Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bard was well aware he was earning his share of odd looks that morning. He had been noting them from the corner of his eye since he had sat down at the meeting table before the most recent talks between representatives of the three northern kingdoms. They came from all corners: dwarves, elves, and his own councillors alike. But instead of paying those looks any heed, he ignored them and instead bent his jumping mind to the task of reviewing the information that was to be discussed.

When, moments later, he went as tense as a bowstring at the sound of the door opening, only to discover the newcomer was no more fearsome a figure than Balin, those looks became markedly more difficult to avoid.

It was small wonder Bard was on edge today: it was the first he would see Thranduil since he had visited his halls, and he was still no closer to having an answer for him than when he had first departed.

He had thought often, in the weeks that had passed since that day, of how he should respond to Thranduil's declaration. In their correspondence since, Thranduil had not pressed him or given the slightest indication that he had shown his heart so dramatically. Bard was grateful, of course he was, but at the same time, it lent those two days in the Woodland Realm the unreality of a tale.

It could have been tempting to postpone this meeting until he was more sure of his own heart, but of course he would not. It was vital that communication between the realms remained constant and clear. They had all only barely survived when it had not been so. He could not allow his emotions to interfere.

Naturally, it was the very moment that he had been able to quiet his thoughts and focus on his work that the elves arrived. As they flowed silently into the meeting room, Thranduil at their head, the absurdity of mistaking Balin's arrival for theirs became still clearer.

Bard swallowed and attempted to will his heart back into its place. It seemed it was now far more difficult to thrust aside his awareness of Thranduil and his inhuman beauty. He had learned well how to do so in those first days after the Battle of the Five Armies, when he had worked closely with Thranduil to prevent the people of Lake-town's starvation over the winter. He had also sternly told himself then that any longings were foolish ones, and he had moved on.

He met Thranduil's eyes. Thranduil's expression warmed just enough for him alone to notice and Bard's gaze flicked away, then back. Now that he knew his longings were not so foolish, he was quickly forgetting all he had learned.

"I am still thinking," Bard said to him before anything else. He was not so cruel as to allow Thranduil to sit in false hope.

Thranduil bowed, only enough to be an acknowledgement. "Of course."

He went to seat himself at the end of the table along with his council.

Unfortunately, Bard had happened to speak in a lull, for next came a voice that was deep and displeased.

"What are you thinking about?"

Bard looked to the opposite end of the meeting table where King Thorin was glowering at him.

"It is a personal matter," he replied evenly. "It is nothing you need trouble yourself with."

"There are no personal matters when it comes to the stability of our realms," Thorin retorted.

Bard took in a breath, searching for a response to placate him before Thranduil could speak, when, at Thorin's side, Bilbo spoke up.

"Leave him be, you nosy old dwarf!" he told the King Under the Mountain. "Haven't you learned by now that Bard can be trusted above all?"

Bard felt his face heat, though Thorin's response was soon a distraction from his discomfort.

"It is not Bard I mistrust, but the company he keeps."

"As we are all present, shall we begin the meeting?" Bard cut in, for he had seen Thranduil open his mouth and knew from long experience that nothing good would come of allowing him a response.

In spite of such a beginning, everyone soon settled and the business of re-greening the former Desolation was well discussed. Thranduil seemed to be on his best behaviour, though whether that was intended to impress him, done without thought, or was merely due to Thranduil being in a good mood, Bard could not tell. No matter the cause, it was a far easier meeting than he had expected, particularly with the good news each realm had to report of their own share of the project. It appeared there was reason to be optimistic, even this early in the season.

Nevertheless, when the day's meeting had concluded, Bard found himself well and truly drained. He was able to meet Thranduil's gaze in parting, but once the elves had left, he slumped forward and rubbed at his face.

Shortly thereafter, he felt a hand clamp onto his shoulder. "You look like a man in sore need of a drink."

A small smile touched his lips as he looked up at one of his chief councillors. "Thank you, Hilda, but I need only some fresh air."

"Suit yourself," Hilda replied and stepped back. "But if you change your mind, you know where we'll be."

She departed side-by-side with Lady Dís; laughter from both was carried back to him before the door closed behind them.

Bare moments later, another voice spoke up. "So, how long have you known about Thranduil's feelings for you?"

Bard's eyebrows lifted as the King Under the Mountain's consort climbed with difficulty into the Human-sized chair beside him. (He knew better than to offer aid or to retrieve the specially-made Hobbit-sized chair from farther down the table.)

"What makes you believe King Thranduil thinks of me as anything but a fellow leader?" he asked Bilbo once the other had settled himself.

Bilbo gave him the look he reserved for the obstinately obtuse. It tended to see great use at the meeting table. "Bard, I have use of my eyes. Anyone who cared to look could see he's been pining for you for months now."

If Bard had not already been seated, he would have needed to find a chair immediately. ". . . Months, you say."

"Oh yes. The better part of a year, in fact."

Bard took in a long breath to steady his pounding heart. It did not work. "Forgive me for saying so, Bilbo, but you must be mistaken."

Once again, he was treated to the same look. "I do happen to know what a king in love looks like. It's generally much easier to tell from the outside, granted, so I'm not surprised you've only just noticed."

Bard had not one idea what to say to that. Bilbo went on.

"I won't ask what you've said to each other, but if you need someone to talk with who has experience with proud and stubborn kings, I'd be happy to be of service." He smiled. "There aren't many of us around. I've been told it isn't an enviable position."

Even with an aching head and tangled thoughts, Bard could not help but faintly return his smile. "Thank you for your offer. It is a kind one."

Bilbo shook his head. Softer, he said, "Good luck, Bard."

Then he hopped down from the chair and left the room.

In the wake of that revelation, it took Bard some time before he could bring himself to move from his place. The idea of Thranduil longing after him for perhaps a year—longing, and not merely fancying him for a matter of weeks—was one his thoughts could only touch briefly before skimming away. It was far too large to approach head-on; he would need to ease toward the idea from the side were he to make any sense of it . . . and were he to keep a level head.

But not now. All at once, he gathered up his papers and stood, then departed with a long stride.

His notes were left in his study, and gladly. They would keep till the next day, when he could look at them with a fresh mind. In the meantime, he had a different sort of meeting awaiting him.

He had barely set foot outside his hall before a loud and cheerful voice called, "There you are! I'd begun to wonder if you'd lost your way."

Setting aside his cares was an easy task once he set eyes on who had hailed him: Kíli, who was standing hand in hand with the the former Captain of the Elvenking's guard, Tauriel. It was difficult to remain in poor humour in the company of that young couple.

"You've mistaken me for your uncle," he replied as he drew near. "But I apologise for making you wait."

He bowed once he came to a stop in front of Tauriel. He could not be remiss in showing his respect to the one who had saved the lives of all three of his children. She returned it, then shared her beautiful smile with him.

"There's no need for apologies," Kíli said; when Bard turned his attention back to him, he flopped a hand. "I've become well used to the all-consuming nature of paperwork."

"Even if you do none of it yourself," Tauriel teased.

"I do . . . some of it," Kíli protested. "When it's important."

"Then you must be entrusted with very little of importance indeed."

Bard stood back and let the couple continue their mock argument. Nearly three years on and they still behaved as if they were newlyweds—it made him smile to watch. Theirs had been a hard-won love and they deserved every happiness.

Soon enough, however, Tauriel recalled his existence and blushed a faint pink. "Forgive our manners, Bard. You must be wishing to return home."

He shook his head. "Simply standing outside is a relief after being shut away for hours, especially when I have such good company. Shall we visit the market? I see you have already seen some of it today," he added with a glance at the new, Human-fletched arrows in Tauriel's quiver.

The days Kíli was present at meetings of the three kingdoms, Tauriel would not attend with him, but would travel throughout Lake-town. While Thranduil's anger seemed to have cooled, judging from those few times Bard had brought up the subject of Tauriel's banishment, she understandably did not wish to provoke him with her presence.

Kíli and Tauriel shared a look; Kíli answered.

"Tomorrow. It's been too long since we visited your young ones—we'd rather see them first."

Bard smiled and started in the direction of home. "Now that decision, I cannot argue with."

As usual, he was thoroughly ignored by his children when the three of them arrived. They sought out embraces from Tauriel (having worn down her shyness long ago) and gentle forehead-knocks from Kíli before he was at last deigned worthy of attention. A heavy sigh and roll of the eyes earned a giggle from Tilda and smiles from the rest, and then he was well-loved by his children to make up for their neglect.

Tauriel and Kíli had been adopted by his children as a favoured aunt and uncle almost immediately after the Battle of the Five Armies. When they had both recovered sufficiently from their wounds and had come to see how the children had fared, Tilda had fastened on and Bain and Sigrid had been soon to follow. For them, now, there was no escape, and fortunately, neither seemed the least inclined to try.

"Tauriel, I've almost learned the new knife trick." Tilda released him and drew out the blunted practice knife Kíli had forged for her three years past.

"She also almost finished a lamp yesterday," Bain put in; Tilda showed her tongue.

"Children, be kind," Bard said, amused instead of chiding.

Tauriel bent down with a fond smile. "I would be happy to see it. Shall we clear away a space?"

Tilda had improved greatly since the last time even Bard had seen her, and so Tauriel's praise was both free and unfeigned. After that, Bain wanted to demonstrate his archery to both their guests, but it had grown dark, and so with a promise to watch before they returned to Erebor the following day, they instead sat down to the dinner the children had prepared.

The meal was a merry affair, as it always was, and after, they all returned to the main room. There, stories new and old were shared by all as Kíli sat on Tauriel's lap and smoked his pipe and Tilda cuddled against Tauriel's side.

When Tilda's head began to nod, Kíli hopped down so that Tauriel could carry Tilda to bed. The first time his youngest had fallen asleep upon Tauriel, Bard had apologised and had stepped in to gather Tilda into his arms. Tauriel had stopped him. She had cited her Elven strength as reason why she should be the one to take Tilda to bed; indeed she had lifted Tilda with far more ease than Bard could have, even were he a younger man. But the look upon Tauriel's face as she carried Tilda upstairs suggested that she had been making an excuse, not providing a reason. He had not stepped forward again after that.

Once Tilda was abed, he and Bain and Sigrid quietly finished their conversation with Kíli and Tauriel on the doorstep, then said their goodbyes. Bard watched the couple depart for their lodgings hand in hand, smiling faintly before stepping inside and closing the door.

His smile did not last. As Bain and Sigrid went to prepare for bed, he sat on the bench before the dying fire and at last returned his thoughts to what had become a well-worn path. But now, with a greater awareness of Thranduil's true feelings, that path had at once become far more treacherous.

He had tried several times over the past weeks to picture himself and Thranduil together as a courting couple and had failed every time. He had the pattern of a relationship between an elf and a mortal before him, albeit one much deeper than what he had assumed Thranduil wanted, but it had been no help. Even before Bilbo's talk, when he had tried to set Thranduil in the place of Tauriel and himself as Kíli, his mind had shied from the image. Now, the task had become still more daunting.

And yet he could not stop trying. He liked Thranduil, in spite of Thranduil's tendency toward superiority, and he was most certainly attracted to him. Surely that should have made his decision easier.

"Da?"

Bard looked up to see Sigrid standing in the doorway, still dressed in her day clothes but with her hair braided for sleep. "Yes, darling?"

"Aren't you coming to bed?"

"In a while."

Rather than leave, however, Sigrid joined him upon the bench. She leaned against him as Tilda had with Tauriel; he pulled her close with an arm around her waist.

"How was your meeting today?" she asked once they were settled.

"It went well. Better than I had been hoping, if I'm honest."

"And what of the Elvenking?"

He sighed. His children were the only ones with whom he had shared the truth of matters between himself and Thranduil. He was not in the habit of lying to them to spare himself embarrassment, and any changes he made to his life would affect them as well.

"I told him I had not yet decided," he replied. "We spoke no more of it after that."

"You should tell him no and be done. You've been so troubled for weeks now." She lifted her head from where it rested upon his shoulder. "Surely he'll understand."

. . . It seemed he had not been concealing his thoughts as well as he had hoped. "I don't know if I want to say no."

"Then say yes."

He chuckled quietly. "I don't know if I want to say yes, either."

Sigrid frowned. "Then what has you trapped?"

He didn't immediately answer. His daughter had cut to the core of his hesitations, and she deserved the best answer he could give.

". . . I do not know him well enough to be able to say yes or no," he said finally.

Sigrid's frown did not lift. "You've known him for three years. And Tauriel and Kíli barely knew each other before they began courting."

"As odd as it might sound for me to say this about them, they're both young. Sometimes romance is more difficult when you're old."

Sigrid gave him a single-armed hug. "Da, you're not old."

He laughed again, as softly as before. "Such a dutiful daughter you are."

But—he had found the trailing end of his snarled thoughts. He gave it a pull. "I know Thranduil only as a king, not as a person, and he knows me no better. I cannot court a king."

"Then you should get to know him as a person," Sigrid concluded for him, "and decide after."

Bard breathed out. As he did, he felt himself relax for the first time in weeks. He kissed the side of Sigrid's head. "What I have done to be gifted with such a wise daughter, I could not possibly say."

Sigrid looked at him, her expression at once serious. "You've done plenty, Da." A moment more and then she hugged him, with both arms this time, and stood. "Don't stay up too late."

"I won't," he promised. "Good night, love."

"Good night, Da."

He watched the embers in the fireplace for some time longer, but, mindful of his promise, he soon went to prepare for bed. Sleep came quickly, and was restful at last.

Morning found him in a far brighter mood than any he had seen in too long. He took extra time making breakfast for his children and it looked to him that their hearts were lighter as well. Sigrid, it seemed, had not been the only one to notice his preoccupation.

There was only the briefest of meetings to be conducted that morning, intended to finish what was left from the previous day. Then it would be time to bid farewell to the delegations from Erebor and the Woodland Realm, and breathe a sigh of relief that war had been averted once more (or so he hoped).

Bard walked the wooden pathways from his home to his hall with a loose stride, whistling. When he passed Ulmhild's food stall, the apple she tossed him and the coin he flipped crossed in midair and both of them neatly made their catches. He nodded to her as he bit into to his purchase and she grinned back.

Even the final meeting could have been far more painful. Bard kept matters moving along briskly, and in the end, they actually finished a few minutes ahead of what had been planned.

The company of the Dwarves were the first to depart. Bard exchanged solemn farewells with King Thorin, Lady Dís, and Lord Balin, shook Bilbo's hand, gave a bow to Tauriel, and shared a headknock with Kíli that fell just short of making his head ache. He sent his best wishes with them for Fíli—left to steward Erebor in their absence—and smiled as he watched their departure. Kíli and Tauriel would be travelling with their family for only a short distance, for they were to visit Lake-town's market and his children both before continuing the rest of the way to Erebor.

After the first group had left his sight, Bard did not turn to face the remaining envoy immediately. It was not until he took in and let out a breath, allowing his shoulders to drop, that he moved from his place.

He found Thranduil's eyes upon him once he did. That did not come as a surprise, and no longer were Thranduil's reasons for watching him a mystery. In spite of himself, his stomach jumped.

When he met Thranduil's gaze, he tilted his chin slightly to the left. Thranduil immediately turned to his council.

"Begin your journey. I will rejoin you later."

Without question, the delegation and the guards did as they were bidden. Bard did not wait until they were out of earshot (for they were elves and that would take far too long) before asking Thranduil, "Would you join me in my study?"

"I would be glad to."

They caught more than a few eyes as they moved through his halls: Thranduil drew attention effortlessly and all knew he was meant to have departed by now. Bard ignored the looks they were receiving and continued on without pause until they reached his study.

It was the first time he had invited Thranduil inside, and he could not help but wonder what the Elvenking thought of what he saw. The contrast with Thranduil's own halls was so great as to be nearly amusing. Here, everything was not ancient and beautiful but no more than three years recent, with the exception of a handful of singed books that had been salvaged from the ruins of Old Lake-town. Everything was constructed with the utmost practicality. Bard's "throne" was a wooden chair behind a desk covered in a disorder of paper; the old Master's heavily carved chair had burned, and good riddance to it. The only decoration of either desk or chair was in the form of a cushion Tilda had sewn from the fabric of an outgrown dress, for those days when being too long seated made his back ache.

Bard did not cross the room to sit but remained standing once he had closed the door behind them. Thranduil's gaze finished taking in his surroundings before coming to rest on him. The other remained silent, his head tilted the barest amount to one side.

"I've reached a decision," Bard said, and when he had sent those words out into the air, his heart began to drum against his ribs.

"I thought you might have," Thranduil murmured. The intimacy of his tone was not calming. "You seem far less burdened than the day before."

. . . Had he truly become so simple to read? He pushed the thought aside.

"And my decision is . . . that I cannot make a decision as matters stand now."

He had thought that would capture Thranduil's attention, and he had been right. Thranduil's brows drew together; the line between them was deep.

"I do not understand your meaning."

"We do not know each other," he answered, aware that to respond in this manner would surely draw Thranduil in further. "I cannot decide whether to begin a courtship with someone I do not know."

Thranduil's frown grew. "You are making little sense. What is it that has led you to believe we are not sufficiently acquainted?"

It was the question for which he had hoped. He lifted his chin slightly, beyond what was necessary to converse with someone so tall. "Tell me, Thranduil" —and he noted the flicker of eyelashes that accompanied the use of Thranduil's name— "what do I like to do when I am not working?"

Thranduil's response was swift. "You enjoy spending time with your children."

"That is a fair answer," he acknowledged, "but anyone in Lake-town could have given it. Name something else."

Again, Thranduil spoke promptly: "You enjoy practicing your skills with the bow."

"Another answer easily found when speaking with Bard the Bowman," he replied. "But while I do take some enjoyment from a well-aimed arrow, I practice archery above all to survive, as I have since I was a boy."

He waited. Thranduil remained silent.

When his gaze fell away, Bard went on. "I could no more answer that question about you than you can about me. I could make guesses, but that is all they would be—I would not be able to speak with any certainty.

"We know each other as leaders, and that is a start. But I cannot court someone's policies. I would—" Here, he faltered. He forced himself onward. "I would know your heart before I offer mine."

Thranduil's gaze lifted, but his voice was low when he spoke.

"What do you suggest?"

Bard breathed out. He had not been certain Thranduil would consent to listen to the end of his speech—although he supposed it would have made his choice simpler had he not.

"There is another way that we speak about courting in Lake-town," he said. "We call it 'walking out.' I would invite you to walk out with me when you are next in Lake-town. Visit the city with me and converse with me about matters unrelated to our realms. If, after a time, we discover that we like each other when we are not seated at a meeting table, then . . . perhaps we could begin walking out in a more traditional manner."

Thranduil did not respond at once. Bard watched his gaze go distant as he presumably considered the suggestion. He fought not to wipe his hands on his breeches as he waited.

"Very well," Thranduil said after a time. "Your words are wise and your proposal fair. I accept your conditions."

Relief relaxed his mouth into a smile. "In that case, I look forward to walking out with you."

Thranduil did not smile in return, but he inclined his head. "My people will be waiting for me. I doubt they will have gone far without me."

"Then I should keep you no longer." He opened the door for Thranduil. "Safe travels."

"Farewell," Thranduil said and departed.

Bard could not quite keep in a breath, though he knew Thranduil would hear. This second, far more private meeting had gone better than he had hoped. Now he would need to use the little time he had bought to discover precisely what walking out with the Elvenking would mean.

Chapter Text

As he had suspected, he received a letter from Thranduil in less than a week; it must have been sent almost the moment Thranduil had returned to the Woodland Realm. It seemed Thranduil had some "unfinished business" in Lake-town, a phrase that Bard smiled crookedly to read. To think he had once considered the Elvenking unfathomable.

Also in that same day's mail was a letter from Tauriel, in response to his inquiries. Her reply was to the point: she could not write of any differences between Human and Elven courting rituals, for she was entirely unfamiliar with the ways in which Humans conducted those affairs. She provided a description of her understanding of a typical courtship between her people (though she warned him that she had only hearsay to draw upon) and offered to answer any questions that might occur to him.

She also did not press him for the identity of his intended, for which he was grateful. Lying to such a valued friend would sit very poorly indeed, and yet he would not inflict the knowledge upon her that she was, in fact, advising him on how best to court the king who had exiled her. While Tauriel had since made her peace with her situation, Bard preferred to avoid reminding her of such a difficult time whenever it was within his power.

He sat back in his chair to consider what he had learned. Little seemed strikingly different in the courtships of Humans and of Elves: both seemed to have at their core spending time together in pleasurable activities. What did draw his attention, however, was the absence of the physical side of intimacy. Tauriel had not written of even the simplest of actions, such as holding hands. Whether that was through oversight or embarrassment on her part, or whether the reluctance for touch he had seen among certain of the Elves he had known continued even into their courting, he did not know. It was an important question to ask, and one he included in his response to Tauriel alongside his gratitude.

After he had set that letter aside to dry, he turned his attention back to Thranduil's. Knowing there were no fearsome surprises to come from his visit—that would spring from the traditions of Thranduil's people, at least—it allowed him to respond easily, with a free-flowing pen.

He wrote that Thranduil was welcome to visit Lake-town at any time, though Bard would appreciate a message sent in advance to let him adequately prepare for his arrival. He had but one condition: that Thranduil dress as an ordinary elf, with no indication of his status.

For if you wish to know me, you must also know my people, he concluded. A king cannot truly understand any realm unless he walks as one belonging to it.

He considered his words, considered adding to them, but decided against it. Thranduil would either accept his condition or reject it, and no amount of disguising its essence would affect Thranduil's choice.

He concluded the letter with his regards, expressed precisely as formally as always, then set that letter aside as well to be sent out the following day.

Thranduil's response arrived before Tauriel's, though she was the nearer, and that told him his time to prepare was short. If Thranduil's haste to see Bard at his halls in the Woodland Realm were any guide, he could expect the Elvenking on his doorstep within days.

With that knowledge, he launched himself headfirst into the work of his realm, knowing he would have little enough opportunity to see to it once Thranduil had arrived. It was also something far better to turn his mind to than the implications of Thranduil's urgency.

It was two days later and mid-morning when there came a cough outside the open door to Bard's study. He looked up to see Stellan, the grey-haired man in charge of organising everything from paper to people. He was frowning as if deeply puzzled, and even before he spoke, Bard knew why.

"Beg your pardon, sire, but . . . King Thranduil is here to see you." The sentence sounded very nearly a question.

He had already placed his pen in its holder; now he rose and stepped away from his desk. "Thank you, Stellan."

Stellan did not return to his work. "Were you expecting him?"

"I was, though not for any meeting." He dropped a hand on Stellan's shoulder as he passed. "Don't worry—I did not neglect to tell you anything you would need to know for your work."

"He's dressed very . . . strangely, sire," Stellan said, following him.

He smiled a bit in spite of himself. "Is he now?"

Without waiting for the answer, he opened the right door to the waiting hall and stepped inside.

Thranduil turned at once from where he had been examining the room. Even with Stellan's warning, Bard stopped in place the moment he laid eyes upon him.

The only remaining trace of Thranduil's kingship was in his bearing. His beautifully woven, flowing robes had become a deep green tunic, tailored but simple, long and slitted to his thigh. His breeches were grey, not silver; his boots were etched with twisting vines, but were ordinary brown leather. The sword at his belt was plain-handled, in a lightly decorated sheath. His head was bare and he wore a single thin silver ring on his forefinger. Were it not for his height, Bard himself might not have known him had they passed on the streets of Lake-town.

Thranduil lifted his eyebrows—it seemed Bard had stared too long. "Good day to you."

"And to you." Bard couldn't help the shake of his head as he continued the rest of the way into the room. Behind him, he heard Stellan close the door. "Forgive my rudeness—you caught me by surprise."

"There is nothing to forgive. I am aware that what I wear is unlike my usual attire. Does it suit your purposes?"

There was the smallest touch of concern that marred Thranduil's seeming detachment, and so Bard immediately replied, "It does, far better than I would have thought possible. If you are recognised, I will be greatly surprised."

He most certainly did not add that the clothing suited far more than Bard's purposes. In it, without the distractions of fine clothes and jewelry, Thranduil's beauty became still more pronounced. But it was in a way that was accessible, not remote.

Bard's fingers curled slightly at his sides.

The assurance seemed to be what Thranduil had been seeking; some of the tension faded from him as he replied, "I am pleased to hear it. Shall we depart?"

Bard pushed aside his unhelpful thoughts. "A fine idea."

He held the door for Thranduil, who drifted through to wait for him. Once outside, Bard slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat to stop himself from worrying at anything and set a moderate pace. Thranduil joined him on the left, allowing Bard to make his first, predictable foray: "How were your travels to Lake-town?"

"Fair. I was surprised to see that the cold of winter lingers here even still," Thranduil replied.

"The lake keeps the chill." He nodded at a trio of women who stepped into an alley to allow them to pass, and could not help but note the stares Thranduil drew even in plain dress. "It will be some weeks yet before we feel the true warmth of the sun."

"I see."

Thranduil went silent. Though he showed no obvious interest, Bard could tell he was taking in every last detail of Lake-town.

After a moment, Thranduil remarked, "The extensive work you and your people have accomplished in this city is a testament to the strength of your will."

"Ah, now." At the chiding note to Bard's voice, Thranduil looked over. "We agreed that there was to be no talk of realms."

Thranduil briefly pursed his lips. "That was not my intent."

"Even so. As much as your words are kind, they will not allow us to become acquainted with each other."

Of course, now the burden of conversation had been dropped upon his shoulders, and it was not one he wore comfortably. After a few paces where his footsteps rang far louder on the wooden walkway than Thranduil's, he drew inspiration from their destination.

"Have you ever been to the markets of Lake-town or Dale?"

He did not expect it—Thranduil seemed to have little interest in non-Elvish affairs—and so he was surprised when Thranduil responded, "Not of Lake-town past or present, but the market of Dale I visited several times."

Bard's eyebrows flew up. "Did you indeed?"

Thranduil slipped him a look. "I am not immune to curiosity. Dale once attracted wonders from far beyond my lands, wonders I would not see unless I travelled for many weeks, or even months. It provided a rare opportunity."

It was a moment before Bard could search up a response to that. "What did you find? The children will want to know," he added. "There are few stories of Dale as it once was that remain among our people."

He had hoped the mention of his children would be enough to overcome Thranduil's typical guardedness, and he was right. Without hesitation, Thranduil spoke of traders from Rohan to the south, of the instruments they brought and the way their music would float on the air, of the rare times they traded fine horses the equal of Elven mounts. He spoke of those who came from beyond the Sea of Rhûn, with rich-colored cloth as light as breath whose weaving was a secret even to his people, of the medicines composed of ingredients unknown to Rhovanion but potent enough to make its traders very, very rich.

Of the toymarket of Dale, Thranduil said little. Though Bard had grown up with stories of its marvels and its fame, he knew why Thranduil declined to speak of it: the toys were Dwarven-crafted. Even so, despite such a large omission, Thranduil's descriptions lasted until they had reached their destination.

Bard blinked a few times to clear the long-past images from his mind, then said, "Welcome to Lake-town's market. It's a little small, given it is the middle of the week, and you will not find any wonders—unless you count good food as a wonder. Still, it may be of interest."

Thranduil made no reply. It seemed he had spent his words for the moment. He looked about, and Bard felt his good mood melt at the sight of his detached gaze. He had thought they had been off to a good start, but it seemed only the past, not the present, could captivate Thranduil.

He glanced past Thranduil to Ulmhild's stall. She raised thick brows; he nodded and reached for a coin.

Noting his movement, Thranduil turned to look at him, a question in his tilted head. At the same time, Ulmhild tossed an apple into the air. Bard stepped forward for the catch—and nearly fumbled it, for Thranduil spun, sudden and violent, to track the apple's flight with both eyes.

As soon as he had a firm grip on his purchase, Bard's gaze flicked to Ulmhild's once more to see that she clearly found the reaction as odd as he. It wasn't until Bard showed Thranduil the apple in his hand that he relaxed and his fingers uncoiled from the hilt of his sword.

There was silence between them, until Bard pushed past it. "That is Ulmhild. She sells me a bite of something each morning to finish my breakfast."

"Have you not already eaten?" Thranduil asked, as if he had not been on the verge of slicing Ulmhild's apple from the air only moments past.

"I have." But I wanted something to do with my hands to make matters less uncomfortable. "But I felt like something more." He hesitated, then suggested, "Shall I introduce you to her? If you would like something to eat as well, I could not recommend any vendor more highly."

"Very well," Thranduil consented.

As soon as they drew near, Bard apologised, "I'm sorry if we startled you, Ulmhild. I should have warned my friend that apples fly in Lake-town."

"It's quite all right, sire," Ulmhild replied, taking his coin (and the one he added as an apology) with long brown fingers. "I expect the fruit is better behaved in Mirkwood."

She gave Thranduil a curious look, and so Bard introduced, "Ah, this is—"

"Celtharan," Thranduil said, thankfully, for Bard had remembered too late that he knew few Elven names and Thranduil's true name would hardly do. He bowed the lowest Bard had ever seen. "Bard tells me your produce is among the best Lake-town has to offer."

Ulmhild sent a dark-eyed glance to Bard at "Celtharan's" use of his untitled name, but then, with a pleased smile, said, "I'm not so sure about that. King Bard is a very kind man, as I'm sure you know" —Thranduil did not so much as blink at the blatant fishing— "but I do make sure to offer only the best. Can I interest you in some fresh radishes? I picked them myself this morning."

Thranduil listened politely as Ulmhild recommended nearly every variety of produce at her stand, but at last he selected an apple to match Bard's. When he reached for a coinpurse at his belt, however, Bard held up a hand.

"You are my guest," he said to Thranduil. "Allow me."

He had expected an argument, but Thranduil only murmured a "thank you" and allowed him to pay. As they left the stand, Ulmhild gave him a large wink. He felt his ears burn red and quickly looked away.

Once they had walked on, Bard gave Thranduil a look. "'Celtharan'?"

Thranduil looked back. "Yes."

". . . Never mind." He bit into his apple.

Thranduil did the same. Immediately, his eyebrows rose. At Bard's curious expression, he swallowed his mouthful and said, "It is good."

"Of course it is. I would not purchase poor food for you."

His displeasure must have been clear, for Thranduil was quick to say, "I meant no offence. I simply had not realised the crops cultivated in the Desolation had grown so well."

"These are not from the Desolation," Bard replied. "Ulmhild's family has tended their small grove of apple trees for generations. They are not easily grown this far north, and so it is a source of pride for her family."

"You seem to know her well," Thranduil remarked. "Is she a friend?"

He shook his head. "We speak occasionally, that is all." When Thranduil did not stop looking at him, he added with too much haste, "Shall we continue? I believe today is one of the bookseller's days."

Thranduil appeared mildly interested in what the bookseller had to offer, but little else seemed to capture his attention. Bard wished he were surprised. He'd known that seeking to impress Thranduil would be futile—he'd seen the Elvenking's halls. But he had hoped for some sign that Thranduil was attempting to appreciate Lake-town on its own merits. The remoteness of Thranduil's gaze as it passed over kitchen knives at one stall, wooden combs at another, suggested he was not.

By the time he had led Thranduil to a pub for the midday meal, his humour was poor and difficult to hide. He felt Thranduil watching him as he went to purchase two bowls of fish soup, bread, and ale for them; once he returned with the meal balanced upon a large tray, he had barely seated himself before Thranduil spoke.

"What is it that troubles you?"

Bard looked at him. "Forgive my directness, but I seem unable to keep your attention today."

Thranduil's lips parted in that way that forever drew Bard's attention to their shape. It did not improve his temper.

"You believe I am uninterested in what I am seeing?"

"Aren't you?"

Thranduil took a moment to choose his words. Bard prepared himself for anger.

His preparations, as it turned out, were unnecessary.

"It was not my intent to lead you to believe thus. I do not find your city dull. I merely seek to understand. Though I may appear bored, I am instead lost in thought. Yours is a world completely unlike mine."

Bard let out a breath. It seemed he had yet to fully acquire the skill of reading Thranduil's moods. "So it is."

"It is at times difficult for me to comprehend what you value." Thranduil's gaze lowered—but then he lifted his blue eyes beneath his lashes and sent Bard's pulse pounding. "But I am trying. I have learned you do not easily give away your heart, and so I need to take care not to underestimate the city that has captured it so completely."

Bard grasped for his spoon, dipped it in his soup, and raised a mouthful to cool. "I am glad to be wrong."

Thranduil waited to catch his eye. There was nothing distant about his gaze when he responded, "As I am to be about much concerning your people." Before Bard could recover from that miracle, Thranduil went on. "What do you have planned for this afternoon?"

"More walking along the canals," Bard replied. "Though, if you would prefer, we could travel by faering."

"Might we. . . ." Thranduil stopped.

Bard felt his eyebrows rise. Since when was the Elvenking at a loss for words?

"Yes?" he prompted.

Thranduil took up his own spoon and turned it in his long fingers. "If you are willing, I would meet your children. It would be an honour."

It took Bard a long moment to respond, even when it was clear from Thranduil's withdrawal that he took silence for rejection. But when Bard found his voice, he replied quietly, "Of course you may meet them. Your visit would bring them great happiness."

Thranduil's head had lifted with unusual suddenness at Bard's acceptance. His eyes were still the slightest bit widened when he asked, "Would it indeed?"

"Aye. Since my stay at your halls, they have been forever asking me for news of you."

He did not mention that Bain and Sigrid seemed most concerned with whether Thranduil was pressuring him to accept his courtship. That would do no good here.

"Then I would not wish to disappoint them," Thranduil said with a lightness of voice Bard had heard only once before, in the Woodland Realm.

"Tilda will be in school a while yet. When she has finished, I will take you to my home."

"I look forward to it," Thranduil said with such sincerity that Bard ducked his head to sip the soup from his spoon. It had gone cold without his notice.

It was difficult to say what Thranduil made of his midday meal, though Bard watched closely—or perhaps the difficulty came because Bard watched closely. Whatever his thoughts were, Thranduil kept them firmly to himself.

Bard held the door once more for Thranduil when they left. It was a motion that had yet to be trained out of him (a king was not meant to be holding doors for others, he had been told time and again). Still, Thranduil seemed pleased, in spite of the small dance they found themselves doing when Bard attempted to rejoin him on the left and Thranduil made space for him on the right. It seemed that, while they were settling somewhat into each other's company, they still had some distance to travel.

And, thinking of travel: "Would you prefer to continue on foot or by boat?"

It took Thranduil little time to decide, a fact Bard made note of. "I have only rarely been afforded the opportunity to travel on the water in recent times. The Forest River is not ideal for sailing, and I have little interest in rafts."

Small wonder it was that the Forest River was "not ideal" if even half the stories Bard had heard of it were true. He did not speak those thoughts aloud, but said only, "What about a faering?"

"What means of travel is that?"

Bard pointed to a boat tied up nearby that was long and wooden, with a pair of oars in front and back. "That is it. A faering may be paddled by one or two, although as your host, it would be rude of me to insist upon your aid."

Thranduil considered the faering for a moment. After misunderstanding him so greatly that morning, Bard made no attempt to guess his thoughts as he waited.

"Very well," Thranduil at last agreed. "Where do we obtain one?"

That was a good question. Bard had a faering of his own for quick travel, but it was halfway across Lake-town. It seemed a waste of time—not to mention his energy—to fetch it and row all the way back before his tour had even begun.

He glanced about and laid eyes upon an old man, fair beneath his wind-tanned skin, who sat upon a nearby doorstep smoking a long pipe.

"Good day to you!" Bard called and then had to keep back a grimace when the old man began to lever himself to his feet. A shake of Bard's head only just kept him seated.

"King Bard! It is a great honour!" the man exclaimed—loudly. It seemed he was at least somewhat deaf, unfortunately for them both.

Bard heard shutters opening down the canal and did his best to ignore the sound. "I thank you. Tell me, do you know who owns that faering? I wish to rent it to show my friend Lake-town by water."

The old man briefly took in Thranduil, his gaze travelling up and up, before returning to Bard. "It's mine, sire, and you may use it for free—no, no, sire, keep your coin," he added when Bard drew out his purse. "You can have the faering to keep, if you'd like, and it would be my joy."

Bard held in a sigh and returned his purse to his pocket. "Using it for the afternoon is plenty. Thank you for your kindness. What is your name?"

"Snorre, sire. May you and your friend have a pleasant afternoon together," the old man replied. He grinned suddenly. "And may I say, sire, how good it is to see you enjoying yourself at last."

Snorre's words may have been innocuous, but the brightness of his tone and the width of his grin gave another meaning to his wish altogether. Rather than attempt to address the implications, Bard jerked a nod and went to untie the faering with the hope that his cheeks were not as red as they felt.

Thranduil followed, watching from the walkway as Bard stepped into the boat and uncoiled the rope in the stem.

"Your subjects show great love for you," he murmured.

That did not help with Bard's warm face. Concentrating on his preparations, he replied just as quietly, "They have good hearts and open them freely."

Thranduil was silent a moment. His next words sounded thoughtful. "They also display much comfort with you."

He looked up at Thranduil and shrugged stiffly. "I am of them. I lived as they did for much of my life. It is difficult to be over-reverent of a man who spent most of his life steering a barge." Without waiting for a response, he added, "You'll want to set your foot into the—"

Thranduil stepped into the centre of the faering with the ease and confidence of one who had been born on the water. Barely a ripple showed around the boat as he seated himself in the stem.

". . . I thought you said it has been long since you had last travelled by boat," Bard said after a moment.

Thranduil wore a tiny, smug smile. "It has."

Bard said nothing more but only shook his head at the unfair grace of the Elves—and of this elf in particular. Once he had settled himself in the stern, he pushed off from the walkway and began to row.

It was cooler on the water, though Thranduil gave no sign of noticing. He looked about as Bard took him through beautiful and ugly sections of Lake-town alike. Mostly, their conversation consisted of Bard speaking about the areas of the city through which they passed. Occasionally, however, Thranduil would ask questions that Bard would answer as best he could. And sometimes, they would both fall silent and listen to the sounds of the city around them.

". . . Why are you smiling?"

Bard blinked a few times. Thranduil's deep voice seemed oddly loud; they had not spoken for the length of the canal. When he recognised the question, his smile did not fade, but grew.

"Listen."

Thranduil tilted his head. To both their ears came the sound of a woman singing "Unnur the Cooper." When she reached each chorus, more voices would join in, then fall away when the verse came once again.

"I have not heard such singing in Lake-town as there has been in the last year," Bard explained softly after a time, not wanting to drown out the music. "When I was a boy, few sang as they worked and never so joyfully. It brings me great pleasure to hear music in the air."

Thranduil said nothing, but only faced forward in the faering and kept listening. Bard hummed along with the tune as he rowed even after the song faded from his hearing.

When the sun began to lower toward the waters, Bard rowed them back to where Snorre still sat on his stoop, joined now by several friends. Once again, Bard attempted to pay him for the use of his craft and was refused. Snorre's friends all regarded Thranduil with great curiosity, which Thranduil fortunately tolerated with patience. Bard made a quick introduction of his friend "Celtharan" and then ducked away, citing business needing tending. The chuckles that followed suggested all too clearly what business they thought that was.

"Is it so unusual to see you in the company of another?" Thranduil asked, exactly as Bard had hoped he would not.

Bard thrust his hands into his pockets, grimacing as his fingers found the apple core from that morning. "Aye, it is. I spend time when I can with friends, but. . . ."

"But?" Thranduil prompted when he hesitated too long.

Bard kept his gaze on the far end of the path. "I have not walked out with anyone since Signy died eight years past. My wife," he added, though perhaps he did not need to.

He heard Thranduil draw in a breath, but in the end, he did not respond. Bard could only be grateful.

The somber mood between them did not last, however, for soon Bard's house came into view. He sighed out a breath, feeling his shoulders loosen.

"Here it is: my home," he said and glanced to Thranduil. "It is the one with the blue trim—Tilda's favourite colour."

"Did you paint it for her?" Thranduil asked.

"Two summers past." He smiled a bit at the memory. "She was forever running out with water and food so I would not weary myself. Bain and Sigrid helped, too, with the painting."

He lengthened his stride to be certain to arrive first. He opened the front door, stepped through, and called, "I'm home with a guest."

Immediately, Tilda popped up from the corner chair in the main room. "A guest? Who—ooh!" she broke off when Thranduil stepped inside. "Is this King Thranduil?"

"It is, yes," Bard began, but got no further, for Tilda turned and yelled, "Bain, come down, King Thranduil is here!"

There was a clatter and a thump upstairs; before Bard could remind Tilda of her manners, Bain was on the stairs, eyes wide. "King Thranduil?"

Then his son flushed deeply, for his voice had cracked as it had not in years. Bard glanced at Thranduil—but Thranduil was smiling, the expression . . . fond.

"Is Sigrid upstairs as well?" Bard asked as Bain descended the stairs with as much dignity as he could summon. Poor lad.

"She's visiting Laerke next door," Bain answered. He seemed to be trying to deepen his voice a bit.

Bard smiled suddenly. "She is, is she? Would you fetch her for me, son?"

"A-All right, Da." Bain started for the door, then stopped within two steps. He bowed to Thranduil and said, "It is an honour to meet you, Your Majesty. Welcome to our home."

Thranduil inclined his head. "The honour is mine, Bain, son of Bard."

As Bain went red, Bard's heartbeat quickened. Thranduil's affection for his children was plain, and in a dizzying instant, his decision of whether to properly walk out with Thranduil seemed much less difficult.

He stepped aside to let Bain past and said as evenly as he could, "Please, come in and sit down. Shall I make some tea?"

"Thank you. That would be most welcome," Thranduil replied and went to seat himself on the fireside bench.

Bard paused in the kitchen doorway, glancing back to see how Tilda felt about being left alone even briefly with the King of the Woodland Realm. He needn't have worried. Tilda had followed Thranduil to the bench and had sat down next to him, far closer than Bard had ever before seen anyone dare. His gaze flicked to Thranduil, but his posture remained relaxed, and so Bard continued into the kitchen.

"Have you been having a good day with Da?" he heard Tilda ask as he went to check the water in the kettle.

"I have," Thranduil replied. "Your father is an excellent host."

It seemed he was fortunate to be in the kitchen for this part of the conversation: his sympathy for Bain and his discomfort was abruptly renewed. Ignoring his embarrassment as best he could, he stirred up the fire and set the kettle on the stovetop, then went to lean against the doorframe separating the kitchen from the main room.

"Where did you have lunch?" Tilda was asking as he settled into place.

"I did not learn the name." Thranduil turned to him.

"Rafter's Rest," he told them both.

Tilda nodded. "That's a good choice. You should take King Thranduil to The Black Arrow the next time, Da. Their soft rolls are even better than Bain's," she confided to Thranduil.

"'The Black Arrow'?" Thranduil repeated with a glance Bard refused to catch.

"They named it after Da, like Dragonslayer Inn," Tilda explained. "There are a lot of places named after him these days."

"Excuse me," Bard said quickly when he caught movement out the front window, and he went to meet his eldest children.

"Why didn't you tell us you were bringing King Thranduil here?" were Sigrid's first panicked words to him, spoken not in Westron but in the Lake-town tongue.

"Because I didn't know." He caught his daughter by her upper arms, rubbed his hands down them to soothe her. "He asked this afternoon if he might visit you. You needn't worry—he seems to like the three of you well from my stories."

Sigrid took in and released a breath, settling. Bard let her go. "I still wish we'd had some warning."

"Cheer up, Sigi," Bain put in; he seemed to have calmed as well. "At least Da didn't bring him in through the toilet this time."

A shocked giggle burst from Sigrid and even Bard found himself grinning. Now that was a picture.

"All right, darling, ready to go inside?" he asked Sigrid when the moment had passed.

"Ready, Da," Sigrid told him with a smile.

He opened the door and led the way to where Thranduil and Tilda were, if anything, sitting still closer on the bench.

"Greetings, Your Majesty," Sigrid said in Westron, with barely a tremor in her voice. Her curtsy was steady and sure. "You honour us with your presence in our home."

"Well met, Sigrid, daughter of Signy," Thranduil replied; Bard heard Sigrid gasp softly. "There is no need for titles between us, as I have already told Tilda. 'Thranduil' is sufficient.

"And now" —he transferred his gaze to Bard— "I would ask why your son thought my arrival could have been a very different one."

Bard stared. "The door and window were shut. How did you hear that? And how did you understand what you heard?"

Thranduil smirked. "I have lived in this land longer than Dale has existed. Though I do not speak your tongue, I understand it well enough."

Bard made a very firm note of that (and also made a great attempt not to wince, for several of his councillors had at times spoken their language in front of Thranduil, thinking they would not be understood). Before he could devise a response to Thranduil's question that would not unbalance the peace of the region, Tilda answered instead.

"Bain was talking about how Da had to smuggle in King Thorin and his Company."

Instantly, she had Thranduil's full attention. "Was he indeed?"

"Tilda. . . ." Bard groaned. They would be at war by morning.

Tilda paid him no heed, clearly far too happy to have a story to tell the Elvenking to listen. "The old Master of Lake-town had spies everywhere, so Da brought them all into the city inside barrels of fish. Then they had to climb in through our toilet! Sigi and I didn't know they were coming, so it was a real surprise. I was only nine, so I thought they would bring us luck." She giggled.

"I presume all they brought you was a great stench," Thranduil replied, making her giggle again. He looked up to meet Bard's eyes. "I had wondered why one particular shipment of Dorwinion wine had a strange taste to it. Now it seems I have found my answer."

Thranduil may have found his answer, but Bard could find no words at all. Could that possibly have been . . . a joke? From Thranduil? It seemed impossible, and yet Thranduil's good humour was undeniable.

The kettle began to whistle; Sigrid jumped.

"Oh, I'll get that, Da," she told him when he made for the kitchen. "You sit down."

"All right. Thank you."

He let her by, and as he did, he heard the tail of Tilda's next question: ". . . tell me how old you are?"

"Tilda!" Sigrid cried from the kitchen. "You can't ask him that!"

"She causes me no offence with her curiosity," Thranduil thankfully said. "She may ask whatever she likes." He turned his attention back to Tilda. "I was born in the two hundred and fiftieth year of the First Age, over six thousand, seven hundred years past."

Bard dropped into the corner chair like a stone into water. Six . . . thousand. . . .

Never before had his forty-two years seemed so—so paltry.

There was silence. Even Tilda seem to have lost her words.

At last, Bain spoke, hesitantly. "You . . . you said that you lived here before Dale was founded. You must have known Girion, then. Of Dale, I-I mean—our ancestor."

Thranduil turned on the bench to face where Bain was still standing. "I did know your ancestor, yes. The ties between the Woodland Realm and Dale were not so strong as they are now, but even so, we met numerous times."

Bain at last came forward to sit, though in a chair and not on the bench. None of them were quite so brave as Tilda. "Would you be willing to tell us about him?"

"Of course."

For some time, Thranduil spoke of Girion and Dale as if those days were only weeks and not centuries gone. Most of his tales were grand in nature, though a few (such as the story of when Girion's horse had shied and had thrown him at Thranduil's feet) were not. Gradually, all three of his children overcame the shyness Thranduil's great age had inspired, even Sigrid—though when Thranduil offered his thanks for the tea she brought, eyes level upon her, the cup she held out nearly rattled off its saucer.

Bard said little, but watched closely. It seemed Thranduil had spoken truly when he had claimed children were "the greatest treasure of the Elves": with Tilda, Sigrid, and Bain, he displayed a patience at which his behaviour in meetings had never hinted. Bard had not seen smiles come so easily to Thranduil in all the time he had known him, and there was nothing guarded or rigid about his pose. Dressed as he was, listening intently to Tilda speaking about her school and Bain's shy words about his studies in governing a realm, Bard could nearly forget that Thranduil was a king.

After a time, he excused himself to help Sigrid prepare dinner. Mindful of Thranduil's hearing—which seemed to be extraordinary even for an Elf—they only shared a glance and a one-armed hug before sitting to work.

Once the meal was prepared and they were all seated at the kitchen table (he and Thranduil at each end, Bain on one side, and Sigrid and Tilda squeezed in together on the other), Sigrid would have apologised again and again for the simpleness of the food, but Thranduil stopped her words.

"It is I who should apologise. My impatience to meet all of you overcame my propriety. What you have prepared, I will eat with gratitude."

If only King Thorin could hear those words, Bard thought in wonder as Sigrid sat back with a heavy blush across her cheeks.

It was not as merry of a meal as was customary for their home, but it was far from unpleasant. Thranduil's patience continued throughout, and the conversation did not once flag.

As Tilda and Bain cleared the plates, however, Bard decided not to test his unnatural luck.

"We should not keep Thranduil much longer. He's had a full day," he said was a glance to check for agreement. He received it, but Thranduil's lowered lashes suggested reluctance.

"Will you come back again soon?" Tilda asked with a hopeful note in her voice as she set dishes in the sink.

"As soon as I am granted an invitation to return," Thranduil promised, earning a brilliant smile.

"Come tomorrow—we'd be happy to have you," Tilda offered.

At the sound of a soft chuckle, Bard turned to stare. Strange warmth filled him as Thranduil replied, "It would be best if you asked your father first."

"We'll talk," was all Bard could say in reply when Tilda turned her gaze to him.

All three of his children joined them at the door, Tilda in front with Bain resting his hands on her shoulders and Sigrid next to him. They made a beautiful picture.

"Thank you for your visit," Bain said with a return to formality.

"We hope it was a good one," Sigrid added.

"Have a good evening!" Tilda finished, stepping forward to hug Bard.

And then, before anyone could stop her, she hugged Thranduil as well.

Thranduil looked thunderstruck. It was the only word that could describe the degree of shock upon his face, from his wide eyes to his mouth fallen open. His hands hung in midair, but before he could decide what to do with them, Tilda stepped back and gave him a full smile.

Bard, in no small shock of his own, watched Thranduil pull himself together enough to offer a ". . . Good evening to you all," before he walked—not glided, but walked—-out the door.

As soon as he had followed and closed the door behind them, Bard said, "Please forgive Tilda's behaviour. She is an affectionate girl and often forgets herself in her enthusiasm."

Even before he had finished his apology, Thranduil was shaking his head. "Do not discipline her. This world would be a better place were more as giving as she."

For a moment, Thranduil was silent, gazing through the lamp-lit window of Bard's home. Then, he turned back to Bard. "I understand now why you are so proud of your children. They are extraordinary."

Bard was glad of the darkness to hide his flush—though perhaps that meant as little to Thranduil as a closed door did to his hearing. As lightly as he could, he said, "Many have tried to win my favour through flattering my children. If that is—"

"It is not."

Bard took in a breath that was not all the way steady. ". . . I am happy to hear it."

He looked out across the square, its soft lights like unseasonal fireflies in the falling dusk. "Will you walk with me?"

"Gladly," Thranduil said softly from his side. Bard did not dare to look.

He set a slow pace, which Thranduil matched. Still without glancing to him, Bard asked, "How long until you must return to the Woodland Realm?"

"I have few pressing duties," Thranduil replied. "The business of my realm does not move at the same pace as yours. I leave it to you to decide."

That was a relief, and it was not. Bard took his time responding, attempting to balance manners with the unknown weight of his heart.

At last, he said, "I can give you tomorrow and perhaps one day more. After that, I can delay my work no longer."

"Of course." There was no displeasure in Thranduil's voice. "Your people need you. That I understand far better than I did before this day."

Bard did not attempt a reply to that. A few steps more, and then he stopped beneath a lantern hung from someone's walkway and turned to face Thranduil at last. The yellow light of the lantern softened Thranduil's face, warmed the winter sky blue of his eyes.

Or perhaps the lantern was not the reason for those changes to his expression, a corner of his heart whispered or wished. He pushed the words away.

"I thought we might visit Dale tomorrow," he said through the discomfort of a dry mouth. "If that is agreeable to you, we will need to leave early."

"It is," Thranduil replied, his quiet voice making Bard's seem loud. "It has been long since I walked its paths, with the exception of three years past."

"It may look different now. We have not been rebuilding Dale exactly as it once was."

"I look forward to seeing what has changed."

A silence between them. Bard licked his lips.

". . . Where will you go now?" he asked.

"I have made camp on the shore of the Forest River. I will retire there until morning."

Bard felt his eyebrows lift. "You could stay in the city."

"At the Dragonslayer Inn?" The note of amusement in his words made Bard flush. "This is simpler. There are fewer questions to avoid."

"If you're certain."

He took in a breath—let it out. No, he was not nearly prepared to invite Thranduil to spend the night at his house, no matter how poorly the situation sat.

He hesitated a moment longer, then said only, "Well . . . I hope you have a pleasant night. Come find me an hour past sunrise. I should be ready then."

Thranduil nodded once, acknowledging. He smiled a little. "May your sleep be peaceful."

He returned the smile, in spite of his suddenly jumping nerves. "Thank you. . . . Good night, Thranduil."

For a few breaths, it seemed as though neither of them would break this final moment of their day. If anything, Thranduil was leaning in, ever so slightly.

With a great effort of will, Bard forced himself to turn and walk back to his home. It was some time before he heard Thranduil's light footsteps move away as well.

Of course his children were waiting for him when he returned.

"Well, Da?" Bain asked once he was inside.

"What happened?" Tilda added.

"We've agreed to meet early tomorrow morning and visit Dale," he replied. "It seems he hasn't properly visited since Girion's time."

The answer seemed to satisfy Tilda, though perhaps not Bain and Sigrid—not fully. Rather than think about that, he went to sit on the fireside bench. All three of his children joined him.

"What do you think of him?" Bard asked once they were all crushed cosily together.

"I think he's lovely, Da," Tilda replied immediately. Bard was certain that was the first time anyone had so described Thranduil in all his six thousand, seven hundred years. (Six thousand, seven hundred years!)

"Can he come visit again?" she went on.

"As long as your siblings don't mind," Bard replied.

"We don't mind if you give us some warning," Sigrid said, giving him a bit of a look.

"He may ask to visit tomorrow," Bard told her. "I would not be surprised—he's very taken with you."

"We'll be ready," Sigrid promised.

They all fell into a warm quiet, watching the fire with arms around each other. After a time, Sigrid spoke again.

"You told him about Ma."

He looked around Bain to see her. She sounded hesitant . . . but not disapproving.

"Only her name," he said and waited.

He watched Bain and Sigrid exchange looks.

". . . You should keep seeing him, Da," Bain said.

Bard hugged him tighter against his side. "Is that your blessing?"

Bain looked at him seriously, taking the jest from Bard's words. "Yes."

He looked to Tilda, who bounced a little against his other side.

"Yes!"

And at last to Sigrid, who had known their mother best of all.

"Yes."

Chapter Text

In the courtship of the Elves, touch holds great significance, Bard read by the light of the rising sun as he returned from his hall to his home. It is generally seen as a means of declaring firm intentions. Though the level of intimacy in public that each elf is willing to show varies, it is important to remember that romance among our people is not lightly pledged. Were I you, I would not make any such gestures until you are certain of your heart, my friend.

Well, then. Bard scanned the remainder of the letter, then placed it in his pocket with the rest of the correspondence he had retrieved from his hall. It seemed his instincts had been correct, although the confirmation from Tauriel was good to have. Touch, then, was one course he would not need to navigate for some time yet.

Or at all, he reminded himself. After all, he had yet to decide whether he would walk out with Thranduil after these few days.

For just a moment, the energy left his step. He forced himself to move on.

When he reached his home, he swept inside and leaned through the kitchen door to toss his letters on the table. He had already checked the names and seals upon the rest: they could keep if he did not have time to view them that day.

"Thranduil wasn't here while I was out, was he?" he asked his two eldest, who were washing and drying the breakfast dishes.

He had told his children the previous night that there was no need for them wake early with him, but they had all insisted. It seemed they wished to see him off that morning—or none wished to be caught in their sleep clothes by the King of the Woodland Realm.

"Not yet," Bain said as he handed a plate to Sigrid for drying. "Tilda's watching from the upstairs window. She'll let you know."

Bard smiled. "I don't doubt it."

He made little headway into his correspondence before his concentration was broken by an excited "He's here!" and the pounding of feet on the stairs. Within moments, Tilda had flown into the room and was tugging on his arm. "Thranduil's here, Da!"

"And now he knows we know, goose," Sigrid told her, reaching over to ruffle her hair.

Tilda paid her no mind, but continued to drag Bard the rest of the way out of his seat. "Come on, Da!"

Bard grinned and hugged her. "I could almost think Thranduil was walking out with you, not me."

"You're silly," Tilda told him. She gave him a squeeze and released him. "I'm just glad you're going to have fun today."

He wasn't certain how much "fun" of any sort he would have with Thranduil, but he kept the thought to himself. "Is that so unusual?"

He'd meant it as a tease, but the look Tilda turned up at him was abruptly serious. "Yes, Da. It is."

". . . We made you something for your midday meal," Sigrid said so that he did not need to find an answer for Tilda.

Bain stepped forward with a heavy parcel wrapped in cloth. Bard accepted it and pulled up a smile for them all.

"You'll have me as round as a grass-fed pony at this rate."

"Half of it is for Thranduil," Sigrid pointed out.

Bard leaned forward to kiss her forehead, then hugged Bain with an arm. "We'll be a fine pair of ponies, then." He stepped back and went to stow the parcel in the pack he had left sitting by the door. "I'll be back by nightfall. Have a good day, my loves."

They all crowded around him as he opened the door. He pulled up short at the sight of Thranduil standing only a few paces away and dressed just as plainly (for an Elf) as the previous day. It seemed Tilda had called out his arrival none too soon.

". . . Good morning," Bard greeted him in Westron after a second or so to collect himself. "I hope I have not kept you waiting long."

Thranduil cocked his head slightly. "Need I remind you again of the patience of the Elves?"

He felt himself flush. "No, I believe I have learned your lesson well."

"It is not a lesson—simply a reminder." Thranduil's gaze travelled past him. "Good morning to you all. Are you here to wish your father farewell?"

Tilda nodded. "That's right. We hope you both have a good day."

"We'll do our best." Bard turned to give them one last smile, and to anchor himself. "I'll see you soon."

All three said their goodbyes as he stepped outside. Sigrid closed the door behind them, leaving him alone with Thranduil in the nearly empty square before his house.

Bard cleared his throat. "We'll need horses if we are to arrive at Dale in time to see anything. Did you bring anything to ride?"

"Nothing fit for 'Celtharan,'" Thranduil replied.

"Then the stable is this way," Bard said and started in the proper direction.

He did not know how much Thranduil had overheard of his conversation or how much he had understood, but thankfully, Thranduil made no comment. He answered Bard's questions as to whether he had passed a pleasant night (he had, reading) and asked in turn if Bard and his children had done the same. By the time Bard had finished answering to Thranduil's satisfaction, they had arrived at the stable.

The owner, Ylva, was at the counter in the tiny receiving area when they walked inside. She was a woman with deep brown skin and a halo of tight-curled black hair; in spite of the relatively early hour, she looked bright and alert and had a cheerful smile for them both.

"Good morning, King Bard. Here to take more of my horses to Mirkwood, I expect."

"To Dale, actually. I'll be showing my friend Celtharan how far the rebuilding has progressed," he answered and hoped his pronunciation of Thranduil's chosen name was not offensive. Given Thranduil's response was only a small bow to Ylva, it seemed he had not done too poorly.

"In that case, I'll tell Synnove to saddle up the horses but remain where she is," Ylva said as Bard counted out his coins. "Unless you'd prefer a bit of company?"

"Not this time."

Ylva nodded and left by the connecting door into the stables, saying, "We'll be a few moments. Have a seat."

"Are we not allowed the opportunity to inspect the horses?" Thranduil inquired as Bard sat on one of the wooden chairs crammed into the room. It came as no surprise to him that Thranduil chose to remain standing.

"My mother would sometimes look after Ylva when she was young and Ylva's mother was busy. She would never cheat me."

"And this is more important than the fact that you are her king?"

"Here, it is."

Thranduil asked no more questions after that, but began examining what little there was of the room. Soon after, Ylva stepped through the stable door.

"Synnove has your horses waiting out front. Have a good visit."

Bard gave her a nod. "And a good day to you."

He was pleased to see Synnove again, and they exchanged a few words as Bard mounted up. When Thranduil mounted his own horse with his usual inhuman grace, Synnove's eyes widened and she shook her head.

"What I would not give some days to be an elf," she muttered to Bard, then, louder, said, "Good riding to both of you."

Bard gave his own well-wishes, then nudged his horse into a walk toward the largest bridge connecting Lake-town to the mainland.

Thranduil seemed content to take in what there was of Lake-town between the stable and the bridge, and so, aside from pointing out a few locations of potential interest (such as the home of Hilda, whom Thranduil knew from the meeting table), Bard kept quiet.

Once they were on the road, however, he soon broke the silence between them.

"So, what do Elves do to keep themselves entertained during travel?" he asked. They had a ride of a few hours before them, and though he was not a talkative man, it seemed a long and uncomfortable time to spend without speaking.

He glanced over to see Thranduil's eyebrows rise. "It depends upon the elf."

"A fair answer," he acknowledged. "What do you do, then?"

"I dwell upon recent thoughts and happenings, or I observe my surroundings, or I meditate, as it suits my mood."

"And when you travel with company?"

"I may converse upon occasion, but otherwise my previous answer remains unchanged."

. . . It seemed their ride was to be a dull one.

Before he could respond, however, Thranduil returned the question: "And what do you do?"

"With company? We talk, exchange news. I am not much of a storyteller, but I am told I am a good listener. Sometimes, if we are of a mind for it, we sing travelling songs."

"Do you indeed?"

There was a plain increase of interest in Thranduil's voice, one Bard could not possibly fail to note. Though Thranduil was still not smiling, his expression had lost its usual coolness.

"That's right," he said cautiously. "When I travel to Dale, it is with those who have lived in Lake-town all their lives. We all grew up singing the same songs."

"What are those songs?"

He shrugged a little. "'Rocked By the Waves,' 'Old Stonefist,' 'The Thrush and the Crow.' Songs of that ilk." There were a few others favoured by some he travelled with, but songs such as "The Barman's Bottom" were not ones he would even speak of before the Elvenking.

"What was the song that your people sang yesterday?"

Bard glanced over again, then back to the path. "'Unnur the Cooper.' It's an old one."

"Is it also a travelling song of your people?"

"It isn't usually, but it can be," he answered. "It has many verses, and so it passes the time well enough."

He was all but certain he knew what Thranduil's next words would be. He was not wrong.

He was, however, surprised by the slight hesitation that accompanied them: ". . . You seem to know the song well. Would you care to share it?" When Bard did not immediately reply, Thranduil added, "The road is long and we have some hours yet to travel."

"So we do," he agreed.

He said no more for the moment. Thranduil's request was not unfair or unusual; had it been made by any other, he would have begun singing at once. But while he was still trying to learn what it was Thranduil was to him (and what he wished he would be), the action weighed heavier, meant perhaps more.

In the end, pragmatism overruled his uncertain heart. The road was long, and what else would they do to pass the time?

". . . Very well."

He cleared his throat and began the first of many, many verses.

"From east of the mountains
And west of the river,
No stronger was any
Than Unnur the Cooper. . . ."

As he sang, he hoped that Thranduil would be of a mood to join him, and when it came to the second round of the chorus, he sent him an expectant look. All he received in return was a tilt of the head, and so, with a slight fumbling of the beat, he continued on alone.

But, after a time, he sank into the flow of the song and all but forgot Thranduil. It was a clear day, and though there was a nip in the air, the sun was warm on his side. It was a good day for singing.

When Unnur had vanquished the last of her foes and the final chorus was sung, Bard turned to Thranduil.

"And now it's your turn."

Thranduil blinked. His eyes had been half-lidded and he had seemed reflective. Now his lashes lifted.

"Very well," he agreed, far more easily than Bard had expected.

Instead of singing (to Bard's brief disappointment), Thranduil began a tale, of an elf named Círdan the Shipwright. It seemed to be well known to Thranduil—he told it as if the words were well-worn in his mind—but it was entirely new to Bard. Though Thranduil was not the most engaging storyteller Bard had met, the tale was a good one and Thranduil's voice no hardship to listen to, and so his attention was easily kept.

Long before Bard could see much or hear anything but the breeze, Thranduil cocked his head to the left.

"Are there people living in Dale? I had assumed there were as yet no permanent dwellings."

"There are some, for the workers and their families. Others will come out for the day to labour and return to Lake-town at nightfall."

Thranduil's curiosity did not seem satisfied. He spoke again: "I hear a bell."

"We all grew up on stories of the bright bells of Dale. Though we could not spare much time from the reconstruction, it seemed wrong for Dale to be silent. It was forged" —by the Dwarves, he did not say— "the summer before last. It may sound foolish, but we've all felt better since."

He expected Thranduil to lift his eyebrows at him at the very least, but instead, the reply he received was, "Dale without its bells is dead. Your choice was wise."

". . . I would agree," he said. "I hope we can bring more bells to Dale in time."

Not very long after, they reached the edge of the city. Already there were several horses tied to the mounting rail; however early their start to the day had been, others had been earlier.

They dismounted and cared for their horses without speaking, almost comfortably, Bard thought. Then, side by side, they entered Dale.

The city was quiet in comparison to the constant noise of Lake-town, but that did not mean it was silent. People still called to one another, horses neighed, hoof-clops echoed through the stone streets, and filling the air were the sounds of stone being chiselled, wood sawn, nails hammered, and other countless noises of a city being renewed.

"It may not compare to Dale in its glory days," Bard said as Thranduil looked about, "but we'll bring it back yet."

"You have done much in such a short period," Thranduil remarked. "Your people work hard."

Though Bard noted they had returned to talk of realms, he allowed himself a moment to be proud.

"Aye, they do. They always have." He took in the long avenue before them, smiling slightly. Though it was not spotless, its litter came from sawdust and muddy boots, not the rubble of ruined homes.

He returned his gaze to Thranduil. "Shall I show you what we've rebuilt so far?"

"I would be pleased to see it," Thranduil replied with the smallest hint of a smile of his own.

They set off together down the road. Here, at the edge of the city, little work had been done, aside from clearing away stone and weeds, and there were few people. Those who passed them by were plainly surprised by their presence, particularly Bard's, as it was not one of his days to work. He had need several times to assure his people that he was not conducting an inspection, but merely showing "Celtharan" the changes to Dale since his friend had fought here in the Battle of the Five Armies.

As he had expected, Thranduil quickly earned both gratitude and respect. All here knew they would not have survived the aftermath of Smaug, the Battle, or the winter that followed without the help of the Elves. After one particularly effusive older man had left them, Thranduil seemed pensive. Perhaps he was at last coming to understand how so little easily given by his people could mean so much to Bard's own.

He did not give Thranduil time to dwell, however, particularly as they drew nearer to the city centre.

"Some of the workers garden in their spare time," Bard remarked as they entered one of the inhabited neighbourhoods. He gestured to a small, upraised plot of earth on their right, in which a few bright anenomes bloomed. "Most grow vegetables to eat, but a few plant flowers. There were snowdrops earlier, although they have since faded."

As Thranduil looked past him to take in the garden, they both stepped closer to the side of the road at the sound of an approaching horse-drawn cart. "If you have need, I could send flower seeds with the next shipment of supplies for the Desolation. It would help to bring further life back to the city."

Bard looked up at him, startled—and then he smiled. "Thank you. You will bring the workers—"

The tail of the horse now alongside them twitched.

"Thran—"

Flick.

The horse moved on. As it did, Thranduil turned to him with an expression of unspeakable disgust at the muck that now splattered the entire left side of his face.

Bard took in the sight, unsure whether he wished to cover his entire face, or simply his fallen-open mouth. When Thranduil ran a finger down his cheek and took in the filth he gathered with a wrinkled nose, the decision of what to do was made for him.

He started to laugh.

Immediately, Thranduil's head snapped around. The glare he sent Bard should have dried the laughter in his throat, but somehow, he only laughed the harder.

"Sorry! I am sorry!" Bard gasped out, trying to capture the chuckles that still would not be contained. "What happened is not worth merriment—it is unfortunate and you have my sympathies. But—" His laughter welled up again. "I did not know your face was so expressive until now."

At that, he was sure Thranduil was going to storm away and Bard would have to craft all manner of apologies to ensure they would continue to sit at the same meeting table as allies. Certainly, Thranduil seemed on the verge of doing precisely that: his outrage filled the air between them.

But then, incredibly, it all faded away, and that piece of tremendous fortune was enough to quell Bard's laughter at last.

"I have never before heard you laugh," Thranduil said as he drew a cloth from a pocket in his tunic to cleaned his face.

Bard glanced away and shoved his hands in his pocket so he would not rub the back of his neck. "I am sorry it was at your expense."

"I know you meant no ill." There was a pause, then, quieter: "I . . . would enjoy hearing your laughter again."

Only when he had taken a deep, steadying breath did Bard dare to look at Thranduil. At the softness he found on his face, such an incredible contrast from Thranduil's anger of moments ago, he nearly looked away again.

"You missed a bit," was the only reply he could make, pointing at his own left cheekbone.

Thranduil wiped away the last of the filth, then, holding the soiled handkerchief between fingertip and thumb at arm's length, looked about.

"Here. I'll take it."

Bard held out his hand. There was nowhere to dispose of the handkerchief before they reached the building sites farther into Dale, and he was not nearly unkind enough to make someone so fastidious carry it until then.

Thranduil dropped the handkerchief into Bard's hand, then grimaced slightly when Bard stowed it in his coat pocket. "You will dirty your clothes."

He shrugged. "It's about time this coat was washed. Come—you can clean your face at the fountain."

Bard had been hoping to make an impression on Thranduil with the fountain at the centre of the city. Though it had been running since almost the beginning of the reconstruction, the stonework had only recently been repaired. Now was not the time, however, and, knowing Thranduil would not be comfortable until he was clean, Bard took him there directly.

He sat on the edge of the fountain as Thranduil dipped a fresh cloth into its waters and scrubbed at his face.

"What happened to him?" a passing woman with a belt of stonemasons' tools asked.

"A horse with a long tail happened." Bard flicked his fingers to illustrate.

The woman laughed, earning a glare from Thranduil, but her tone was sympathetic. "Bad luck, friend. It's never pleasant when they catch you unawares."

"Indeed," Bard replied—but without attention, for his mind had been sent travelling along another path.

How had Thranduil been caught unawares? Bard had seen him fight, briefly, at the Battle of the Five Armies. It had been terrifying to behold and had left him grateful beyond measure that they were, indeed, allies. Even in peace, Thranduil could not be caught by surprise . . . or so Bard had believed. But he had his proof before him: somehow, Thranduil had been too distracted by speaking with him to be aware of his surroundings.

Bilbo's assertion that Thranduil had cared for him for months rose in his mind; he pushed it away hurriedly. He was still not prepared to look at that—not with Thranduil standing before him.

To distract himself, he patted the rim of the fountain beside him. "Would you care to sit? My children sent food for our outing. A bite after a long ride would not go amiss for me."

Thranduil hesitated, then sat. Bard tried not to marvel too obviously at the way his legs stretched long before him.

"And nor would it go amiss for me. What have they given us?"

"Haf the kitchen, I suspect."

He swung his pack from his back—careful not to wet it in the fountain—opened it, and withdrew the parcel. Sigrid had said that they had prepared lunch, but it seemed his children had prepared enough food for both of them to eat all day, with some to spare. "Half the kitchen" was not far off, and Bard could now understand why his pack had seemed so heavy on the ride over.

"Would you fancy an apple?" Bard asked. Mindful of what had happened the previous day, he did not toss it but offered it in his hand.

"Very well."

Thranduil took it from him. His fingers were cold after his wash in the fountain, his temperature far different from the last time they had touched. Bard fetched an apple for himself as a distraction from the memory of Thranduil's shoulders warm beneath his hands as Bard eased him back from their kiss.

For a few moments, the silence between them was not easy. The sounds of his apple being eaten cracked across the square as Bard searched for something to say.

But in the end, that served as his inspiration: "Dale must seem very quiet to you now."

Thranduil did not respond immediately. He gazed straight ahead, appearing to both see and hear into the past.

"It does," he said at last. "Those few times I visited, I would often wish that its endless noise would be stilled. Even the sound of bells can be wearying when one is accustomed to nothing more noisesome than the rush of waterfalls." He turned to look at Bard, though for a moment his eyes were focused beyond him. "I would not wish that now."

"Nor would I," Bard replied as Thranduil came back to the present moment. "Though I can perhaps understand your wish. When I was a bargeman, returning to Lake-town would always take me by surprise after I had been alone on the river, or with only a few of the raft elves for company."

Thranduil's attention seemed caught by his words; he leaned forward the smallest amount. "I have often wondered at your knowledge of Elven custom, beyond what is usual for your kind. I had not known you had formed friendships with my people."

"I would not call them 'friendships,'" Bard was quick to reply, for this very nearly counted as enthusiasm from Thranduil and it was not truly warranted. "We were friendly, that is all. The hours on the river and meals taken there could be long without talk and song—and drink," he added in wry remembrance.

"So that is how you learned of the potency of the Woodland Realm's wines," Thranduil said. He shifted, rearranging his legs. Bard tried not to be distracted. "I had been curious."

He shook his head. "It was a lesson well and painfully learned."

Thranduil looked expectant, but he made no move to insist, and that was why Bard sighed and began the sad tale. It seemed only fair after witnessing Thranduil's embarrassment earlier that morning.

It was in the midst of relating another, better tale, of the time Colholchon had accidentally loosed nearly a dozen barrels in the middle of the fastest-flowing part of the river, that the midday bell rang out. Bard jumped: he had not realised so much time had passed.

"Shall I finish the story as we eat?" he offered.

"If you are willing—although I would prefer to eat where we have use of a table," Thranduil answered.

"A simple enough request. Follow me."

Bard grunted as he rose to his feet. Too much sitting in chairs for him as of late, it seemed. Thranduil sent him a questioning look; he waved it off and continued with his story.

As was by now customary, they garnered their share of surprised looks when they walked into the eating area for workers. It had been set up in what had possibly been an old pub on the very first day of reconstruction and had only been improved upon in the time since. Thankfully, however, his people respected his privacy and did not intrude.

He and Thranduil made a feast of lunch, and there was still more left to make a dinner if they were late returning to Lake-town. Neither of them were in any danger of starvation if his children had a say in the matter.

After, he and Thranduil toured the rebuilt sections of Dale. Bard would speak of the work he had watched (and occasionally participated in), and Thranduil would tell of what had been in each place in the original Dale, if he knew. Though he had claimed to have little enough knowledge of the city and Dale had perished centuries past, the clarity of his memory was astounding. It made Bard wonder what could be gained from inviting elves who had visited Dale more frequently to share what they knew. He did not spend long on those thoughts, of course—to do so at Thranduil's expense would be rude, and would rob him of the chance to hear his stories.

It was midafternoon and the sun was still bright when Bard came to a halt next to a mostly finished house.

"We will need to depart soon if we're to be in Lake-town by dark," he said when Thranduil gave him a curious look. "The road is not so well built yet that I would chance riding on it after nightfall."

"I defer to your knowledge," Thranduil replied. "Is there anything else you would wish to show me in Dale?"

"Unless you would like to climb the bell tower, we've done most of what Dale has to offer as it is now," Bard replied.

"Though I am certain it would provide a fair view, I must decline. Bell towers are your province, not mine."

Bard spent a moment attempting to work out whether Thranduil had been ever-so-slightly teasing him. His expression and tone were as impassive as ever, and it would make far more sense for his words to be spoken seriously. And yet. . . .

He gave up his wonderings soon after to say, "In that case, the entrance to the city lies this way."

Once they had returned to their horses, Bard dropped a few coins into the hand of the quiet girl who cared for visitors' mounts. She seemed fascinated by Thranduil, but said nothing to him, and so he said nothing in return. His expression, however, was gentler than his norm, although Bard doubted the girl would have been able to tell.

So it was not only his children Thranduil found so enchanting, he thought as he gave the girl a smile and a wave. That was an encouragement, as odd as his thoughts might seem to an outsider. It appeared Thranduil had been telling the truth about elves and their love of children: he had not been feigning affection as a means of winning Bard's heart.

But had he doubted Thranduil, truly? His pleasure at spending time with Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda had seemed genuine, and Bard did not think Thranduil held much skill in acting.

He turned his attention back to the present and found Thranduil watching him. When they met each other's eyes, Thranduil at once began his story of Círdan anew, to Bard's surprise: he had thought he would need to lead the way.

For the full length of the journey to Lake-town, as the sun dropped lower in the sky, they traded back and forth, Thranduil telling his stories and Bard singing. By the time they had reached the main bridge, the sky was pink and soft yellow, Thranduil had begun but not finished a new tale, and Bard had yet to coax Thranduil into singing a single note. He was beginning to wonder if Thranduil could sing as they drew up to Ylva's stable. He had never heard of an elf who couldn't, but perhaps Thranduil was the exception.

"Would you care to come to dinner?" he asked as together they walked back to his house.

"Your offer is generous, but I fear I would cause your oldest children too much distress were I to arrive unannounced once more."

He had to smile at that. "I did warn them that you might be dining with us tonight. You won't catch them unawares."

Thranduil looked as if he might be considering the offer . . . but then he shook his head. "I thank you, but I would not wish to overburden you with my company."

"It is no burden," Bard argued—and found that it was not mere politeness behind his words. "You are welcome if that is what you wish."

"Perhaps tomorrow." A slight smile relaxed Thranduil's face. "Do not forget to warn your children."

"I will not," he promised, returning the smile.

When they reached their destination, Bard stopped on his doorstep and set down his pack. "If you will not be coming to dinner, then I hope you will take what is left our meal, if you have need of it."

"I do not have need of it, but I will take it gladly." Thranduil accepted the diminished parcel. "I have supplies for several days, but none that were made with the care your children have shown us."

Bard nodded, finding himself very grateful indeed Thranduil had accepted. It was only now that he realised that he had just offered leftovers to the Elvenking as he would have any friend. If that did not show his growing comfort with Thranduil, little else could.

To distract himself, he said, "I have business in Dale tomorrow morning, but I should be back in Lake-town by mid-afternoon. If you would like, we could meet at my hall. If that is something you would like, I will send a message to Stellan tonight so that he knows that you are coming."

Thranduil did not respond immediately; he seemed reflective as his head tilted downward. But quickly, his expression cleared and he met Bard's eyes fully once more. "That would suit me well."

His gaze then flicked to something behind Bard. Turning, Bard was in time to see Tilda being pulled away from the front window by Bain and Sigrid both. Bard could not help a chuckle—until he remembered Thranduil's wish to hear him laugh more often. The sound tangled in his throat.

He cleared it with a small cough. "Curiosity has always been one of Tilda's stronger traits."

"So I am coming to learn," Thranduil replied.

Silence fell between them. The distant noises of the street seemed unable to fill it.

Once again, as always, Bard spoke first. "I should not keep the children from their dinner. I hope you have a pleasant evening."

"May you and your children be similarly blessed," Thranduil replied. He hesitated, seemed on the verge of saying something more, or perhaps of making some action—but then only said, "Good evening," and departed.

Tonight it was Bard who watched, until Thranduil turned a corner and was lost from his sight. Even then, he remained on the spot until he forced himself to turn, to open the door, and to step into his home.

"Welcome back, Da!" Tilda greeted him as she arrived for her hug.

"Thank you, my nosy girl," he answered, returning the embrace heartily.

"Sorry, Da," Bain apologised as he took Tilda's place. "We told her not to spy."

"It's all right, love," he assured him. "Thranduil did not mind and neither did I."

"Did you have fun today?" Tilda asked over Sigrid's murmured, "Welcome home."

"I did," he answered without hesitation, and once again, it was the truth. He took just a moment to wonder at that—and then he went on. "And I'll tell you all about it at dinner." A quick glance at Sigrid to confirm it was ready, then: "Wash up well, now, and don't rush."

Off they all went to clean their hands. As he waited his turn, Sigrid took his arm. When he looked at her, she said nothing, but hugged the arm gently. He smiled a bit and stayed close until she let him go.

He had a great deal of talking ahead of him. But sometimes, his family communicated best without any words at all.

Chapter Text

As early as he and Thranduil had departed the previous day, today, Bard left even earlier. If he was to get any work done and still have time to meet Thranduil for one more day of walking out, he needed to leave with the first party travelling to Dale that morning.

It was odd being without Thranduil after two days of constant company, and that itself was odd. He was hardly lonely—with the weather promising one of the fairest days so far of the spring, it was a large group of workers and volunteers he joined. And yet, there was the sense of something missing.

He let himself be distracted by songs and the moaning of those unaccustomed to such early travel, and he laughed as much as any at the teasing and tall tales shared. But from time to time he found himself wondering which story Thranduil would have told him next and wishing to hear it in a deep and steady voice.

Once the group arrived at Dale, as the morning pinkness had just faded from the sky, there was little time for feeling and thinking. Rebuilding an entire city was work, plain and simple, and there was lots of it to be found. Three years might seem to be a great deal of time, but when their focus for the first year had been on survival and the labour was divided three ways—between Dale, Lake-town, and the Desolation—it was truly as nothing.

By now, Bard had lent his hands (and arms and back) often enough that no one thought to spare their king, and so he spent the morning sawing, hammering, lugging lumber, mixing mortar, and doing every task that was sent his way.

But there was joy in the work, and not simply from the warm spring sun shining down upon him. Each nail driven, each stone laid was bringing Dale back and bringing his people farther away from poverty. With those thoughts always within his mind, it was difficult to begrudge the aches he knew he would feel in the coming days.

Of course, that did not mean he was not glad when the midday bell rang and they all laid down their tools. Bread and stew and ale were brought out to them within moments of the bell's chime. It seemed everyone was of a mind: today was far too fine to be spent indoors.

He sat upon a half-finished wall and thanked the boy who brought him his share, then dove into it with an appetite to rival Bain's. Fresh air and hard work could double a person's appetite, it was said, and today he was proving the saying true.

He considered moving from his spot to retrieve his coat—laid aside early on in the morning—but decided against it. Even if it was a bit soon in the season to go without, the air felt far too good to layer up just yet.

When Hallstein brought out his fiddle, there was still less reason for Bard to move. Hallstein started off with "Bo's Two-Step," as some were still finishing their meal, then followed it with the much faster "In the Door and Out the Window." Some of the younger workers got up to dance, both leaving Bard to wonder if he'd ever had that amount of energy and making him smile at the whooping and laughter that echoed throughout the city.

When all the dancers collapsed back into their places at the close of the piece, there was a break for Hallstein to rest. But when he started up again, those who had begun to chatter fell silent, for they all knew the opening of "Market-Day Morning."

It was an old, old song. Hallstein had learned it from his grandfather, who had learned it from his own grandmother, and so on back to the days when Dale was beautiful and alive. Bard had not been there the first time Hallstein had played it amidst the ruins of the city, but he had been told it had brought some to tears and haunted them all. He could understand: like the first notes of the bell after it had been raised to its tower, "Market-Day Morning" showed them clearer than any words why they were labouring.

It was a slower song than the other ones Hallsteinn had played so far, but not slow. It was lilting and sweet, winding through its tune. Some of the workers around him sang along softly, about the treasures that might be found in the market and brought home to the long-gone singer's family. Bard only listened, eyes half-shut, hands folded between his knees, and let himself be cradled by the music around him.

There was a brief silence when the last notes faded into the air. Then, as they all shook themselves and began to move once more, the woman beside him on the wall nudged him. When he looked to her, she nodded in front of them.

"Someone to see you, sire," the stocky man she'd indicated was saying, but Bard's gaze was already travelling past him to where a tall, lone figure stood a few paces outside the gathering.

The instant Bard took in long and unbound fair hair, he jerked to his feet, his meditative mood disappearing at the clench of his stomach.

"Celtharan," he called as he strode over. He doubted any here would recognise Thranduil, but he did not want to give them the chance. "I had not expected you here today."

"I did not intend to disturb you," Thranduil murmured once Bard had drawn even with him. At Bard's brief glance, Thranduil followed him out of the hearing of the others.

"Is something wrong?" Bard demanded. The children—

"No," Thranduil said immediately when Bard's fear must have shown. "I thought merely that you might prefer to have company on the long road back to Lake-town, and so I came to meet you."

Bard breathed out, bringing himself back to calmness. "That is kind of you."

Greatly so, for Thranduil. Bard would not call him cruel, of course not, but—he also would not have thought that Thranduil spent overmuch time thinking of ways to ease the lives of those around him.

"Your company would be much appreciated," he added.

Thranduil nodded, but his attention seemed caught on something else, beside Bard's head. Glimpsing a movement out of the corner of his eye, Bard turned his head to see Thranduil's hand rise . . . his fingers curl . . . and then he gestured.

"You have sawdust in your hair," Thranduil said at last.

Bard's hands leapt to his hair, finding not only the sawdust but that his hair had half escaped its tie.

Now fully aware of every speck of dust and mortar and dried sweat upon him, Bard turned away to clean and recapture his flyaway hair.

"Thank you. I'm certain I make a filthy sight."

"You look," he heard Thranduil say softly, "like a king rebuilding his kingdom."

Bard's hands stopped in his hair. His heart, recently slowed from his scare, began its pounding anew.

With his back turned, he said, "Dale will be my home as well. It would not seem so to me if I did not lay a single one of its stones myself." He faced Thranduil again and was very nearly prepared for the warmth of his expression. "My people would not respect me if I let them labour alone. Here, doing what you can is valued above position and power."

"A fact the former Master seemed not to have understood," Thranduil replied.

Behind them, he heard Hallstein bow a few chords; he looked back at the gathering, then to Thranduil.

"I expect there will be one more song before work begins again." On impulse, he added, "Will you join us and listen?"

Thranduil's eyes widened the smallest amount. ". . . I would, and gladly."

They picked their way around workers and past discarded bowls and mugs as the first verse of "Unnur the Cooper" started up. Bard found his old place on the wall and the woman he'd shared it with budged over into her neighbour. There was only just enough room for even one so trim as Thranduil, and though Bard sat with one of his legs half off the wall, Thranduil still could not help but be pressed into his side.

He could feel the tension in Thranduil's body at so much physical contact, but when Bard made to sit on the ground and give him space, Thranduil shook his head. Inwardly, Bard shrugged, but Thranduil knew himself best—and were he honest, he much preferred staying where he was for reasons that did not only include the coldness of the ground.

When the chorus came around, Bard joined in with an eye to Thranduil. But Thranduil gave no sign that he found the song familiar, even though he must surely have known this part with the number of times Bard had sung it. Bard did not press him, though, and kept singing through the next verses as well.

Before Unnur could begin her boxing match with the Great Bear of the Grey Mountains, however, someone yelled, "All right, you lazy louts, back to work!" Hallstein led them all to the next chorus, tacked on a small ditty of notes, and that was the end. With groans and stretching, the workers got up to return to the business of rebuilding Dale.

Bard remained where he was, and so did Thranduil. Even when the woman left the wall, Thranduil edged over only slightly, far less than Bard would have expected. They still touched lightly at their thighs and Bard's shoulder remained against Thranduil's upper arm, and Bard was far less conflicted about that than he would have been three days ago.

"I had been planning on leaving for Lake-town about now, but that can wait. Would you like to see anything here, or perhaps have a bite of food?"

Thranduil looked down at him. His face was not even a forearm's-length from Bard's. His hair spilled almost against Bard's shoulder, close enough for Bard to see its many shades of sunlit blond and moonlit silver.

It was in that moment that the peace he'd felt from listening to "Market-Day Morning" returned. It flowed through him, bringing calmness to his body and touching his face with a small smile.

Thranduil had breathed in to speak. In that moment, however, Bard could see the words catch. He watched the movement of Thranduil's throat as the other tried again.

"I will leave the decision in your hands," Thranduil said. There was the slightest hint of breathlessness to his voice that warmed Bard the way not even the spring sun could. "I have already eaten this morning. There is no need for you to delay if you wish to return to Lake-town."

"Then," Bard said, and his smile grew a little, "I would ask you if you would be willing to show me something."

Again, Thranduil's eyes widened. Bard was coming to find this was a look he enjoyed causing. "What could I show you of your kingdom?"

"Your camp. If you would not mind," he added, for while he did not think he had stepped too far, with Thranduil, it was best to be sure.

He did not move or change expression as Thranduil's eyes flicked across his face. He only waited, allowing him to read what he wished.

Then, Thranduil drew in a breath. "Very well."

There was an energy between them, on the ride back, that travelled beneath every action and every word. Each song Bard chose to sing had a spark within it, and the words of Thranduil's stories were not quite so settled and slow today.

As the yellow cloth of Thranduil's tent came into view, the same one he had used when riding to war, Bard's heart began to beat faster—but it was not an unpleasant feeling. He knew what his actions would be. Now it was only a matter of carrying them out.

They tied their horses to one of the scattered trees that grew along the shore of the river. Thranduil seemed to take extra time settling his mount; for the first time, Bard finished before him and was left waiting. He watched and, also for the first time, saw Thranduil's hands fumble.

When the horses were secured, Thranduil led him into the tent. Its furnishings were plainer this time, with fewer indications of Thranduil's rank, and that was all the attention Bard wished to spare for his surroundings.

"I've made my decision," he said.

Thranduil stood tall and still in the centre of the tent. He looked as if he were attempting to hold himself apart, but his detachment was belied by his quick and shallow breathing.

"Yes?"

Bard stepped farther into the tent, stopping only when he was directly in front of Thranduil. In contrast with the other, he felt only sureness, and that sounded clear in his voice. "And I would like to walk out with you. Properly, as" —he took in a breath— "as a courting couple."

Thranduil did not smile at the news. He showed no reaction at all. He only stared down at Bard, leaving Bard to wonder if Thranduil were now breathing at all.

He truly had been expecting a rejection, Bard realised. That same warmth as before—affection, fondness—filled him, strong but not overwhelming in its newness.

Gently, he took Thranduil's upper arms. "You do realise I said yes."

"So you did." Thranduil's words sounded far off; he did not appear to be fully seeing Bard.

But then his gaze focused. This time, keeping still as Thranduil took in every line of his face was harder, but he did it, for Thranduil seemed to need the reassurance still more deeply than before.

When Thranduil spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "May I kiss you?"

Bard's face heated; his chuckle was just a little uneven. "I had been hoping you would."

Thranduil bent his head. Bard lifted his chin.

This time, Thranduil's lips were hesitant on his. There was no desperation, no fear behind the kiss as there had been the last time . . . but it did not quite fit. They did not quite fit.

But that was all right. Thranduil might have been uncertain of the way, but Bard was not.

He lifted a hand from Thranduil's arm, slipped it into hair that flowed over his skin like water, and guided Thranduil's head just so.

They came together perfectly. Thranduil made the smallest sound, and at that, they pressed in together, all hesitation lost.

Bard stumbled as he was dragged against Thranduil's body. Their teeth bumped, Thranduil jerked back, but Bard pulled him in again, and this was even better. It had been long since either of them had kissed another, he knew, but they were remembering and they were learning anew together.

When they broke apart for air, the sight of Thranduil—his blue eyes gone dark, his cheeks flushed, his mouth deep pink from their kisses—was so powerful that Bard pressed up to kiss him before he had taken more than a single breath.

But at last, they could delay no longer, and this time, they truly had need to breathe. Thranduil would have moved away, but Bard kept him in place with the arm that had wrapped around his shoulders. He pressed gently with his hand behind Thranduil's head so that their foreheads rested together.

For a few moments, they only breathed together, Thranduil's air cool against his flushed face. Then Bard smiled, more freely than he had in years with anyone not his children.

"You will need to come to dinner tonight."

"Oh?"

It was a single word, but Thranduil's voice was so low that it sent a shiver through him all the same.

He kissed Thranduil again, briefly, unable to help himself. "The children would never forgive me if you were not there with me when they learned that we're now courting."

Thranduil kissed him back, longer. "Far be it for me to be the cause of a rift between you and your children. We should depart soon, so that we may arrive while it is still light."

They did not leave immediately, in spite of Thranduil's words, not when they still had so much to learn of how they fit together. But when Bard broke away and began to drop little kisses on Thranduil's eyelids, the corner of his mouth, his cheekbones, Thranduil pulled back.

Bard was not offended: so much contact so suddenly would be overwhelming. But, as they left the tent together, Bard found Thranduil's hand and laced their fingers together. The shocked look on Thranduil's face made him grin and lightened his heart.

There was still much they needed to learn about each other. But that, out of all his tasks, was the one he knew would bring him the greatest happiness.