Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as ebony
-3-
King Thranduil's hands regained their marmoreal hue as the blood thinned in the water. The Elf stared absently at the crimson furrows meandering across his skin, overcome by a fatigue he had not felt for centuries.
The ritual had been far more demanding than he had expected. He was not sure that he had accomplished it successfully. Only time could possibly prove him right.
Thranduil cleaned the dagger and removed the contents of the basin. He then placed in it the bloodstained cloths he had used and, with a word in Sindarin, the container ignited to reduce the cloths to ashes.
He put everything he had brought in a large cupboard: the dagger, various ingredients, the book as well as a coffer, which he locked with a small key. He retrieved the key, closed the cabinet doors, and sealed them with a simple formula and wave of his hand. He returned the table to its original place. He then approached the chair, dressed carefully, slipped the key into the pocket of his robe and undid the braid that fell down his back, combing his hair with his fingers.
Finally, he focused on the King of Men. He felt for his pulse, fingertips on his throat and was relieved to hear heartbeats, albeit distant.
The healers would continue treating the wound. This would allow the infection to subside, especially since Thranduil had managed to stem the spread of the poison.
Now King Bard had to have the will to live and fight for it.
Well aware that he himself needed rest, Thranduil left the room.
Before returning to his chamber, he took the time to visit Sigrid. Unsurprisingly, despite the late hour of the night, the young woman was not sleeping.
He stated the facts in a voice that he wanted calm and reassuring and was patient when Sigrid asked him all the questions that came to her restless mind.
Once in his own room, Thranduil undressed completely, slipped noiselessly between the sheets, and fell into a long, welcome, dreamless sleep.
Days passed in the calm and timeless realm of Greenwood the Great.
Thranduil inquired about Dale early on from Sigrid: who was in charge of the city in the absence of its ruler? The young girl explained that Percy and Hilda, two close friends of her father and absolutely trustworthy, had been appointed as representatives of authority pending the return of the king (or the announcement of his death). They were also the ones responsible for caring for Bard's two youngest children, who remained in Dale.
The Elvenking chose to send Tauriel with a message to Dale: their ruler was still alive, his condition was stable – at least, he was not getting worse.
The healers had been patient and meticulous. The poison was withdrawing, they had eliminated the dead fleshy tissue and they had stitched the wound when any new risk of infection had finally been ruled out. The wound was now clean and would leave a deep scar on Bard's skin, should he ever wake up.
The fever was gone and the king's heart was beating, albeit gently, but regularly.
His body was cleaned every morning. His hair was washed and brushed and his face was shaved. Thranduil had thought that the king looked a few years younger without his beard.
The healers had set up a system to hydrate and nourish the man in his sleep and they took turns massaging and moving their patient's limbs in order to stem any risk of injury caused by constant inertia.
One afternoon, seven days after Sigrid's arrival at Greenwood the Great, Galion found his sovereign outside the palace and informed him that King Bard had opened his eyes and was awake.
Thranduil found Sigrid at her father's bedside, sitting in the chair by the bed, her hand caressing Bard's cheek with obvious tenderness, her other hand clasping one of his hands.
He had authorized visits to the young woman as soon as the risk of infection had been entirely put aside by the healers.
Bard was sitting up in bed, held in place by several pillows, and he gazed somewhat drowsily, albeit lovingly, at his eldest daughter. His attention seemed drawn to the Elf's entrance into the chamber as he lifted his chin and his green and brown eyes rested on King Thranduil. The latter scrutinized the expression of the Man, trying to guess his thoughts but nothing reached him.
"How do you feel, My Lord?" Thranduil asked simply, quietly entering the room.
"As if I had been trampled by a horse," Bard replied in a broken, distant voice, his vocal cords having suffered from the forced silence.
Thranduil smiled discreetly, without amusement.
"That is not exactly what happened to you," he replied.
Bard cast a glance at his daughter.
"It would seem. Sigrid told me everything in broad strokes."
Reaching the foot of the bed, Thranduil studied Bard carefully, watching his gaze and the slightest movements of his body.
Sigrid cannot have told you everything, he thought.
Bard's eyes found his again. The Man was one of the few creatures he knew capable of holding his gaze without batting an eyelid. It had thrown him off his feet as soon as they met and it still troubled him to this day. Bard's eyebrows furrowed.
"I know that it is thanks to you that I am still alive," continued the bowman in that hoarse and strange voice.
Thranduil did not break eye contact, although an imperceptible shiver ran through him. Bard had no idea how ironically funny his choice of words was. The Elf noted the Man's puzzled expression.
"Thank you," Bard said simply and he shook his head, returning all his attention to Sigrid.
"There is no need for that," Thranduil replied, one hand raised as if to spurn the Man's gratitude. "Thank your daughter. She took immense risks in order to bring you to my realm."
The Elf was attentive to the look Bard cast on Sigrid at these words. An infinite sweetness filled those green and brown eyes.
"You will need additional rest and care," Thranduil continued. "My healers still have work to do to allow your wound to heal properly." Thranduil saw Bard open his mouth in protest, his forest-hued eyes searching his. "I will not accept any objection from you. It would be inconsiderate to put yourself in danger when you are not yet in a condition to defend yourself."
"I have got to…"
"You must take time to recover, My Lord. This injury is far from minor."
Bard gave his daughter a questioning look. She nodded, agreeing with the Elvenking.
"Dale is in good hands, dad. Do not worry. Percy and Hilda take care of Bain and Tilda."
"Dale will do just fine, Bard. No sovereign is irreplaceable. Your children, on the other hand, need a father."
Resigned and obviously still very tired, Bard gave Sigrid a vague smile and then nodded at Thranduil.
The Elvenking allowed himself a reassuring smile at the Man and his daughter.
"I will take my leave now. Feel free to ask for anything. We will do what is necessary to ensure that you recover in the best conditions."
"Thank you, King Thranduil," Bard replied.
Thranduil nodded ever so slightly in the direction of the bowman and his firstborn and he left the chamber, granting its occupants the privacy and time they had hitherto lacked.
Thranduil did not reappear in Bard's room until late in the day, when the sun was setting behind the treetops. He wanted to see with his own eyes the good healing of the wound. The Elven healers were present: the woman finished removing the cloth that protected the injured skin and the man prepared an ointment whose scent reached the king's nostrils.
"Do you allow me to be present?" Thranduil queried, for the moment slightly set back.
Bard nodded silently, and Thranduil then approached to study the still-fresh scar. The Man's horrified expression hardly escaped him as the green and brown eyes also rested on the wound that barred his bare stomach. Bard had undoubtedly underestimated the seriousness of his injury.
When the healers had finished their healing, Thranduil held back the woman's hand as she reached for a clean cloth.
"May I?" he asked, his clear gaze meeting Bard's.
"Please," Bard replied simply.
Both healers discreetly left the room.
Thranduil displayed grace and patience as he covered Bard's skin with the pristine linen.
"You are disconcerted," Bard said.
His voice was husky, still a little hoarse, but it was beginning to regain its former strength. Thranduil detected the slight accent the bowman had inherited from his noble lineage.
The Elf's fingers came to rest on the knot they had just tied in the fabric.
"I beg your pardon?" Thranduil replied, determined not to look at Bard and focused on his task.
"I can sense your turmoil."
Thranduil made an immense effort not to let his face betray his thoughts.
"I can feel it as if it were mine and I do not understand the reason for it."
A sigh slipped from the Elvenking's lips before he had time to hold it back.
To his dismay, what he had feared seemed to have happened.
"Your Highness…"
Thranduil could hear the worry in Bard's voice. Worry but also a slight annoyance, incomprehension and a certain apprehension.
"What happened? Why can I feel your emotions as if they belong to me? I already noticed it earlier, during your first visit. It also happened in your absence although it was more… vague, a mere presence in my mind. I do not understand…"
Thranduil removed his hands from Bard's stomach and carefully replaced the tunic over the bandage. He sat down in the chair next to the bed and closed his eyes for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
He had brought the Lord of Dale back to life and that alone was enough to silence all questioning. However, he was convinced that he owed Bard the truth, even if he could not imagine the reaction to come from him when facing a revelation of this scale.
He linked his long fingers and rested them on his knees, then he opened his eyes and looked at Bard. The green and brown gaze betrayed the state of fatigue and nervousness of its owner despite Bard's deceptively calm appearance. A storm seemed to threaten behind the forest-coloured eyes. Nevertheless, Bard remained patient, focused, sitting as upright as possible in his bed.
"It is not your heart beating inside your chest, Bard, but a part of mine. You were dead."