Bard did not remember much of the battle afterwards. Snapshots of trying to protect his children; it stung like a needle in his heart, that feeling that he could not, did not try as hard as he should. He also remembered smashing and fighting, cries of orcs and people, blood on muddy snow and clinking of dwarves' armour. Stench of blood and wind gushing in few unharmed trees – he thought as soon as the battle ended, they had to pick up those broken twigs, some would go for fire, some would be fine to sleep on. He remembered that thought vividly, and that gave him great relief – some faith in victory did not want to leave him no matter what.
He fought himself, vaguely surprised as his hand seemed to remember how to strike and push the sword.
He saw as elves fought savagely, fluid grace turning into feral motion. They killed and fell, and it was strange to see blood on their serene faces, as he jumped over their bodies to get to another filthy orc. He felt satisfaction to lay down that distorted creature next to the ones he killed, but still, that satisfaction was less then understanding that this or that orc was dead and not going to harm his children. Or his town, not yet in its former prosperity.
His life was saved early in the battle, as he was struggling to his feet after being knocked off by a warg that missed just so to land behind him and not on top of him. Something swished past his shoulder, and heavy snarling from behind choked on a high note.
The elvenqueen walked slowly past him and pulled a dagger out of warg's throat.
"Thank you," managed Bard in a small voice. The queen turned to him, her calm face sprinkled with blood.
"Take it," she said and gave him the dagger. It emitted a strong bluish glow. "One sword may not be enough."
Bard did not see her until much later. His people were not born for fighting, their weapons nothing more than a rusted knife or a wooden stick. He found shelters for old and kids, he tried to pick up the wounded, but still it was not enough.
He turned to look back from the crumpled wall after another orc fell dead which nearly cost him his right arm.
Two figures in silver armour stood back to back in the middle of the battle, each fighting with two long swords. The smaller figure remained still before venturing to attack violently, and orc's head fell – then another and another. The taller one danced with his swords as if wishing to extend the expectation of death for the enemy – and orc in front of him slumped, cut in two.
Bard stopped in his tracks as huge warg jumped on them from the side, but two swords, both from the Elvenqueen and king Thranduil, pierced the beast through simultaneously. Blood poured, and Bard breathed out. They've been keeping to the promise.
The wounded elves and people have been taken to the healers, but at dusk Bard caught a glimpse of three figures slowly walking through the field, stopping often by dead warriors. He did not know what the burial rituals for the elves were; but silent grief for the fallen was what he would honor - until time has come to speak of the future, even if that time was a few hours, all he could allow himself. He felt as he could not spare more, like the battle has shown him shortness of human lives now entrusted to him. He looked at the elven dagger, its glitter now lost. He would give it back to the queen tonight and ask for help to survive the winter.
He strode through the camp as determinedly as he could. Few fires were lit, and quiet was interrupted only by soft hoofing of horses. There were no guards at the king's tent, and Bard pushed through the intricate layers of thick fabric which made his way in a maze in the darkness until the last one, grey and almost transparent.
They moved tantalizingly slowly, heavy breathing interrupted by small gasps. Shadows and flickering lights of candles mingled, dancing on the skin, making angles and curves a compelling tale. The queen's small arm lent itself in Thranduil's hair, stroking near the ear where drops of blood stood out. Thranduil's face was buried between her breasts, he nuzzled and kissed, embracing her tightly, almost clutching at her shoulders. She matched his grip, the other hand coming round his back, palm stretched widely as trying to get as much skin covered as possible. The queen inclined her head, planting a loose kiss in Thranduil's hair, and in a sensuous movement, her dark locks slipped back, revealing a huge, reddish scar on her collar bone. It stood out on pale skin like an ugly spider, its colour matched only by queen's lips, dark and inviting in a soft light of the tent.
She murmured something with her eyelids half-closed, and Thranduil lifted his head to look at her. Bard froze inwardly.
There was no skin on his left cheek, just bared tendons revealed from under its remnants. Vicious scar ran up to the brow, and milky white eye stared blindly. Thranduil smiled and whispered something back, and tendons worked.
Bard could not take his eyes off it. He should not be there, should not look at them making love without that magic or something that covered their scars during the day, but he could not. He felt his cheeks grow hot with what he saw – the way queen's nipple brushed Thranduil's lips, the way she smiled softly and moved her hips down eliciting small moan from him, the way her fingers touched his ruined cheek tracing it back to his mouth, and Thranduil immediately licked her thumb. He seemed to regain some composure for a moment, as he slid his hand between their bodies, whispering again, and the queen whimpered, jerking her head back.
Thranduil put his lips to her neck and pressed their hips together again. For a several seconds they sat completely still, and then fell onto the bed, Thranduil arching his back, the queen on top of him. Bard thought he saw Thranduil's both cheeks glistening with tears, but he never felt sure about it afterwards.
The queen lifted her head from Thranduil's chest and tenderly kissed his blind eye.
"Bard!"
Legolas sat alone at a small fire, his armour cast aside, bow on his lap. He looked tired.
"Come sit here for a while, if you are not in a hurry," he said. "We've done our mourning rounds, and seems you did too. Or is it something you require from us?"
He chose to answer carefully, sitting down on the log beside Legolas.
"The queen saved my life and gave me this dagger. I wanted to give it back, but then thought half-way it was too late to any visits or… discussions."
Legolas nodded. His fingers on the right arm bore traces of blood.
"Better tomorrow, when Dain and Balin visit. My father will be so disgusted that you will be a welcome sight. I do not mean offence, it's about dwarves."
"I understand."
"And now they need rest."
"You too, perhaps?"
Legolas shrugged his shoulders.
"I have not seen as many battles as they did. Perhaps, it sits lesser with me, I still feel ready to fight. That's why my rest is to sharpen my arrows."
"But not without company?"
Legolas smiled almost shyly.
"Tauriel grieves alone. And my father and mother need to rest. I was with them looking at the dead and wounded."
"You are injured yourself?" Bard asked, trying to divert the conversation to safer places. It was becoming too personal for an elf, and he did not want Legolas to be sorry about it in the morning. And it recalled the most recent memories too vividly.
Legolas glanced at his fingers.
"It's not my blood. Theirs. I'l wash it off later when I am calm. And Bard, this dagger is not a thing to give back. If my mother gave it to you in the battle, it is a gift."
"You think so?"
"She never gives weapons away if she does not trust a person."
"I am honoured."
They fell into companionable silence, as Legolas checked his arrows. At last Bard ventured out.
"May I ask? I've heard that orcs of Gundabad are abominations, but you elves seem to bear a particular hatred towards them. Why is it so?"
Legolas's face grew ugly in a split second.
"It was many years ago," he answered at last. "After my father fought with serpents of the North and defeated them, we enjoyed peace and prosperity for a long time. But then orcs appeared. They came from Gundabad, and at first we did not count them a formidable threat. There were small parties of them, and we fought them off easily. But it was only a pretence, a try to evaluate our forces, and soon it was war.
"We decided to defeat them in their nest, and it was a great and bloody battle. We were victorious, but lost many. Among them was my mother."
His mouth twitched uncontrollably.
"At least, that's what we thought at the time. It was a slaughter, and many bodies we could not retrieve even to mourn, as they were rendered faceless and torn.
"Father nearly went mad of grief. And I felt as I've lost half of my heart, another half left for me to bleed.
"It was fifty years later that we've received faint news that she may have been alive and held captive in caves where orcs retreated after that battle."
"And it proved true."
"Yes. We've found her in the first cave we entered after we slain them all. She heard the sound of the battle and crawled up from her deep cell. She strangled her guard with her sleeve, and her face was covered in blood."
Bard did not know what to say.
"Now you see why we are so unforgiving."
"Now I would not imagine otherwise."
Legolas nodded.
"We feared she might sale for Valinor to escape horrible memories of her captivity. But my mother healed. Slowly and sometimes through despair, she regained her soul and body. But since then she cannot stand on her feet more than absolutely necessary, and that exhausts her greatly afterwards."
"Are there no herbs or stones to help that?"
"No. We searched far and wide for that. Although she laughs it is a small sacrifice for everything experienced, as long as we carry her around in our arms."
Bard could not but smile widely. Legolas mirrored him.
"So do not think of giving back this dagger. I am glad that you have it, too. You are a good king, Bard."
"A king without a kingdom."
"It was born again on this battlefield. Birth is painful, but it can be a start for a beautiful life."
Now the tent was open to all and somewhat crowded. For the better, thought Bard, as he greeted Balin and was introduced to several other dwarves that arrived with Dain. There were also several elves present, and Gandalf animatedly chatted with that Halfling Bilbo. By the looks, Bilbo needed distraction.
The queen was sitting in the same high chair, and she fondly smiled to him in return to his greeting.
"I am glad to see you back in this tent," she said. "Time to give thought of the future for all of us."
Bard bowed. She did not wear the mithril chainmail, but he noticed high collar of the dress, colour of dark shining silver. Sigrid would know to describe it smarter, fabric and all that. There was small red pillow under her feet.
Thranduil stood close to her and gave Bard only a curt acknowledgment, engrossed in talking to Legolas, hand on son's shoulder. Legolas nodded at the end of a seemingly grave speech, smiling mischievously, and Thranduil rolled his eyes.
"And here he comes, Dain the Ironfoot!" cheerfully bellowed Gandalf and Thranduil rolled his eyes once again, looking positively murderous even in that half-mocking gesture. The queen took his hand.
"King Thranduil," said Dain out of his beard, and Bard wondered whether he gritted his teeth for that.
"King Thranduil," repeated Balin respectfully, standing forward as Gandalf tried to divert Dain's attention to himself, and Bard even felt some gratitude to the wizard for that. Perhaps, there was a possibility of tripartite agreement between them.
"And Queen Narwen," continued Balin. "There is a long history between our people. Some of it was of friendship and profitable trade, some of resentment and damaging losses. But now chance is given to all of us to commence anew, and bring wounds to healing. Let us be the first to give our sign of willingness and give you what is long yours."
He produced a small wooden casket and opened it carefully.
Bard remembered as he caught queen's and Thranduil's joined hands trembling.
Inside was a delicately woven necklace of white gems. It shone painfully against black fabric and looked both timeless and old.
"We regret the misunderstanding that came over us in this," said Balin amidst the established silence. Only Dain snorted, gaining reproachful look from Gandalf. "Please accept it."
Thranduil kept looking at the necklace as if he hadn't heard the words. Legolas put his hand on his shoulder.
"We thank you, king Dain. And we thank you, Balin," answered the queen, squeezing Thranduil's fingers tightly. She inclined her head in graceful acknowledgment. "There is indeed a new and beautiful hope for peace between us all, and we accept your most generous offer. Let wisdom and moderation guide us all from now."
She lifted her head and smiled to everyone, smile making her eyes shine brighter than gems. She smiled to Bard, too, and he nodded in return.
His kingdom was born anew on the battlefield, but it will survive and surpass even its former prosperity.