Chapter Twenty-Nine

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"That which does not kill us makes us stronger."

― Friedrich Nietzsche

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City of Dale, 16th of June 2946 T.A.

This morning, Bard and Thranduil started their day taking their royal guests on a tour of their home.

"There's some finishing touches to be made, but 'it keeps the rain off our heads,' as my Da used to say. Garon the Founder—the first ruler of Dale—designed this Castle." Bard waved his hand toward the dark beams of the tall ceiling and the white walls of the main corridor, interspersed with clear windows set in diamond-shaped flashing. Outside, faint sounds of Tilda calling for her dog seeped through the glass, followed by excited barks. "It's too bad Garon never lived to see it finished," he told the group. "He waited almost twenty years before he let them dig the foundation."

"Why?" the corners of Prince Denethor's mouth dropped.

"Because he wanted to be sure all his people had homes first, Bard answered patiently. "That was the kind of King he was. His people's welfare came first, and I want to continue that tradition. We didn't start the Castle's restoration until everyone in Dale had shelter and warmth."

Fíriel dragged her gaze away from Bain to face Bard. "Where did you stay in the meantime?"

"That's a good question, My Lady," he nodded to the princess. "Lord Thranduil was kind enough to look after the women, children, and elderly, at his Palace. I stayed in some of the rooms in the back, and worked from there. The rest of the Men and Elves camped out together in the Great Hall and we rebuilt as much of Dale as we could. The Dwarves provided most of the building materials, and melted down the Orc's armor to make tools. We bought whatever food we could from neighboring countries and the Elves helped us hunt."

"But you can't climb tall buildings in the winter," Denethor said. "It's too slippery!"

"Haven't you been around Elves before?" Percy grinned. "Those fellows can climb a wall of pure ice and not worry about falling. And once the roofs were taken care of, the rest of us got busy on the rooms."

Bard made a mental note to take Percy aside and warn him off. Denethor was his parents' problem. Ecthelion and Nienor were doing their best to curb their son's affectations—Percy didn't need to make anything worse.

Ah, he smothered a grin. No need. Hilda, smile never leaving her face, lifted her right boot slightly and drove the heel down on her husband's toes, daring him with her eyes to make a sound.

"How did you stand being away from your father?" Fíriel took a step closer to Bain and fluttered her eyelashes.

Uh oh. Bard schooled his face into a neutral expression and glanced over at his husband, who gave him a small "we'll discuss it later" smile.

Sympathy flashed in Annael's eyes, "I can't imagine parting from my baby for months on end."

"I hated every minute of it, Your Highness," Bard's voice softened. "But there just wasn't enough space or food or fuel to keep everyone alive, let alone comfortable."

"While we were at the Palace," Hilda added, "we set up a school for the children, and classes for the adults, if they wanted it. The Palace Guilds taught us new skills so we could open up business and get our economy going."

"I've read about that, My Lady," Nienor's eyes flashed with interest. "I'd very much like to learn more about it, if you're willing."

"I'd love to," Hilda beamed. "We're pretty proud of it."

"Once we were reunited after the Long Winter, we all moved in. It was a bit cramped, but I found I rather liked it." 1 A fond smile fell across Thranduil's lips. "I still miss it, sometimes."

"I read about your first winter here," Halmir, Annael's husband commented. "It was incredibly generous of you to take in the women and children like that."

"It really was," Nienor agreed.

"It wasn't just altruism, My Lord, My Lady," he bowed slightly. Once the Three Kingdoms formed an alliance, the only way to strengthen and protect the North was to combine our efforts to preserve its people as a whole. Now, not only are Bard's people thriving, but the Dwarves have resettled in Erebor, and many have started families. My kingdom is enjoying a large number of births as well. And, of course," Thranduil's eyes fell to Bain with a soft smile, "my love for our children, has helped me gain perspective."

Ecthelion and Nienor exchanged a look of approval.

"Shall I show you our Throne Room?" Bard waved his hand down the corridor.

"Please," Nienor gave him a slight curtsy and fell into step behind the Kings and her husband and spoke a few words to Hilda in a soft voice.

"And here we are," Bard grinned as the guards opened the doors to let them enter. The Throne Room wasn't nearly as fancy as the Citadel in Gondor, but he couldn't help feeling satisfied when Denethor took in the sight of the Black Arrow hanging above the dais.

"Look!" he sucked in a quick breath, and asked Bain. "That's the arrow you used on the bell tower?"

"I have a scar across my chest from the bowstring to prove it," Bain boasted with a wry grin, then his mouth tightened. "To be honest, it's not a night I'd like to repeat."

Denethor turned to Bain, eyes narrowed. "Show me."

"Denethor!" Ecthelion's features sharpened.

"No, it's all right," Bain laughed and pulled up his shirt to reveal the whitish line across his pectoral muscles. "It really impresses the girls when we go swimming," he winked.

Ecthelion's eyes bulged. "Wow."

Hilda's cheeks went pink. "Put your shirt down, Bain!"

"It's all right, My Lady," Ecthelion held up a hand. "I, too, am interested in this tale."

Bard took note of Ecthelion's interest and gave his son a quick nod. Perhaps Denethor might see past his grandsire's influence and think for himself.

"Go ahead, Bain," Bard said, lifting his chin toward his son. "You tell it better, anyway."

For the next several minutes, the Crown Prince of Dale regaled them with the details of that terrible night. The city on fire. The deafening roar of the dragon. Of looking up from the boat that carried he and his sisters only to discover his father, firing arrow after arrow at the Smaug, without hope.

"Da told me earlier to hide the Black Arrow," Bain said. "But I thought, if I could get it to him—"

"You could kill the Dragon?"

"Stars, no! I was only hoping it would wound Smaug enough to give Da a chance to get away."

"You must have been terrified." Denethor shook his head slightly in wonder.

Bain's face contorted. "I still have dreams of that monster's hot breath breathing down my neck. I was shaking so hard my knees were knocking together, but Da kept calm and made me keep my eyes on him." He glanced over at Bard, his features relaxed into a mixture of fondness and pride.

Bard swallowed down the sudden swelling in his throat. Beside him, Thranduil stiffened as he gave Bard's upper arm a squeeze, sending silent comfort and support.

"He wasn't scared?" Denethor's wide eyes shot to Bard.

"Terrified," Bain said. "But he said when Smaug threatened to kill me, he got too mad to think about it."

"But," Denethor pressed Bain further, "you didn't know if your father could really do it,"

"No, I didn't. But if we were going to die, at least we were going to be together. The girls were with Tauriel, and she would take care of them. That's all that mattered."

The rubbed his fingers over is mouth, his brows lowered in contemplation. "I've never thought about my sisters like that. I mean, they've always had their own guards, so…" he shrugged.

Bain tilted his head and regarded Denethor with, Bard thought, a mixture of irritation and pity. "But you forget, my family didn't grow up as royalty—we grew up as poor as everyone else in Laketown. I didn't even know about the Black Arrow until that night."

"Why wouldn't your father tell you about that?"

"Because, if word got out that the heir of Girion was living, the Master would probably have had us all killed," Bain said soberly, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. "Da kept it a secret to protect us. Anyway, Da saw a missing scale on the Dragon's breast, the one that Girion had done himself with that same Black Arrow, and he fired." Bain shrugged as an attempt at nonchalance, but the lack of color in his face betrayed him. "And, here we are."

"To grow up in such poverty," Denethor's mouth was agape. "That must have been horrible!" Denethor's sisters clearly shared his sentiments.

"I am glad we did!" After a quick glance at Bard and Thranduil, Bain wiped the annoyed expression from his face. "I believe it will make me a better, more compassionate King if I can really understand what folks are going through."

"So, by that standard, Denethor's lip curled slightly, "I will be a terrible ruler because I grew up privileged and rich?"

"That's not what I meant at all!" Bain's head jerked back.

Denethor's fingers clenched into fists and his spine stiffened in defiance. "I assure you, Prince—"

Oh, shit. Bard winced inwardly, forcing his features to remain smooth.

"Denethor, that is enough." Ecthelion stepped in front of the boy. "I am certain the Crown Prince intimated no such thing." He bowed his head to Bain. "My apologies if my son offended you, My Lord. Clearly," his dark eyebrows drew together in a pronounced frown, "he has much to learn."

With all the dignity his Ada had taught him, Bain straightened his shoulders and bowed low to Ecthelion and said, "No offense taken, My Lord. If you will excuse me, I mustn't be late for sword practice. My Lady," he took Nienor's hand and kissed it. After another bow to his parents, he walked out of the Throne room, his boots echoing down the corridor.

"The point goes to Grandfather Anárion," Thranduil whispered to Bard out of the side of his mouth.

Bard disagreed. It was Bain who won this round.

Ecthelion took a sip of his whisky, held up the glass and analyzed the amber liquid. "This is excellent."

The evening sun in Bard's study was bright enough to preclude the need for candles, though the growing shadows behind his furniture and books meant he'd have to light them soon. This time of year, Bard liked to put it off as long as possible. The day had been warm, almost too warm, but at least the breeze coming through the open windows was cooler, carrying the scent of peonies and late-blooming lilacs from the King's Garden. A few field crickets were beginning their nocturnal song, while the others waited until nightfall to join the chorus.

Despite the tension earlier, dinner had gone well. Denethor had, under obvious duress, offered his formal apologies before the meal. Bain behaved as though the matter was beneath his notice, as if he couldn't recall the incident. Bard was tempted to chastise his son for acting haughty, but remembered who he was married to and decided to let it go.

"Please allow me to apologize again for my son's behavior," Ecthelion said.

"He's just young," Bard shook his head. "All sixteen-year-olds think they have all the answers, don't they?"

"It was so long ago, I don't remember," Ecthelion's mouth twitched. "You have to know that my wife and I do not hold with such attitudes, and one of the hopes I had for this trip was to offer Denethor a chance to see for himself that there are other, perhaps better ways to rule a Kingdom." He cast Thranduil a knowing look. "No doubt Gandalf has enlightened you regarding the political divide in the White City?"

"He has…offered his own opinion on the matter," Thranduil said diplomatically. "Still, Mithrandir acknowledges his perspective is that of an outsider. However correct he might be, it is a much easier burden to bear than yours, Mellon nîn."

A heavy sigh escaped Ecthelion. "My father says he has never remembered such conflict in his Council, and I am at a loss how to help. The two factions are so determined to gain power, that I fear the needs of our people will get lost." He stared down in his glass and swirled its contents. "I have been accused by my father-in-law of being an idealist."

"So what, if you are?" Thranduil leaned forward in his chair. "I can offer you a perspective from both sides of the coin. I started my reign following the principles taught to me by King Oropher, which are admirable. Then," he drew a deep, audible breath, "my wife was murdered. For a long time, I became everything my father warned me against, everything you are trying to fight today. I was autocratic, isolationist, and willfully ignorant. It was Bard who brought me into the life I enjoy now and showed me that the best philosophies are the simplest."

"Which are?"

"People will always protect what they love best. If a man values his family and his people, it shows in his every thought and deed, and there is no need for words. But have you noticed the long-winded and complicated explanations of those who believe the opposite? They love the security of their riches, and put their legions betwixt them and physical danger, but they are too cowardly to admit such fear, so they weave a labyrinth of words and call it logic."

"You're certainly not wrong on that account," Ecthelion's mouth pressed into a thin line. "The problem is, there are several of my father's advisors with such silver tongues and charisma that they can convince those less fortunate to act against their own interests!"

"All wars begin with words that cause division and strife," Thranduil said sadly.

"I fear the seeds of it has already started in Gondor. When Turgon overruled that faction of the Council and gave us permission to come, convenient rumors started to churn that we would be kidnapped, poisoned, or killed in our beds."

A laugh burst out of Bard. "That's ridiculous."

"To us, of course it is. But for those of lesser means, it's not so farfetched. The uneducated are the first targets of people like my father-in-law. Their ignorance makes them prey to any superstition that sounds plausible."

"They are indeed," Thranduil inclined his head gravely. "And if what you say is true, I am sorry for you."

"Education is the best solution," Bard said. "I know that much from my time in Laketown."

"That's my wife's reason for wanting to come. She insisted our daughters receive the same level of education as our son, and has laid the groundwork for setting up schools in the same way. Unfortunately, we're fighting against years of tradition. Too many men in my city treat their women like pawns in a game of money and influence. Annael and Fíriel have had to endure some difficulties with their peers, but we don't regret our decision. In fact, one of the reasons why we gave our blessing to Annael's marriage to Halmir was because he admired my daughter's intelligence. They plan the same high level of education for my granddaughter."

"I'm pleased to hear it," Bard nodded his approval and rose to refill everyone's drinks.

"I have followed your career over the years," Thranduil said. "If Denethor wants to be a good and effective ruler to his people, he only has to look to you." Before Ecthelion could protest out of modesty, he raised his hand and continued. "I have read accounts of your actions in battle. It is said you will not eat until you know your men are well-fed, and will not rest until you know your men are well-guarded. I commend you for that."

"Oh, that," a smile crinkled Ecthelion's mouth. "I was only following your example."

Thranduil was aghast. "Really?"

"I followed your history as well," Ecthelion told the Elvenking. "I know the reason why your army is loyal to you unto death. When I was Denethor's age, Gandalf took me to the Archives and showed me the account of your deeds in the War of the Last Alliance. You were prepared to sacrifice yourself to kill the Dragon Rurlug to save your people."

"Then I have to say it is my father's example you followed, Mellon. Oropher never asked his people to do anything that he wasn't willing to do himself." Thranduil leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "But there is a time to lead, and there is wisdom in allowing others to do it for you. Commander Feren did an excellent job, while I recovered from Rurlug's attack. To do otherwise would have caused unnecessary death. Pride and Ego have no place in Kingship."

"I wish I could say the same for Gondor," Ecthelion admitted. He met their gaze with a sparkle of pride. "But I love my homeland, make no mistake about that."

"I would never do that," Thranduil assured him. "You will be an excellent Steward, Ecthelion. Do not doubt it."

Bard observed the exchange between them with a humble fascination. One was an Elf, who had the memory of an age. The other might have been a Man, whose life was temporary, but Ecthelion's feet rested on the shoulders of a long and honorable history. It was easy to feel inferior in their presence—after all, even old Dale was new compared to their Kingdoms. Yet his own line originated from the Princes of Dol Amroth, brethren of the Kings of Gondor. His chest puffed and he sat taller in his chair.

"Keep in mind," Bard said, "that what you observe in my people today may not be the case a few generations from now. If you can imagine the poverty of Laketown, it's not hard to see how Dale has improved the lives of my people. Of course they're happy: they're warm, fed and clothed better than they ever were under the old Master. They're grateful, Ecthelion. But what about their great-grandchildren? Those stories told by their elders won't hold any weight with them, because it's nothing more than a distant memory. Trust me; my grandsons will be facing much the same dilemma as you. Peacetime can breed apathy and complacency if we're not careful. And often it takes something earth-shattering to bring them to their senses."

"Although," Thranduil gave Ecthelion a wry smile. "I wouldn't recommend a war with Orcs as a tool for change."

"Stars, what a long day," Bard yawned as he crawled into bed that night. "I like them, though."

"I do, as well," Thranduil turned and gathered the bowman to him. "Turgon has taught his son well, I think."

"And his wife will be a big help, if she can continue to stand up to her father. I don't envy either of them."

"But, like us, Meleth nîn, they have each other," Thranduil kissed Bard's hair. "I think I will bring up the idea of a soldier exchange with Gondor when they come to the Woodland Realm."

"No reason not to. It'll be a while before Dale can send some men, but I'm thinking Bain should have a chance to see the world before I abdicate. Maybe a year in Gondor? Or Rohan?"

"Not Rohan, while Fengel is King." Thranduil kissed his head. "You have a point about Gondor, but what if the Princess Fíriel ensnares him into a marriage before he is ready? The customs of courtship are very strict in Gondor, Bard. He could be forced into a wedding just by kissing a maid's hand the wrong way."

Bard lifted his head to stare at his Elf. "You're kidding."

"I am not."

"Shit," he flopped back down. "Still, it would do him good. Not for a few years yet, but I think it's a good idea."

"We could make sure he is fully educated on the customs and intricacies before he leaves," Thranduil began—

"—Which will do absolutely no good against a teenaged boy's urges, trust me; I was a young man, once. We'll send Bain to Gondor with a bunch of Elven guards and order them not to let him out of their sight."

"Even better," Thranduil agreed. "For now, let us get through this visit and let the future take care of itself."

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Rivendell, 18th of June 2946 T.A.

"Maed!" Melui clapped her hands as she perched atop Elladan's shoulders. It was afternoon, and while Vildan slept, the two of them decided to pick some flowers to cheer him up. The child insisted on apple blossoms today, so they were in Elrond's orchards, weaving through a haven of pink and white.

Above them, Lagrôval circled, always watching, always protecting. The falcon wasn't sure he approved of Melui hidden under the apple trees, and showed his disapproval by diving in between the trees and swooping within six feet of them to remind them of his presence.

"I know they are pretty, sweetling," he rolled his eyes upward and smiled. "You point out the branches you want, and I shall cut them for you."

"I want to do it!"

"I have no doubt you can, but Lord Elrond will get cross with me if I let you use a knife." Melui let go of the sides of his head and was, he was sure, crossing her arms with a pout. Luckily for him, he wasn't in a position to see those big, blue eyes, or he might give in.

"There!" she pointed to the right, where several low-hanging branches displayed the pink-and-white blossoms in abundance. "Those are pretty!"

"All right," he reached up and carefully lifted her down to the ground. "I will cut them, and hand them to you, yes?"

She nodded and held out her arms, ready to be filled.

It took several minutes to gather a nice bunch of thin branches, almost too large for Melui to carry.

"Ai!" she cried in frustration, as they nearly fell in a heap to the ground.

"Wait a moment, Dailên." Elrohir dashed over to some long grass and cut a few blades. He tied the branches together and laid them across her arms. "Is that better?"

"Ci athae," she beamed up at him with an eager grin, her perfect teeth like pearls surrounded by full, pink lips.

Elladan swallowed and returned her smile. His time with Melui was wonderful, but it also awoke thoughts and dreams he had set aside long ago. A wife who might look at him the way his parents had looked at each other, whether they sat together or across a crowded room. Perhaps a child with his mother's silver hair and his father's piercing blue eyes.

Lusiël's image appeared in his thoughts, and a sudden coldness hit him in the core. How could he have ever thought she might be the one to share those things with him? He was the son of Elrond, the grandson of Galadriel. How had she gotten away with so much? Was he blind because he didn't want to see the truth of her?

He stopped and leaned against the nearest tree.

"El'dan?" Melui's cornflower blue eyes studied him with surprising clarity.

"What?" he returned to the present.

"She cannot hurt you."

He kneeled down, took her bundle of branches and set them aside. Then he grasped her upper arms. "What do you mean, child?"

"The Bad One," Melui said simply. "She is in the Black."

"You knew what I was thinking?" his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her round face.

"I saw." She put her hand on his chest. "She cannot hurt you, again."

"I know she cannot, Melui," he cupped her cheek, and gave her a reassuring smile.

"Why are you afraid?"

That was a good question. "I failed to protect the people I care about, Dailên." He murmured, unable to stop the words. "What if I fail again?"

Melui grabbed Elladan's cheeks and fell into the endless sky of her eyes, and the barbed chain around his chest loosened and fell away, replaced by, if not peace, at least resignation that he couldn't have done any more than he did. Lusiël's face, with her glowing green eyes and curtains of dark hair was captured inside a bubble. Without thinking, Elladan pursed his lips and blew, and the bubble flew away. Smaller and smaller until it was nothing.

He fell back to the green grass, littered with apple blossoms. "Ci athae," he whispered, his eyes stinging with tears. Melui gave him a radiant smile, and all was well again.

"We should get back to Tôrano Vida." Elladan cleared his throat and sprang to his feet. "He will wake up and wonder where we are." He reached down and picked up the branches, took her by the hand and they headed toward home.

Lagrôval screed his approval when they came out of the orchard. Melui pointed up to the big bird and giggled, while Elladan became lost in thought. He tried to absorb what just happened. Mithrandir had been working to carefully develop Melui's gifts and teach her how to control them, but, since she'd received them from Lusiël's, and they in turn were enhanced by that cursed necklace, there was no way to know exactly what the child would become.

Then again, isn't that true of all of us? Does anyone really know what we are capable of, unless our limits are tested? Elladan found comfort in that. Then a thought occurred to him.

"Dailên?" he smiled down at the child who was kicking her feet along the footpath. "Can you see what Tôrano Vida is worried about?"

The child whirled around, her white-blonde hair swinging in the air and settled on her shoulders. "He is afraid it will always hurt."

"Vida is regaining the feeling below the waist; it is his body's way of waking up."

"Lots of pins," she said. "There is more when he moves."

"Yes, I am afraid so. We try to help him with the pain," Elladan assured her. "But if he does not do his exercises, it might never get better."

"I know," her shoulders slumped. "He wants it to stop."

"I am sure he does. We must be patient, and make him believe he will get well."

"Vida will walk again," Melui said sadly.

"If you say he will walk again, that is good news, yes?" Elladan squeezed her hand. "Why does it make you unhappy?"

"It is a secret."

Elladan stopped and picked her up. "He wants you to keep a secret?"

"He thinks no one knows."

"Oh. So, he does not know you 'saw' him, just like you did me."

She nodded, frowning.

"Can you tell me what you saw?" he hugged her. "We only want to help him."

She stilled, and stared into his face for several moments, then opened her mouth and said.

"When Vida walks, he wants to take me to the Big Water and get on a boat."

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ELVEN TRANSLATIONS:

Ci athae – Thank you.

Dailên - "Little Beauty," Vildan's nickname for his niece, Melui.

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NOTES:

1 An Invincible Summer, Ch. 55: /works/14127870/chapters/39824019

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