t.