Work Text:
“You must.”
“No, Bard.”
“It is late, you must!”
“I cannot, I will not be an imposition to you.”
“You will not be, Thranduil.”
“Bard... Do not push me.“
“Thranduil it is late and I will not allow you to-“
“Not allow me?”
“-not allow you to traipse through the Mirkwood by yourself.”
Thranduil raised an eyebrow, arms folded across his body. Bard would have felt intimidated had he not grown used to the irksome, intimidating Kind of Elves over the past few months. As newly appointed King of Dale, Bard had made sure to keep on good terms with the Dwarves of Erebor as well as the Elves of Mirkwood but, albeit Bard’s attempts to keep himself neutral, it was no secret that Bard was a personal friend of Thranduil’s. It had taken Thranduil months to return the kindness Bard showed him but that had not swayed Bard in his friendship.
“I will be fine, King of Dale,” Thranduil said, seemingly resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Do you honestly think i would have lived as long as I have, were I unable to make my way through my own forest?”
“You’re resisting,” Bard said, sighing. “If you want to leave, then so be it. But it is late and it would ease my worrying if you would rest here tonight.”
“The King of Dale,” Thranduil said, his voice somewhere between amused and unimpressed. “Worrying for a being ten times his strength, speed and intellect. How illogical of him.” Bard merely scoffed, shaking his head.
“I just meant that it’s late and creatures roam-“
“I know what you meant, Bard,” Thranduil said, a small breath of air spilling from his pursed lips, as close to a sigh as the Elf King would allow himself.
“Stay,” Bard said firmly. “We will have a room set out for you.”
“I shall be gone as soon as the sun rises,” Thranduil replied. “I have business to attend to in Mirkwood.”
“Understood.”
And that was how Bard found himself bidding the King of Elves goodnight as he departed for his own chambers. Bard climbed the staircase up to his bedroom, a room that was larger than the house he and his children had lived in before the battle of the five armies. It was also incredibly lavish and Bard had spent his first week as King removing all the 'unnecessary tapestry' and having the 'really impractical' gold ornaments given as gifts to members of the community.
Bard sighed as he headed into his chambers, shutting the oak door behind him and leaning against it for a few seconds. He was exhausted. Yet he had trouble sleeping that night, his mind plagued with images of the darkness of Mirkwood forest. He was glad Thranduil has agreed to stay. Granted, the blonde-haired King could have easily returned to his kingdom that evening but Bard, being the human that he was, had worried. Foolish, Bard mused as he undressed for bed and slipped in between the silk sheets that he still had not gotten used to, to worry about a Elf – foolish... However, thoughts of his Elven friend and fellow king managed to lure the male into a slumber and Bard found himself settling in for what he hoped would be a pleasant night’s sleep.
Bard was woken by the sound of Tilda screaming. He threw his covers off of himself and pulled a pair of trousers on, draping a robe around his shoulders instead of wasting time searching for a shirt. He fled his room, making his way along the corridor towards the room of his youngest. Tilda had nightmares, that was nothing new. She’d had them when she was very little but she had grown out of them. However, in the aftermath of the battle, she had them on an almost regular basis. Sometimes it took only seeing that her father, sister or brother were alive and breathing to calm her. But other nights it could take hours of coercing her to get back into bed and insisting that everything was fine and that there was nothing wrong.
And so when the screaming quietened and then came to a stop after a short while, Bard frowned. Sigrid and Bain would not have had time to get from their chambers to Tilda’s in such a short space of time. Bard hurried his pace. He sped around the final corner and found Tilda’s bedroom door wide open. He skidded to a halt in the doorway. His heart hammered hard in his chest and a mixture of affection and relief flooded over him.
Tilda was in bed, shivering slightly perhaps due to the cold or her nightmare. But she was silent, almost tranquil. There was a figure beside her bed, silver robe pulled around the tall, almost inhuman frame. Bard found himself staring, unable to move. Thranduil was crouched beside Tilda's bed, head bent towards her as he uttered something under his breath. It took Bard a while to realise that Thranduil was singing. It wasn’t perfect, Bard mused, but it was calming. He understood none of it, for the lullaby was in Elvish, but it was working it’s magic on Tilda.
“Av-‘osto, titta mine, odulen an edraith angin, penneth. Losto vae, titta mine, gi melin, gi melin”
Tilda’s shivers stopped, the only part of her body still quivering was a tiny hand that had somehow managed to worm its way into the Elf King’s long hair. Bard stepped into the room then, watching as Thranduil untangled the girl’s hand from his hair gently so as not to hurt her. Tilda rolled over and yawned, arms coming up to her face to pillow her head. Bard walked forwards and pulled the covers up, tucking Tilda back into bed. Thranduil stepped back, standing up with a grace that Bard prayed he had. Bard bent down and placed a gentle, soft kiss to Tilda’s forehead before gently backing away.
They said nothing to each other until they were half way down the corridor.
“Does she have night terrors often?” Thranduil asked. Bard was somewhat surprised that the other male had started conversation first but he did not let it show.
“Yes,” Bard admitted. “The lullaby you sang her seemed to work.”
“It is in a language other than her own,” Thranduil mused. “Words one does not know often soothe better than ones that one does.” Bard hummed in agreement.
“Thank you, all the same,” Bard said honestly. “Where did you learn it?”
“There was a time whence I sang it to Legolas.”
Bard was not surprised by that at all. He turned away, looking towards a window to the right of him. The moon was high outside, indicating there were still hours left of the night. Bard sighed. Tilda would not sleep for much longer and she would no doubt find her way into Bard’s chambers, curling up at the bottom of his bed as she often did these days. Bard turned to address Thranduil but found the male had vanished. Bard frowned, glancing up and down the corridor. He saw a sheet of silver disappear round the corner, what could only be elven silk glowing in the white light of the moon. Bard allowed himself a small smile. Thranduil had never been one for emotional confrontation. Bard would be sure to get up early the next day and thank the other King properly. But for now he needed his own sleep.
As he has expected, Bard woke with a snoring Tilda at his feet. The sun was high in the sky, yellow beams floating in through a small gap in the light, summer curtains. Thranduil would be long gone by now. Bard had missed his chance to talk to the male. Thranduil intrigued him an awful lot and Bard found himself eager to see the male again. He was also incredibly interested to learn that the lullaby meant. Tilda shifted at the end of the bed and yawned, indicating she was close to rousing. Bard sighed. Time to get up, he thought and reluctantly pushed himself into a sitting position. He groaned. he had not had enough sleep and yet he had a full day of 'kingly duties' to attend to. Dealing with his people, that he could do. But signing documents and treaties? That was something he could not wait to be done with.
Bard got no work done, however. He claimed it was due to tiredness but in reality it was far from such. Thoughts of Thranduil and the tranquility of the male's lullaby had not once left Bard's mind all day, and the memory of his daughter's hand in the Elf King's hair, such a familiar and comfortable gesture, had completely caused Bard to lose his train of thought.