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It has been a very long time since Thranduil was in the direct company of a child.
Legolas has not been a child for a very long time, and Thranduil knew Tauriel as a child merely in passing. Other than them, Thranduil makes a strict habit of avoiding creatures in their developmental stages for the sake of preserving his own dignity; Thranduil is not very good with children, and he knows it. There were designated attendants to help him raise Legolas after the Elvenqueen’s passing, and the few times he was left supervising Tauriel, he seemed to possess an unparalleled skill for making her cry.
Highly unpleasant sound, a child crying.
Of course, Thranduil is not on high alert for children when the battle in Erebor rages because battlefields are no place for children. Indeed, even a lofty being like a Doriath elf feels faint among all the death - darkness is dwelling strong here, and Thranduil feels dim and alone as he walks the war-torn streets of Dale.
He is untethered as he drifts among his fallen soldiers like a ghost. So, when a child turns a corner and runs directly into his leg, Thranduil almost doesn’t notice.
The unfortunate creature falls backwards and stares up at Thranduil with nothing short of terror in its eyes. Thranduil’s remaining entourage comes to his shoulders and peer down at the creature along with him. Thranduil thinks, briefly, they must look like something from a storybook to this tiny thing in the snow and the dirt.
It is a human, Thranduil assesses. In all his ages on this earth, he hasn’t encountered a young human once. He’s unsure what to do.
“Oh,” the tiny human gasps. “I’m sorry, mister… uh- elf-lord.”
“You address the Elvenking Thranduil of the Woodland Realm,” comes a voice over Thranduil’s shoulder. Thranduil sets his jaw - obviously, this terrified creature does not have to address him formally.
“Elvenking Thrandwill of the Woodland Realm,” the child corrects itself. It’s pronunciation is off, just a bit.
Thranduil turns and dismisses his entourage. They know their task - find survivors. As this too, is a survivor, Thranduil returns it to his attention and gives it a thorough assessment.
In manner of speech and appearance, this child is a young girl. No older than ten, but no younger than seven or eight. She appears as disheveled as most children her age would be in this situation, confronted by a strange being in the midst of this unnecessary war, and, alarmingly, she is unattended.
She appears to be on the verge of tears. Thranduil is feeling massively unequipped to deal with this situation. Suddenly, he is aware of his disheveled hair and the orc blood on his cheek.
As the girl opens her mouth with another “Sorry-” Thranduil asks “What is your name?”
The girl’s mouth snaps shut, and Thranduil clears his throat. “What is your name?” He repeats. His speech is embarrassingly stilted. He feels like someone has swept his leg.
“Tilda.” The response sounds near-automatic. Tilda, self-identified, is still sitting on the ground. Thranduil offers her a gloved hand, and she takes it, stumbling to her feet.
“Are you lost, Tilda?” Thranduil examines her as best he can from his elevated vantage - she doesn’t appear to be injured, but whether her mind has suffered damage, he can only guess. Her left hand is bleeding, the heel of her palm skinned raw from some other incident over the course of this wretched day. “There are safer places to wander.”
Tilda sniffs. “I know,” she huffs with more exhaustion than a young girl should. “I think- I think I am lost, yes. I lost my family, and I don’t- well, uh, I don’t know what to do, exactly.”
As I thought. I am unequipped for this situation.
Thranduil looks up. Children of Men often vary in appearance between generations more than elven children do, but Thranduil is sure this child will recognize her parents if they are presented to her. Of course, as the fates of the universe do not smile upon Thranduil often, these parents do not appear before them as though from air, and he regards Tilda again.
What is to be done? Tilda must be returned to her guardians, but they may be long gone, or dead. Does Thranduil want to take responsibility for this fragile little creature? Not particularly.
Tilda scrubs the heel of her palm under her eye. Something must be done.
“Do not cry.” Tilda goes rigid, and Thranduil knows immediately he has made an error. “Be at ease, Tilda. I am going to help you find your family.”
“Oh.” It is a small sound. “Thank you, um, Elvenking-”
“Thranduil will suffice,” Thranduil tells her quickly. This interaction will take much longer if Tilda uses his formal address each time she wants to talk to him. “Unless you prefer I address you as Lady Tilda of Esgaroth.”
Tilda laughs weakly - Thranduil’s error is mended, and he is gladdened, just a bit. “I’m only Tilda.”
“Tell me who we are looking for, Tilda.” Tilda’s hand, small and warm, is still in Thranduil’s. Thranduil elects to keep it there, averse as he is to physical fondness. Tilda would probably react negatively to a declination like Thranduil dropping her hand.
“My dad, and my siblings- I have a brother and a sister, they’re both older than me. And my dad is older than me, too.”
“I figured.”
“His name is Bard. My sister’s name is Sigrid, and my brother’s name is Bain.”
This is a conundrum. Thranduil is familiar with Bard, familiar enough to recollect his strong sense of kinship and, most likely, even stronger sense of familial bond. He fears, briefly, that Bard thinks Tilda is already gone from this world. “Then we must find Bard and Sigrid and Bain in haste,” Thranduil tells her. He takes a step, and Tilda follows.
They walk in silence for a while, Thranduil doing his level best to shield her from the sight of corpses as they navigate the empty streets. Occasionally, an elf or a Man darts by, but for the most part, Dale has drained of its denizens. Thranduil wonders if Bard still intends to restore this place, and then he thinks of his own realm, broken as it is, and decides Bard has taken up a most honorable course of action.
Tilda trips on a pebble. Thranduil holds her upright.
The clouds are grey overhead, and Thranduil smells rain on the horizon. As though it senses him in return, thunder rolls like a wave crashing on a faraway shore. Thranduil keeps his head up and watches for movement, listens for talking, and steers his tiny quarry towards the clamoring sounds of conversation.
Tilda is malcontent to search in silence. “My hand hurts,” she says. “I fell.”
“I noticed,” Thranduil says, valiantly suppressing a sigh. “Are you alright?”
Tilda nods. “Mhm. My feet hurt too. I’ve been running all day.”
“Running from the fight?” Another nod. “Where was Bard?”
“Fighting,” Tilda answers. “Bain said he saw Dad kill two orcs with one arrow.”
Thranduil clicks his tongue. “It would have been safer to hide somewhere, Tilda.”
“We were scared.” Tilda supplies this answer as though it’s simple. “We wanted to find our Dad.”
“.. why then?”
“Well, he might have died.”
Thranduil exhales. He doesn’t understand the sentiment, but he wishes he did. That a child would worry for their parent as much as a parent worries for their child, the concept seems… wishful, almost. Then again, elves and Men differ, as do Thranduil and Bard.
“I’m sure your father is alright. He is a skilled fighter.”
“Did you see him?” Tilda’s voice brightens instantly, her hand squeezing around Thranduil’s thumb. “People call him Bow-man, but he uses a sword too. Bain and Sigrid want to learn how to fight from him, but I’m still too young. Dad says I have to be twenty.”
“Legolas learned to fight when he was one hundred years old.” Thranduil is emboldened by Tilda’s gasp of awe. “He is very old by human standards but still young and brash among elves.”
Tilda looks up at Thranduil. Thranduil is familiarized with the concept of childlike wonder. “How old are you?”
Thranduil knows the exact number, but he doesn’t think Tilda will appreciate the scale of it in specificity. “About five thousand years old,” he replies.
Tilda looks forward, thinking the deep thoughts that children think. Thranduil catches sight of a small group of people, but they are not Tilda’s family and they seem rather disturbed by the sight of Thranduil walking hand-in-hand with a small child. Thranduil doesn’t blame them. He would regard himself a spectacle as well, child or no.
Finally, Tilda puts voice to her thoughts, and Thranduil again finds himself caught off-guard. “You’ve outlived a lot of Men.”
“I have.”
“Are you going to outlive me?”
“It is possible.” Thranduil drops the probable, knowing it is unwelcome. Tilda seems disturbed by this notion. “Do not trouble yourself thinking about that, Tilda.”
Tilda doesn’t respond, but she swings their hands back and forth. Thranduil senses she doesn’t have much to say and takes advantage of what must be uncommon silence in her presence.
They continue walking past the old market. A Man is lying there in a pool of his own blood, and Thranduil puts his hand on Tilda’s temple to turn her away from the sight. In spite of the effort, Tilda knows exactly what he’s shielding her from.
They continue walking, but the moment does not pass by unacknowledged. “You’ve seen a lot of people die in your life, haven’t you?” She asks, sounding miserable as she did when Thranduil found her. Thranduil nods. “I haven’t.”
“I should hope you do not again,” Thranduil murmurs, steering Tilda around another streetcorner. “This day has been all a tragedy.”
“You still feel sad when people die?” Tilda asks, then visibly reconsiders. “I don’t- I don’t want to sound rude, but you know-”
“I know.” Thranduil gleans nothing from Tilda floundering, and so interrupts her. “I do. Death is a tiresome grief. No matter how long you live, the pain of loss is dealt equally.”
Tilda huffs and stops walking, tugging her hand out of Thranduil’s. “I want to rest.”
“Your father is waiting for you.”
“My feet hurt. My hand hurts too. I don’t want to walk anymore.”
Thranduil stops, and watches in all despair as Tilda sits down on a rock and kicks off her tiny, muddy boots. He is stunned into silence, but when Tilda starts picking at her skinned hand, he is spurred to act.
“Stop that.” Tilda stops. “I will bandage it.”
Tilda blinks up at him, owlish and not entirely understanding in the midst of her upset. “What? Why?”
“So that we may move on from here, and find your family.”
“They’re dead,” Tilda sniffs.
“Are you certain?”
“No.” Tilda’s tone is becoming argumentative. “But we still haven’t found them.”
Thranduil takes a breath, and before he speaks again, he comes and sits at Tilda’s side. Tilda looks at him warily, so Thranduil keeps his eyes forward and his expression neutral.
“How far do you think we’ve walked, Tilda?” Thranduil asks. Tilda shrugs, so Thranduil gestures the direction from which they came. “From that direction to here, we have been walking for about half an hour. I know you are tired, but these ruins are more vast than your mind would have you believe. There are yet many places your family might be.”
Tilda sighs, and as she hangs her head a sizable lock of hair falls free from her wind-beaten hair twist. Thranduil is beginning to grasp this sense of defeat Tilda feels. It is different from Thranduil’s defeat, because she is a lost child and not a defeated Elvenking, but their loneliness is similar and shared. Thranduil expects his remaining soldiers are mobilizing outside of Dale, waiting for the order to return home.
“I don’t want to walk anymore,” she repeats. “I’m tired of today.”
“As am I.” Thranduil finds the edge of his cape and, with a wince, tears off the bottom seam. He picks out the delicate threadwork and unravels the fabric until it resembles a rather scruffy ribbon. It will serve his purpose well enough. “Show me your hand.”
Tilda does as told, and Thranduil wraps the shred of fabric around her wrist twice, then twice over the abrasion, and ties it on her knuckles. It fits snugly enough to act as a bandage, but the movement range of Tilda’s hand is lessened. She will survive, Thranduil decides, and lets it alone.
“Do I still have to walk?” Tilda asks.
“Are you unable?” A long, long silence follows. Thranduil forfeits. “Have you an alternative in mind?” He asks instead.
Tilda fidgets with her hair. “Dad puts me on his shoulders when I’m tired of walking.”
The first thought that occurs to Thranduil is the safety of his hair. The second thought that occurs to him is Tilda informing Bard that Thranduil made her walk for a yet-undetermined amount of time before locating him. “Hair is culturally significant to elves. You may not touch it, pull it, or extricate any strands from it.”
Tilda has won this interaction, evident by the glittering amusement in her eyes, but her mouth is trained into a serious line as she nods, “Yes, sir.”
“Thranduil.”
“Thrandwill.”
“Thrand-oo-ill.”
“Can you spell it?”
Thranduil stands up. “We are wasting time.”
Tilda tugs her boots back on. As soon as they are securely donned, Thranduil lifts her up and places her on his shoulders. This seems to bring an unexpected measure of delight to Tilda, who laughs in excitement while off the ground. She grabs his silver circlet once she’s settled onto his shoulders. Thranduil permits it - at least she’s not grabbing his ears.
Thranduil discerns that conversation is a method of distraction for Tilda, so he elects to indulge her to prevent another halting in progress. Tilda asks for the spelling of Thranduil’s name, and Thranduil tells her. He also tells her it means vigorous spring , and she asks if spring is his favorite season. It is not; Thranduil prefers autumn. He tells her it is because he likes the color orange but in truth it is because wine berries ripen and harvest in autumn.
They walk and talk for such a period of time, passing greater numbers of still-living Men as they near the entrance to Dale, that Thranduil loses a sense of the time and distance that has passed. Tilda’s mood has brightened, though, and they draw closer to the source of many voices. Anyone, Bard or no, would look after Tilda with greater finesse than Thranduil.
It’s not much longer until the pair turns a corner and enters the makeshift recovery camp at the defunct gate of Dale. Here is where the majority of survivors had taken residence, a great many people bustling back and forth with grave intention, likely ferrying medical material between those who had not been so lucky as to make it through the battle unharmed.
“Now is your time to start looking,” Thranduil tells Tilda, who has the highest vantage by far over this sea of people. “Can you recognize your father from the top of his head?”
Tilda nods with an affirmative noise. “Curly and dark. If he had hair like yours, it would be easier to find him.”
That is entirely true, and Thranduil tells her so just as a grizzled-looking woman with a round face and a grimace crosses their path and stops dead in her tracks. She looks up at Tilda, then at Thranduil, and up at Tilda again.
As she huffs “Tilda!”, Tilda grins and identifies her as “Franny!”
“What on all the green grass in this Middle Earth are you doing up there? Your father’s on track to lose his head with how he’s been worrying about you!” Franny, so Tilda calls her, scolds with no end in sight - apparently, quite a number of people have been fearing for the fate of Bard’s youngest. “And that’s to say nothing of your poor brother and sister, and, by the gods, this elf you’ve been haranguing-”
“Excuse me,” Thranduil cuts in lightly. “We are looking for Bard the Bowman.”
“You think I don’t know -” Franny thinks better of this immediately, seeming to only absorb Thranduil in full at this very moment. Her mouth clicks shut instantly. “Uh, you’re- you were that one on the elk. The… important one.”
“That is one way to describe it.” Thranduil looks around, feeling a bit scrutinized by the increasing number of spectators to this exchange.
“You address Elvenking Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.” Thranduil has to admit, he’s impressed by Tilda’s recitation and pronunciation, but hearing his full title rattled off to someone yet again brings him no satisfaction, only a slight measure of mortification.
Franny goes pale. “ Tilda-!” She hisses between her teeth, as if it will prevent Thranduil from hearing, “You get off the king’s shoulders right now!”
“That is quite alright,” Thranduil says shortly, because this line of conversation is leading almost exactly nowhere. “Tilda has been walking for a while, and I have no issue with carrying her. However, the sooner someone collects her father and associated family, the sooner Tilda can be returned to her own two feet.”
Nobody moves.
Thranduil amends. “Someone bring Bard the Bowman to me, immediately.”
Four people immediately leave, and the rest of the crowd disperses after they go, presumably reminded of their own family, but Franny remains with her arms crossed over her chest. Thranduil looks down his nose at her, mostly unimpressed but reading her well enough to know not to look away, lest he fail her assessment.
Tilda slouches on Thranduil’s shoulders, so Thranduil gives Franny another hard glance before craning his neck up to his ward. “Do you want to come down?”
“No,” Tilda replies, “I’m helping you glare at Franny.”
“I am not glaring at Franny,” Thranduil tells her, “as I have no reason to. She has made multiple reasonable demands of you.”
Franny huffs in satisfaction, but she gives Thranduil a side-eyed squint at the use of her name. “Fran will suffice. The kids call me Franny.”
“Or Fanny, when she’s up after a night at the tavern-”
“Shht-!” Fran hisses, panic registering in her every feature. Thranduil would console her on the matter with an offering of wine, if he had any, but Tilda is ever-present. He instead elects to say nothing, watching Fran retreat into the waves of people and becoming indistinguishable.
Thranduil has been miserable for most of the day, with good reason, but there’s a watery-gold warbling note of hope rising over this place. Equally matching cries of anguish are the songs of jovial fireside conversation. The reason these Men race back and forth with such determination is for their fellow Man, holding hope that they might pull through and see a day where no one dies. It is a dirt-nailed scraping of hope, but it is hope. There once was a time when Thranduil wondered how Men had survived the perils of Middle Earth for so long. He doesn’t wonder anymore; the answer is right here.
Tauriel told Thranduil he has no love. Maybe she was right, but selfishly, Thranduil disagrees. When there is so much love in a place like this, Thranduil would have a hard time fending it off.
That is why, when Thranduil hears a cry of “Tilda!” from a voice he recognizes, and spots the source of the sound, he feels an unexpected, jarring rush of positivity.
Tilda begins wiggling recklessly in an attempt to reach her father, so Thranduil lifts her up and places her on the ground, her feet already moving before they reach dirt. She darts away like a rabbit, and even at a distance Thranduil can hear the oof of punched air from Bard when she barrels into his stomach.
Their reunion, filled with tears and scolding and infuriated reminders of love, is something Thranduil almost wants to look away from. Bard lifts Tilda up with two strong arms around the middle and swings her back and forth, much to her delight and the chagrin of Bain and Sigrid, who’ve yet to give their hugs. Over the hum of conversation, Thranduil cannot make out most of what they say, but again, he doubts he is privy to such a thing.
So Thranduil waits at a distance, and thinks. Mostly, he thinks about how, if Legolas is ever to return, Thranduil wishes to greet him this way. He wishes to show Legolas that there is much love, so much love, in Thranduil’s age-beaten heart for his only son. The Valar only know how much love bled from him when his queen was sundered from him, and again when not a day ago, Legolas was bid to leave his side.
These thoughts become so distracting that Thranduil is only brought back into the waking moment by a hand on his shoulder. It belongs to Bard.
Thranduil opens his mouth to speak, but Bard cuts in with a “Thank you,” so raw that Thranduil forgets what he intended to say.
Instead, he says “Something needed to be done.”
Bard nods gravely. “And you did it. Hearing the other two lost track of her… I don’t even want to talk about how terrified I was.” Thranduil understands, somehow. “But you brought her back, and I- I don’t think I’ll ever be able to express how grateful I am.”
Thranduil swallows. His mouth is dry. Because he cannot quite seem to look Bard in the eyes, he finds his gaze tracing the curls of Bard’s coffee-dark hair. “I have seen it,” he says distantly, “in how you respond to the return of your daughter. There is no need for further expression.”
Bard gives Thranduil a long, hard look, and then turns away to place Tilda in Sigrid’s arms. Sigrid must recognize something serious in Bard’s expression because as she leaves, she takes Bain away with her.
Thranduil is grateful for it, because Bard immediately points this out; “You’re crying.”
Thranduil touches his cheek. His hands are leather-bound, but all the same, the fingertips come away shiny-black. Of all the emotions he feels at this hour, the one that surfaces is frustration. He clicks his tongue. “It appears that way.”
Bard is silent, though his expression is revealingly mystified. He leans left and right, not-so-subtly examining Thranduil for grievance or injury. There is none. But, blessedly, instead of asking Thranduil why or even speaking at all, Bard extracts a snow-white handkerchief from his pocket and places it in Thranduil’s palm, closing his fingers around it.
Thranduil uses it with a gratefully murmured “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” Bard says, which isn’t true at all but Thranduil knows better than to argue. After that, it’s much easier for Thranduil to compose himself, and he takes a deep breath to speak just as Bard says “Would you like something warm to drink before you go?” Then, he amends, “I keep interrupting you, sorry.”
“I don’t have much to say,” Thranduil admits. “But I would like a drink, and a place to rest if you have any room to spare.”
Bard looks to a tall building, maybe an inn or an old pub, where his children are waiting by the door. Thranduil doesn’t know why he does it (and even if you asked him now, he would not be able to provide an honest answer for his actions), but he nudges at the small of Bard’s back with his knuckles. When Bard turns, surprised, Thranduil indicates to his children with a point of his chin.
“Go to them,” he says.
“... You’re coming with me, aren’t you?” Bard asks. “It’s a little crowded, since that’s where the food is, but there’s- there’s room to spare.”
Thranduil pauses, and then he smiles because in all truth, he’s relieved. “I will follow you.”
Bard squints, troubled and maybe hesitant at the idea of leading Thranduil about like a lost dog, but he relents when Thranduil gestures again to his waiting company. For a reason Thranduil does not understand in full, Bard walks at his side instead of his front.
Thranduil is comfortable with the absence of conversation, mostly because he has been talking to Tilda for a long while, but Bard seems agitated by the silence. Thranduil assumes this is where Tilda’s unending desire to talk comes from. “How do you take your tea?” He asks.
“Warm.”
Bard exhales. It sounds like a weary chuckle. “You can ask for more than that.”
“I cannot,” Thranduil corrects him. “I can assure you that your people need warm drink more than I do.”
Bard’s laugh is slow and exhausted, but its clarity is stronger now than it was a moment ago. Thranduil is foolishly glad to have made him laugh. “Alright,” he cedes.
The inn is as busy as Bard described it, if not busier - no square foot is unoccupied and no flat surface is without a flagon or bowl or cluster of silverware. Thranduil navigates carefully through the bustling tavern behind Bard, who seems exceptionally skilled at weaving between thick crowds of Men. His children all hang onto him, Sigrid’s hand on his sleeve and Bain’s on his pocket. Tilda, in Sigrid’s other arm, grins over her sister’s shoulder at Thranduil. “We’re going to drink hot cider!”
“Tilda, don’t yell in my ear,” Sigrid huffs.
“Do you like cider?” Thranduil asks. Tilda nods. “Me too.”
When Thranduil glances to the left, he catches the quickest glimpse of Bard smiling over his shoulder before he turns away again.
“It came from you!” Tilda tells him. “Those big carts you brought before the fight, they had big jugs with all sorts of drinks in them. Cider, water, wine- everyone likes them”
Thranduil knows, but he supposed it would all be gone by now. “How much is left?”
“Enough,” Bard says.
Sigrid clicks her tongue. “Enough that we could stand to get a bit more,” she corrects her father. “Especially water.”
“It will be done,” Thranduil says immediately.
“Powers, Sigrid, why don’t you sit down and get your siblings some drinks?” Bard sighs, claiming a row of bar-stools as soon as they’re unoccupied. Over the bar, he says “Thranduil wants tea. Warm tea.”
Thranduil feels remarkably light in the heart when he sits with Bard’s family. The children all embroil themselves in deep conversation, pausing for brief sips of their cider. Thranduil receives his tea (it’s some indiscriminate herbal blend, so no amount of over-brewing will embitter it) and has a sip. It is warm, as he requested, and the flavor is so indistinct that he cannot seem to pick out what leaf it belongs to.
Bard is still, holding his mug with both hands and staring into the tea like it will tell him something. “Are you cold?” Thranduil asks.
Bard shakes his head. “No, no, just… a bit shaken up.”
“I can imagine,” Thranduil sighs, all too burdened by similar loss.
They both lift their cups and drink at the same time. When Bard places his down, he asks, “Do you have children, Thranduil?”
Thranduil nods. “You know him. Legolas.”
Bard blinks, but he nods all the same. Thranduil and Legolas have similar mannerisms, and the striking blonde hair is indicative of their shared blood by itself. “Do you know he’s left Dale?” He asks, and there is a note of genuine concern in his voice. “He’s gone away on a horse, through the old north gate.”
“I know,” Thranduil nods, taking a longer drink of tea though it will not stop this conversation on its own. “He is going far west, where Arnor once stood.” Upon Bard’s perplexed stare, Thranduil cedes a bit more context. “I made many errors today. Legolas and Tauriel, they saw my failings where I could not, and so both of them have gone.”
“... what did you do?” Bard asks, almost as surprised by the question as Thranduil. “You don’t have to answer.”
“I was selfish. Loveless, I believe.” Thranduil keeps his tone infallibly neutral, and does not look at Bard but he knows Bard is studying him. “I do not resent them for it - they were right in their assessment of me, prepared as I was to… abandon your people. I hope that they will find greater happiness in independence.” That is the truth - Thranduil would pat himself on the back for the healthiness of his feelings towards the situation, were nobody else present and watching.
Bard nods, doleful and thoughtful. “Have some tea,” he says. Thranduil heeds him. “I can't speak for selfish, but I have my doubts about loveless. I’m sorry.” That is an unexpected sentiment. “You’ve seen more of the world than I have, and more than they have. I’m certain you had your reasons for wanting to leave. I wanted to leave.”
“What made you stay?” Thranduil asks.
Bard gestures to his side, to his children. Only Sigrid notices the indication - perhaps she’s been listening in - and she smiles into her mug. “Same as you.”
Thranduil takes a deep breath through his nose. He smells… tea. They must be brewing it by the gallon. “Your opinion of me is generous, Bard-the-Bowman.”
“I think I’ve earned the right to hold you in high regard, considering all you’ve done for me,” Bard replies, and swiftly reconsiders his phrasing. “My people.”
Thranduil casts his eyes to the side, and watches Bard clutch his mug as though to glean warmth from it yet again. It’s almost… charming, the habit. “I suppose you’re right,” he hums, “but I can’t say I approve.”
“Hey now.” Bard has adopted a light, stern tone, but in it remains the twinkle of mirth he’s had since they entered the tavern. Thranduil waves his hand between them, losing a wrestling match with his smile, and Bard laughs. Democratic elections are uncommon among kingdoms of men, but Thranduil cannot be surprised that Bard was appointed Lord of Dale when he is so effortlessly charismatic.
Thranduil pauses, and subtly sniffs his tea. No alcohol. Most vexing.
Thranduil finishes his tea first, but as soon as he places his mug on the bar, Bard motions for the tender to refill it. “Stay for a bit,” he says. “We could all do with some rest.”
It would simply be rude to decline, so Thranduil stays until he is collected by a lieutenant.
Even after that, his heart stays a little longer.