As he stepped out of his black aston martin, Thranduil Oropherion, esteemed patron of the Lasgalan Museum of Art, steeled himself for a trying evening. He was to attend an art exhibition at his client's low class gallery to discuss their donation of a few select pieces to his museum. This would, usually, be a tolerable task but, with a client such as this, he would have to exercise a great deal of restraint and fix a pleasant smile. His client, a Mr Lickspittle, was aptly named. He was an odious, crawling man with a seemingly unending desire for coin and elevated company. Were it within his power, Thranduil would avoid his company entirely but, unfortunately, it was his duty to act in his museum's best interests. Though he was loathe to admit it, Mr Lickspittle did have an eye for fine art.
Stopping to tie his hair into a more professional loose ponytail, he cleared his throat, took a deep breath and entered the gallery. Of course, Mr Lickspittle was waiting to greet him in the foyer, hair so oiled it practically greased his collar and wearing were the most repulsive grin.
"Mr Oropherion, sir, what an honour to have you once again grace my humble establishment," he inclined his head, giving an unfortunate view of his dandruff.
"Quite," was all Thranduil could reply civilly.
Mr Lickspittle grinned toothily.
"Might I furnish you with a refreshment, sir? Only the finest champagne for my exhibits,"
Somehow, Thranduil rather doubted that.
"Thank you, but I would rather commence with our business," he replied, masking his reluctance.
"Always so conscientious, sir," Mr Lickspittle crawled, "Very well. If you'll follow me, sir. There are a number of my pieces that I think might pique your interest…"
Closing his eyes briefly in disgust, Thranduil braced himself for a long evening. Perhaps he shouldn't have turned down that drink...
Bard's hands shook violently as he stood beside his mounted painting. This exhibition was far more formal that the flyer had lead him to believe. His work was mounted next to that of experienced, commissioned artists and, certainly in his opinion, fell drastically short of standard. He himself stood out for the crowd as being the only man present who wasn't wearing a tailored suit. Silently wondering if he could quickly unmount his painting and slip away unnoticed, he glanced up at his work in despair and braced himself for humiliation.
He woefully gazed around at his fellow exhibitor's pieces and beheld works that would not look out of place next to those of Monet or Matisse. He groaned in embarrassment and prayed that no one would approach him. He had no interest in providing comic relief to rich men. He would just stand there until the exhibition was over and then quickly duck out of the side door. He would be unnoticed and would be able to maintain some small shred of dignity, just as long as no one approached. Not that that was likely; his was work was the least interesting in the room. No one would come to- oh God, who was this?
Walking directly towards him were two men he had not seen previously in the evening. One was a short, slightly hunched man in a velour suit and sporting a particularly unsettling grin. The other- well, the other was like no one Bard had ever seen. His towering height belittled the smaller man even further, and his appearance made him look like a troll. His skin was like alabaster and contrasted sharply with his perfectly tailored black suit but most noticeable of all was his long platinum hair, hanging immaculately on a loose ponytail. People just didn't look like that. Realising he was staring, Bard's cheeks burned and he busied himself with pretending to observe the nearest exhibits. Okay Bard, compose yourself, he internally scolded, you're letting this place get to you. Just be yourself…
"Good evening, Mr…Bowman," the smaller man greeted, quickly looking at the name under his exhibit, "How nice to see you again!"
Again? What does he mean 'again'? Bard frowned.
"Mr Bowman here is one of our frequent exhibitors," the man continued, "We're very proud to support such talented individuals here at the gallery. I said to myself just earlier, sir, that I thought his work might catch your attention. I find I have an excellent eye taste- though, not nearly like yours, sir, of course-"
"Thank you, Mr Lickspittle," the taller man spoke in a deep timbre, "but I would prefer to discuss business with the artist in private,"
The man's speech was so pointed that Mr Lickspittle's widened a little, apparently horrified at having overstayed his welcome. With a muttered "Certainly sir," and a bow of his head, he strode away, failing to disguise his embarrassment.
As Bard turned his attention back to the second man he was at a loss of what to say. Thankfully the man was not.
"Mr Bowman, my name is Thranduil Oropherion. I am the patron of the Lasgalan Museum of Art. How do you do?" he extended a leather gloved hand and shook his firmly.
"Uh…" Bard cleared his throat, "Pleased to meet you, Mr Oropherion. I'm Bard. Bard Bowman...er, how can I help you?"
"Please, just Thranduil. 'Mr Oropherion' reminds me entirely too much of our friend," he motioned after Mr Lickspittle, a wry smile on his lips. Bard, smiled in return, a little more at ease.
"Then please call me Bard. 'Mr Bowman' makes me sound too professional,"
A corner of Thranduil's mouth twitched upwards in amusement.
"... As you wish, Bard,"
It was about five seconds later when Bard realised that he should probably say something and not smile like a fool.
"So, er... how may I help you, Thranduil?" His name sounded funny in his voice. Evidently Thranduil thought so too, as he smiled before replying,
"Well, as I have already stated, I am the patron of a rather prestigious gallery. We exhibit all forms of artwork but we specialise in fine paintings. I was wondering if we might discuss the purchase of yours for our collection?"
Bard blinked. This was a joke. Surely this was a joke. He almost began to laugh himself when he noticed that Thranduil did, in fact, seem serious. Either that or that was one hell of a poker face.
"Are you...serious?" Bard squinted at him, glancing at his work on the display.
"Perfectly. In truth, I do not understand your evident surprise, but, if it will assist you, I will explain," Thranduil turned to face the painting, "Your style is very expressive yet with enough control to display your skill. Your use of colour is fascinating and you have portrayed a subject that I have seen many times in a way I have not. I believe it would sit very comfortably in our Modernist wing,"
He waited for some sort of response from Bard.
"Right…" Bard looked skeptically up at his work, "It's just… you see, galleries are for artists and I just… don't fit the criteria. I'd feel like a fraud if mine was hanging in yours. I'm really sorry but-"
"I'm afraid I don't follow," Thranduil raised an eyebrow, "What criteria do you not fit? You did paint this, did you not?"
"Yes! Yes, of course," Bard backtracked, trying to find the best way to explain the situation, "I just… I'm not a painter. I don't do this professionally. I don't even really do it as a hobby! No anymore, at least. The truth is, I'm only here because my daughter wouldn't give me a moment's peace until I exhibited something here. I'm so sorry to waste your time, I-"
"Amazing," Thranduil cut him off, a smile reappearing on his face, "Truly amazing. And you have not formal training, you said? No experience selling your work?"
"No, none at all," Bard admitted sheepishly, feeling even more out of place than ever.
"Well, Bard, I think this changes things entirely," Thranduil appeared to think for a moment before continuing, "While I still wish to purchase this piece for my gallery, I would like to privately commission you, if that is acceptable to you, to create a piece for my home. Something about your style, Bard, it's captivating,"
"What?" was all Bard could manage, completely stunned by this swift escalation of events, "You… you don't care that I'm not a professional?"
"On the contrary, that fact makes this even more enticing," Thranduil smiled, "Your daughter has quite an eye for talent,"
"Well, you best not let her hear you say that. I'd never hear the end of it," Bard chuckled.
"And is she the only one responsible for persuading you?"
"No, I have three children," Bard smiled, feeling much more comfortable talking about his children than art, "Sigrid is my eldest; she's seventeen. Then there's Bain, who's fourteen and Tilda who's eight,"
Thranduil gave him a warm smile and remarked on the loveliness of their names,
"I know what it's like to have a strong willed teenager. I have a son, Legolas. He's about to turn eighteen,"
Bard smiled warmly, suddenly feeling the humanity in his thus far surreal new acquaintance.
"Really? I don't know why, but I didn't picture you being the wife and children type," he said carefully, trying not to offend.
Thranduil laughed merrily but there was a little shadow in his eyes as he replied.
"Well, I suppose you are half correct," he nodded, "My wife passed away when my son was very young,"
Bard was mortified. He wished he did not know how it felt to be forced into remembering the death of a spouse but, unfortunately he did. He immediate sought to rectify his mistake.
"Please, I'm so sorry. I never should have-"
"It's quite alright," Thranduil stopped him, a thankful smile upon his face, "Time, as they say, heals many wounds. She would never wish me to dwell on despair and, of course, I have a son to look after and enjoy,"
Bard felt a new sense of admiration for this man. So much so that he felt he could share his own loss with him.
"I know what it is to lose the person you love. My wife died not long after my youngest was born. I'd like to think the way you do, that she would want me to focus on our children and be happy, but I do find some things are missing in me since I lost her. Actually, painting was one of them,"
"Well, then," Thranduil looked at him, continuing to smile, "perhaps you're children are more of a healing force than you thought. I am certainly grateful that they were able to pry your talent out of you,"
Bard considered this for a moment and was aware of a sudden want to hold his children. He would have to treat them to something nice to eat when he got home.
"Thank you,"
"So, Bard the Artist, you have not yet agreed to my offer. Will you allow me to purchase your exceptional painting and commission your talents for some private work?" Thranduil replaced his business head.
Bard considered this. He was aware that art was often sold for extortionate prices and he was not comfortable asking for any particular figure so, instead, he asked,
"What would you be wanted to pay for that? Frankly, I'd give it to you for free so-"
"Shall we say five thousand pounds?" Thranduil interrupted.
Bard choked.
"You can't be serious! It's not worth that!"
Thranduil chuckled at his modestly.
"If it will make the transaction easier for you, I am willing to pay you two thousand five hundred for both the painting and the private work but - and I must insist on this - I must be allowed to pay you any extra I see fit on completion of your work. Please-" he saw Bard about to protest, "I really do insist. I will not give you a penny less. I never cheat an artist,"
Bard was not used to accepting anything from anyone, let alone such a ridiculous amount for a painting that he set no store by. Yet, he did not wish to deny Thranduil. In truth, he looked forward to working with him. He felt as though he had found something of a kindred spirit in this man. He did not want his money but it seemed he had no other option.
"...Very well," he said at length, "I can't really believe I'm saying this but you have a deal, Mr Oropherion,"
Thranduil beamed and removed a cheque book from his inner pocket. He wrote the five thousand pound cheque out as it if were no more than a shopping list and handed it to Bard.
"Well, Mr Bowman, I look forward to your company in the near future. If it is acceptable to you I will arrange for you to come to my property tomorrow to discuss your commission," he looked very well pleased with the deal.
"That's fine… completely fine with me," Bard smiled in return, reaching out to shake his hand.
Thranduil turned to leave but stopped and turned back,
"A question, Bard: why did you choose to paint the sea this way?"
"It's only a mile from my house and I'm a fisherman by trade. It's just how I know it," he replied.
"I thought so," was Thranduil's response, "You must congratulate your children, Bard. They know talent when they see it. Until tomorrow," he inclined his in a respectful bow and left.
As Bard stared after him he thought about Sigrid,
'There'll be no living with her after this,' he sighed.