"Familiam"
"A good deed is never lost; he who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and he who plants kindness gathers love." – St. Basil
They say that hope springs eternal, but Laketown hadn't seen hope for ages. It hid beyond view, sunken in people's hearts like the ancient city their homes were built upon.
Yet this dreary morning, Bard stood on the dock below his family cottage and untied his errand boat with a lightness in his step, despite the arrival of heavy snowfall sending people miserably indoors for shelter.
"You'll check in on them tonight, then? They have fresh deer meat and dried meadow greens for cooking later. You're welcome to join them for the evening."
"That's most kind of you, Bard, but I don't mind checking on the bairns while you're upcountry. You're a….They're wonderful children."
Bard noticed the young woman's neck turn pinkish where tattered fabric met her skin. His forehead knotted just a bit, and there was a brief but awkward pause before he answered, "Well, I appreciate it, Ingrid, I'll bring you something from the uplands for your troubles."
She waved him off with a smile and had already slipped back into her home across the canal by the time Bard pulled away from the dock. His eyes traced a bit as he navigated the boat through town waters. Maybe she fancied him, but it seemed unlikely. And it didn't matter either way. Too much had happened for Bard to imagine opening that door again. Life in Laketown had pretty much nailed that world shut.
Bard couldn't remember the last time anyone's smile, aside from his children's, truly reached his heart. Actually…he could remember. It was the day before their youngest was born, the day before his wife passed. He'd watched her face from across the table when she jumped slightly and eyes wide said, "Oh!...Bard, it will be soon, this one will be here soon!" And he'd allowed himself a nervous laugh, came to her side, wrapping arms around her from behind and kissing her cheek…She'd turned her head to breathlessly say, "I hope it's a girl."
He'd called for the midwife early, but less than a day's light later his beautiful wife was gone, leaving him in anguish with baby Tilda, this tiny perfect human, so frail and born into a world so harsh and bitter. But she had survived. On many winter nights, with freezing wind lashing through their home's wooden slats, Bard kept the baby next to his skin, his arm curled carefully around her, never sleeping long, waking when she stirred or cried and checking the blankets protectively every hour.
For milk, he traded and bartered where he could, sometimes from kind women with mouths of their own to feed, sometimes from farmers on the outskirts, for animal's milk, which also garnered a steep price.
When he went hunting, Tilda went with him for many months, nestled on his back in a furred frame. Pitying women had offered to take the baby with a grudging sense of commitment that everyone felt in trying times, and Bard took the offers as an offense though he tried not to show it. People meant well. But Tilda was his child, just like Sigrid and Bain. And he would raise them all to be strong like their mother, even if he had to do it alone. Family was everything.
"Where are you off to, Master Bard?"
He tied the boat off at the bank and continued walking, a heavy pack of pelts lashed to his back and a hidden smile on his face that you'd miss if you didn't know him.
"Just a bit of a hunt, Percy, maybe some trading upriver."
"Ahhh, I see..," Percy said with a low chuckle, amused. "Well, best of luck to you for quick and safe travels. The weather has turned!"
Bard nodded and dropped a quick hand on Percy's shoulder as he passed.
Trading with the Woodland realm outside of the Lake Master's networks was illegal in the city, and everyone knew that the Master's idea of the king's share was all the shares for the king. But people liked Bard. He quietly looked after the town in a way the Master never had, like a true leader should, really. He was selfless yet cautious, kind but somehow…not to be meddled with. And people often turned the other way when Bard did things his way.
Many felt it best not to rock the boat, a common metaphor in Laketown. Keep your nose out of trouble and no trouble will come to you as they saying went, a Hobbit's turn of phrase that the people of Laketown readily adopted. But people still loved to see someone else doing what they couldn't or wouldn't.
And pelts were an easy trade with the Mirkwood elves. Not that they didn't know the skill, they were just as adept as Bard in dressing a kill for cooking, but it seemed that some art forms were simply below them in their eyes. The time and energy, and more importantly the artistry, which went into properly tanning a hide…well, that was men's work to elvish sensibilities. But it was something Bard took pride in doing well, as much as any other skill that had helped his family survive harsh winters.
It was a quarter day's walk to the elvenking's hall but a full day farther to Framsburg where he had other things to procure. Things put in order many months ago. Then a quick river run back downstream in a light barge chartered from the Framsburg docks, running quickly downstream via the River Greylin then connecting back to Forest River, which would return him to Laketown.
Bard found that just an hour into his journey his mind began to wander behind eyes that cautiously kept check of the surroundings. Would the children have enough food should he return late? Would they worry? And what was with Ingrid, their neighbor… And why was he still eeking out a living in a dying town built on a dead city.
He knew the answer to that last question. His tether to Laketown ran deep with a taut knot. It was where he was raised, and his father before him; where he met his wife and lost her. But moreso, far older ties kept him there, ties to Girion and a failure that Bard personally bore for a moment that didn't even belong to him. Yet it did….Strange to bear the weight of an ancestor so long gone. Maybe he would cut that tie by fulfilling what Girion couldn't so many ages ago…or maybe that was just an errant thought.
But he had always known things.
Bard didn't need to hear the rumors stirring among the boats, travelling like a sickness brought in by strangers and traders. He already felt them in his heart. Orcs spread like furious ants across the lands, breeding like a dark pestilence. People whispered of prophecies, wizards, dragon's breath rising from the lips of Erebor. Something stirred in the mountain…stirred in more than one mountain… and evil would rise.
The snow fell harder and deepened on the ground before him.
Buried in thought, Bard was surprised how quickly he arrived at the stalwart yet delicately crafted Mirkwood doors, intertwined among the trees. And soaked to the bone with snow he hoped for a hot drink from the hall's doorman before heading westward.
He navigated the intricate weave of trees until he found the river entrance that led to a deeply cavernous great hall. A young elven lad, with nervous eyes and a sense of distaste set on his tight lips, met him at the door within seconds of his knock, and Bard recognized him from many other trade visits. Once, the elf had even shared his name.
"Oh yes….Bard….My lord is expecting you."
"I doubt that, Edra," Bard answered quickly and flatly. "I'm just here to trade some pelts but for a different barter. Ingots if I can."
"Yes, quite," he said hurriedly. "Well, follow me then."
They had a brief standoff, as Bard stood stubbornly at the open door until Edra opened it wider, raising his eyebrows. Bard let his head fall forward just a bit. He didn't know what was going on, but he had a schedule to keep.
But he followed Edra through the heavy entrance, one last ray of light narrowing until it disappeared with the door's boom behind them. They seemed to walk forever and Bard found himself getting lost in the labyrinth of vaulted passages rising like a curved honeycomb among the trees, ornate and elegant. He didn't like the complexity…and the quiet.
"Not one for small talk, are you, Ed."
Not surprisingly, the elf didn't answer or even acknowledge the words. Bard allowed himself a small grin, but walked with feigned ease, head low and memorizing the path, looking for routes of exit should he need to escape. There was no reason for Thrandruil to see him, no reason he'd expect his arrival. He was simply another man of Laketown who traded furtively with Mirkwood on the side when it suited his needs or the needs of others.
And just when he thought they couldn't travel upward any farther, they came to an elevated platform flanked by stone stairs that seemed to float effortlessly despite great weight. The platform was markedly empty but for lithe figure ensconced in an elegant yet simple throne.
"Lord Thrandruil," Bard said, not tilting his head in acknowledgement. His words echoed in the surrounding darkness and he knew most people would kneel, but…well, Bard had never bowed to anyone and today wouldn't mark a first. He watched Thrandruil wait for some sign of acquiescence and when it didn't happen, the king searched the ceiling with a longsuffering look, his lips pursing and one long finger tapping on the thrown arm before he looked at Bard again.
"You are Bard from Esgaroth. A bowman, I also gather from my knowledge." Thrandruil's voice dripped with a disdain that Bard immediately bristled at, but he allowed himself a small nod.
"I've traded here many times before but usually have my dealings at the barge dock. So what do I owe being pulled up here for on such a fine winter's day?"
Thrandruil visibly winced. He wasn't sure whether the lighthearted response called for irritation or admiration.
"Nothing more than a quick interchange, I like to know who roams my lands….Were you born and raised in….Laketown, as men prefer to call it these days?"
"Aye, though my ancestors were from Dale."
"Dale!" When Thrandruil laughed, Bard's eyes went dark. "Yes, yes, the descendants of Dale."
The room went silent when Bard offered no response; and from his throne Thrandruil watched him, saw the wariness in Bard's eyes. And also something that spoke of misery. Around the bowman, a ring of dripping slush had started to form.
"You're quite wet."
"It's snowing out."
"Are you cold, Bard the bowman?"
"We all know how to deal with a little snow," Bard said evenly; but he found it unsettling that the cavernous room suddenly got blessedly warmer for no apparent reason. Thrandruil watched Bard, could see in his face that he noticed the difference. And he took a moment to appreciate that. It titillated him.
"One moon ago, you were seen on the northern outskirts of Rhovanion. Two of my idiotic children tell me they saw you."
"Yes, and I saw them."
"Only saw them?"
"I almost saw them get killed by a wild herd of warg," answered Bard, not interested in playing games.
Thandruil's eyes closed in exhaustion.
"Yes…. They are not the brightest of my progeny, I must confess to no strong feelings towards them on many days…Actually, most days, until the day that I almost lost them. They informed me that you saved them from certain doom. Perhaps you should have let them meet it, but all need time to grow into what they will truly be, I imagine. Though I tend to believe that we are born into greatness…or not."
Thranduil darted from his throne in one lithe movement that Bard didn't expect; and in a few glides he stood in front of him, a little too close for comfort in Bard's opinion. And he cleared his throat, taking a slight step back. Thrandruil was taller by a head, something Bard wasn't used to, really, being fairly tall himself. But he kept his eyes on the king and his thoughts closed, knowing the ways of the higher elves.
Thrandruil studied him carefully, unabashedly - the colors in his eyes, the set of his jaw. His gaze traced downwards slowly to Bard's boots then back again. When Bard licked the corner of his lip, Thrandruil's eyes caught the action and lingered.
"Edra has a pack for you, in addition to the barter you requested….And that barter exchange….Ingots. What are they for exactly?"
"Gifts for my children. I placed orders in Framsburg, a day's travel farther west."
"Yesss," Thrandruil practically hissed. "The world of men has a holiday two days hence, called the Winter Solstice."
"That's right," Bard said, meeting his eyes again.
"But goods only for your children," Thrandruil sneered. "And what about your….what do you people call them…your wife?"
"My wife is dead," Bard said quickly, his jaw set with a hard defense that surprised Thrandruil. He studied the bowman a few more tense moments before his face softened.
"So is mine….Bard the bowman. Descendent of Dale."
Bard didn't know why but his shoulders relaxed and he allowed himself an audible exhale. But he was starting to feel impatient.
"I have a day's journey west to get back to my family before the holiday. I've brought you three very large pelts."
Thrandruil ignored Bard's sense of rush, hand trailing down the bowman's worn damp coat lapel, feeling the rough leather between his thumb and forefinger. So many rips and tears, mended over and over again. Still dependable and warm but ragged, practically in tatters along the knees. It spoke of a hard existence.
"Three pelts…. I believe, incidentally…pelts from three of the wargs who attacked my sons."
Bard's brow knotted deeply at the knowledge.
"I'm not sure why or how you would know that."
"It was important for you to deliver them to me. You could have brought me others sooner, but you brought me those."
"I'm here to trade, like I have many other times."
"By delivering the skins of evil that sought to harm my children, so you could buy something for your children…. I think that was important to you….I've been watching you."
"People are always watching me."
"Maybe because they think there's something different about you. In a town where blending in is survival, you stand out. And people find that dangerous. Men are weak. And stupid…I find you to be neither."
Bard didn't appreciate the backhanded compliment.
"I'm a ruler, bowman, I deal in practicalities and repercussions. Recourse and business. And I can tell you it's been a very long time since someone has done anything on my behalf without expecting anything in return."
"I didn't know they were your children at the time. I saved them because it was the right thing to do."
"…And that is why you stand out…..," Thrandruil said, looking at Bard, but almost saying the words to himself.
He took his hand from the coat's tattered edge, raised it to Bard's cheek then continued, threading into his hair, running it slowly down the back of his head, and Bard was surprised to find that he didn't pull away. It was a light yet lingering caress before the hand dropped again, but Bard felt his heart pound harder for just a second, felt heat rise along the back of his neck. It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him that way.
He didn't pull his eyes from Thrandruil's though, even as he sensed the elven chest rise and fall, lips parting. Whatever was happening, he wasn't ready for Ingrid's pink neck let alone…whatever this was.
He swallowed hard before saying, "I don't think you brought me here to say thank you and I didn't come to be thanked. So if we don't have any further dealings today…"
Thrandruil studied Bard, once again as if he didn't hear the words, and then with an odd look, like he knew a secret that he couldn't share, said, "Bowman, the next time you come, maybe a bath would be in order. You have plenty of water in Laketown and I'm assuming humans know how to make fire to warm it. Avoid the high road to Framsburg in the future, orcs continue to permeate our lands with no sense of boundary. They're a reckless hoard…"
Thrandruil looked as if he wanted to say something else but suddenly barked, "Edra!"
Bard knew the nervous elf had never left but he quickly appeared at Thrandruil's side. And he didn't look embarrassed…or surprised, about the encounter he just witnessed. When Bard reached the edge of the stairs he stopped and turned to find Thrandruil still standing, watching him leave; and for once, he wasn't sure what to say.
"Well…it's been interesting talking with you this evening, Lord Thrandruil. Perhaps we'll meet again."
Thrandruil laughed but it was different from the marked disdain of earlier. Something of amusement, almost fondness, lurked within it.
"Oh, I'm sure of it….bowman."
When the king allowed himself a rare smile, Bard felt something that he hadn't felt in a very long time. It hit him like a joyous memory hidden, like finding something he'd lost ages ago, and he found that….disquieting.
Outside, an elvish light barge sat tied for his return to Laketown and Edra handed him a large neatly packed knapsack, woven from a shimmering opaque green similar to the color of the trees around him, even in winter. Then the elf hurried back in to escape the cold, door booming closed behind him.
Inside were the presents he'd planned to travel farther west to pay for – a new doll for Tilda, carved and painted beautifully and wearing a delicate blue dress. A meticulously hand-written primer of Middle Earth languages for his eldest daughter Sigrid, who dreamed of travel and adventure. And heavy, well-made boots for Bain, who'd outgrown his last pair before they'd even required a first mending. There were also weapons – small, finely made daggers that the children could carry with them, presents the children might be surprised at but coming from a cautious father who knew different times were coming.
And the ingots he'd anticipated in trade but also food, delicacies that he'd heard of but never really tasted. But at the bottom of the sack, a coat. A deeply-oiled coat not much different from the one he wore, but heavily lined and warm, unmended and pristine. It was simple yet impeccably made, thick and double sewn. Thrandruil knew that Bard would pack the coat away and wouldn't wear it. That wasn't the point.
Finally, wrapped within the coat Bard found a beautiful elven sword of Noldorian steel. Short enough to easily carry in battle for a man who favored the bow, but quick in the hand. Bard turned it around his wrist nimbly several times, held it tightly in front of him, appreciating the craftsmanship, before running it through his belt.
The snow had stopped, leaving a quiet crystal world of soft ice and the sound of it melting. The sun had begun to shine again, dangling lower on the horizon, and he took a deep breath, wondering what had just happened, fought something that he started to feel. He held the small scroll of pressed paper that Edra had handed him with the knapsack, fingered it carefully before opening it to read:
Bard. Learn to accept good things when you have them coming, even when you didn't ask. Perhaps one day, I will do the same. You are welcome, any time, in the Woodland realm. And happy Winter Solstice….
This was written for luuuuuke_evans' Secret Santa gift exchange on Tumblr, but it was a little long to post over there.
Happy holidays, TheMirkyKing, I hope you like it!
And for anyone else reading, happy holidays to you, as well. :) I haven't written fanfiction in a very long time but might write more in the future if people enjoy this one.
Cheers,
rane