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1
There is blood.
The colour of it, red and rusty from the veins of men –black and brackish from those of orc kind.
There is pain.
So thick on the air that the taste of it sits bitter on Thranduil’s tongue.
The tip of his blade tilts almost listlessly towards the earth. Earth that is furrowed and torn from the scuffle of countless feet. Mouth turning down at the edges the Elven King observes the wasted battlefield. Hair that should float in the breeze is plastered to his scalp with gore and sweat. Contrary to what some dwarves may think, Thranduil fights with his people. But he feels tired, oh so tired.
Thranduil is tired because two little princes have fallen and the dwarf king lies dying.
He clenches his hands as the silence presses around him. The bad kind of silence that comes from too much death, too much destruction. Golden curls flash in the sunlight and Thranduil is reminded that in times of great sorrow beauty can still rear its fine head. Many would think him a hypocrite, to fall so deeply enthralled with the Hobbit.
At this point in time Thranduil can’t really remember when he ever cared about what others thought.
Bilbo scrubs an arm across his eyes as he exits the pavilion. Thranduil presses his eyes shut briefly. Thorin Oakenshield has entered the hall of his forefathers. It is done. It would be a lie for Thranduil to say that a great sorrow ran through him at the dwarf kings passing.
However, the day’s victory was not as sweet as he watched Bilbo wander dejectedly into the distance.
((Thranduil is tired.))
…
He finds Bilbo later and speaks in some pretence of comfort.
He speaks of his kingdom, of the countless places he has been, of his forest and his son. Speaks of the stars and the moon and of the intricacies and ironies of death.
The Hobbit falls asleep sometime during it all but Thranduil carries on with his sonorous voice. The added weight on his shoulder is far more comforting than it has any right to be.
…
Whispers run often through the camps as to why Thranduil has not pulled his warriors back to their dark forests quite yet. Speculations as to what the Elf King wanted, a slight restlessness in the air –for elves still unnerved the humans and made the dwarves cast sour looks, regardless of any battles fought and won together.
Yet still Thranduil stays on.
…
Duty calls all creatures home in the end. The day is far too bright for such an occasion and the corners of Thranduil’s mouth turn down. Bilbo’s head is turned down too. If he were slumped any lower his nose might touch the ground and for a second Thranduil almost smiles. The air around them is flat. An undercurrent of tension. The Elf King opens his mouth to say his farewell.
“Come with me.” Is what falls out of his mouth instead.
Thranduil can count the number of times he has lost his composure on one hand. Perfect brows knit together in frustration. He contemplates just flat out exiting the tent but Bilbo has raised his head. There is an almost shy look on his face, something he did not expect from one usually so unfailingly full of dry wit. Then again Thranduil prides himself on his own aloof countenance and look how far that had gotten him today.
“I always thought Mirkwood would be a nice place to stay when one isn’t busy being strung up as a spider’s dinner or hiding from Elves. Also, tell you what, you know what would be a really nice addition to your place? Some bloody hand rails because last time, when I was, er-”
Thranduil kisses him then.
((He does not feel so tired.))
…
Many say that the Mirkwood becomes brighter. As though Thranduil’s sometimes elaborate, sometimes subtle and sometimes downright absurd courting of Bilbo Baggins leaves its mark on the very trees, the very walls of his kingdom.
The King discards such claims, the knowing looks from his court and guard. When Bilbo see’s the disgruntled look upon such fine features the Hobbit laughs so hard he nearly falls off the bed. A hard nudge from a foot clad in the finest Elfish leather helps him on his way. But Thranduil soon follows.
He always follows.
…
There is a wedding, at some point. Many embellishments were made on the tale of how it came to be, facts skewed and exaggerated as they passed from mouth to mouth. Thranduil laughs openly when Bilbo wryly wonders how scandalised the lords and ladies of Middle Earth would be upon hearing that the two betrothed hadn’t ridden in on fey woodland creatures. That the ring had not been placed delicately upon his finger by a fine white bird.
((They are married simply because Bilbo makes a wayward comment that the day was beautiful enough for a wedding. Thranduil gives him the ring himself.))
…
So much more infinitely more important is the day that Bilbo awkwardly kneels beside where Thranduil lays sprawled upon their bed and pulls something from his pocket.
“This –uhm. Well you see- I just thought.”
A dark brow arches. Bilbo twitches his nose.
“Here.” He holds the item out and Thranduil’s gaze catches on smooth red oak.
It’s a pendant, attached to a thick piece of ribbon and as the Elf reaches out to touch with long fingers he realises that Bilbo must have carved it himself. It’s a caricature likeliness of an Elf’s face, long nose sloping down to a pointed shin –ears reaching upwards. Hewn in a slightly rough but honest hand.
Thranduil could but ask and have a dozen carvings handed to him by nightfall, each more polished. Wooden oval eyes watch his own as he sits frozen, propped up by one elbow. Dimly he is aware of Bilbo rambling.
“I can’t count the number of times I missed the bloody stick by a mile and stuck my own hand.” The Hobbit gives a small airy laugh, the one that Thranduil has come to recognise means ‘really not comfortable at the moment thank you’.
Eyes lock as Thranduil moves in one sinuous ripple, till he arches over brown curls. Bilbo has time only for a small yelp before the Elf catches his mouth with his.
((Afterwards red oak sits on Thranduil’s chest. One hand toys with the cool surface, the other busy threading through Bilbo’s hair as the Hobbit sleeps curled in.))
…
The Mirkwood sings for years.
Until the day that is doesn’t.
…
The small hand grows slack in his own
It was all too quick. Too sudden. Where have the years gone?
Bilbo Baggins is covered in flowers as they bury him with the trees. A pendant of red oak around his neck.
((The King does not smile again but he swears. He swears that he will find him once more.))
…
2
When Thranduil first finds him again, he doesn’t.
There wasn’t even a body to bury.
Everyone who fell to the plague was burned.
He kneels at the foot of the roughly hewn stone the villagers placed in a copse of trees by the river. The wind fingers through his hair, still long, still so bright and silver. His shoulders are stiff under traveller’s garb, longsword at his hip. He fits his fingers into each of the crude gashes tapped into the surface by hammer or file. One of them represented what he sought.
He’s late by about five months.
The river runs harsh beside him, descending into the deadly rapids that claimed many a unwary child.
((Later that day they claim what may have been their first man too.))
3
The second time Thranduil almost misses him.
Smooth Jazz ripples through the air, and it has been so long that he has lost count of the years, of the lifetimes. He grips the edge of the bar with white knuckles. Fingernails bite deep.
“That man.” His voice rings out louder than intended and the barkeep looks a bit taken aback.
“The one in the photo. Where is he?” Even in sepia tones and squished in with four other men Thranduil knows that face.
There must have been a bit of the king in his tone. In his eyes, because the barkeep gives a small grunt.
“Oh, you mean Mister Bilbo?”
Thranduil nods sharply, hands compulsively smoothing the front of his waistcoat, a bit old fashioned probably- for this society. But Thranduil likes the intricate design. Its spirals almost like tree trunks, they are comforting to him.
“A real shame that one was.”
Slightly oval eyes blink.
“Got shot down in an alleyway not a month ago he did. Tried to stop a mugging. Family could barely scrape up the money for a proper funeral.”
He asks for the gravesite.
((And takes the bottle of sleeping pills from the nightstand with him when he goes. The bourbon helps them down in the end.))
4
The next time there is another war going on, but it’s the first time Thranduil actually sets his eyes on him so he can’t take a moment to appreciate the irony.
He nearly trips over when he spots him, a short figure stuffed into the military uniform. There’s a medical kit slung around his shoulder and Thranduil laughs aloud because it just fit so well. But laughter goes unheard in the roar of gunfire, the screams and the blood rushing in ears.
And that’s when Thranduil realises that Bilbo is wearing the uniform of the enemy and there’s one of Thranduil’s soldiers raising his gun and no-
The small form falls to the ground alarmingly fast and Thranduil is off.
And he is screaming.
And he is sinking to his knees in the dirt.
And he is turning Bilbo over but there’s too much blood and those eyes aren’t staring at Thranduil at all.
There is a feeling as though someone punched him incredibly hard in the back of the neck and then it all goes blessedly dark.
5
On what Thranduil can feel in his bones as the fourth and final time he finds Bilbo Baggins the latter gets hit by a truck on the freeway.
So when Thranduil clambers out of his car and sprints to the body he isn’t expecting the small man to still be alive. His hands fist in the white shirt stained red, and this time there are tears because he knows there is no plausible way for the man to get up and walk away from this.
“Bilbo.” And it’s the first time the name has been uttered in years.
Golden curls are swiped from blue eyes. Eyes that are staring at Thranduil with blatant shock- then recognition.
There is no time left for words.
Thranduil bites at his own hand to keep the ragged yell inside. Blood bursts salty on his tongue where it forms some kind of morbid cocktail with his tears.
+1
The bookshop is a nice one. Quaint but with a certain flare of character and a silver haired and bearded shopkeeper that Thranduil finds oddly familiar.
He is browsing, hair tied back into a sleek ponytail. Tweed coat collar remaining upturned from the cold weather outside. Fingertips dust over volumes thin and thick. Gold embossed titles and fine neat print. There is a smartphone in his pocket with a list in it –but he can’t seem to muster the energy to fish it out.
Thranduil is sick of searching and not finding.
He is tired.
A sloping forehead hits the shelf with a muted thump, breath whistling from behind clenched teeth.
He was not expecting then, the light touch to his shoulder. A tug to the fabric of his coat. He almost misses the familiarity. That small tug has been felt before, shyly demanding with just a hint of a reprimand. He turns and staggers against the shelf.
Thranduil needs more hands than he currently possesses to count the number of times he has lost his composure since meeting Bilbo Baggins.
“Hey there.” There’s patched jeans and a button up but there’s a green vest too.
There’s golden curls and a smile that even now has a dry twist to it. There’s a pair of eyes.
“Thranduil.”
There’s something in his hand.
“I believe this is yours.”
Red oak sits cool against his palm and Thranduil is still speechless by the time he can look at Bilbo again but by then he’s being gently yanked down for a kiss that causes tears to mix.
…
((Much, much later there is a house, and trees, and a patch for vegetables to grow. There are also handrails, which Bilbo laughs at- and Thranduil follows.))