Of the First Meeting of the Bowman and the Elvenking
Author's Notes:
This story is written from Bard's POV in an attempted release of my own frustrations with and love for Thranduil/Lee Pace. Honestly he is KILLING ME.
This was written before the release of The Hobbit: DoS, so who knows if any of this will still make sense once the movie comes out.
The style of this story is meant to be reminiscent of The Silmarillion, which I am currently in the middle of.
Also published on AO3. Enjoy!
Young Bard's story began as any other: with a longing for adventure.
The small settlement of Lake-town enjoyed long and prosperous days of trade between the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the Elves of the neighboring woodland realm, Mirkwood.
It was the latter peoples that fascinated Bard the most, or more specifically the majestic and elusive Elvenking.
Bard often begged his father to tell him tales of the Sindar elf, and his father had obliged, recounting what precious little he knew of the ancient golden-haired Elf.
While the auburn-haired Silvan Elves were no strangers to Lake-town, their leader was merely more than a myth, having been seen by so very few.
It was likely that the Elvenking had little interest in Men, spending his time protecting what he could of his realm from Sauron's evil influence, fortifying his grand Halls deep within the forest.
Bard longed to gaze upon the heart of the forest with his own eyes, to see the great stone Halls with the King upon his throne.
But Mirkwood had long been infested with creatures of the dark, the trading route the only viable passage. It, however, did not lead into the depths of the forest where the Elvenking dwelt.
Bard, heart set with a longing for discovery that would not be quenched, resolved to find another way.
One night, after darkness fell and the lights of Lake-town dimmed, Bard set out on his quest with naught but bow and quiver at his back. He made silent passage through a secret path past the city gates, and set foot with joy and trepidation toward the looming Mirkwood forest.
Not a sound but his own footsteps could be heart that starlit night, and as he passed through the first trees tall and dark, his own ears detected the quickened beating of his heart.
He stepped slowly through increasingly thick bush, the trees ever so slowly closing in with each further step the Man took. Soon the stars above were concealed completely, the faint glow of Elvish magic that was once so bountiful in the cursed forest air a dim and only light.
Bard's passage was soon becoming nigh impossible, thick broken branches forcing him to climb over, under, and around, until the darkness and the unforgiving nature shattered in him all sense of direction.
With a sinking heart, the Man could deny no longer that he was hopelessly lost. Looking about, he began to see eyes peering at him through the darkness, red and full of malice. Despairing, he wondered if this were to be his young life's fate, to perish at the hands of Sauron's evil in the forest of nightmares.
With a start he saw another set of eyes, a dozen gleaming orbs on a single creature's head. Fear flooded his body as he recognized the form of a giant spider. With swift yet shaking hands he nocked an arrow to his bow, tensing as he waiting to draw.
After a pause the foul spider began a swift advance upon him, and the Bowman fired his arrow into its mass. It struck one of the creature's legs but did not stay it, and Bard nocked another arrow even when he knew it was of little use.
Just when all hope seemed lost and the spider was nearly upon him, a sudden slew of arrows flew through the night air. The spider was pierced several times through its eyes and crumbled to the ground, the red orbs peppered through the forest slinking back from whence they came.
Bard whirled around, turning in every which direction to get a glimpse of the source of his salvation. All was still, however, the tumult dying as quickly as it began, seemingly leaving him alone again in the night.
And the last thing Bard remembered was warily shouldering his bow, followed by a swift knock to his head as darkness consumed him.
Bard woke slowly, like out of a deep yet restless sleep. As he opened his eyes, he could see shining stars in the heavens above. Disoriented, he slowly rose from where he lay in the cool earth and glanced about, seeing that he had been deposited in a small clearing of trees that were much less foreboding than the ones he encountered prior.
Truth be told this section of the forest was breathtaking, and if the Man's eyes were keener he would have perceived an outline of the King's Halls just beyond the trees.
At once the sharp edge of a cold blade touched his neck, Bard freezing where he stood.
"You dare trespass in my Kingdom," a voice said from behind, clear and reverberating all around the Man, and he was made lightheaded by the sound.
Slowly, Bard turned around. And when his eyes looked upon the great Elvenking, he was lost.
With blade still sharp upon his neck, Bard sank to his knees in reverence before Thranduil, tall and mighty, more beautiful than any being he had ever seen, ethereal and old, and to his mortal eyes it seemed as if he beheld one of the Valar themselves.
"O King Thranduil, the Magnificent," the Bowman said, voice a mere whisper.
"Tell me," Thranduil commanded, shifting the blade to sit beneath the intruder's chin. "Why should I let you live?"
Bard could not turn his face away from the glowing figure looming above him, could not bring himself to feel fear despite so close to danger. As he gazed upon golden hair and eyes of twilight blue, he answered:
"Mighty King, it has been my one desire, to look upon your beauty with my own eyes. I... do not wish to die. But I will accept any fate you bestow upon me, Elvenking, with gladness in my heart."
Bard's words seemed to give the King pause, though his expression he could not read. He thought these were perhaps his last moments to drink in the vision before him, and so he did.
After a time Thranduil lowered his blade and commanded the Man to stand. Even as Bard did so, his gaze remained tilted upwards to meet the Elf's eyes, as he was larger in stature than any Man he knew.
Thranduil smiled, truly a vision of one from the Undying Lands, yet there was mischief in the eyes and danger yet in his countenance.
"I am feeling generous," Thranduil said, voice enchanting, musical like crystal bells. "I will not harm you for your deeds tonight."
"Thank you, Elvenking," Bard said, and would have fallen again to his knees if not for a cool hand wrapped around his forearm, steading him.
"Heed my warning, son of Girion, heir of Dale. Do not again come to my Kingdom unbidden. Luck will not be on your side."
"Yes," Bard answered with a breath, enchanted. Thranduil seemed pleased.
"Drink this." The Elf presented a goblet of clear water, and Bard parted his lips without contest to accept the cool liquid into his throat.
With one swallow his vision once more began to darken, and the last memory burned into his mind's eye was of the Elven face, terrible yet kind, a nightmare yet a dream.
Bard next awoke before the gates of Lake-town in the dawn of a new day.
His heart weighed heavy with the loss of the Elvenking, and he was doomed to never love another as long as he walked the Earth.
Years later he would take a wife to bear his heirs, as was the custom of his people. But his love would remain in Mirkwood, unrequited, unthinkable, and impossible.