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As seemed to be a reoccurring pattern in Bard’s life, everything important happened due to a horrible accident and his irrational impulses.
For the past few months he had been lulled into the false belief that following his irrational impulses was a good thing. After all, it had been Bard’s irrational impulses that had led to the demise of a fire-breathing dragon that had been set on destroying everything Bard knew and loved. Granted, that had been his most dramatic and most public display of spur of the moment decision making to date, but it seemed to make all of his other decisions not seem so reckless in contrast. It actually seemed to make all decisions made by anyone not seem so reckless in comparison.
Still, it seemed that his instincts had served him well. Against all odds he was alive, as were all three of his children despite his better and more reasonable other half passing on and leaving him on his own as a parent. Not only that, but the survivors of Laketown all had Bard to thank for the privilege of being able to label themselves as ‘not dead, thank you very much,’ even if he brushed off all their gratitude with assurances that he had only done what he had to.
Yes, Bard’s particular brand of recklessness tended to lend itself more towards persistence of survival than it did fleeting fancy. It was a brave sort of compulsion that led him to being crowned king of Dale in recognition of his more admirable traits. For Bard was brave and kind and selfless and was determined to do what was right and fair by all he could. He was also, currently, incredibly drunk.
It should be noted that Bard was not so drunk that he would forget the happenings of the feast come the morning, nor was he far enough lost to inebriation that he had any dangerous sort of impulses about him. It was a quieter sort of drunk, the kind that disguised itself as general merriment to those he mingled with for only a brief interaction, though he himself was quite aware of the alcohol humming in his veins. It was a rare indulgence for Bard, to allow himself to get actually anything close to drunk as usually his responsibilities -which seemed to consist roughly of holding the entire continent of Middle Earth together- did not allow for such distractions. Tonight was a good night however, and he was certain the benefits outweighed the consequences of his actions.
He thought wrong.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Dragon Slayer?”
Bard turned his head in what suddenly felt like far too slow of a movement to glance at the Elvenking seated next to him. Despite his best efforts to stop it from happening, himself, Thranduil, and a few advisors from their respective kingdoms were all seated at a table elevated above the rest of the crowd. It wasn’t much, far less than Bard knew Thranduil had wanted, but the feeling of looking down on the rest of his people seemed foreign and uncomfortable to him. It was an unnecessary power dynamic, and a complication to his overall plan of not allowing his people to discover their Former-Bargeman-turned-King was currently as drunk as a rat.
Well aware of the eyes on him, the eyes that were always on him nowadays, he blinked slowly, nodding his head in what he hoped was a very kingly manner. “Aye, I must thank you again for throwing such a feast. I think it does my people well to remember there is more to living than just surviving.” His words became more certain as he spoke, his voice not wavering or slurring and Bard thought perhaps he was exaggerating his own state in his head, thinking himself more drunk than he really was.
Thranduil’s smirk argued otherwise. “Indeed, I had almost forgotten what men unburdened by worry looked like.”
Bard frowned. It was a strange feeling, being drunk and frowning, and he felt a bit like he had to force it despite his actual annoyance with the elf. “I would not call us a people unburdened.” It was not Thranduil’s words that had Bard feeling a sharp prick through his less than sober haze, but rather the thin curve of the elf’s lip as he stared him down. Thranduil knew Bard was drunk and that was just…well it was just rude, really.
“Temporarily, then, if not a committed standard,” the elf countered smoothly, turning his attention from Bard for a moment to take a drink from his own wine glass. The entire night, Bard had yet to see Thranduil reach the bottom of his drink, as attendants seemed to be waiting with nothing better to do than top off their king’s drink whenever he seemed in danger of finishing. Despite this, Bard had not noticed any signs of intoxication about him. Had he been of sounder mind he might have pondered over the implications. Perhaps elves were unaffected by alcohol, or maybe they simply had a tolerance that could not be reached by the drink of mortals. Almost endlessly Bard found himself fascinated by the elves and their customs, and surly this was something noteworthy. Unfortunately, Bard was not an elf, and therefore still very drunk, and such topics seemed elusive and needlessly complicated.
What was not so complicated, thought Dragon Slayer, King of Dale and Father of Three Bard, was how shiny Thranduil’s hair was. It was almost obnoxious really, the way it flared in the light of the torches, brighter than the moon and all the stars in the sky above them. Was it elven magic, or was it just a symbol of royalty? It seemed so silly, thinking of the proud and fierce king Thranduil preening over his hair like a lady, but Bard wouldn’t put it past him.
“And what, might I ask, do you find so amusing?”
Bard hadn’t realized until Thranduil spoke that he hadn’t looked away from the other king since his thoughts had derailed. Catching himself halfway between a lost grin and what may have been a snicker, he shook his head. He should have been embarrassed to be caught staring, should have been embarrassed to be acting such a fool as he sat in a seat meant for royalty, but Thranduil’s amused smirk had yet to intimidate him sober, and it surely was no threat to him drunk.
“Do you magic your hair?” He asked, just barely containing a laugh at the continued image in his head, and missing completely the way Thranduil’s smirk dropped instantly.
“Magic?” Thranduil’s voice was suddenly hard, but Bard took no notice.
“Aye, it’s brighter than the moon!” Bard accused, only managing to spill a few drops of his drink, which brought him sharply back to himself and his rising tone. Ducking his head he hid his slightly embarrassed laugh in a cough. “You elves are so vain,” he continued boldly, forgetting once more that he was in plain sight of half the town of Dale. “Is it an insult then, if a human woman ever surpasses you in beauty?” He teased in a much more reasonable voice, tilting his head as he surveyed the man he was currently masquerading as an equal to.
The hardness in Thranduil’s eyes seemed to relax at something Bard said, that irritating twinge to his lips returning as he fixed his steely gaze on the King of Dale. “Have you ever known one to do so?”
Bard didn’t try to contain his laugh, a loud bark that no doubt caught the attention of anyone within range. Forgetting his annoyance he grinned in elation at hearing what was possibly the closest Thranduil ever came to a joke. “I cannot say that I have,” he conceded with a shake of his head, lifting his cup. “But I still do not trust that is not strictly your doing.” There was no reason to toast to that, and yet he held his cup out boldly to the Elvenking in an act of drunken camaraderie.
For a moment, Thranduil’s dark brows shifted in uncertainty at the gesture, but his hesitation didn’t last long. Reaching out one long arm, fingers curled around his glass he delicately tapped it against Bard’s in the foreign act of friendship. “To the flattery of the Dragon Slayer,” Thranduil offered before taking a long drink.
Bard’s grin was wild as he pulled his own glass to his lips, eyes still locked on the Elvenking’s hair. All his life he had only had fleeting sightings of elves, only a few words here and there between his various collections and deliveries, but ultimately those meetings were brief. It wasn’t until his entire life was uprooted and his town set aflame that he really had any dealings with them. The resulting chaos had hardly left him with time to consider the oddities that were another species. Now, however, in a town rebuilt, with war behind them and plenty more wine in front of him, Bard felt this was the perfect time. At least, drunk Bard did.
“Your ears are pointed.” It wasn’t a question, or even an accusation so much as Bard’s inability to hold his own thoughts inside of his head. He narrowed his eyes at the strip of flesh sticking up from the immaculate sheet of Thranduil’s hair.
The other king’s thick eyebrows rose in what may have been interest. “Yes,” he assured Bard seriously. “And yours are round.”
The logic of the statement hit Bard unexpectedly, one hand rising to trace the curve of his own ear as he stared at Thranduil’s. For all the elves’ grace, beauty and mystery, it always seemed to be their ears that men were most interested in. For all their ethereal qualities, it was the one that distinguished them the most from men, at least in the physical sense. It had never occurred to him that perhaps the elves felt the same way about men.
“Tis' strange,” Bard commented finally, his voice unnervingly steady for how unsettled the world and how loose his tongue was, “of all the features.” Though his voice was clear, the same could not be said for his intentions.
Thranduil might have said something in return, though Bard felt that was unlikely. Either way the low roar of the party happening around them was suddenly too much for his dimming senses and all he could hear was the clanking of glasses and cacophony of voices rising in drunken cheer. His eyes were still fixed on that peak of skin, and he found himself having to squint as the light from the lanterns made Thranduil’s already beaming hair seem like fire around it.
Bard had not remembered giving his hand the order to move, but somewhere in his foggy thoughts he remembered the urge to do so. It felt like he wasn’t part of his body, like moving through water or a dream maybe as his hand moved of its own accord. The image before him took a minute to process fully in his head, or maybe it was only a second. A small laugh bubbled past his lips before he could stop it.
It was a ridiculous sight really, his dirty and calloused hand woven through the spun silver that was Thranduil’s hair and laid against his ivory skin. It was in the middle of his amusement that his other senses caught up to him and he could feel the soft brush of Thranduil’s hair against his knuckles. It didn’t feel like hair, not even the highest of human royalty could possibly have hair that felt so unearthly and fine. It was no wonder it never seemed to tangle, it was too slippery and soft to ever begin to catch on anything.
It was not a thing he had allowed himself to dwell on for long, but Bard had always imagined the Elven King’s skin would be cold, as if he were cut from marble come to life. That was what he had always seemed like to Bard and, while his skin had a chill to it, Bard could feel the heat of Thranduil's life pulsing under his fingers. The entire interaction only lasted a few seconds, but that was more than enough time for Bard to forget himself entirely and boldly run the pad of his thumb along the curve of Thranduil’s pointed ear. It was the final confirmation; Thranduil was not in fact made of stone, his skin delicate beneath Bard’s touch.
Forcing his gaze away he met the Elvenking’s eye, and at first was certain he was imagining what he saw. Thranduil’s eyes were wide, the normally piercing blue seeming somehow more human and more dangerous than ever before as his eyebrows arched high. Bard hadn’t known the elf was capable of any expressions save for his favorite three: annoyance, boredom, and amusement. However, what he was undoubtedly dealing with now was unbridled shock.
Bard’s expression mirrored the other king’s as they stared at each other for an unblinking moment, ignoring the fact that they were currently on display for half of Dale. The passage of time seemed a strange construct as Bard was unsure exactly how long had passed as they stared at each other before Thranduil broke their gaze, his eyes darting to his right. Bard followed his gaze and found himself once more looking at the tanned and rough skin of his own hand contrasting against the smooth and bright curve of Thranduil’s ear.
The world came rushing back to him all at once, the swell of the party around them and the distinctive pinpricks that were the eyes of his subjects watching him with his hand in the Elvenking’s hair. None of it compared to the crushing weight of Thranduil’s ice blue eyes boring holes into him as he silently demanded an explanation for Bard’s behavior.
Bard laughed again, harder and more forced this time as he gently removed his hand, pulling it back to himself and briefly wondered if just cutting it off and claiming it was possessed would save him from this mess. Forcibly turning his face from the other king’s he took a sweep of the party before them, finding that while most of his subjects seemed too drunk or otherwise preoccupied to notice the display, at least half a dozen sets of eyes, both men and elf, were indeed watching with rapt attention. One set of which bore a horribly striking resemblance to his deceased wife, right down the disappointed curve of her mouth. Bard could deal with Sigrid’s disappointment tomorrow. Tonight, he was swearing off alcohol.
An oath he broke almost instantly as he took another drink to distract himself. Catching himself half way he considered simply spitting it back out again before he forced himself to swallow it. “I believe I may have had too much.”
“Perhaps.”
Bard cleared his throat, feeling alarmingly sober in the face of his own embarrassment. Somehow the room was still managing to swim. “I hope I haven’t started a new war, so soon after one finished,” he joked lightly, swirling the contents of his glass in a sloppy attempt of nonchalance.
Thranduil shifted beside him, somehow straightening himself even further as he too faced forward. “No.” For the first time, Bard thought Thranduil sounded at a loss for words, though maybe that was the alcohol in Bard’s system distorting his view. “A war is the last thing my people need, and I assure you it is the last thing I want of you, Dragon Slayer,” he assured Bard, his voice as collected and commanding as the day Bard had first heard him speak.
Bard released a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding, another inexplicable laugh escaping on it. He caught himself with another mouthful of wine before he remembered once again he wasn’t supposed to be drinking. Managing only a small grimace at his own inability to stop himself he swallowed, glancing at the Elvenking out of the corner of his eye and learning nothing new. “I am glad to hear that, as I wish the same.”
Finally managing to put down his glass, and holding tight to it a moment to be certain it was not going to spill back over, Bard then clasped his hands together with an air of finality. “This has been a wonderful celebration, my lord, and as I have said before the people of Dale cannot thank you enough for your generosity.” Bard paused in his speech as the sudden transition from sitting to standing proved to be a much greater endeavor than he had originally anticipated. As the world stopped spinning he released his hold on the back of his chair, straightening his back in what he hoped was a dignified manner. “I hope you will forgive my rudeness, that I must leave you so early. I may be a king but I still prefer to see to it personally that my youngest gets to bed properly.”
Bard ducked his head as he finished, closing his eyes briefly to brace himself for the task of walking. He didn’t expect Thranduil to have a response for him, the elves seemed to prefer to use as few words as possible. He had learned that a goodbye that would result in a meeting again the next day to them seemed pointless. So he was unprepared for Thranduil’s next words, halting him in his tracks, and it took him a few seconds longer than normal to process them.
“I’m sorry?”
Thranduil took another drink, eyes still straight ahead as he offered Bard only a view of the back of his head. “I said,” he elaborated, his voice slow and steady in the jumble of Bard’s thoughts. “What of you? Who will see to it that you make it to your bed properly?” He inclined his head just enough that Bard met the sharp gaze of his eye and could see the curve of his lip against his glass.
His earlier embarrassment was far from forgotten but was waning slowly at the elf’s tone. Bard’s face broke out into another grin as he looked down on the Elvenking. “Was that another joke?” Bard demanded to know, narrowing his eyes with his teasing. “If you drank more often I think you could have a promising career as a jester.”
“And if you drank more often you might have solid grounds to claim your position as town drunk.”
Bard dug his fingers into the back of his wooden chair to hold himself steady as his laugh wracked his body and threatened his balance. Leaning over the chair in what was most definitely an un-kingly manner, he collected himself, still snickering quietly as he wiped at his eyes. With another deep breath he righted himself. “I fear you might be right about that.”
“Get yourself to bed, Dragon Slayer, before we must find out.”
Bard nodded, glancing back to Thranduil and was suddenly faced with the severity of his drunken state once more. Because through his drunken haze he thought for a moment that Thranduil’s hard gaze looked less like the ice on the lake in winter, and more like a warm night sky. It appeared, though obviously was not so, that his brows were not drawn together so fiercely and that the curve of his mouth seemed more like the beginnings of a true smile than a sneer as he looked up at Bard. The trick of Bard’s eye only lasted a fleeting second, because when Thranduil snapped his attention back to the crowd there was no softness about his face and he looked once more the warrior king Bard knew him to be.
The momentary confusion left the former bowman blinking uneasily for a few beats before he collected himself. Clearing his throat awkwardly he raised a hand to the man no longer looking at him in a gesture of farewell. The elves might not have believed in petty goodbyes, but the habits of men were hard to forget. “Goodnight, my lord.”
So focused Bard was on his descent down the treacherous four steps to level ground he almost missed Thranduil’s parting words. “Goodnight, my lord.”