Returning to Laketown had been inevitable. Tauriel had always known that she could only spare Thranduil going to the place where his son had died for so long.
Summons came, not from the Master, but from Bard, in the form of an invitation for herself and the king, and to refuse would have been impolite. She could have gone alone, but Thranduil would not hear of it once he found out. His absence at the battle had been noticed; no harm would come from showing his face there.
So Tauriel took herself, Thranduil and a small guard to the lake, and Bard met her on the shore of the new town, which had been built fresh and gleaming away from the carcass of the dragon which still buried the old houses, and Legolas's ashes, beneath its jewelled bulk.
Bard's clothes were richer than she last remembered, his countenance less grim, and he reached for her hand and shook it with a firm but friendly grip. "It is good to see you again."
She smiled, pushing her bow behind her back. "It is good to see you too." She looked around. "I see you have made respectable time in your building."
"We would not have survived the winter if it weren't for your supplies," Bard said, leading her to the edge of the town. "That, and our battle, has not been forgotten. I thought it would be small repayment to invite you to come share in our new prosperity."
Laketown had flourished, Tauriel could see at a glance; people who had been homeless only six months ago were warm and fed, dressed less shabbily and laughing more often.
"The Master?" she asked, trying to prevent her lip curling at the thought of him, and failing.
"Gone."
"It was as you thought?"
Bard nodded. "I gave him a portion of the treasure, and he took his leave that same night. He was no longer truly a master; it was well he left before the people cried for his blood."
"Am I to address you as Master, now then, Bard?"
Bard flushed. "I would prefer you did not. The people have decided what they will, and I will guide them as best I can, but I am no true Master. A council and myself meet regularly to decide important matters; that is all."
"Soon, they will call you Lord of Dale."
"Please," Bard groaned, "let us not talk of such matters." He hesitated. "Does your king accompany you?"
Tauriel looked around at the small boat they had taken across the river and was surprised to see that, though the guards had alighted and were standing on the shore, leaning on bows and swords, there was no sign of Thranduil.
"He does," she murmured, frowning. "Though I am not certain of the prudence of the decision."
For a moment, Bard looked apologetic. "There was much talk, once the town was secure, as to why he had not come last time. I thought-"
"I know. For our alliance, it is the right decision. For him…" She sighed, remembering the way she had reached out to Legolas when he had stumbled on the jetty, and the dragon fire had spread around him like candlelight. "It is hard, to visit a place where a friend has died. When it is your son…"
Bard shuddered. "If anything were to happen to Bain. Or Sigrid, or Tilda… I have already lost a wife. It is a hard business, but the children kept me going."
"Thranduil's loyalty to Greenwood knows no limit. But it is a heavy weight for him to bear."
Bard shot her a sideways glance. "Hard for yourself, too, I imagine."
"Not as hard."
"We all feel our own pain the most acutely."
The sun was beginning to set, casting a red glow over the water, and still Thranduil did not come onto the deck.
"I will go fetch him," she said eventually, when the guards were starting to grow restless and she knew she could leave it no longer.
"I will give your guards board and refreshment," Bard replied. "When you are ready to join us, you will find my house at the centre of the town. Tonight, we will dine privately."
Tauriel nodded her thanks and made her way quickly to the boat. The gangplank creaked under her shoes, like a set of old bones.
Thranduil was seated on the set of steps that led to the deck with his face in his hands, breathing deeply. She knew he'd recognised her simply by her tread, because he did not bother to raise his eyes as he spoke.
"Did he die here? In this very place?"
Tauriel hesitated, wondering if she should lie, and then decided there was no point. "Some way off. They have moved the town as they rebuilt it – we need not look at the spot."
Thranduil drew a breath in through his nose, but got to his feet without her having to chivvy him. "Would you…go ahead?"
Tauriel squeezed her hand against the railings as she nodded. "I will."
"Thank you."
They made their way from the boat together.
Thranduil lingered outside Bard's house, saying he needed to breathe the air a little longer, so Tauriel entered alone to find a table neatly set with three places, a set of steaming plates in the middle. Fish, rabbit, potatoes, what looked like a light broth, as well as a bowl of apples and a flask of wine.
"It is only simple, I'm afraid," Bard said gruffly, pulling at his beard. "But the town is not yet on its feet, and there are others in more need."
"It looks wonderful," Tauriel replied, and she meant it – though Greenwood had larger amounts of food, none of it was much more delicate than what was on offer. She was hungry after the long journey, and the simple fare could only do Thranduil good. She frowned. "But where are your children? Are they ill?"
Bard blinked. "No. They have already retired – I had them eat early, so we might not be disturbed." He hesitated. "It felt wrong, to have my own children on show when your king has…well. I can call them back down, if you wish."
"No. No; your decision is no doubt the right one."
Bard relaxed. Thranduil entered the house at last and shook hands with him, seating himself to Bard's right whilst Tauriel took the left. They ate slowly, talking all the time, though Bard's conversation, she couldn't help noticing, was carefully steered around any topic that might be sensitive. The candles burned cheerfully and the warm breeze filtered through the windows. The new thatch reminded Tauriel of home, and helped relax her. Thranduil started the evening with what she would call his state manner, stern and wooden, but after both he had Bard had helped themselves to the wine, and Bard had expressed a love for rabbit, which the king shared, the two of them were soon talking in great earnest, though it was of nothing important. Tauriel ate an apple or two, happy to sit back and listen to them, happy to see that, for the first time in weeks, Thranduil was smiling without looking like it pained him to do so.
"It is impressive, is it not?" Thranduil murmured, looking up at the Mountain in the dawn light as he leaned over the balcony of Bard's house and felt the new wood flex beneath his arms. The Dwarves – though he would never have said it out loud – had made good time in repairing the damage after the battle, and Erebor shone in the sun like a flame.
Tauriel glanced up from her bow. "It is. Though more so, from a height." She shot him a quick smile. "Follow me."
In an instant she had swung herself up onto the balcony railings and made the hop onto the roof.
Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "I am a king, Tauriel. It does not befit me to stand on rooftops." And yet, at the same time, he couldn't help thinking that she and Legolas had no doubt sat on branches or on rooftops hundreds of times whilst on patrol, watching the sun rise.
Tauriel shrugged, still smiling, and continued working on her bow, testing the string. Thranduil turned his back on her and tried to look away, but his spine itched – he had not climbed in a long time. He had forgotten how it felt.
It was not kingly, he reminded himself. It was not the proper thing to do.
He looked down at the streets. There was no-one yet about.
It was the work of a moment to gather his robes to his ankles, and another to jump onto the balcony. He hit the thatching with less grace than Tauriel had – he was out of practice – but she made no comment, and he sat on the roof with enough poise for four kings, though he felt himself laughing at his own pride.
Legolas would have chuckled at him, and made a comment, but Tauriel did not.
The sun shone on the Mountain, and he watched it with half-lidded eyes. "I do not think I have gone so many hours without working since winter."
"There will be work enough," Tauriel murmured, unstringing her bow at last and folding the twine into her pocket.
There was the sound of a door closing beneath them, and a second later one of Bard's girls – he did not know their names, as they had not been present at dinner the night before – came onto the balcony with a hairbrush in hand. She ran her hair through a couple of times, her eyes on the horizon. Thranduil could feel Tauriel looking at him, but he kept his gaze fixedly on the sky, and eventually she looked away. The girl went back inside, but the silence was gone. The town woke, and Thranduil stepped down from the roof before he could be seen.
Tauriel followed him. "You should talk to them," she said, leaning one elbow against the balcony. "Bard's children."
"I would rather not."
"They are good people."
"That, I do not doubt." He pressed his hands together. The happiness he had built for himself was fragile – he could feel it. "I am not yet ready."
"You will be."
"I know."
The summer fell upon them like a cloak of sweet-smelling leaves, rolling the shores of the lake in a soft breeze that filled Thranduil with such a sense of delight that he would sometimes stand, if he thought no-one was watching, with his arms outstretched, breathing. He, Tauriel and Bard walked a lot in the fine weather, discussing matters.
The town was beginning to re-establish itself, and Bard wanted to know if the forest would be resuming its trade with them. Thranduil had agreed instantly – so quickly that even Tauriel had seemed surprised – because he had seen little point in pretence. Bard needed his trade, and Thranduil needed his goods. With the old Master, a great political farce would have been gone through, a battle of wills and a beating of prices, but Bard was not the old Master, and Thranduil liked him – he was strong and fair, and he and Tauriel were almost like friends.
They now walked a little ahead of him, talking about fletching and bowstrings.
There was to be a gathering in the town later – a summer festival at which he was expected to be present – and Thranduil, even somewhat to his own surprise, found himself looking forward to it. He always felt more like himself in summer; Legolas had been born in June.
It was because he was thinking of Legolas, and of the past, when the child ran across their path – it was a yellow-haired child, dressed in greens and browns – that he spoke without thinking.
"Legol-"
He stopped himself before the word left his lips, but, as the child turned and he saw it was in fact a human girl, and not his own son, because his son's ashes were lying at the bottom of the lake. The grief hit him again, and he trembled where he stood. In the corner of his eye he saw Tauriel stop, poised on her toes.
The child blinked at him, saw the look on his face, and burst into tears.
In an instant, Thranduil forgot his grief, forgot Tauriel's gaze, and dropped into a crouch, reaching a hand towards the girl and putting it gently on her tiny shoulder. "Hush now. Come. Hush."
The girl only cried harder.
"I meant you no ill-will; only, you reminded me so much of my son."
With a hiccup, the girl lowered her hands from her wet face and looked at him. She had brown eyes, like snail shells in the morning dew. For an instant, he thought she would simply run off, but then she noticed the strands of his hair that had wound around his fingers as he reached for her, and touched one.
"You have pretty hair."
Thranduil felt his mouth twist as he smirked. "Why, thank you, my lady."
She laughed; it was a sound Thranduil realised he hadn't heard in a long time, and he swept her up into his arms without thinking about it.
"Come," he said, glancing at the setting sun. "I am sure that you are late for your supper."
"My sister was supposed to come for me, but she forgot."
"I see."
"She always forgets. She's very busy." The girl patted his hair again, and he let her, though it irritated him, because she was only young, and the look on Tauriel's face was price enough.
Tauriel hadn't known what to expect when she'd heard Thranduil call Legolas's name, but she'd held out hope, and it had been fulfilled. Half a year ago, she had dragged Thranduil back to life with no hope that it would be anything but breath in his body. For weeks, she had been convinced the loss of Legolas would be too much for the both of them, but it had proved not to be the case. It had been…difficult. But not impossible.
This was more than breath. It was life, as genuine as it could be with such a loss, and she felt a burst of joy so sudden she could have jumped in the air. She restrained herself, but paused by one of the purple thistles growing at the side of the path to pick one, simply so she had an excuse to inhale the air, feel it fill her like a moving river.
Thranduil, a little way behind with the child still clinging round his neck, caught up as she straightened, smiling. "I would have thought yellow would be more to your taste, Tauriel."
She shrugged. "They are all beautiful."
The girl was busy poking at the woodland flowers that had grown around the rim of Thranduil's crown since the seasons had changed, looking as if she was gearing herself to pluck one. Tauriel hastily handed her the purple thistle, hoping to avoid Thranduil giving a stern talk to someone else's daughter about personal property.
"Hurry!" Bard called from ahead of them, grinning. "For elves, you are walking with inordinate slowness."
If there hadn't been children present, Tauriel might have replied with a rude gesture. Instead, she called back.
"Patience is a virtue, Master Bard!"
Bard laughed, and vanished into the houses. Gently, Thranduil put the girl down and told her to run home, which she did, crushing the thistle half to death as she did so. The breeze, thick with the scent of grass and wood smoke, found Tauriel's hair and lifted it around her ears as they stood at the edges of the houses, breathing in the dusk air.
Neither of them spoke for some time, but neither of them needed to.
"I should like to meet Bard's children, now, I think."
The darkness was beginning to creep in, and the smell of wood smoke drifting from the centre of the town. Thranduil waited for Tauriel's reaction, and was not disappointed; she turned her head towards him, and he could have sworn she was smiling.
"Sigrid, Bain and Tilda. Tilda is the youngest, Sigrid the eldest. Bain is a fine warrior; Sigrid, too, would make a good sword-mistress, if given a chance."
"They will be at this feast, no doubt?"
"I can imagine no reason for them not to be. You will like them."
"I am sure I will."
There was the tramping of boots, and Thranduil turned to see Bard had appeared yet again at the edges of the houses, gesturing. "My patience, virtuous as it may be, is waning, Tauriel!"
Thranduil let out a bark of laughter, feeling one of the flowers on his crown, dislodged by their rough treatment, brushing against the tip of his ear.
"What is the hurry?" Tauriel called back – he could see her still smiling in the dim light.
"The people wish to sing, and have you join us – we have not your elven voices, but you may find it pleasing all the same."
Tauriel waved for Bard to return, and then turned to him. "Shall we go?"
Thranduil hesitated a moment, breathing in once more, listening to the breeze, before nodding. "Of course."
The sound of singing was already rising from amongst the houses.
There you have it! I'm hoping this did a passable job of resolving the last story; thanks to everyone who stuck this far.
Feedback welcome!
The End.
