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As he hands a blanket to the old lady in front of him, her daughter steps forward and says, “Bard, you look horrible. You need to get your rest.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I’m fine, Ingrid.”
“No, you’re not,” she responds, plucking one of her children from the gaggle of youngsters running by. “You’re absolutely exhausted. I know you’re trying to help us all, but you’re not going to do anyone any good if you’re barely functioning.” Bard just waves her off and continues passing out supplies, pointedly attempting to not pay any heed to the already-small and ever-dwindling piles of provisions scattered about the ruined city.
As he’s walking away from the final family, Sigrid comes up to him and stops him in his tracks, placing her hands on his shoulders and giving him a look-over. Finally, she asks, “When was the last time you slept?”
He can’t remember.
Being the bright girl that she is, she can tell that he can’t remember. “Da, you need to rest. You’ve done all you can. We’re fine now.”
“We might be, but there are still people in the city who need food and clothing and shelter, and I can’t just let other people do it!” he responds, more agitated than he’d like to be.
She’s not fazed by this, though, and only asks, “When was the last time you ate?”
“I had an apple for lunch yesterday,” he answers, relieved that he actually remembers.
“That’s not okay, Da,” Sigrid says lowly. “You’ll work yourself to death.”
“I’m fine,” he insists, and walks away.
Once upon a time, Sigrid was afraid of the elves in their mysterious forest. But now they’re literally everywhere in Dale, helping the needy, healing the wounded and poor, and she doesn’t dare imagine what the survivors of Laketown would do if the elves weren’t here to help them.
And she has an inkling that the elves – really, one elf in particular – might be able to help her with her own problem.
“May I see King Thranduil?” she asks at the entrance of his pavilion, just outside the city proper.
The two elves guarding his tent look at each other for a moment, before one of them turns back to Sigrid. “Wait here,” she says, going into the tent.
She soon emerges and nods to Sigrid. “The king will see you now.”
Entering the tent, Sigrid’s breath is taken away – as always – by the sheer opulence and magnificence that pervades the Elvenking’s pavilion. Thranduil himself is a vision as well, almost angelic in his stunning robes, but she forces himself not to think of him that way, because she’s pretty sure that’s her father’s territory she’s come here on a mission. Curtseying as best as she can, she greets him with a “Lord Thranduil” before getting straight to the point. “You need to talk to my father. You’re the only person he’ll listen to.”
The Elvenking arches an eyebrow. “I do not need to do anything, Sigrid.”
Huffing in annoyance (and forgetting the difference in station for a moment), she retorts, “He’s working himself to utter exhaustion and won’t listen to anyone when we ask him to rest! If you don’t talk to him, he’ll…he’ll…ugh!” Groaning in frustration, Sigrid paces back and forth for a few tense seconds before turning to face the king again, slightly calmer. “Please, Lord Thranduil. Please help Da. He needs you,” she begs.
Thranduil’s touched by her care for her father, but he doesn’t dare show it on his face (and why not, he fails to ask himself.)
Bard’s in the process of handing out more food from his own family’s stores (he can hunt, they’ll get through this) when he feels a light hand land on his shoulder. Turning around, he finds the Elvenking standing not close enough too close to him and is about to push him away when he sees the uncharacteristic worry and emotion in Thranduil’s eyes, so instead he softens and asks, “What do you want?” as gently as possible, hoping there’s nothing wrong.
Thranduil’s eyes linger on Bard’s face, taking in every line and wrinkle, coming to rest on his bloodshot eyes that are so full of fatigue and weariness as he replies, “Bard, you need to rest. This is killing you.”
“I’m fine, Thranduil!” the human protests.
But, of course, being Thranduil, he won’t take no for an answer and grabs Bard’s arm in a grip that, although soft and gentle, is also practically inescapable. “No, you are nowhere near being fine. If you keep on with this behaviour, you are going to die of exhaustion. Come with me.”
Despite Bard’s continued protests, the Elvenking drags him to his own tent, knowing that if Bard’s been sleeping at all for the past few days, he’s been sleeping on the ground, and he needs something better than that.
Bard’s been inside Thranduil’s tent before, but the stunning display of wealth never fails to amaze him. This time, however, he realises that he’s actually much too tired to pay attention to anything but the hand on his arm and Thranduil’s comforting presence behind him as the Elvenking guides him to…
His bedchamber?
Bard turns around and questions Thranduil with his gaze, searching for his intentions. The damned elf simply says, “You need to sleep,” and gently directs him to the bed, bidding him to take off his boots and coat and lie down.
“I really should be out there…” the man mumbles before falling asleep. With a small smile on his face, Thranduil draws the sumptuous covers over him, tucking him in and finding his heart warmed by the way Bard snuggles into the blankets.
“Sleep well,” he murmurs, staying by Bard’s side for a moment to make sure he’s at peace before rising and returning to the city.