Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as ebony
-5-
Thranduil had come to visit Bard the following night. He had waited for Sigrid and the healers to leave before joining the Lord of Dale in his room.
Bard had once again thrown him off balance for instead of the many questions or recriminations that Thranduil had been prepared to answer, the wounded king had simply pointed out that there was no scar upon his chest. He had questioned Thranduil on the proceedings of the ritual.
Thranduil had settled into the armchair by the bed and had listed in a calm and detached tone the various steps he had had to follow in order to bring Bard back from the dead.
He had knowingly left out certain details relating to the precise moment when he himself had had to open his chest to extract his own heart and cut out half of it.
Bard had absently brushed his chest, frowning, and Thranduil had finally explained that he had made the scar invisible for now. Not knowing Bard's wish to inform his eldest daughter of his condition, the Elvenking had deemed it wiser to keep it a secret until they discussed it calmly and agreed on what should or should not be said.
Bard had nodded and he had thanked Thranduil for his thoughtfulness. The discussion had ended there and the Elf had taken leave of the Lord of Dale, aware of the unease that floated between them despite Bard's politeness towards him.
Ever since that night when he had brought Bard back, Thranduil had been sleeping deeply and soundly. He felt constantly overwhelmed by a fatigue that he could not get rid of and therefore he stayed in bed longer than usual. He put such a reaction on the account of the intense effort that such a demanding ritual had required of him. Nevertheless, he kept in a corner of his mind that this abnormal exhaustion could just as well be linked to the absence of half of his heart.
He avoided Bard's room for a week, only listening when the healers gave him news of their patient.
He had no idea how to deal with the bowman and he was rightly apprehensive about their future conversations.
However, he went to see Bard one night, almost three weeks since the day Sigrid asked him to save her father.
A spring thunderstorm rumbled over the trees in the forest. Lightning streaked the sky, illuminating the darkened room and the clouds poured down torrents of rain.
Bard seemed to be sleeping soundly. Lying on the bed, he breathed softly, one hand resting on his belly and the other on a tabby cat curled up against his hip. Cats were creatures that enjoyed the company of Wood Elves and the feeling was mutual.
Thranduil approached silently and settled into the chair at Bard's bedside.
He studied the man's face, thinking how pale his complexion remained and how deep the dark circles under his eyes were.
He wondered curiously if his skin was warm or cold, and pushed the thought away before satisfying the unreasonable urge to brush his fingers against Bard's body.
Suddenly, as if sensing the presence of the Elf, Bard opened his eyes.
He did not blink, neither did he give his vision much time to adjust to the darkness as if this darkness did not bother him at all, and his gaze found Thranduil's without even having to search for it.
Bard seemed at this moment endowed with faculties surpassing those of Men.
A shiver ran down the Elf's back at the thought.
"Are you avoiding me?" Bard asked in preamble, his forest-colored eyes probing Thranduil's.
He stroked the cat's fluffy belly and the animal began to purr in its sleep.
"No. I was practicing controlling my emotions," Thranduil lied without the slightest hesitation in his voice.
He had really worked on this but it was in no way the real reason for his absence.
"Are you satisfied with the results?" Bard continued.
His voice was no longer as hoarse and broken as when he woke up. It sounded flat, devoid of emotion.
"You tell me, Bard," Thranduil replied, his icy gaze supporting the scrutiny of the bowman's eyes.
"Your emotions are faint, as they were when you were away from me."
Thranduil nodded and silence fell on the conversation.
"My healers report that your wound is healing very well. You are fortunate."
Thranduil did not miss Bard's frown, nor the mirthless smile that graced his lips.
"Am I, Your Highness? All the credit belongs to you and you know it."
Bard removed his hand from the cat's fur and he sat up in bed. The effort seemed much less painful than a week before. He pushed aside the covers covering his body then he slowly unbuttoned his tunic. Thranduil watched him and felt a silent exclamation form in spite of himself on his lips as Bard parted the tails of the garment and revealed his now bare abdomen.
In the light of the lightning that split the night, Thranduil could clearly see that Bard's skin had healed perfectly in a very short time.
Thranduil possessed increased knowledge of the anatomy of the creatures that inhabited Middle-Earth. This went hand in hand with the extent of his abilities and he had never hidden the fascination he had with the physiological differences that existed between each race.
A Man as injured as Bard had been could not recover in this way in ten days.
Thranduil's eyes roved over Bard's belly, where a long clean scar run from side to side, even whiter than the skin it snaked across. It was as if this scar had always been there.
"I does not hurt anymore," Bard explained as he buttoned the tunic back on, tearing Thranduil from this disconcerting view.
Thranduil feared to understand what had happened and he knew Bard was thinking the same thing when he looked up and met the green and brown eyes of the Lord of Dale.
"I hear better than before. I could already hear very well but now I hear noises that I had not paid attention to until then... I hear distant sounds: murmurs in the corridors, animals in the forest. The same goes for my eyesight. I went to the window and could make out details among the trees that I could not see before. And, obviously, I heal much faster than my fellows."
"Obviously," Thranduil's tired voice echoed.
"Was this supposed to happen?"
A sigh heaved the Elf's chest and his weary veiled gaze held Bard's captive.
"Everything was possible, as I had explained to you. Your new abilities indicate that, apparently, half of my heart has adapted wonderfully to your organism."
"Am I becoming an Elf?"
"Partly, I suppose. You will never really be an Elf, but you will have certain specificities peculiar to my race."
"Does that mean I am immortal?"
"I do not know. I guess we will find out in time. Besides, Elves are not exactly immortal, Bard. We can die too."
"In which case? Can you die from a wound?"
Thranduil smiled weakly at the use of the personal pronoun. How long before Bard considers himself one of them?
"We can. My father perished this way at Dagorlad, three thousand years ago. We can also die of fatigue and grief. My mother did not survive my father's disappearance and she ended up leaving Arda for the Undying Lands. Our spirit is also able to leave our body and travel to the Halls of Mandos if anyone tries to rape us."
The shocked expression that crossed Bard's face did not escape Thranduil.
The Elf decided to reorient the conversation.
"See these changes as an asset. Being the ruler of Dale, this provides you with a significant enhancement of your authority."
Bard's features hardened and his very gaze seemed to darken in no time at all. His tone was icy when he spoke again, eyeing Thranduil.
"Granting that I now have the exceptional longevity of the Elves in terms of existence, can you explain to me how this is an advantage to see my children grow, age and then wither when I will not change? Did you at least think of that, Your Highness?"
Thranduil sensed the obvious disdain that tinted the last two words.
A latent anger slowly coursed through his veins, hitherto smothered by the fatigue that was numbing his limbs and his senses. He stood tall in the chair, cocking his head and hovering a few inches above Bard in order to have some influence over him – or at least to feel like it.
"And you, Bard, have you considered that by now you might be dead and buried and your children might be orphans?"
Thranduil knew he had struck far too hard just looking at Bard. All the lightning from the sky seemed to have piled up in the bowman's eyes, ready to pour out on the Elvenking.
Thranduil ran his long fingers over his face and massaged his temples.
"Pardon me. The words have run ahead of my thoughts. I understand your anger. It has every reason to be in light of the past weeks."
Thranduil's apology seemed to surprise Bard, who let his guard down. He squinted, trying to read the Elf's emotions. The ones Thranduil had learned to keep quiet from him.
"No one can understand what you are going through right now. In truth, I have no information related to this ritual when it concerns a man."
A raised eyebrow on Bard's forehead encouraged Thranduil to continue.
"This ritual has been rarely listed in the past millennia and it has always been accomplished between Elves only – never between an Elf and a Man."
Thranduil was not surprised to hear Bard cursing. He had heard the man speak like this before – several times during the Battle of the Five Armies and at the first council of the Elf, Dwarf and Man kings after that battle, when Dáin had made comments that outraged him.
So much of the Man he had been remained.
This was an encouraging statement in this vast ocean of doubts and questions.
"Apart from the fact that the consequences of this ritual are not all known in the case of the sharing of a heart between two Elves, I regret to inform you that they are even more uncertain in the situation which concerns us."
Thranduil saw Bard's fists clench at the blankets over his knees and the knuckles turning white with the effort.
"You took this risk not knowing if…"
"Not knowing if I put you in an even greater danger. Yes, I did" Thranduil admitted in a whisper, aware that the truths he owed Bard were many and difficult to state aloud.
"Not knowing what risks you were taking," Bard corrected him, his eyes wide with amazement.
Thranduil felt half his heart clench in his chest and he stared at Bard, bewildered.
How could his fate worry him?
This flicker of humanity, even more present in Bard than in anyone else, often prompting the bowman to commit acts on impulse (such as sneaking a dozen of Dwarves into a corrupted city, slaying a spitting and roaring dragon or taking on the responsibilities of running a ruined kingdom without batting an eyelid), was still there and stood out in spite of his distraught gaze.
"You do not know what the consequences might be for you," Bard continued, looking appalled.
"I guess as a near-immortal being, I was not taking that many risks," Thranduil attempted to evade the question.
He saw that Bard had loosened his grip on the covers but the tension was still visible in his shoulders and the clenching of his jaws.
"Have you noticed any changes?" Bard asked.
"No," Thranduil lied once more, his clear eyes locked on Bard's.
He was just unusually tired. It was not alarming so far.
"Well... If you observe anything, I would like to know," Bard said.
Thranduil felt a smile form at the corner of his lips.
"You are in no way responsible for my condition, Bard, you seem to forget that. You did not ask for anything so do not carry that weight upon your shoulders."
"Nonsense. We are bound to each other. We share the same heart so from now on, I am concerned with your well-being as you are concerned with mine."
You cannot even begin to imagine the extent of that bond, Aran Nín…
Thranduil pushed that thought from his mind and gazed at Bard quietly.
"I think we will have to talk to Sigrid," Bard said more calmly.
Thranduil nodded in mute approval.
"She will notice the changes about me. She is very observant. Besides, this scar will not remain a secret for long…"
Thranduil did not answer, his mind already sorting out which information should be revealed to the outside world and which one should be kept silent.
"Your healers did not seem surprised by my quick recovery," Bard noted, his hand finding the fur of the cat that had not moved an inch.
"Without knowing the true extent of my skills, my subjects know that I am capable of accomplishing great feats in the field of healing. They will have thought that your rapid healing had everything to do with my talents."
"That is not entirely untrue."
"Being an Elf is my nature, not a skill I can boast about, Bard."
Thranduil had nevertheless responded gently, well aware that the conversations he had with Bard always led him on delicate ground and left him each time drained of all strength, overwhelmed by an irrational exhaustion.
"Do you allow me to explain everything to Sigrid?"
"That decision is up to you. I have nothing to hide."
Another lie.
"As far as I am concerned, I do not intend to share this information presently because there is no one around me who needs to know about it," Thranduil added so both of them would be clear about their respective decisions on the matter.
Bard nodded.
"I suppose that even with half his heart, an Elf remains a being endowed with exceptional abilities and that does not change anything in his daily life."
In response, Thranduil only smiled absently and stood up, thus marking the end of their exchange. He greeted Bard amiably, left the room, and walked down the high halls made all the more impressive by the glow of the lanterns that lit them, casting ominous shadows to the untrained eye. As he walked, he listened to the storm beyond the walls of the palace, conscious of the state of immense exhaustion in which he found himself and which only a very long night's sleep would be able to correct, at least for a certain period of time.