Chapter Forty-One

SUMMARY: It's back to work for the King of Dale. Harvest is in full swing, and but before Bard plunges into the fray, he takes a little time to reflect on how it all came about.

The puppy gets a name, but not without careful thought and a little arguing.

Thranduil finds he's not as good at parenting adults as he once thought.

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NOTE: Yep, I'm back, kids! Can I just kneel at your feet and express my thanks for the grace you've shown me? Personally, I know what it's like to really get into a story then have it just… stop. And, even though the reasons might be very good ones, it's frustrating. I flatter myself to even consider that anyone out there might be feeling the same kind of impatience but without holding it against me, but if so, I'm glad to be able to get back to something I love:

Which is this little story.

That seems to have grown exponentially,

Whether I intended it to or not.

Which, in its writing,

I have found a whole new level of energy and purpose.

For which, I now have a merry little band of people in my life

Who I now can call friends.

I really do have the best, most faithful readers in the world.

"Maybe you don't need the whole world to love you, you know. Maybe you just need one person." – The Muppets

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City of Dale, 9th of October 2946 T.A.

The day after Bard and the family rolled through the South Gates, he and Bain arose early. The young prince had complained bitterly about Tauriel keeping him from leaving the city while they were gone, and he chomped at the bit to jump on Sílnaith, gallop to Hope Field and join his friends. Bard was less enthusiastic about yet another day on horseback, but it was preferable to the stacks of documents that awaited him in his study. He went to the stables, saddled up Fînlossen, and went out to survey his nation.

The frantic rush of harvest was upon Dale and its Surrounding Lands. The work had begun before Bard's return, but he wasn't worried; he had left the entire matter in excellent hands. This past July, he chose Jarvis as the head of Dale's newly organized Agricultural Society and Cooperative, and was now a member of the King's Council. In the conference room, Lord Jarvis (though he much preferred his old moniker of Farmer), tugged at the collars of his stiff, formal clothes, clearly feeling out of place. Some of the other Council members weren't so sure about him, and exchanged wary glances with each other. But when it was his turn to speak, Jarvis easily proved Bard's confidence in him with his detailed, yet succinct reports of the condition of the kingdom's crops and the status of its food supply.

Lord Jarvis clearly knew what he was about, and oversaw the gathering season like a skilled band leader. Those of Bain's former classmates not helping their own families, were hired and distributed among the farmers who needed a hand. Daffyd's powerful draft horses were in the fields from sunup to sundown, along with several Elven warhorses that had been rented out for a fair price—at Bard's insistence, though Feren argued the extra exercise would do them good. This autumn, Dale needed fewer volunteers from the Elven army to work the fields. That was fine; most of the soldiers Feren could spare were sent to assist their own people.

At the top of the hill just outside the North Gate, Bard stopped his white stallion and took in the activity on Hope Field with an approving smile. The good folk of Dale had learned much in the last five years about life on the land, and took great pride in their increasing self-sufficiency. Most had taken to the soil much as they had always done with any endeavor; with heads down, shoulders to the wheel, and the satisfaction that came from a full day's work.

Not all of Dale's citizens, however, proved to be as content on land as they had been on water. Long ago, Bard accepted this fact, and sought a way to provide for those who missed their old life and wanted to go back to fishing for a living. Two years ago, thankfully, the King of Harad provided the solution.1 As a gesture of thanks for providing shelter and safety to a group of his children, he had given Dale not only a beautiful bell that hung in the steeple at the East Gate, but enough gold to finance the construction. The site for New Esgaroth was at the northern end of the Long Lake, close to where the citizens of Dale picnicked every year during the Festival of Summer. And this time, the buildings were on land, rather than on the Lake itself. Forasmuch as many of the Dale folk wanted to return to the profession of their past, none were eager to trigger memories of grinding poverty and despair living out on the cold water. Not to mention the perpetual damp, that sank a merciless chill into the bones and pained their joints. New Esgaroth's future citizens will be warmer on land, thus enjoying the best of both worlds.

It would take several years for the town to be ready for habitation and industry. And for its new ruler, for it would be the Crown Prince that would assume leadership. But before Bain officially became Lord of New Esgaroth, he was to continue his training and gain experience fostering in other lands.

This last thought twisted Bard's stomach into a painful knot. One month from now, Bain will turn eighteen. The planning had already begun for his coronation as Crown Prince, which would be emotional enough. But the worst for Bard would be in the late spring, when the Royal family will say farewell to their youngest son as he leaves for his year under the guardianship of Lord Celeborn. While there, Bain will work alongside Haldir and the Wardens, as well as in Rohan under the tutelage of Lord Léod of the Wold, and, whenever possible, Lord Déor, the First Marshal of the Mark himself. 2 His time in Rohan will be served under an assumed name, of course, and that's the part that made Bard nervous. But Thranduil and Celeborn assured Bard he would be perfectly safe. Léod is a good man, Celeborn said. And few can be trusted more than the First Marshal. Celeborn also promised that his Wardens would keep a constant, surreptitious watch over the boy.

The experience will do Bain good. Or so Bard told himself. Again.

There was no question of their son agreeing to the plan. Last night when he and Thranduil put it to him, Bain nearly jumped out of his seat, he was that eager to get started. Why wait until after winter? he asked, cheeks flushed with excitement. Couldn't I leave after his coronation?

No, Thranduil insisted. The invitation was for the spring, and we mustn't be presumptuous, must we? Better to write the Lord and Lady and thank them for their kind offer, and include any sort of questions you might have, Ion nîn.

From Lothlórien and the Wold, Bain would travel over the Misty Mountains and enjoy his time as a guest of Lord Elrond. There had been talk of an exploration of the lands in Eradior, but the King of Dale couldn't bear any more discussion and excused himself. What Bard didn't say, and what his son failed to comprehend in his enthusiasm, was that once Bain left, the City of Bells would no longer be his home. Not for a long time. And never again with Bard.

Not until Bain returned to take his place as King, would he live on the second floor of Garon's castle. And only then after Bard himself left Dale and went to live among Elves as Thranduil's consort. It would truly be the end of his family as he had always known it. One by one, the others would leave to begin their own lives, and all that would be life in the Royal Chambers would be empty rooms and memories. As much as Bard loved to tease his Elf over his sentimentality, it was only a diversion from his own heartache.

Bard's vision blurred. He impatiently swiped at his eyes and shook his thoughts back to the present. First things first: the harvest, the coronation, then winter. One foot in front of the other.

Back to the matters at hand. Harvest. Food. A plenty his people had only recently come to know.

In the twilight of each day, just before Arien awoke to prepare Anar for its daily voyage the men Dale left their beds, dressed in heavy boots and jackets, and plunged into the thick autumn mist that hovered over the warmer ground, emerging eerily like ghosts on the fields, ready for another day. 3 But by early afternoon, most were bare-chested with rivulets of sweat running down their backs, and handkerchiefs tied around their heads. And as the men toiled, as they tied and stooked the acres of grain, as they threw forkfuls onto the wagons, they sang.

Bard smiled, brought his horse to a standstill, and tilted his head. The chorus of voices lifted in the wind and brought visions of green grass and rivers and pretty women with flowers in their hair. He searched the field for the instigator.

Ah, there he was. Jack, Evan's nephew stood high atop a mound in one of the wagons, his face and shoulders brown from the sun, and led the singing as he stomped down the hay. He had grown up working the Fields of East Bight, was as tall as his uncle, though with a slighter, nimbler build. As Bard observed Jack, he was glad to see that none of the trauma of last April had dampened his gregarious personality.4 After his trial and acquittal, Jack and Judd became good friends. Soon after, Judd asked Jack to leave the brickyard and come to work with him as Overseer. Jack moved from his rooms at Evan's and Eryn's and was given his own little cottage near their barns, He also enjoyed playing his guitar, had an excellent singing voice and regaled Jarvis's family in the evenings. Rumor had it that Jack had also stepped out with Jarvis's daughter Naomi on several occasions.

The womenfolk sang their way through the Harvest, too. They gathered and canned every vegetable they could get their hands on. Pots of jam boiled on the cook stoves. Apples and pears were carefully layered with straw and sealed in barrels. Nuts were picked from trees and put in burlap bags. All were stored below in cool, dry cellars.

And in addition to all this, outdoor tables were set up and groaned under the weight of thick stews, baskets piled high with fresh rolls with butter, platters of cooked beans and carrots and a variety of pies. The men who dragged themselves in for lunch or supper were rewarded with good, hearty food. This task fell to the maids of Dale, as their mothers watched over them with keen eyes. They winked at each other knowingly, as a different kind of crop was cultivated amongst the young unattached men, and the pretty blushing maids with shy smiles. This harvest needed no soil, and many hoped that at the Feast later this month, a young man might ask a certain young woman to dance, and the seeds of love might take root and grow.

Nothing was wasted, not even the remnants on the fields.

Bard picked up Fînlossen's reins and trotted toward a group of schoolchildren who were pacing the ground, eyes down, searching for every bit of grain left behind to place in their sacks. It had been Schoolmistress Bronwyn's idea and a good one: every year they scoured the cut fields and gleaned what was left, then presented their offerings to the Miller's wife. Under the gaze of wide, anxious eyes, each bag was carefully poured into the scales for inspection. Silence hung in the air as Mistress Lowri carefully calculated its weight, then solemnly named her price as if she were doing business with the King himself. Once accepted, Lowri handed over the coins with a handshake, as well as a sweet donated by Mistress Enid, whose son-in-law ran the Bakery. Even the smaller children could do business, although they had to be lifted up to see. And if these tots were slipped an extra coin for their trouble, no one appeared to mind.

Everyone benefitted from the arrangement: The women appreciated the children being out from underfoot, the children learned the benefits of hard work, and the elderly in Dale were provided a nice supply of flour, free of charge. Bard had insisted upon reimbursing Alwyn and Lowri Miller for this, and they finally gave in, but only if they could put it toward the bill the Elder house owed.

"Good morning," Bard waved as he reached the tree where Gruffudd was relaxing in his wheelchair. 5

Bard dismounted and left the stallion to graze as he approached the old man.

"Same to you, My Lord," the old man nodded his head. "Pardon if I don't get up. Didn't bring my leg today."

"You're fine. Stay there in the shade, please. I see you're supervising operations here." He looked to see his granddaughter among the crowd.6 "Looks like your Dafina's earning a fortune, over there. How old is she now?"

"Just had her eighth birthday last month. Growing like a weed, she is. Have you seen Imrahil yet? Our babinod's a year old, already." 7

"I haven't had a chance," Bard said, "but I hope to, soon. I thought Elves counted years by their conception, which would make him two?"

"Oh, piffle," Gruffudd waved his hand. "That don't matter. All I know is that he's a grand little lad and smart as a whip, too. Stick around a minute and, you'll see him yourself; 'Lindë's just off changing him."

"Oop, there she comes, now." Bard jerked his chin toward the trees. "Aur galu, 'Lindë."

Glelindë, Feren's beautiful wife, approached with her auburn-haired Elfling riding her hip. She bowed her head and saluted. "Good morn, Hír nîn." Truly motherhood suited the Elleth, both as an adopted parent to Alis and Dafina, and last year she gave birth to Imrahil, who was the picture of contentment in his mother's arms.

"He is getting big. Pretty soon he'll be running around with Ermon and Elénaril's triplets and none of you will have a moment's peace!"

"It is already upon us, I am afraid," Linde laughed. "Elénaril and Véana, often bring the children to meet us in the park," she booped Imrahil's nose and made him giggle. "I am glad that Elénaril and Ermon have such a good Tírahîn. I do not know how they would cope otherwise." 8 She handed Gruffudd the baby who settled him in his lap. "Are you well, Grandad? Shall I get you something to drink?" She unfolded the shawl from the back of the wheelchair and settled it around his shoulders. "Are you warm enough?"

"Nay, I'm fine, love." Gruffudd gave her a contented smile. "Fresh air's the best thing for me, and the company is good. The singing's good, too."

"It sure is," Bard said. The concern in Glélindë's face was subtle, but genuine, and he regarded the old man a bit more. His cheeks were thinner, paler than the last time Bard had seen him, and despite Gruffudd's cheerful countenance, fatigue pinched his features, and his lips were slightly blue. When he breathed, a wheeze from deep in his chest reached Bard's ears.

He squatted in front of Gruffudd and stroked the Imrahil's soft cheek. "It's nice to have a baby in the house, isn't it?"

"Oh, aye." Gruffudd said. "The lad uses my arms as his cot most of the time." His grey eyes, slightly rheumy rested on Bard, and in them there was understanding and acceptance of the inevitable. Which would be soon.

Bard rested his hands on Gruffudd's good knee. "Oh, my friend…"

"Now, don't you start fretting, My Lord," the old man murmured. "There's things you can fix, and things you can't, and that's just the way of things. Who could die a happier man than me? I've got the girls and this babe that give me hope for the future; it doesn't matter that I won't be there to see it. They'll have it, and that's enough. Lindë and Feren give me the best of care, treat me as their own Da." His mouth curved into a serene smile. "And soon I'll go and be with my own daughter, and I've got so much to tell her. All about how her girls are growing up, and this place, and the adventures we've had since you've brought us here. She's never gonna believe half of it!" He wheezed a laugh which ended in a couple of coughs. Then Gruffudd's voice softened. "Nay, I'm grateful, to you, Bard. You're everything your Da hoped you would be and more. You've given all of us a real good life here; I'll be telling Brand all about it when I get there."

A sudden, painful spasm in Bard's throat prevented words, but there was nothing he could say anyway. He stood, rested his hands upon Gruffudd's head and prayed a silent blessing, and for a peaceful journey. Glélindë offered him a tremulous, but brave smile. Bard wasn't fooled, and he rested his hand on her shoulder. She reached and gave his fingers a squeeze, before she turned away, wiping her eyes. Death was a hard concept for Elves to fathom under any circumstance and though the passing of Men was inescapable, this ellon was going to take it very hard.

The King of Dale gathered Fînlossen's reins, mounted up, and rode away, not trusting himself to look back. With a deep, marshaling sigh, Bard focused on the future, and continued his ride.

From what Bard had observed so far, the Dale folk could thank Ulmo for another good year. The fourth in a row, in fact, so the praises should go to the rest of the Valar and Eru Ilúvitar himself. Although there was something that always galled him, that kept him up at night. Of all the efforts Bard and his people had made toward establishing and flourishing in this new land, too much of depended upon forces that were was completely out of their control. The right amount of sunshine, of rain, the proper temperatures that would encourage their seeds to grow. For this, all they could do was to work hard, pray hard, and leave the rest in the hands of the gods, whose will in such matters was often an unfathomable mystery.

Their continued success seemed almost too good to be true, and a vague unease tightened Bard's chest. But, again, all that could be done to help themselves was accomplished with honest hearts and dutiful spirits. Or fëa, in Bard's case. And such a good harvest, meant that more could be stored away for times of famine or other hardships. Every year, the silos and storehouses were filled with the excess and to date, three were full to bursting.

That was as just much a protection for his people as those high walls and solid gates.

It would have to be enough.

Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

City of Dale, 15th of October 2946 T.A.

For the past week the Royal family had slowly settled into their normal routine. With one unexpected bonus. Lewis the Cook had evidently missed them, and sought to reward their safe return by outdoing himself in the Castle kitchens. Percy joked that Lewis was trying to keep them from ever traveling again. Bard joked back that perhaps Lewis had done something bad and was trying to butter him up. Either way, it was a taste treat.

Tonight was no exception, with Bard's favorite fish pie, along with the vegetable casserole that Thranduil always enjoyed. And roasted sweet potatoes with cinnamon butter, a particular favorite of Hilda's. After they were finished and the plates were cleared away, a sweet, fruity aroma announced the arrival apple pie, fresh out of the oven and piping hot. But when Lewis grinned and set down a bowl of ice cream, the Bardlings burst into applause. He served the pie and ice cream to Bard and the children. Thranduil and Hilda's pie was served with sharp cheddar cheese. Percy was appalled at this, and he and Tauriel asked for it plain.

"You're ruining it." Percy complained. "A good pie should be appreciated for itself,"

"To each, his own," Sigrid grinned and scooped up another bite.

Tauriel said little, and kept her eyes on her food.

As was also usual, the Royal family gathered after dinner in the sitting room to relax and unwind.

Percy was in his chair, smoking his pipe and stroking the head of the newest member of the family curled up in his lap. "Enjoy it while you can, kid," he said to the sleeping pup. "Before you know it, you won't even fit on the couch, let alone this chair." With each word, a puff of smoke escaped from the corner of his mouth, and tickled Bard's nose with the woodsy, fruity scent of Old Toby. Percy pulled his pipe from his mouth and surveyed the room. "So, what name have we decided on?"

It had been almost a week, and they still hadn't decided on the puppy's name. And, after six days of hearing That Puppy, The Dog, That Damned Dog, Hey You, or, Bard's personal favorite, Put That Down You Stupid Mutt, Percy had put his foot down and demanded an answer before everyone went to bed.

Several possibilities were discussed at length, but the list had barely narrowed down to a few possibilities. Thenin was the Sindarin word for strong, loyal and faithful, but—

"That sounds like a boy's name!" Tilda cried, holding up a hank of blue wool while Hilda wound it in a ball.

Dagra was next. To do battle, to make war.

"No fight-ey names!" Tilda declared. "Why can't we name her after a flower?"

"No way," Bain snorted from the table in the corner. He picked up his knight and knocked over Thranduil's castle. "Can you picture us calling out 'Oh, Petunia,' or 'Here, Gladiola?' Sheesh! I won't do it, and neither would Da." He turned to Bard. "Right?"

Bard lifted his palms, "Don't look at me; I'm tired of stepping in dog—Ow!" He stifled the rest of the sentence when Hilda pinched his thigh.

"Be nice," Hilda glared at him. "She's here, and she's staying and you're going to love her, is that clear?"

Bard hummed his opinion and took another sip of ale.

"Her job is to look out for Da." Sigrid peeked over the top of her book. "I don't see why her name shouldn't reflect that."

With a small whimper, the puppy chose that moment to open one eye and maneuver herself on her back, so Percy could scratch her tummy.

"Oh, aye," Bard rolled his eyes. "I'll be safe, all right." At that, everyone in the room turned their eyes to glare at him. He slumped lower into his seat. "Sorry."

"Want me to pinch you again?" Hilda finished winding the yarn and tucked the end under.

"Can I do it?" Tilda asked.

"No," Hilda said.

"How about Thoren?" Thranduil suggested. "It means 'guard.'"

"That sounds too much like Thorin, as in Oakenshield." Bain grimaced. "The Dwarves might not appreciate that."

"And," Tilda gave her Ada a pointed stare. "It doesn't sound like a girl."

"What do you think, Gwinïg?"

Tauriel was curled up in her chair, staring into space.

She blinked a few times. "Yes?"

"Thoren," The Elvenking repeated. "What do you think?"

"Fine."

"Or, we could call her Cabor." The corner of Bain's mouth grew into a mischievous grin. "Or Gail."

"That is good, as well," she said absently, running her fingers down her long, red braid.

"Be serious, Bain," Tilda pursed her lips and said imperiously. "She is not a frog. Or a fish."

"Hmm?" Tauriel's brows drew together. "Why would we call her thus?"

Bard rested his ankle on his other knee, hid his face behind his tankard and sipped as he studied heir oldest daughter. She'd been distant and absentminded ever since Thranduil had given her Vildan's letter, and to date, she hadn't shared with him or her Ada what she wanted to do about it. Thranduil had promised not to ask until she was ready to speak of it, but his Elven husband was getting increasingly worried and restless. So was he, of course, but at least he had the distraction of preventing his husband from stomping down the hall and bursting in her room with a roar.

"Don't tease, Bain," Bard said, setting his cup down on the side table and exchanging a quick look with Thranduil. "Tilda's right. She is a girl, and hopefully will grow up to be tough, right?" He smiled down at his youngest. So, Beanie, how would you say, 'tough girl' in Sindarin?"

Tilda thought for a second. "Taraneth."

A hush fell over the room.

"I like it," Bain lifted a shoulder.

"Fine by me," Sigrid nodded, and went back to her book.

"Me, too," Hilda's fingers flew over her knitting needles as she cast on a sock. Once finished, she handed them over to Tilda and helped her get started. "Percy?"

The Steward regarded the puppy, whose head was hanging upside down over his knees. "She'll grow into it. I hope."

"Tauriel?" Bard asked.

"It is fine."

"But," Tilda held a finger in the air, "we'll call her 'Tara' for short. That sounds like a girl's name."

The puppy awkwardly squirmed, whipping her tail in Percy's face until she turned her self over and sat up in his lap.

"So," Bard waved his hand. "Is everybody's happy?" After a collective yes, Bard met the puppy's golden eyes. "Do you like the name?"

She threw up her head and after a few, high-pitched yips, managed her first actual bark.

Bard stifled his grin, but he could tell everyone saw it. "Tara, it is."

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ELVEN TRANSLATIONS:

Aur galu,'Lindë – Good morning, Lindë

Cabor – Frog

Dagra – do battle; make war

Gail – Fish

Gwîb – Penis *

Hacha – buttocks 9

Tírahîn – Elven Nanny. Two-and-a-half years ago, Véana came to Dale and moved in with the Healers to help with the triplets. Her story (so far, at least) can be read in Broken Wings, Chapter 9.

Thoren - Guard

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NOTES:

1 AIS, Ch. 48: /works/14127870/chapters/38740733

2 Ibid., Ch. 36: /works/14127870/chapters/37117362

3 /wiki/Sun

4 SCOM, Ch. 19: /works/26090521/chapters/80313367

5 AWC…, Ch. 15: /works/12026709/chapters/28991952

6 WMAK, Ch. 20: /works/10838010/chapters/25996944

7 Broken Wings, Ch. 37: /works/20519588/chapters/59509261

8 Ibid., Ch. 7: /works/20519588/chapters/49598510

9 *As I have said before, Tolkien named it! Check out this website: reference/references/pf/22_

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