12

Chapter Three

City of Dale, 24th of November, 2941 T.A.

Daylight bathed the walls of the tent in a golden glow, as a bleary-eyed Bard sat up, rubbed his face, and took a look around their temporary home. To his left, the blankets and pillows of the other three cots, plus the loosely-folded sleeping clothes indicated the children had been and gone.

With limbs still heavy from sleep, Bard rolled out of bed, staggered to the entrance of the tent, and was startled by the pair of tall, Auburn-haired Elf guards, who opened the flap for him.

"Good morning, Lord Bard." The one on the right saluted him with a pleasant smile.

"Uh…Good morning. Have you seen my children?"

"Yes, My Lord. Captain Tauriel took them to break their fast, and they are currently on an outing," the Elf's nose wrinkled slightly, "with one of her Dwarven friends."

"Where?"

"To a nearby copse of trees. Please do not worry, My Lord; they are perfectly safe. Tauriel is a capable warrior, and two other guards accompanied the party to scout the area."

"But… Wh…" He scratched his head and blinked up at the sky. "What time is it?"

"It is three hours' past sunrise, My Lord."

"It's what? Why did you let me sleep so late?"

Unruffled, the Guard explained in a patient tone, "Because you needed to rest, My Lord. King Thranduil ordered that your sleep not be disturbed."

"Well, can you at least tell me if there's any breakfast left?"

"Certainly, my Lord. I will have it brought to you right away.

"No, that's not necessary. I'll go scrounge up something or other—"

"King Thranduil has ordered you be served a substantial breakfast: hot porridge with fruit, and tea, if you wish." The Guard's eyes glinted in amusement. "And should you object, I am to insist upon it, My Lord."

"But…I…"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Please don't call me that!" He was crabby from sleep, not at all ready to deal with this. "My name is Bard. Just call me Bard."

"I cannot do that, My Lord."

Bard's shoulders slumped in resignation. "Fine. I'll take breakfast here. And, yes, tea would be good."

"As you wish, My Lord, we will bring it right away."

"Well, I don't wish, but apparently I have no choice in the matter," he snapped, as he turned to re-enter. His hand lifted to get the flap, but the other guard beat him to it, lips tucked in to hide a smile.

Bard cursed under his breath, and stomped inside.

Despite his annoyance, Bard found the meal pleasant; the food was good, the tea was just right, and the quiet helped him wake up and get ready for what was undoubtedly going to be a hectic day. After washing and changing into day clothes, he put on his boots and coat.

The Bowman slowly tip-toed toward the entrance, this time holding his breath and his fingers just about touched the tent flap—

When graceful, swift fingers beat him to it.

Bard growled, ignoring their grins of triumph.

His first stop was the center of the refugee camp. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of metal. One of the Guards was following him. The annoying one.

"Stop that." He called over his shoulder.

"I cannot, My Lord; I am under orders to accompany you wherever you go."

Bard turned around in his tracks. "Why?"

"To ensure your safety, My Lord."

"What happened to your side-kick?"

"He is guarding your tent, My Lord."

One of his eyes twitched, and he opened his mouth to say something unpleasant, when someone called his name.

"Hey, Bard!" Percy trotted over to him. "'Bout time you got up!"

"I'm sorry; someone didn't wake me up."

"I was just teasing. We're all sluggish and sore, and a few extra hours rest will do them good." The Elves passed out stuff to help with aches and pains, and…" A quizzical brow arched above Percy's left eye. "I see we have an entourage?"

"Don't ask." Bard rolled his eyes skyward.

"So… Am I standing in the presence of greatness, now?" Percy said, with a flourish. "Should I bow? Kiss your feet, perhaps?"

Behind him, there was a snort, covered by a cough.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let everybody sleep, Pers, but I need them up and fed by noon; there's some gruesome work to do, and it's not right to leave it for the Elves to take care of."

Percy's smile disappeared, and thinned into a grim line. "I know, lad. We've already started the lists for the dead and missing. I've also found a place to put them, and we're going to start the digging today. So many…"

"I know, Percy," his voice was thick, as he clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry to put this on you; I really am."

"I know, but we'll do right by them, lad."

"Can't ask for more." Bard cleared his throat. "Where's your wife this morning?"

"Last I saw, she was helping the Elves in the big Food Tent."

"Good. I need to speak to her, but I'll probably be at Lord Thranduil's all day, so if you need me, look for me there."

"Will do." With a nod, his friend was off to get started.

He found Hilda over a tub of soapy water, in the Food Tent, washing a stack of dirty plates, as Enid and Catrina wiped and stacked them.

"Morning," he called over. "In the thick of things, already?"

"Aye, well," she smiled up at Bard. "You know me."

"Could you spare a few minutes? I've got a couple things to ask you."

"Sure." Hilda wiped off her hands, asked Catrina to take her place, and followed him away from the bustle.

"Have you seen the children this morning? I was asleep when they came to bed, and they were gone when I woke up. The guard," he pointed to his shadow standing a few feet away, "told me Tauriel took them away from the camp."

"It was my idea, love. When she brought them here earlier, I asked her to get them away from this mess and take them for a walk or a picnic or something. One of the Dwarves showed up – the one with the hat? Sigrid and Bain seemed glad to see him, and asked him to tag along.

""Aye, that's Bofur. Sigrid told me about him when the Orcs attacked my house that night. He fainted, and she doused him with a bucket of water to wake him up."

"'Laketown medicine,'" a smile crinkled her mouth. "Anyhow, I sent them with a good lunch basket, and that should keep them busy today."

Bard lowered his voice. "How was Tilda?"

"Not a peep out of her, poor mite," Hilda's forehead creased with concern. "Tauriel sat her in her lap, and made sure she ate breakfast."

"Well, that's something." He sighed. "What are we going to do about her, Hil?"

"Keep trying; it's all we can do," she rubbed his upper arm. "Maybe this day trip will do her some good, yeah?"

"It'll do them all some good, Tauriel, too." Bard shook his head. "I can't believe I slept in so late."

"You needed it." She waved her hand dismissively. "The thing is, Tilda's not the only one suffering from shock. We've got to get all these kids away from this mess, not just ours, don't you think?"

"'Great minds,'" he agreed. "I was planning to ask Lord Thranduil to set something up away from the cleanup during the day, then come back in the evenings to be with their families."

"I like it. We'll get all the kids together, and the bigger ones can help with the younger ones, and some of the older folks could help too; it'd make them feel useful. I'll ask Bronwyn to get some sort of program put together."

"Great. As soon as I get the word, I'll let you know." Bard scratched his forehead, and broached another subject. "Hil, I'll be in meetings all the time, now - there's no avoiding it. Percy's in charge of the men and the cleanup, but I need someone with a sharp eye in charge of the women and children and the shelters here. Would you be in charge of the running of the Camp? Make sure everybody has a job to do and is doing it, and report back to me, yeah?"

"Course I will." She gave a half shrug. "I've been doing that already. This just makes it official."

His shoulders relaxed a bit. "Between the three of us, we might keep ahead of things. I'll tell them to look to you."

"I'll do it; most folks already come to me anyhow. Now, get you gone to the Elf King; I've got work to do." With a smile, Hilda turned to walk away, but she stopped suddenly and gave Bard a long, hard hug. "We all of us wouldn't be here if it weren't for you." She held him tighter. "I'm so proud of you, love."

He closed his eyes and enjoyed her soft strength. "Thanks; I really needed that."

Hilda sniffed a bit, patted him on the cheek, and returned to the Food Tent, while Bard traveled through the ruins to meet with Thranduil.

With that irritating guard following him.

"Lord Thranduil, I don't see why the children and I need guards!"

"Good morning, Bard," The Elvenking greeted him pleasantly. "Did you not sleep well?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. But you haven't answered my question."

"I do not believe you asked a question. Therefore, I am puzzled as to why you require an answer." A thick, dark eyebrow rose on the blonde King's face.

Bard's eyes narrowed. "Fine; My Lord, why do the children and I need guards?"

"First of all, please sit down," Thranduil indicated the chair at the large, round table. "Would you like something to drink? Water? Wine? I have juice as well, or perhaps some tea?"

Bard sat. "It's a bit early, but something tells me I'll need the wine."

The King poured some into a silver goblet, and set it in front of him.

"Thank you, My Lord."

"Next, let us dispense with titles, shall we? Since our stations are equal, there is no need for deference to each other. Call me Thranduil, please."

"We are not 'equals!'" Bard's foot bounced with agitation. "A month ago, I a Bargeman, an employee of yours, who delivered your wine, and smuggled supplies every now and then. I've spent weeks preparing for a war that was never supposed to happen in the first place, and now I've got this title pushed on me, and your guards who are using it every chance they get!

"Speaking of which, please answer my question. Why do you insist on assigning guards to the children and me?" Bard took a sip of the wine, and winced slightly. Dorwinian was strong stuff, so he'd be wise to go slow.

Or not.

"Bard," Thranduil's smile dropped as he took a seat opposite him. "I am afraid you are no longer just a Bargeman or Bowman: you will never be 'just' anything, again. You require guards, because your life is far too important, not only to your children, but to all of Dale. Beyond survival, they look to you for strength and confidence, as well as guidance, and your children are symbols to show Dale will continue and endure."

"But—"

"From this day forward, you will have to watch every step you take, each word that comes out of your mouth, and carefully weigh every decision, be it for Dale or your private life. You belong to them, now. It is the same with your children, I am sad to say; they will be expected to set the example. Your people need you to show them how to help Dale grow and prosper, and you all must be protected against those who do not wish to see this happen."

Bard opened his mouth to protest, but Thranduil raised a hand to silence him, as he continued:

"I ask you to please let me finish. The fire which destroyed Laketown, did not discriminate between the good and the bad, did it? You lost many good people, as well as less-than-savory characters. By the same token, good people survived, along with those loyal to the old Master. Some of his guardsmen are among the survivors, as you have noticed?"

"Aye," he admitted.

"For the last several weeks, your people fought together against a common enemy with little trouble, but, as we move past these calamities, they will recall their former allegiances; and might want to replace you with someone who serves their own needs. This could instigate an uprising among the refugees. Surely you understand this."

Bard blinked. He'd honestly never considered it.

Thranduil continued with his explanation. "Appointing guards around the camp does not just serve to protect your people from danger, it is also a clear warning to anyone who would thwart you. The personal guards prevent a problem before it has a chance to start."

"How long will we need them?"

Thranduil's features softened with empathy. "For the rest of your lives, I am afraid."

"But… I fell into all this, though," Bard tucked in his upper lip. "Isn't there anyone else?"

"No," Thranduil leaned on his elbows, his eyes intense, but his voice kind. "It is essential, Bard, and I cannot stress this enough: it is absolutely essential to the future of all three Northern Kingdoms that you be the one to rule. You must be kept safe, and your children must be safe to carry on your legacy."

"Why me? I'm not really qualified..."

"You are more qualified than you realize; you are a direct descendent of Girion and whether you will it or no, Dale is your birthright, Bard. This kingdom, your kingdom, belongs to you, and no other."

A knot formed in Bard's stomach, and his limbs felt heavy. Was this a joke? He eyed the Elf, and half-expected him to burst in to laughter and say it was all some sort of joke, but… no, Thranduil's face remained patient and somber…

Oh, shit…

"You…" he swiped his hand over his mouth. "You're going to try to turn me into a King, aren't you?"

"I am not going to 'make you' into anything, Bard. The moment you set foot in Dale, you became its rightful ruler. The Elves know this, all the Dwarves know this, Mithrandir, Radagast, and Beorn know this. Messages have already been sent all over Middle Earth, including Gondor," the Elf refilled his cup and handed it to him. "You are a King, and have been for weeks now."

Bloodyfuck…

Bard took the cup, drained it, and held it out for more.

After giving him some more wine, Thranduil patiently waited for the Bowman to digest the news. Did he truly have no idea?

Several minutes went by, as Bard consumed his drink. When he offered it for a third refill, Thranduil shook his head.

"Getting drunk will not change the truth. When you sober up, you will still be a King, my friend."

"Are you out of your mind?" Bard's head shook vigorously. No, Thranduil! It's one thing to oversee people in a crisis, but... you're talking about running a Kingdom. An entire bloody Kingdom, for Valar's sake! I've no clue how to be a King; I wouldn't know where to begin!"

"I agree. You do not know, at least, not at the moment. This is why I have decided to help you."

Bard lifted his cup again, and dared him to refuse. Thranduil allowed him a small amount, which he tossed back with a grimace.

"I am not ready for something like this!"

"I understand your dilemma all too well. Kingship was thrust upon me when I was not much older than Tauriel. I was no more ready for it than you are, and the Woodland Realm is vast, with hundreds of thousands of people," he said. "Like you, I became a King in the midst of death, destruction and terrible grief. Fortunately, I had help, and I am offering you the same."

"You want to help me?" Bard leaned back in his chair. "Why all the sudden interest now? You've barely had anything to do with Laketown for generations. You and I both know you wouldn't be offering this if there wasn't something in it for you." He crossed his arms. "So… what's in it for you?"

"A fair question, and spoken like a true ruler." Thranduil lifted his cup in a salute, then drank it down. "You are correct. I and my people have had little interest in the world outside of my realm, and did not encourage outsiders for a long time."

"Why?"

He hesitated, choosing his words with care. "I will be happy to tell you, but for the moment, the better question is why this has to change."

"Fair enough; I'll go along with it, provided you're honest with me."

"Of course." The Elvenking took a deep breath. "As you know, Dol Guldur had been occupied by someone called 'The Necromancer' for over two thousand years. He was the cause of the sickness in the Southern portions of my home, and this necessitated the removal of my people to the North. When Erebor was established, the Dwarves were hired to design an entire system of vast caves in the northern mountains, which is now my Palace. Many of my people prefer village life, and are closely guarded, but if need be, they can be brought to my Halls, and once those doors are closed, none, not even this Necromancer, could enter."

Thranduil swallowed down the lump in his throat, and took a sip. "Or so I thought."

"What do you mean?"

"The Necromancer was no ordinary Sorcerer, Bard. When the White Council went to Dol Guldur to rescue Mithrandir, they discovered he was none other than the Dark Lord himself! Sauron had been sitting in my Kingdom, and I knew nothing of it!" He slammed his cup down and his lip curled. "He brought the Spiders, the Orcs, the disease…" he shook his head. "He used my own grief against me, but that is no excuse; those lands are my responsibility and I did not see it!"

"Holy shit…" Bard's face went white to the lips. "What…what does Gandalf say?"

Thranduil ran his hands along his jaw, and fiddled with the stem of his goblet. "He assures me that I could not have known; the Dark Lord had disguised himself and the legions he was amassing."

"Could you have stopped it if you had known?"

"No. It took the combined forces of Elrond, Saruman and Galadriel to fight the Nine Walkers. When Sauron revealed himself, the Lady herself managed to banish him, but at great cost; we do not know if she will recover, and the Wizard is very concerned."

Bard leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. "I see Gandalf's point; you couldn't have known, and what could you have done about it?"

"He is right, but I am still angry. That hill used to be the fortress of Amon Lanc, built by my father! I was born there, it was my home; it was bad enough we had to abandon it, but the idea of—" His shoulders flinched in reluctance. "Perhaps I will accept it in time. Regardless, he has been banished back to Mordor in the South."

His eyes met the greenish brown of the Bowman's. "But that does not mean we remain safe here. What I am about to tell you will hopefully make you understand why you must take up this task; you and no other."

Bard's face pinched in apprehension. "Oh, gods… Sauron won't stay in Mordor, will he?"

"No. I have a gift of foresight, Bard, and have seen the Dark Lord's return. There is only one way to truly stop him, but of this I cannot speak; we must place our hope in others to whom the Valar appoint. But I have seen there will be a Great War after the next few generations of Men, and it will either destroy him, or destroy all that we hold dear.

"This War will come to the North, Bard, and the only chance we have of victory is to form a strong Alliance between Elves, Men and Dwarves, and put all our energies into strengthening and stabilizing this region, or all will be lost!

"Do you see? This is why you must be King, but you cannot do it alone; you need me, just as much as the North needs you. I also understand your doubts—"

"I do have doubts!" The Bowman snapped, then he closed his eyes, and calmed himself. "If things are as critical as you say, I ask you again: why should I trust you?"

"Because only an experienced ruler can provide you with the training you need, Bard! Do you think I could have done this on my own? Not at all! I was much too young, and completely unprepared! If not for the support of my father's Aide, my Kingdom would have been in ruins thousands of years ago."

"You mean your Aide, Galion?"

"Yes! Galion served the Woodland Realm since the day my father was asked to be King, and for two-and-a-half-thousand years he stood by his side. When Oropher was killed…" his mouth went dry, and he had to take a drink, "In the midst of his own sorrow, he did what I could not. He was strong for me, and quite literally shoved me out of the tent on that Battlefield with a crown on my head!

Galion forced me to take my rightful place, not because I wanted to, not because he wanted me to, either! He did it because my father above all else was a servant to his people! If we did not act, all Oropher had loved and protected would fall to ruin." Thranduil's voice cracked, surreptitiously wiped the corner of his eye. "Galion stood beside Oropher, because he loved him, and he made me be the King I should be out of love, as well."

Thranduil leaned toward the Bowman and asked earnestly, "Tell me, Bard: could you live with yourself if you allow your doubts to stop you? If something terrible happened to your people, knowing you could have helped them, what would become of your soul?"

Bard licked his lips and answered hoarsely. "I… think it would destroy me, from the inside out."

"Yes, it would, for you are a Man of honor, but honor is not enough, Bard! Kingship is a crushing burden, and comes at a terrible price. Every decision you make affects their lives, and every mistake can cost lives and can also destroy you, if you do not have the right people to support you. Do not doubt it!"

"What if there is who knows what they're doing?"

"It would be too late," his hands swept toward the entrance of the tent. "Your people out there have put their faith and trust in you, and they will follow no other. Deep down, I believe you know this."

"I want to know something," Bard's piercing gaze bore into him, demanding answers, demanding truth. "Where did you and your men go during the Battle yesterday? I heard the horns; I saw your men retreat. You came back, but still, Thranduil, you tried to leave! You will tell me why, or I'll walk out of here right now!"

Ai Belain!

The Elf's grey eyes closed, and his heart leaped like a wild stag against his ribs. His hand traveled to his chest and clutched the fabric of his tunic as the silence hung between them.

He never talked about this, not to Galion, not to Feren, not even to his wife, when she was alive…

With a shaky breath, Thranduil opened his eyes, and forced the words past his lips in a low, quiet voice that refused to remain even:

"Bard," he began, "have you ever been in a war before this?"

"No."

"You are fortunate. I have, more often than I would wish on anyone. It is a terrible, unnatural thing - the sight of the dead, the sounds of swords clashing, the tearing of flesh, the screams of pain, the smell of blood and shit, evacuated from the bowels of the dead… indescribable horrors to one who has not lived it. Many are killed. Many are wounded. All are changed forever. You will soon see this truth within yourself, and for that I grieve, for none deserve it.

"The Battle of the Five Armies lasted one day. The War of the Last Alliance went on for seven years." He huffed a wry laugh, as he shook his head. "Ai! I was so proud to ride to War at my father's side, ignorant of the true horrors I was about to face. Oropher tried to warn me, but I was too young, too excited be a part of it all!" He spread his palms. "Was our cause not just? I foolishly believed the forces of good would overcome, we would win, and surely we would return in a few months!

"I ask you, Bard, we won yesterday, but do you feel like the victor? When you saw the dead in the streets, the ruined buildings, the broken Eastern Wall, did you feel triumphant?"

"No," Bard quietly sighed. "Not at all."

"Dagorlad was covered in bodies of dead Orcs, just as I had hoped," he swallowed. "Nothing prepared me for that… sea of Elven faces, many of whom were my childhood friends!" He paused, and his voice rasped as a tear fell, unchecked. "Nothing, nothing, could prepare me as I watched an Orc swing a Morningstar over the head of a father I adored, and crushing the back of his skull…"

"Oh, sweet Ulmo…" came from the Bowman. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"No!" He held up his hand. "You are right to ask this of me, and you deserve an answer! This is part of the terrible price of protecting this Kingdom, Bard: sending people into battle, and knowing some will not survive." Thranduil's eyes closed in consternation. "You know this."

"Yes, I do."

"Yet the cost was becoming too steep, in the Last Alliance. My father ordered us to go to War to protect the Kingdom, and he was right to do this. He had to be willing to sacrifice some, in order to protect the whole. But as the War dragged on, too many of his people were dying, and this threatened the very existence of the Woodland Realm.

"Elves do not increase nearly the same as Men. Even after two and a half millennia, our population has not returned to the numbers it once was, and when the forest became sick, our population growth slowed even further. Some have left for Valinor, and after this I am sure we will lose a great many more from grief."

"These are sound reasons for our temporary retreat. At this point, if I said no more, I think you would accept this. However…" Thranduil paused and swallowed painfully, "However, you deserve to know the entire truth, Bard."

"What do you mean?"

"When I was in the streets of Dale yesterday, I saw the bodies of my people, but I… saw more than that... I saw Dagorlad! I swear, I saw those same brown plains, the same mountains, even the smells from that wretched place filled my nostrils again...

"I saw my father," he rasped, "lying in a pool of red and black blood that never blends, the back of his head smashed to bits, staring up at me with eyes that held no life.

"I heard the voices of those who made the long trip home, the weeping of families, searching for the faces of their loved ones, and," the words came out as a sob, "the anguish and guilt in my heart when they looked to me with accusing eyes…

"Those memories have haunted my dreams for an age, but how could these visions invade my waking hours? I cannot tell you how it happened, only that it did. It... frightened me, Bard."

His toes curled inside his boots, as he forced himself to keep on:

"You were right. I did order a retreat. I…should not have done so. I am sorry for it, Bard; I truly am." He lowered his eyes and scrutinizing the inlaid woodwork on the table, absently tracing its pattern, as he tried to regain control.

A quiet voice asked him, "What made you change your mind, Thranduil?"

"I am… ashamed to say it was changed for me."

Say the words... Say them. Tell him...

"Tauriel confronted me. She accused me of not caring about what would happen to the Dwarves. I reacted…badly, to her, and my son, Legolas, intervened."

He paused to take yet another breath, another drink, another effort to keep his scars hidden. "The look on his face burns in my memory... Mithrandir was witness to this and…forced me to see reason.

"I rescinded the order to retreat, we rejoined the Battle, and fought on, until after the Eagles came, and we were victorious." Thranduil gave a hollow laugh. "'Victorious?' Such a profane word, is it not?"

He mustered his courage, and looked into the Bowman's soft eyes. "Please, believe me," he pleaded, "I truly never wished ill upon your people."

There was nothing more to say. He fell against the back of his chair, drained beyond words. Thranduil held his breath, studied his fingers, and steeled himself for the barrage of anger he feared would come.

The tent was quiet for several long moments, then—

"Thank you for your honesty," Bard said quietly. "We all have grievous moments that follow us, both awake and in our dreams. I've had to deal with this, too. You're right; I'll be haunted by memories of the Dragon, and Battle, for the rest of my days. I can't imagine what it was like, to fight for years on end, right before Sauron himself. I've heard tales of that War since boyhood, and I don't think I'm in any position to judge you."

Bard added, with sympathy, "I'm so sorry you lost your father, Thranduil."

His head jerked up in surprise. The Bowman's face was still grim, but there was understanding and forgiveness there, as well. The Elvenking's eyes began to sting and fill, and he blinked rapidly, unable to speak.

"I think it best this stay just between us," Bard said gently. "No one else will know, at least for my part."

When the Bowman said those words, Thranduil was sure of his instincts about the man. Bard will be a fair and just King, but in this moment, he was thankful for his understanding as a friend.

As a friend… Something deep inside Thranduil stirred, as he gazed across the table at this Bowman with a strong face, and kind, intelligent eyes.

A slow, grateful smile crept across his face and lightened his heart. "Thank you, Bard," he murmured. "This means a great deal to me."

"Now, how about scaring us up something to eat?" Bard asked, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards. "We'd best get started with these 'Kinging' lessons and there's a lot to do."

Thranduil burst into relieved laughter, sent for Galion to prepare their meal, and they began their work for the day.

ELVEN TRANSLATIONS:

Ai Belain! – Oh Valar!