Their time during those years after the war had ended had been difficult, but Bard couldn't have gotten through it if not for Thranduil. The King of the Woodland Realm had offered him and his three children a home, Bard didn't know if it was because of the copious amounts of pleasurable activities that he and the King got up to or just because he pitied them, but Bard was ever so grateful.
The 'activities' that he and the ElvenKing got up to even surprised Bard himself. It's not like he regret anything- how could he? Thranduil was like this shining beacon of light and beauty. Ever since meeting him in Dale all those years ago, Bard still couldn't believe how lucky he was, he saw a side of the King that no one else ever did- that part was just saved for Bard. Thranduil's beauty speaks for itself: his long, flowing golden silver hair that felt like silk between Bard's calloused fingers, his icy blue eyes that pierced through Bard in their very most intimate moments and even Thranduil's scars were a beauty to behold. Obviously the King thought differently about this; Thranduil was ashamed of his burns which is why he used his magic to cover them as much as possible, but Bard relished in seeing them. He took pleasure in gently running his fingers over them making King Thranduil tremble and shiver with his own bliss and watching them flex or move whenever the King couldn't hold in his ecstasy anymore, savouring silent moans.
Everyone knew about the inseparable chemistry between them, alas no one spoke a word of it. What they had was special and full of sorrow. Together they were akin to a burning flame- their passion burnt bright, their love glimmered and brought warmth, yet their time as one was short. Thranduil was an eternal being, Bard was a simple mortal. Even though it brought heartbreak to think of, Bard had already lived through the peak of his life and now his days were numbered, bleak. He'd grow weaker, older- he'd, within time, perish into nothingness. Yet Thranduil would have to live on, alone, once more. For this reason is why no one bothered the King of the Woodland Realm or his mortal lover.
As the wise King had once stated to another, "A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf." Bard just became a distant memory- the Dragonslayer, people used to call him. Nonetheless a few remaining others would truly remember him as the Bowman. His name became a hushed whisper in the halls of the Mirkwood; dark vines wrapped themselves throughout the realm. King Thranduil glides by silent as a ghost, for that is all his soul has become. An ethereal beauty who suffered too much loss and so, became a former shell of himself. His spirit moved on- instead clutching at soft, calloused hands he once knew and drifting into the depths of purity and pleasure.