Chapter 13, everyone!

A bit late with this chapter, I know. But on the brighter side: this is the longest chapter I've written for this story! So I hope it'll make up for the wait.

Thank you to all readers, followers, favourites and reviewers! I really appreciate you sharing your thoughts on this story :)

I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do.

Enjoy!

Chapter 13: Day 3 – Bard

Bard was feeling weary.

He had been summoned brusquely by a red-haired Dwarf with an impressive beard and a sharp axe, who demanded in a gruff voice that he should appear at the tent of Thorin Oakenshield as soon as he could. Bard thought the Dwarf seemed vaguely familiar and wondered if he was one of the Dwarves serving in Thorin Oakenshield's Company. What Bard could tell from underneath the bushy beard, the Dwarf seemed anxious and the Dragonslayer came to the conclusion that something must have happened to Thorin. Why else would he be summoned to his tent where he had not been allowed before?

Despite the different length of their legs, the Dwarf excellently kept up with Bard's longer strides and it felt as if barely any time passed before they had arrived outside Thorin's tent. In the opposite direction from the one they had come from walked the Elvenking, accompanied by a Dwarf in a funny-looking hat and with whiskers that looked to be slouching. Neither Dwarf nor Elf was smiling.

Bard gave Thranduil a curt nod to which the Elf responded with one of his own, though managing to look twice as regal as he did so. The gathered Dwarves, who were also standing outside the tent, offered Bard gruff greetings, but when catching sight of the Elvenking their expressions turned anything but pleasant.

"Why did you bring him here for?" spat the red-haired Dwarf that had fetched Bard. His hand had curled itself around his axe.

Many of the other Dwarves agreed and threw dark looks at Thranduil, who looked unbothered. Bard supposed living hundreds of years must have been enough practice to appear as chosen. The hatted Dwarf shrugged and it was a tired, white-bearded Dwarf that answered:

"Thorin wished to see him. He wants to see them both and I will not have you argue about it."

The last was said with a heated glare in the red-haired Dwarf's direction, who did not look too pleased but kept quiet. Bard could feel the tension in the air, surrounding the Dwarves like some sort of invisible smoke. With Thranduil there, the atmosphere seemed frostier and Bard felt the knots in his stomach tightening uncomfortably.

Daín came out from the tent, another Dwarf at his heels. Daín appeared to have aged since Bard had last seen him the day before. Behind his beard, Daín's face looked tired and wrinkled, unhappy. The healer – Bard assumed that he was a healer; he had that distinguished look about him, haggard and dour, but willing to offer a helping hand to those who could not manage – gave Bard a stiff nod.

"Thorin can see you now", he said and added: "But try for Mahal's sake to keep it civil. He does not need be put under strain."

The healer's dark eyes were sharp and Bard could only nod, feeling slightly intimidated by the shorter man. He turned to Thranduil.

"Should we enter together?" he asked and tried to stand tall and not squirm under the Elvenking's gaze.

The Elvenking blinked and answered before any of the Dwarves could do it for him:

"You speak to Thorin Oakenshield first. I have all the time in the world." He smiled a smile that looked odd upon his face. "I can wait."

Bard decided not to ponder on the answer. Daín offered Bard a tired smile and held up the flaps of the tent, which Bard had to duck slightly to enter. The flaps fell down and shut out with a poor quality the Dwarves' discussion regarding the Elvenking and other matters. But the Dragonslayer could easily ignore the faint chatter outside as he stepped further into the tent and laid eyes upon the King under the Mountain.

Thorin was lying on a bed that looked to be uncomfortable. His chest was exposed and it was heavily bandaged, stained with red. Sweat clung to his brows and he blinked feverishly, eyes slightly dazed, as he looked in Bard's direction. He did not remind Bard at all about the proud Dwarf Lord he had seen and talked to at the gates of Erebor, who had worn a crown of gold and had been richly dressed in furs and jewels. The Dwarf on the sickbed was not proud nor was he majestic; he was dying, just like so many others were.

"Bard the Dragonslayer", croaked Thorin Oakenshield and it was somewhat of a comfort to hear that his voice sounded the same, though it was strained.

"Hail Thorin", Bard replied, giving the addressed Dwarf a nod. "Son of Thrain, son of Thrór."

Thorin nodded back, though it looked to cause him nothing of comfort. He spared Bard another look before shifting restlessly.

"Dwalin, could you bring out a chair for the Man to sit on?"

Bard startled slightly as another Dwarf seemed to appear out of nowhere, having been hiding in the shadows. For a moment, he had thought that the fever had claimed the King under the Mountain so that he was imagining things that were not there. But Dwalin the Dwarf was certainly real. He was scarred and tattooed, with muscled arms and a dark expression engraved upon his face that spoke of him having seen many battles before this.

Dwalin managed to find a stool after removing some lumber from it. He put it next to Thorin's bed with a 'thud', gesturing for Bard to sit down. Bard had half a mind to remain standing as it gave him an advantage, made him taller than the Dwarves, but he did not hold such a grudge that he would deny a dying man his request. He sat down and tried to find a comfortable position in the rather small chair. Thorin and Dwalin exchanged a glance and it appeared that the bald Dwarf – something Bard had not seen before around camp – was determined to stay. Thorin frowned and said something in a language Bard could not understand; it was dark and rough, sounded a bit as if he was clearing his throat. Dwalin did not look pleased, but stalked out of the tent despite what he thought of it. Thorin then fixed Bard with a stare and the Dwarf's blue eyes were eerie in a way not quite so different from the Elvenking's. Bard remained in his seat. If he squirmed, he blamed it on the small chair.

"So", said Thorin and though his eyes were glazed over with fever, he appeared to be clearer in mind than Bard had ever seen him be. "You killed the Dragon."

It was not a question, but Bard answered it anyway:

"Yes."

"Then you have my gratitude." Thorin bowed his head, greying strands of hair being plastered to his forehead. "And I fear I will never be able to fully pay you for that service. You killed the calamity that has hunted my nightmares for more than one hundred and fifty years, the beast that slaughtered my people and stole my homeland. Even all the gold in Erebor would not be enough." He smiled a smile that made it look as if he was in pain.

"While I fired the shot and aimed right", began Bard gravely. "I would not have known where to shoot had it not been for the thrush sent from your Mister Baggins." He paused briefly before continuing: "So while I do not claim all of the gold inside the Mountain, I believe that I – and through me, my people – are worth a share of that gold so that we can rebuilt our lives, as the Dragon destroyed our home and the battle has left us with little."

Bard tried not to make it sound as if he was begging, for he was sure in his belief. And though Daín had already promised payment, the leader of the Men of Laketown wanted to hear it from Thorin Oakenshield as well, while he was still King under the Mountain. Thorin nodded seriously.

"You shall be compensated", he assured Bard. "While I shall not live to see it done, my Company and Daín will see it through."

Bard inclined his head as a sign of that he had understood. He shifted in his seat, crossing his long legs and leaned back as much as he could without tipping the chair over. He had one last thing to say to the Dwarf King, one last thing that lay nagging in the back of his head.

"What of the Arkenstone?"

Bard could immediately see a change in the bedridden Dwarf. He tensed and his expression was a mixture between anger and loathing, if Bard was not mistaken.

"What of it?" Thorin hissed, his breathing coming heavily and he took hold of his stomach as if the word alone caused him pain beyond imagination.

"I wondered what to do with", said Bard honestly. "When we get our share of the gold, I promised that you would get back your precious stone. I am a man of my word."

Thorin did not reply. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and grimaced. Wheezing breaths escaped him. Bard straightened up, wondered if he should call for a healer. A rasping cough that sounded ominous even to Bard's ears came out of the Dwarf's mouth. After that, Thorin took a couple of deep, calming breaths and he appeared to be somewhat fine, despite his feverish appearance.

"Do you wish to see it?" Bard asked carefully, not wanting to upset the Dwarf who was already on the border to the world of the dead.

For a moment, he thought he could glimpse a strange gleam in Thorin's eyes, the same gleam that had shone so brightly when Bard had tried to negotiate with him at the gates of Erebor. It made him reluctant to take out the jewel from his pocket. But Thorin surprised him with shaking his head and closing his eyes. When he opened them again, they were directed to the ceiling.

"No", he said. "I do not desire to see it. Once it was very dear to me, but it is but a trinket, no matter how precious. What I have lost…. Not even the Arkenstone of Thrain can ease the pain I feel."

Bard did not know what to say. He withdrew his hand from his pocket and let the Arkenstone be. He thought he could spot a tear making its way down Thorin's temple as he was laying and staring up at the ceiling. He had enough sense of tact not to mention it. They sat in silence for a moment; Bard watching Thorin and Thorin intently avoiding eye contact. Then the Dwarf spoke:

"Could you be so kind to inform King Thranduil that I want to speak with him? I fear I will have to cut our meeting short."

"Of course", replied Bard and was relieved to get out of the chair and stretch his legs.

He wondered if he should say something more, but he could not think of what. Adopting a grim-looking expression, he gave Thorin a curt nod and then turned to leave. The Arkenstone weighed heavily in his pocket. Before he was about to leave, Thorin's deep voice sounded:

"Farewell, King Bard of the Men of the Lake. May your reign be long and prosperous and your children grow old with age."

Bard froze at the solemn tone the words were spoken with. He glanced back and saw that Thorin had struggled to sit up, propped against his pillows. One hand was raised in goodbye and Thorin Oakenshield had never looked so much like a King as he did now. Even near death he was strong, though his eyes betrayed what the rest of him did not. Bard raised a hand of his own in a silent farewell. He knew he would never see the King under the Mountain again. at least not alive.

Cold air brushed against his face as he stepped out into the crisp, winter day. He was immediately attacked by several hard stares from the Dwarves, who had still not moved. He wondered how much of his conversation with Thorin that had been heard by others.

The Elvenking was still there and Bard tried to appear just as unbothered as Thranduil by the Dwarves' stares, but he suspected he was not as good at it. He addressed the Elvenking solemnly:

"Your turn. He wishes to see you."

Thranduil nodded and went inside the tent under the gathered Dwarves' watchful eyes. Bard suddenly felt very tired. He turned to Daín and the white-haired old Dwarf, who seemed to be in charge.

"If there is nothing else you want of me, I wish to take my leave."

The white-haired Dwarf nodded while Daín gave him a friendly clasp on the back.

"Of course", he said. "If there is anything I'll need to speak about with you later, I will send for you."

Bard offered him a strained smile, his usual annoyance of being treated as a lesser part of the negotiations pushed aside. He hurried back to his part of the camp and after rushed 'hello's' to familiar faces, he entered his own tent. All three of his children were there; Sigrid repairing some clothes and Tilda helped the best she could. Bain was sharpening an unfamiliar sword Bard could not recall having seen before, let alone allowed his son to wear. The whetstone against the steel created a harsh rhythm that was broken when Bard stepped inside.

"Da!" exclaimed Bain, not having expected his father to be back so soon.

Tilda's face lit up by a smile, which Sigrid mirrored and Bard felt his heart swell with affection and love for his beautiful children. He embraced all three of them, much to their surprise, and held them closely to his heart, feeling so glad that he was alive and them as well.

We now say goodbye to Bard in this story... Any thoughts?

I cannot guarantee when the next chapter will be up, though I hope it will not take longer than a week.

Thanks for reading! :)