"And the bells shall ring in gladness..."
It was just part of the longer prophecy, a prophecy which had foretold the return of the King Beneath the Mountain...and the coming of the dragon. All of it had come true, all of it. Bard had known, deep in his soul, from the very moment he had heard the name 'Thorin' spoken aloud in his dingy home in Laketown. The return of Thror's grandson had set in motion events which had brought inevitable dragon-fire and ruin. That first night of winter had indeed seen the Long Lake shine and burn, along with the entire town which perched nonthreatening upon its waters.
That had not been all though. Where there is sickness, bad things quickly follow. None could have doubted that there was sickness burning bright in the eyes of Thorin Oakenshield when they had seen him at the ruined gates of Erebor. The dwarf king had been dressed in full regalia, the crowd of Durin's house set proudly upon his brow. The words he had spoken and the vows he had broken were not befitting of a king though, and dread had come upon them all when Thorin declared "I will have war!" Nothing had unfolded the way they had expected the return of the King Beneath the Mountain to.
The arrival of Dain of the Iron Hills, Thorin's cousin, had only complicated the matter. None had been certain if or when the army of Iron Hill dwarves would attack the elves and men in support of Oakenshield's greedy claim of all the wealth of Erebor to himself. Then had come the goblins. Drawn like vultures to Smaug's enormous corpse, the creatures of evil had come spilling out of the mountains and from the south, looking for blood and gold. Even the presence of King Thranduil and his elves of the woodland realm at their side had done nothing to give the men of Laketown any hope against such a force.
A miracle had been worked that day though. Whether Thorin Oakenshield had managed to break through the veil of insanity that held him in its spell, or it he had been driven to see reason by those in his company, the King Under the Mountain had emerged from Erebor to join the dwarvish forces with those of Men and Elves. Bard himself suspected that the wizard Gandalf's words had had no small effect either. Together, with the sudden arrival of the giant eagles, the combined armies had met the orcs in battle as one force. What a horrific battle it had been too. All had taken grievous losses. Perhaps the most significant losses of the day though came from the House of Durin itself. Both young nephews of Thorin, golden-haired Fili and dark-haired Kili had fallen in battle, with their uncle following them into death shortly afterwards due to his wounds.
Now, three months later, Dain had been officially installed as King Under the Mountain. As the closest blood relative to Thorin and having fought in the Battle of Five Armies, it was only right. Time had brought with it something else that until now Bard had not even permitted himself to think of; the city of Dale was to be rebuilt, and was in need of a king to lead it. Both by birthright and by popular opinion, there could only ever be one choice for the throne. Bard, descendant of Girion, Lord of Dale, would soon wear a crown of his own.
Looking out the window at the snow-covered town, Bard almost imagined he could see the beginnings of a city of old stirring from the rubble. With Laketown in ruins, the people...his people had taken up residence in Dale and almost immediately set to work restoring it, with help from both the Woodland Realm and Erebor. It had been tent-living at first, but even now some of the buildings had been rendered almost livable. So long as he lived, Bard would never forget the generosity of his new neighbors in helping the people of Laketown through the winter. Dain, although gruff and saltier than most packing preservatives had proven to be honorable, and had made good on Thorin's promise in his stead. Building supplies, stones and tools had come flowing down out of Erebor to help in the rebuilding of Dale, along with dwarvish stonemasons to wield them. From Thranduil, there had been good food and wine sent aplenty, enough to keep all the people's stomachs from grumbling in the cold. It would take years, decades perhaps, but in time Dale would arise from the ashes.
That meant that, for now, being King of Dale was more a title than anything of any real significance. Bard still worked alongside his people every day, and his children did the same. Bain had grown up significantly in the past few months; adversity had a way of forging men from boys and women from girls. Always at his father's side, the tall fifteen-year-old missed nothing, and always had an eye out for those in need of a hand up. People were already referring to Bain as a 'Prince', and that never failed to embarrass the youth. Bard could sympathize; somehow he suspected he would never be comfortable with the idea of being called 'King'. At least Bain would have a lifetime to get used to the idea, and father and son would grow into their new roles as Dale grew into itself as a city yet again.
If Sigrid had acted as a surrogate mother to her family before, now she acted as care-taker to a whole city. Children orphaned by the dragon's attack had without direction been brought to them, and it had fallen to Sigrid to either find a family willing to take them in or to keep them under her wing until further notice. Most days she had an entire gaggle of children following after her, the smaller ones clinging to her skirts and the older ones following her instructions to work here and there. There was a sadness in the young woman's eyes though, a sadness that Bard wished he knew the source of. Sigrid seemed to care nothing for her newfound status as 'princess', and if anything worked hard to avoid mention of it. Time was a great healer, but Bard had a sneaking suspicion that it had taken no time at all for his daughter and Thorin's gold-haired nephew to become friends.
As for Tilda, the youngest of Bard's children, she remained the family's beacon of cheer and hope. Things never seemed to get to the little girl, and even losing everything she knew to Smaug had done little to dampen her spirits. Finding out that her father was to be King of Dale had nearly sent Tilda into a tizzy of excitement, as if her favorite storybooks were coming to life. When not part of the gaggle of children either following or helping Sigrid, Tilda was always doing little things to brighten her family's day. Bard gladly wore the mitts she had knitted for him, embroidered childishly with the insignia of Dale. Bard had no idea where Tilda would have gotten that from...perhaps she had seen it in storybooks, or perhaps even somewhere in the ruins of the city. As the people rebuilt Dale, Tilda rediscovered it and brought its spirit back to life with every laugh she bestowed on the crumbled streets.
A small bird landed on the branch of a tree just outside the window and burst into a gale of chirping. With a smile, Bard remembered the thrush which Bilbo had sent flying down the mountain with news of the dragon's weakness. Funny, how so small a being could have made such a big difference. Bard was only just a single man, a single man with three remarkable children. Maybe, with something so important to work for, he too could make a difference. Reaching for his new mitts, the King of Dale went out into the snow covered streets to meet his people.