Work Text:
The Elvenking's rooms had become familiar to Bard, in the time that followed the great Battle and the demise of Smaug; he had often been received there, with such courtesy as any king could desire, during his lamentably infrequent visits to Thranduil's halls.
On this occasion he entered quietly, face thoughtful, and greeted the Elvenking carefully in his own tongue. The steward who had escorted him to its door was already leaving before the syllables had scarcely left his lips; by this time the route was well known to him, and it was courtesy only that led them to send an aide with him to his destination.
"Le suilon, Thranduil," said Bard, bowing. "Thiol vae." His speech, he prided himself, had grown less clumsy over time, even if the words would never trip lightly from his tongue as they did in the bell-like voices of the elves.
The Elvenking, who had been sitting at his writing-table with a series of herbs strewn out before him, looked up with pleased surprise.
"Mae govannen," he cried, pushing aside sketches and inks and rising to greet him in turn. "Bard, aran Tumedain, dagnir an Smaug — you have been practicing! You speak well."
"I have an excellent teacher," said Bard, the solemnity of his expression lightening at the Elvenking's welcome. "Tauriel is quite solicitous, in her so-called exile; as the children have surpassed the need for her tutoring, she has turned her attentions to me. Language — and history as well. Of late we have spoken much on the War of Wrath, and the destruction of Beleriand."
"Ai!" said Thranduil lightly, with a quirk of his noble brow. "That is heavy talk indeed, my friend." As he spoke he crossed to the side table where pitcher and goblets awaited and began to pour the wine with nimble fingers. "I cannot but think that you would have had enough of such things to last you a lifetime. Homes lost to dragons," his fingers clutched more tightly at the stem of the goblet, then released. "And so on."
"Aye," said Bard, accepting the proffered vessel in grateful hands. As Thranduil took a seat he did as well, and raised his goblet to his host. "Perhaps so," he admitted, settling into his seat. "For those of us raised on the lake are taught early to fear the peril of drowning, and the idea of a land now swallowed by the sea is an unsettling thought. But our talk has not been only of doom and destruction; many heroic tales has she told as well: stories that I would have thought only folk-tales, had I never encountered those of you whose very existence seems like something out of mankind's dreams."
"Even to Tauriel," said the Elvenking dryly, sipping his wine, "many great tales are merely that— she is very young, by our measure, though she well outpaces you in years; what is storied history to her is memory to many of us."
Bard shook his head wonderingly. "So you say, and yet my mind can scarcely countenance it," he said. "But perhaps you can tell me, then—" he lapsed into silence for a moment, twisting his fingers together around the stem of his goblet, and then took a great draught of it as if for courage. "She told me of Beren," he said at last, "and of Lúthien who loved him; but there was another in their tale that I wished to know more of."
Thranduil inclined his head wordlessly, inviting the inquiry, though his expression remained placid as always.
"He who was— is," Bard corrected himself, "— the golden brother to the Lady Galadriel, who I understand to be wed to your kinsman, and who rules in her own realm across the great river."
The Elvenking huffed a sound that was not quite a sigh and drained the last of his own drink.
"Finrod," he said, studying the empty vessel as if it held some great wisdom.
"Aye," said Bard. "And his companion, the man Balan — known as Bëor the Old; for it is a tale of differing report, or so I gather, and I would like to know the truth of it. Did you know him?" His grey eyes were steady on the Elvenking's face.
"I met him," said Thranduil, and rose abruptly, as if spurred by some sudden need for action. He paced toward the table, busying himself with the wine. "That is, not Bëor, but Finrod — our paths crossed several times in Doriath, in the first age. As for the truth—" his hands moved restlessly among the items on the table, though seemingly to little purpose.
"Such matters," he said at last, "are clear in the faces of my kind, and cannot be denied once seen. They were wed."
Bard let out a breath. "What was he like?" he asked softly, watching the graceful hands flutter like nervous white doves from goblet to ewer.
Thranduil's movements stilled at last, his shoulders dropping as if in surrender.
"Like none else I have known," he said. He glanced up at Bard then, and smiled just a little. "You are thinking that he and I might be similar," he suggested.
"Perhaps," Bard admitted, smiling crookedly in return. "I have not met many great elf-Lords, but ye sound much alike: ancient and fair— and," he added with a mischievous glint, "choosing to hide away in great burrows beneath the earth as if ye were dwarves."
The Elvenking mocked affront at this, his smile softening to a wry twist of the mouth.
"Delving aside," he said, "we are not so like as you think. Fair, you say— of hair, aye, but that is not so unusual amongst our peoples. Nay, to compare us would be to liken sun and moon. Fierce and warm and terrible in brightness— the lady his sister is said to be the fairest to dwell this side of the sea, with the light of the two trees caught in her silver-gold hair; but her brother was hardly less in beauty."
"And he wed his vassal," said Bard quietly, "who died— but he did not."
"Did he not?" said Thranduil, and tossed his proud head, giving Bard a challenging look. "For it was for love of Balan that he kept watch over his heirs, and I think he would not have plighted his oath of gratitude to Barahir were it not for that bond. It was for the love of men that he died in Sauron's keep."
"Aye," said Bard, "For the love of men— but not from it."
He sat quietly for some time, lost in thought.
The Elvenking crossed the room to the great window that overlooked the gardens and flung open the sash, leaning to look out with his hands folded pale against the dark stone of the sill.
"I cannot help but wonder," he said, not looking at Bard, "why you sought these particular tales."
"Can you not?" asked Bard softly, his voice gentle. "I sought to know them that I might understand what it was I would ask of thee."
The Elvenking's shoulders twitched minutely, but he did not protest the familiar address. He stood tall and pale as a winter-blanched tree against the dark square of the window, his hands flexing at the stone like a man drowning.
Bard rose, setting down his empty goblet. Stopping at the king's writing-table he looked down at the sketches strewn across the surface, running his finger down the inked curl of a leaf.
"I would never dare presume," he said, voice low, "but it is not only the bird-speech of which my blood grants me understanding. Wise were the ancient lords of Dale, and while I make no claim to their measure of wisdom there are some things revealed to me which might otherwise be hidden." He rubbed his thumb over a stray petal and glanced over towards the white shape like a statue in the window.
"Though it seems an unlikeliness beyond hope," he said, "still have I sensed thy heart turning toward me."
"And your heart? asked Thranduil, still looking away.
In a handful of strides Bard had crossed the room towards him, standing at his arm with eyes blazing.
"Beautiful the sun may be," he said. "But long have I loved the moon, whose light foolish men may deem cold; I have seen the strength in the tides and the hope brought by silver light shining in the darkness."
Finally Thranduil turned to look at him, and leaned his weight on the window-sill.
"Let it never be said that you lack courage, Dragonslayer," he said softly. "Your boldness would put many of my kind to shame. Yet—" he lapsed into silence, casting his eyes down as if in thought.
"If thou hesitate for care of my feelings, thou needn't," said Bard, pulling back his hand from where he had begun to reach involuntarily for the sleeve of the Elvenking's robe. "For I am no child who can fail to see in full the distance between us. Thou art elf, immortal and wise beyond my ken, and I am man; I do not pretend otherwise. If thou wouldst not stoop to me, let it be said clearly: still would I pledge myself to thee in whatever way thou allow, and like Bëor be known as thy vassal for all the ages hence."
"Indeed, we are different," said Thranduil. "And elf and man cannot be compared; though I think you underestimate the beauty of men, that burn bright and fast like a beckoning flame! But I wonder: is it your heart that is turned, or your head? I will not deny that I have seen wonder in the eyes of men, to look upon me — and yet there are many others of my kind who are comely indeed, who might yet deign to look upon men in return, and who are far less damaged. I am no Finrod." As if to show his meaning his face flickered for a moment, the ghost of old scars flashing across the expanse of his cheek from jaw to forehead.
"Damaged!" cried Bard, and his eyes flashed as if in anger. "Dost thou say, then, that the mountain thy home is damaged, for taking a different shape across centuries; or that a gemstone is damaged by the mark of the chisel, which brings its facets to light?"
At the passion of his outburst a look almost like a smile passed over the Elvenking's face, quick and sorrowful like the shadow of a cloud over the moon.
"A heavy hand it must have been, to have wielded such a chisel," he murmured, and held up his own left hand, studying it; his fingers spasmed with remembered pain.
"Aye," said Bard, "and I would have spared thee its strike if I could; but not for the sake of thy beauty. Dost thou truly think me so faithless, that I could be turned with equal fervor to another by virtue of wholeness alone?" He caught up the pale hand and kissed it, clutching it fiercely to him.
"I have been lost to thee," he said, "since the moment thy company parted and let me glimpse thee atop thy steed, riding in full majesty to save my people like a messenger of the heavens; I have made my place beside thee in palaver and in battle, and would not be parted from thee unless at thy bidding. Again I will entreat thee: if thou cannot love me, then say so: but do not try to dissuade me of my love for thee."
Thranduil, watching his own hand where Bard's pressed it to his chest, sighed deeply.
"It would be easier if I could not," he admitted. "You and I have both seen our homes destroyed, the mothers of our children taken from us; but in the end it is you who will go on beyond this world, and I who will remain. Already in friendship I have grown fond of your children, and of you living within them; and so will I lose them too, and be left to mourn them, and that of them which I love in their children's children. It is a heavy burden you ask of me."
His fingers squeezed Bard's lightly; he turned his face to the side for a moment, looking out across the twilight-blanketed gardens beyond the window. "To love you," he said softly, "will wound me; perhaps more deeply even than dragon-fire."
"Mayhap," said Bard, just as soft. "But then: I do not take thee for a coward."
He reached coaxingly for the Elvenking's other hand, drawing him gently forward until they faced each other quite close.
"In a thousand years," he said, "these lands may be lost to the sea, and the last blood of my house along with it. I will not deny it."
He thought of Käthe, how losing her had felt like something being torn from him; that, too, had been a drowning of sorts, the illness which took her filling her lungs with water so that she struggled for her final breaths. He had hurt so badly he thought he would die from it; but he had not.
"Beleriand is gone," he said, tipping his head back to look up into bright quicksilver eyes. "And so will I be; soon, by thy reckoning. But this will never be undone, not by flood nor dragon-fire: that I loved thee, my king, with every beat left of my fragile mortal heart."
A fortress, walls shattered, stones crumbling into the crashing waves which advanced across the splintered land in an unending torrent; the doors swelling against the onslaught like a swimmer closing lungs against the ice-cold water of the lake.
Thranduil let out a long, deep breath, like something being released, and raised one of Bard's hands to press the back of it against his cheek.
"And I thee," he said, voice deep as the sea. "Dearest friend and ally, slayer of dragons, reluctant king; give me all thy gifts, then, the bitter with the sweet. After all," he paused, kissing the tips of Bard's fingers, and smiled in sweet resignation. "What is one more wound?"
Hinges buckling under the inexorable weight of water, cracks forming in the stone; the swimmer's strokes slowing, then ceasing. The moment of surrender, like a single breath suspended in time: nothing in that one crystalline moment but the sensation of absolute relief, bursting pressure giving way and lungs opening to water.
For some time they stood clutched together so closely that their hearts beat nearly as one, breath mingling in the press of their mouths and tears mingling on their cheeks. At last Thranduil pulled back, sighing and laughing at once, and knuckled a wanton tear away from the rise of Bard's cheekbone.
"If thou wouldst wed me, Dragonslayer, then wed me," he said, wicked and eldritch and beautiful all at once. "Or did all thy tales not teach thee the ways of the elves?"
"They did," said Bard, flushing, but he kissed Thranduil again, and drew him to the bed; and then for a time they spoke no more.
The pain would come, inevitable as the sea swallowing the land; but not yet. First there would be only this: the ecstatic blossoming of the doors, like a flower springing into rapturous bloom, like a heart opening— opening— water filling passages and bronchioles and aortae with salt like the salt of tears, of life-blood.