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For Thranduil- the crown was never an object of want.
Elves live forever. It is a fact that every race on Middle-Earth is familiar with. And none more so than the Elves themselves.
Thus it was never expected that Thranduil would ever have to claim his inheritance- never thought that Thranduil would one day have to rule.
So when his father Oropher was slain in battle and Thranduil was suddenly King of a slowly dwindling population, he hardened his heart and threw away what he loved for what he had to do.
The final straw was when his Queen died, and she took with her all the love the Elvenking had to spare, save for Legolas, his only son and heir.
And he told himself that he would never go to war, lest he leave Legolas alone like his father did.
Lest he force Legolas- his precious son- to throw away the things that he wanted to do and condemn himself to an eternity of watching over silent halls.
As Thranduil sat there, high above all on a carven throne, he felt again the faraway call of the Sea, made altogether more forceful by the absence of his heir.
"I can't go back," was all his son had said as he turned his back on Mirkwood and his kindred.
But Thranduil knew to let him go. While his gift of foresight was not on the same level as Elrond the Half-Elven, he knew enough to scare yet placate him. He knew that Legolas would have to go on to do great things and achieve great fame, and go through many perils and face many obstacles. He knew that the wind of peace and fortune had changed. Evil blew in from the Necromancer’s fortress, and he felt again the stirring of far fouler things than the spawns of Ungoliant-the giant spiders that roamed Mirkwood.
So he let Legolas go, aided him where he could, but he knew Legolas would have to decide his own fate, no matter how much it pained his father.
Thranduil had tried to say he loved him. Did he succeed? Did Legolas understand? He had to understand.
He had to know why the very topic of love was not to be approached, not to be talked about.
If he said this out loud, it probably would be arrogant, but he knew it to be the truth.
The very fact behind his cold, calculating, unloving nature was simply that he had loved too deep.
His realm sometimes had outspoken and happy Elves. And they would tell one another, "you have to love yourself first, mellon nîn, then you can love others."
But that was wrong.
He had never loved himself, yet he was wholly capable of gifting the whole of himself to his Queen and his son.
But they left.
Was it wrong for the King to long for friendship?
It was true that the King of Dale, Bard the Dragonslayer had requested audience. But Thranduil knew what he was going to ask.
He was going to ask for food, provision for the winter ahead. Dale could definitely not make it alone, and the Dwarves were struggling on their own. It was late autumn, and the cold was already starting to get more pronounced.
Of course, Thranduil would give it to him. He took pity on the bowman, who was given Kingship not because he wanted it. The parallels were almost identical.
But there was also a deeper reason and that was Mirkwood had provisions to spare. They had lost many in the Battle of the Five Armies, and then even after many departed to the Undying Lands, Tauriel included.
So now Thranduil sat on his carven throne and watched his world with removed eyes.
Unbidden, his thoughts now turned betrayingly to that of a more personal side of Bard. He would use the word ally, but maybe friend was more apt. In the fast week Thranduil had known Bard, he had already become to look forward to his encounters with the sarcastic and vaguely pessimistic bargeman- no. King. He had to remember that now, though it was hard, for Bard did not speak in the riddles and intricacies of Kings, he spoke bluntly, and you either agreed or walked.
He was old, yes, and his hair was touched here and there with frost, yet young enough for Thranduil to feel old. He never felt his ancient years, not amongst other Elves, or Mithrandir, or even Dwarves, whose two century lifespan was nothing to him. But Men- and here was his weakness.
Was it wise to say that he enjoyed the company of Men?
They grew up so fast and go so soon, like a short candle that burner at both ends. It fascinated him.
While the thought of mortality never lay heavy on an Elf’s mind, it seemed to forever drag men down, claiming them, never freeing them from that shroud of darkness.
He liked to watch them come and go- and so it had been with all the Kings of Dale until the dragon had come, but he never got personally attached to one.
He would wait for Bard to say “kiss me” before doing anything rash. But inside, really, his heart was singing for joy, singing a song about how he finally found someone to love.
"Ú i vethed nâ i onnad.
Si boe ú-dhanna.
Ae ú-esteli, esteliach nad.
Nâ boe ú i.
Estelio han, estelio veleth.
[Es]teliach nad, estelio han."
'It's not the end, it is the beginning.
You mustn't falter now.
If you don't trust it, trust something.
Trust this, trust this, trust,
Trust this, trust love.
You trust something, trust this.'
Bard was to be his downfall, Thranduil knew, and yet somewhere in his heart he accepted it. That he would live and Bard would die, never knowing of what Thranduil thought, for he would be too careful to reveal even the slightest hint of friendliness.
He briefly wondered what it would be like to kiss him, to feel him flush against him-hear him call his name, and squashed that hope. It would never happen.
But at least Dale would get the service of Mirkwood, if only for the superficial reason of liking her King.
He wondered if Bard would ever come over to see his halls. He had been to Dale, and well, it was dismal to say the least. Falling apart and in ruins- not to mention the Dwarves of Erebor giving them a hard time.
The last "diplomatic" treaty Thranduil went to had been last week. Dáin had flipped a table, refused to pay his cousin's debt because he was his cousin, insulted the Elvenking in every single sentence that he said and then proceeded to become highly drunk on the watery substance they call ale.
Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered.
He stood up, long tresses swinging forward with each motion, when all of a sudden there was a triple knock on the door.
Thranduil arched an eyebrow.
"The King of Dale wishes to see you, my King." The words came muffled through the thick wooden doors.
There was a scuffle and thanks to Elven ears he heard the King going, "I thought I said to introduce me as Bard. At this rate no one is going to remember my name. And it's not just met"
Thranduil smiled inwardly at the thought of his impassive doorman getting berated by a King for doing everything right.
"Let him in," Thranduil's voice echoed. "I will see him."
The door opened instantly, and in stepped the King of Dale, Bard Dragonslayer.
"Well met, my lord," Thranduil inclined his head toward the newcomer, who wasn't dressed particularly in King fashion. "For what reason have you come?"
Bard stared up at the Elvenking. Isn't he tall enough to not require such a tall throne? He thought grouchily before shaking his head and focusing on the task at hand. "Contrary to what you might believe, Thranduil Elvenking, I do no come for business."
At this, Thranduil's eyebrows shot up, and his eyes widened, the only real emotion the impassive King had ever shown him.
Bard allowed his inner god to pat him on the back before continuing. "I...well, at my place we say I'm paying a social visit."
Thranduil cleared his throat. "A social visit?" His voice was tinged with disbelief and doubt, as if he didn't know the meaning of social.
"I haven't seen you since the day of the battle," Bard continued, twiddling his fingers nervously behind his back. He wondered briefly if anyone had ever visited the King "just to catch up". "I was worried."
If Thranduil hadn't had such good control of his facial features, he was certain his mouth would have fallen open. He tried to keep the shock from his voice, but he didn't think he succeeded very well. "Worried? About me? There is never any need to be worried about me, Dragonslayer." He says the last word as an insult, trying to remove the King from his presence before he became seriously injured or dead. It seemed to happen quite often.
Bard doesn't seem to be deterred. "I hope you were not injured too gravely," he continues, and the shoulder where Thranduil had taken an Orc arrow throbbed. "I know Elves take hurts more grievously than men." He was careful not to mention Dwarves, knowing the old hatred between the two.
He may be a new King, but he certainly wasn't a stupid one.
Thranduil stared at the man, noting the sincere concern in his voice. "If I had- what would you have done?" He rose and descended the stairs that led to his throne.
Bard allowed yet another celebratory party from his inner god- not sitting on his throne meant Thranduil was either going to use his imposing height to threaten him or trying to show Bard that he was to be treated as an equal now.
He desperately hoped it was the latter.
"I'm afraid curing grievous wounds are beyond my capacity, but," and here he trailed off nervously. "But it would have been devastating news."
Thranduil stopped mid-stride. "Devastating for Dale yes, to lose the only ally you have." Thranduil acknowledged.
Bard shook his head as much as he dared. "No- devastating on a personal side."
Thranduil stared. "How so?"
Now Bard was starting to get impatient. Bard seriously considered kissing him to help him to understand."Because despite the fact that I've only know you for a short while, I consider you my friend?"
Thranduil decided that he liked the way my friend echoed around his hall. Again, an image of Bard against the wall and him kissing down his neck flashed through his mind, and Thranduil almost stumbled.
"Friend?"
"Yes- Thranduil," Bard sighed. "My friend."
Thranduil suddenly felt like the cold temperature had decreased. A warm feeling was spreading throughout his body. It was decidingly nice, albeit strange and foreign. "I have not had a friend for aeons," he mused. "Are you sure? There are a lot of complications-"
"For Illúvatar's sake, being someone's friend doesn't require a contract!" Bard snapped, fingers coming loose to hang at his side. "It's just- a mutual feeling!"
Thranduil stepped backwards at this display of exasperation. "Most of my friends died early."
Bard nearly laughed at this. "And I am not young."
Bard opened his mouth to say something more, but he was interrupted.
There was all of a sudden a whine from the oak doors, and Thranduil whirled around, hand on sword almost immediately.
"No- no, there's nothing wrong," Bard waved his hands to get the Elvenking's attention. "It's just my children."
"You brought your children to Mirkwood? We don't joke about with that name," Thranduil said, obviously deep in shock. "Were you possessed?"
Bard winced. "Has Legolas, ever, perchance, wanted something? Really badly?"
"I fail to see where you are going with this."
"Well, you know children. When they want something they are either going to get it or whine about it until your hair falls out and they have children of their own."
Thranduil saw the sense in this, but before saying anything, a tiny barreling human thing can rushing towards them, and hurtled into Thranduil's legs with all the speed of a charging bull.
It was all Thranduil could do not to grimace.
"You're another Elf!" The tiny child beamed up at him, and Thranduil's heart melted.
"Hello," he replied, crouching down to be on the same height at her. "I'm Thranduil."
Bard stared.
The child grinned up at him, revealing rows of small white teeth. "My name is Tilda! I'm seven!"
"I'm more than six thousand years old," he smiled, "but seven is pretty good."
The child exuded happiness.
In then came more maturely two older children, who were later introduced as Bain and Sigrid.
Halfway through the introductions, Bard suddenly stiffened. "By the Valar, I left my cloak on the horse. I'll be right back."
His children then gathered around him, and Thranduil, intrigued, moved closer until he was more or less in the circle.
He was just about to ask if Bard required assistance to find the stables when Bard suddenly descended into a flurry of cheek kisses. He supposed it was a going away ritual afterwards, but it didn't change what happened.
No, what happened was Bard went around the circle and kissed his children on the cheek, but, either in a fit of careless stupidity or accidental brazenness, gave Thranduil a peck on the cheek before rushing out the door, hailing a guard and demanding to know where his horse had been kept.
Thranduil's mouth opened and his ears flushed- but was thankfully covered by his curtain of silver blonde hair. Bain and Sigrid stood there mortified and a heavy silence fell upon the four of them.
It was broken by the timely laughter of Tilda, who fell on the floor, doubling over laughing.
"Pa kissed you!" She laughed, and a whirlwind of giggle burst forth. "He thought you were his-" and here she paused for effect. "Kid!"
Her joy was contagious and soon everyone was laughing, Thranduil included.
It had been nigh upon a millennia since he had seen a child, Legolas was well over two thousand, and for some reason his people seemed to not want offspring.
Suddenly, Tilda swayed and sat on the ground decidedly. "I'm tired," she said, and Bain rubbed the curls of his hair sheepishly. "She does that a lot."
It was only when Tilda mentioned it did Thranduil realise it was at a time considered late to men, and he hurriedly gathered all the dignity and regality left to him, and replied gently, "it's a way from Mirkwood to Dale. I'll show you to your chambers for the night, and perhaps tomorrow you might want to see the rest of my halls."
Tilda was amazed, despite her half closed eyelids. "Really?"
"Yes, really." Thranduil smiled and bent down to pick up the girl- and indeed she weighed no more than a feather. "Come, follow me."
Bain and Sigrid exchanged looks before shrugging and following the Elvenking, who led the way quietly. "Would you prefer separate rooms or one room to share?" He asked, voice in a whisper, and upon closer inspection it was due to the main reason of Tilda being fast asleep on his shoulder.
"One room," Sigrid whispered in reply and flashed Thranduil a gigantic smile. "Thank you for letting us stay, your majesty."
Thranduil was duly impressed. For a daughter of a bargeman, she did have pretty manners. "It's not a problem," he waved it off and focused on walking carefully. "It's the least I can do."
Meanwhile, Bard was frozen outside the door, heedless of the guards questioning.
His fingers found his lips and he went completely red, stammered something about finding his own way and ran off around the corner.
He spared a thought to wander what the guard would tell his King. Something along the lines of, "the King of Dale went all red- is this normal"?
Bard ran until out of breath, before discovering himself to be truly lost. He wondered if he would ever be found, but soon banished that morbid thought.
He supposed running from his problems wasn't exactly going to solve it, but he figured he'd put as much distance between him and the throne room.
Looking back on it, he figured it was a bad idea.
He turned around, having finally reached a dead end, before realising that no more than three passages led here.
Which one did he take?
He carefully inspected each exit, before promptly deciding that he had taken none of them. Perhaps the magic of the Elves causes changing pathways for other races.
Bard panicked momentarily, before regaining his head. You've killed a dragon. You can find your way back.
He paused near the middle one and felt a cool breeze that rustled his hair slightly.
He took a last look around the place before striding forward, into the gloom of the passage.
His logic? If there was a breeze, the wind had to come from somewhere, which likely meant an exit.
The passage started off wide, but soon narrowed to a point where Bard had to walk sideways and suck in his belly to fit.
At last, just when he thought he might die from suffocation, he tumbled into a wide, open cavern.
He sank to his knees and took gulping breaths, while registering his surroundings. He was in a sort of room, which was furnished with elaborate fur rugs and seats. A large bed, big enough for two, sat prominently in the centre of the room. The room itself was lit up with candles, which were placed at seemingly random positions around the room, with a bronze plate at the bottom to collect wax.
There was a window, barred by the roots of a tree, and was without glass. A large spruce cupboard was placed in the corner, and it only took a few seconds to realise that this place was the King's lodging.
He was just about to make for the rosewood door- how many types of wood did these damn Elves have- before it was opened from the outside, and in strode the King in all his finery.
Bard’s mouth went dry and he quickly ducked behind a fur curtain, which blocked yet another window.
Thranduil sighed as he pulled off his red silk cloak and laid it on the bed. “Where is that stupid bargeman?”
Bard was tempted to tell him that he was a King now, but decided-wisely-against it.
“If he ran off from an Elf, the cavern would have detected an intruder and led him to a dead end,” Thranduil continued, and now his mouth had a slight smirk about it. Bard wanted to kiss it off, then realized what he was thinking and bit his lip. Curse the hormones. “And one of those passages-for those thin enough to get through and actually good at heart, would lead him…here.”
Thranduil strode slowly, sensually, around the entire room, taking off yet another layer of clothing- this time a silver-grey tunic. He took his time unfastening the brooch that held it together. Bard’s mouth dried up and his breath hitched.
The King then took off his autumn crown and placed in gently onto a drawer, before again sashaying over to the bed, as if he knew exactly where Bard was; as if he knew Bard was enjoying it.
Bard ground his teeth and wondered what he would do next. “Why don’t you come out from under there now, Dragonslayer, for I have a cup of Dorwinion wine that has your name on it.”
Bard tried to regain whatever dignity he had left-which was not a lot, and pushed back the fur and stood before Thranduil, trying to ignore how Thranduil smirked, trying to ignore his red face.
“Ah, hello. I was beginning to wonder if you would ever notice me- or if I would have to spend the night locked in some Elf’s room,” he tried to wrinkle his nose in disgust, as if the very notion of spending a night in Thranduil’s bedroom did not excite him. “Which would have been terrible.”
Thranduil gave him a lazy, lopsided smile that sent Bard’s nerves tingling. “Of course that idea is completely horrible.”
Bard felt himself flush again. “W-where are my children?” He asked, hoping to change the subject.
Thranduil waved a lazy hand as he handed Bard a silver goblet. “They’re sleeping. I gave them Legolas’ old room.”
Bard immediately knew the honour that was given by allowing his children to sleep in the Prince’s room, but declined to say anything about it. Instead , he took a sip of the wine and tried not to choke as it burned its way down his throat.
“So, Bard, what else do you have to say to me?” Thranduil sat down on one of his fur lined seats and crossed one leg over another. He spoke in a low, sonorous and alluring tone that set the hairs on the back of Bard’s neck standing up. “I was under the impression you were not yet finished with your speech.”
Bard wanted to snap. What, was he expected to say that he really wanted to push the Elvenking against the wall and kiss him, but the other way around would also be fine?
Thranduil leaned forward, and now that some of his hair was not held back by his crown, the silver-blonde hair swung forward with him until he was invading Bard’s personal space and his hair tickled Bard’s neck.
He tried not to breathe. Or blush. Or spontaneously combust.
“Is there anything you require to know?” He replied coolly, eyes half-lidded as he forced himself not to keep staring at Thranduil’s lips.
Thranduil inwardly smirked triumphantly. His mission so far had been a total success. Another image, this one of him and Bard kissing not so innocently in his room rose to the foremost of his thoughts, and this time he did not quell it.
He knew Bard wanted him, and if he had been anyone but the Elvenking he would have totally taken advantage of him.
But he did not, for despite the rumours the roamed the West he was not that kind of King.
He remained where he was, enjoying the authority he had over the King but not doing anything about it.
“Perhaps maybe what you wanted to say earlier,” Thranduil continued, flashing him a look at the pointed ends of his canines. Bard visibly gulped. “We can start there.”
“Um, what I wanted to say was thank you for the provisions,” Bard answered lamely, not meeting the other’s ice eyes. “Dale needs them.”
Thranduil was definitely enjoying this. Bard felt his quicksilver anger rise up in him.
“Oh, and you and I both know that’s not quite true.”
"What do you want me to say then?" Bard asked, annoyed, eyes finally flashing upwards to meet the others’.
Thranduil tilted his head before speaking again. This time, his voice was deep- like chocolate, the rare delicacy Dale had. "Ah, anything that you want to say is music to my ears."
Bard ground his teeth, his anger consuming him. He tried to control it, really, he did, but sometimes the Elvenking was such a prick. “Okay, maybe I wanted to ask you to kiss me,” Bard rolled his eyes, immediately regretting the words as they came out of his mouth, but struggling to maintain a cool composure. “That good enough for you, pointy-eared bastard?”
Thranduil reeled backwards in mock shock. “Are you being serious, bowman?”
Bard, just when he thought his anger was ebbing, felt it hit full force again. “Will you shut up?!”
Thranduil clacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “That’s not the correct way to address the King of the Woodand Realm,” and here a dangerous note crept into his voice, like nails on a chalkboard. “You might want to apologise.”
Bard stuck his tongue out at him. “Well, the correct way to address the King of Dale would not be bowman.”
Thranduil considered this unexpected comeback. “Well, then, as a good example, I should make it up to you, my lord. What would you have me do?” His ice eyes seemed to laugh at the proposition of having someone else order him around; they twinkled and sparkled despite the lack of light in the room.
A breath of wind blew into the chambers, but the candles did not go out.
Bard seemed to feel his fingers tingling with this sudden, newfound power and advanced upon Thranduil as one wielding a nameless authority.
He picked up Thranduil by the collar of his undershirt and hoisted him to his feet. Thranduil at once towered over him, but Bard tried to ignore this. Height did not mean power.
Okay, maybe it did, but so what? He wouldn’t be scared of this King, not now. He was unarmed, but Bard felt the weight of his concealed dagger in his boots, and the hidden knife in a pocket in the inside of his trousers.
What? If it worked, why not?
He could have anything down his pants.
Bard struggled to control his nerves, he hurriedly let go of Thranduil to hide his shaking hands. He was never good with doing stuff like this, not these intimate, foolish illusions of grandeur.
“Okay, then,” Bard continued, eyeing Thranduil like a deer caught in the headlights, and stepped backwards. “You can make it up to me by-”
The words would not come out; they were stuck fast, like glue.
“By?” Thranduil arched a perfect eyebrow, and his words again were captivating and seductive- like sin itself. Bard felt himself flush and quickly looked away. “Pray continue, my lord. It would not be kind to leave me hanging.”
Bard gritted his teeth and took a sip of the wine, before dropping it none too gently onto a nightstand. “Kissing me.”
Bard looked up at Thranduil through rage-filled eyes that dared him to say anything against it.
Thranduil put a finger to his lips, as if considering the idea. “Are you sure?” He purred, and the other hand made its way down to clutch at the front of Bard’s surcoat and grinned wolfishly. “Are you very sure?”
“Oh, by the gods,” Bard finally got out through clenched teeth. “Just do it!”
Thranduil shrugged, which was a sudden ungraceful move for the Elf. “Okay.”
He certainly took his time about it, though.
He reached out a hand to cup Bard’s cheek, the other circling to hang onto his waist. Bard could not breathe.
Thranduil was hardly daring to believe his luck. He thought that had deserted him a long time ago.
Thranduil leaned in, slowly, oh so slowly, until there was only a fraction of space between their lips. Bard was just about to yell at him to hurry up when Thranduil suddenly jerked him forward, and the gap between their lips closed.
Later on, Bard would insist he didn’t make a sound, much to the disbelief of Thranduil.
The kiss was long and seemed to drag on forever, and when Thranduil finally let him go Bad was breathing heavy.
“Ah. Okay. Right,” he felt as if his brain had short-circuited. He could still feel Thranduil’s tongue and taste him on his lips-“Okay.”
Thranduil smirked again. “Are you well?”
Bard felt dizzy. “F-fine.”
Thranduil grinned and snaked a hand around Bard, pulling him close until their bodies were flush against each other. He bit his lip to hold back a moan, before smiling down at him.
“What is it?” Bard asked, nervously, and Thranduil relished that feeling of power.
“You still haven’t apologized.”
“Oh," Bard hesitated, hardly daring to believe what Thranduil was doing. He refused to speak, not trusting himself, and instead yanked the Elvenking down by his undershirt and kissed him again. "Is that better?"
Thranduil smiled like a cat. "Mhmm."
"I-I should go," Bard started backing towards the door, blush resolutely not falling from his face. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Thranduil did not keep the smile from his face, nor the purr from his voice. "Falchon is outside, he'll show you the way."
Bard nodded, tripping over his feet in his haste-or reluctance-to head to the door. "Ah, alright."
"Oh, and Dragonslayer?" Thranduil called just as Bard's hand fell onto the door handle. "I expect many more apologies tomorrow."
Bard nearly could not open the door, but when he did, he tumbled outside and straight into another Elf, who he supposed was Falchon.
"My lord, are you well?" The Elf asked, and Bard was tempted to run away again.
"I am fine. Bring me to my chambers," Bard said, trying to regain composure, and walked steadfastly away from the Elvenking's bedroom.
Inside, Thranduil smirked.