Chapter Text
Galion had known Thranduil for quite a long while. By the standards of Men their friendship was ancient, and even their own kind occasionally commented on its endurance. Some 7000 years was an impressive length time to tolerate each other.
Not to say that Galion saw it as mere toleration. He’d loved Thranduil dearly since the King was a child. It’d been the honor of his life to watch Oropher’s son grow, and to have a hand in his education. To take the then-prince under his wing had seemed daunting, though now he couldn’t imagine his life otherwise. Their seasons were tied, and there wasn’t a moment in even distant memory untouched by the other’s starry glow.
Galion had been entrusted with the task of guiding Thranduil as he navigated the summery waters of adolescence, and to see him through it to his destiny: that of a husband, father, and King. He’d also been entrusted, though Oropher couldn’t have predicted it, with watching war and grief batter his friend like waves. Heavy ones, and returning, as if by tide or some ill fate. As if all the King’s years were to be smudged by it.
The first loss was that of his father, slain in battle, and not long after: his mother. Not by death, but consumptive grief. She’d faded to a wisp by the time she sailed for the Havens, and her son, Galion had thought, would never recover. He'd loved both his parents, but his mother had been dearest. Seeing her swallowed by sadness had broken his heart, and sending her away had been the source of bitter tears for many years after she’d gone.
His Lord did recover, though, if only just in time for new hurts to sting all the worse. Long periods of war left him scarred, body and spirit, and eventually robbed him of his wife. The loss of her love, strength, and radiance came down like a spike. It left him distraught, and drove a wedge between himself and his son, Legolas.
The Queen’s death might’ve weakened their relationship, but it was Thranduil’s long, hateful mourning that severed it. He was in no state to give love, and almost seemed to fear it, a fact that resulted in the most recent pain of all. Mere hours after the Battle of Five Armies ended, Legolas had fled. Gone North, as Galion understood, in search of companionship. The news had been bitter to receive, though not entirely unexpected. A gully had been deepening between the two for centuries, and something had always been bound to come of it.
Of all his losses-- if they could be measured in such a way-- this final seemed to be the most enlightening. His son’s departure cleared a fog that long ago settled over everything, and for the first time in many centuries, Thranduil was fully present. Perhaps it was because this loss in particular hadn’t been random. No act of war or ugly beast had taken his child. His own deeds and chilly demeanor had driven the prince away, and seeing that, the danger of his moods became clear.
All that was to say (if he meant to say anything) that Galion-- attendant and friend-- had come to know the King well. He could see into his heart; every last chamber of it, and had often held it safely in hand. He knew what made Thranduil wake weeping, and what he craved when sadness stole even his words from him. He knew all the almost imperceptible ways joy, anguish, and hate could change his face.
He also knew-- Thranduil’s denial be damned-- exactly how he looked when he was pining.
He’d wondered it first when the King took interest in the bargeman outside of what was strictly transactional. Bard was a low-level employee, and not even an elvish one. What good meeting with him would do, Galion couldn’t guess. The man had no pull with the Master of Laketown. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was destitute, and he and his children-- no wife; since deceased-- often found themselves on the receiving end of the Master’s anger. None of which Bard had told Galion personally, but as the King’s most personal servant, he took his job seriously. Before offering an opinion on hiring a Lakeman, he’d made sure the one in question had been thoroughly investigated.
There was no tactical value to employing Bard, which was fine. There needn’t be. He was a barrel runner, not a courtier or spy. The former was a privilege reserved for elves, and the latter not something Thranduil had any interest in. Colonizing was the ugly business of men, and outside of that, there was no reason to spy on Laketown. It’s current Master would live and die as quickly as his forebears; who rose to power after was none of Thranduil’s concern. Mirkwood and Laketown’s relationship had always been symbiotic, and he had no intention of tipping the balance.
And, as such, to bring Galion’s point around: there was reason to meet the bargeman.
“You’ll only succeed in bringing undue attention to a man already under heavy watch.”
Even as he said it, Galion knew there was no point. The King hadn’t asked for an opinion.
“His personal life is not our concern,” the King said, not looking up from his desk. He was set at it, pouring over a roll of delicate, aged parchment. “In any case, I doubt the Master will take notice.”
“The Master of Laketown notices everything, whether it has meaning or not. Your bargeman has a history of being--”
“Mellon,” the King interrupted.
Galion bit his tongue. The word was soft but deliberate, just as he himself liked to say it. They used it pointedly, as if to say: I love you, and am doing so on purpose. It made his heart ache and, more often than not, made him go quiet.
“I value your insight,” Thranduil continued. “But my mind is made. It’s the business of the King to know what passes through his realm. Thorough though your reporting may be, I want to be doubly sure of it.” He looked up from his parchment, meeting the gaze of his adviser. “Arrange the meeting.”
Galion bent in deferment. “As you wish. And what else, My King?”
“Nothing more. Only see that I’m not disturbed.”
He’d done as he was asked without further question.
After posting a guard outside Thranduil’s study and giving orders to permit no entrance but his own, Galion had gone to his own desk and penned a letter, inviting the bargeman to the palace the following week. The King hadn’t specified, but personally wanting the business over, Galion made sure to establish a tight timeline.
Unfortunately-- or not, as he’d later think, though that was still many seasons away-- King Thranduil sensed his plan, and foiled it promptly.
He invited the bargeman back three more times.
“I don’t see what you mean by this,” Galion said after the third.
The King hadn’t called him into the throne room, but he’d come regardless, mere minutes after Bard had been escorted out.
“In speaking to those in my employ?”
Thranduil was on his throne, looking perfectly kingly. His long robe pooled on the dais around his feet, and his legs, crossed at the knee, were strong under his breeches. He looked like an animal set to pounce.
“In bringing the bargeman back and back again, when you have nothing of importance to speak about.” Galion knelt and rose quickly before approaching the dais. “Have I not reported on him faithfully?”
“You have.”
“And has his performance not been to your satisfaction?”
This was, Galion was willing to admit, rather a silly question. Bard was a barrel runner, and would have to work hard to disappoint. He asked it anyway, hoping to sway the King from this engagement. It was pointless and could only be making the Lakeman uncomfortable. Thranduil’s presence was famously imposing.
“It has.”
“What, then, do you mean by interrogating him?”
The King was silent for a long while after that, and Galion almost feared he’d offended him. As a long-time confidant, he could take liberties, but only so many. Thranduil was still King; that couldn’t be forgotten.
“My Lord,” he began, but Thranduil cut him off.
“I haven’t been interrogating him.” Which begged the question: what had he been doing? Speaking, certainly. The rumble of their voices could be heard through the door. What about, though, the King never said. “But, I suppose you may be right.”
“Lord?”
“I’ve learned all that I need, for a time.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Cancel the courier. Send him back to his post.”
It was a jarring shift in tactic. Too jarring, in fact. Thranduil wasn’t easily deterred, and Galion didn’t believe this marked the end of the King’s scheme, whatever it may be. His old friend still had secrets, and Galion didn’t doubt that they’d breach the surface again.
For now, however, he was glad to see-- if only nominally-- this one closing off.