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There was a feast after, of celebration and mourning, and though Bard knew the king's son had survived the battle, Thranduil's face now was that of one weighed down by many deaths, and that pain Bard didn't know how to ease. Still, he thought of Thranduil as a friend, and would do what he could.
Which, in this case, was deposit a drowsy Tilda in Thranduil's lap and Bain beside his bloody great chair.
"I am not your child-minder."
"No, but you'll do in a pinch."
Thranduil's bemusement lasted the rest of the night, a small but measurable success.