Years had passed since the fateful Battle of the Five Armies, yet in all that time, Thranduil and Bard had not stood before each other again. Their parting then had been far from peaceful, their words leaving more wounds than resolutions, and their connection—neither mended nor severed—hung like a shadow over their shared bond endured, a fragile thing born out of circumstance and duty, and something else neither of them wanted to dwell on too long, woven with threads of mutual obligation and unspoken grievances; yet it had proven resilient enough to persist through the unrest of passing years.
Bard could still recall with clarity the sting of their last heated argument. The memory lingered, sharpening his reluctance to face the one man who, with infuriating ease, could unsettle him more than any foe on the battlefield, Orc or Man alike.
"And why, I wonder, did you so willfully disregard my command, Lord Bard, when I made it perfectly clear that none were to set foot near that wretched mountain for at least a month following Thorin's burial?"
Thranduil stood tall and unyielding, as if he could ever be anything less. Yet, his usual ornate garb was absent, replaced by a simpler ensemble of a loose tunic and well-worn leather breeches that spoke more of ease and practicality. Bard found the sight oddly disarming. Like this, Thranduil seemed almost human—not just the untouchable, ethereal being made of the light of distant stars, but something nearer, more tangible. Yes, he was still more beautiful than any man had ever laid eyes upon, but stripped of his gilded armor and opulent silks, he appeared less like an immortal creature of legend who had witnessed centuries pass him by with all to-knowing eyes, and more just like... a man.
Thranduil's words were sharp, but there was more amusement than anger in his tone, a quiet curiosity.
"With all due respect, your majesty," Bard replied, his eyes never leaving Thranduil's. "I do not wish to be rude, but, as I recall, if I recall correctly, you are not - my King. I am under no obligation to follow your orders. I am quite capable of looking after myself, my lord, and I am no child. If we are to continue this... friendship, I would ask that you treat me as an equal, not a ward in need of constant care."
The wordfriendshiphung between them, delicate and uncertain, as though both knew it was more than just a simple exchange of words. Thranduil stood unmoving yet something in the air shifted, subtle as a breeze, as if the weight of their unspoken feelings lingered just out of reach.
"Fair enough. I am sorry if offended you in any way with my worry. You are right of course; you are not a child. You are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, your children, and your kingdom. But a message was delivered to me there is a bounty on your fair mortal head, and it made me worry, perhaps ever so needlessly. As I much rather witness that head attached to your shoulders for a very long time my dear Bard, I cannot make you care for your safety against your will. I will not do so anymore and intrude in your affairs. I will worry quietly from afar you could not be more accurate of course, —I am not your King," Thranduil continued. Again, Bard could distinguish a quite amusement in his measured words. "But I could not help but wonder, in the wake of recent events, and all the time we've shared—both in these fleeting days and over the years—if I ever stood a chance of raising to the status of something more than just a ruler from the neighboring realm who chats with you by the river and occasionally."
"But you are more to me than just a ruler from the neighboring realm," Bard answered, voice even "I value our friendship above all else."
It was a cowardly thing to say, Bard knew, but in the end, it would be better for both. This was neither the time nor the place to speak of such matters. He could not allow himself, even in the quiet of his own mind, to admit to Thranduil the depth of his feelings for the Elven King. A lowly bargeman, a mediocre bowman who had risen to fame with a single lucky shot—he was nothing next to the immortal warrior who commanded Elven armies and fought alongside his soldiers with a ferocity of beast from the long-forgotten days of Middle Earth that Bard only heard in stories about. Bard was nobody compared to Thranduil, who had seen the world change in ways Bard could scarcely imagine, and who could not, in Bard's mind, develop any true affection towards an ordinary man like him. Such things just did not exist, and fairy tales were just that – fairy tales.
If Thranduil was hurt or offended in any way, he gave no sign of it. His expression shifted back to unreadable from open and maybe on a verge of hopeful, his voice calm and measured.
"Very well, then. You said it better than I could," he replied solemnly. "Friends it is. I will take my leave tomorrow, and I will not intrude further. I only ask of you not to underestimate your own worth in these difficult times to come; and if you ever need my assistance, for any reason at all, lord Bard, ... you know where to find me."
After Bard's coronation, he was forced to face the harsh reality of his new kingdom. Dale lay in ruins— its supplies exhausted, and the men capable of rebuilding what the dragon had destroyed were either dead or too few. Many of his people were gone, and those left behind were broken, their bodies battered, and their strength drained. The responsibility of rebuilding fell upon the hands of the few remaining, but they were far too few—too few to repair homes, too few to plant the crops that would sustain them in the year to come. Only women and children remained, their presence barely enough to sustain the flickering hope for a kingdom on the brink of despair.
Dale would not have survived its first winter without the aid of the Elves. To Bard's astonishment, though he had always kept a quiet hope that Thranduil would not fail him, the Elven King had never once wavered in his promise. Bard had never asked for help, yet it had come to him, unbidden, at the most unexpected yet necessary times. Provisions, weapons, clothing for children—reinforcements to fend off the lingering Orc bands that threatened the fragile peace. Elven soldiers arrived at Bard's door as though it were not obligation but an honor to defend the kingdom of men, obeying a command given to them by their King. As Thranduil's word was the supreme law amongst his people.
They had not parted as friends, nor even as allies in the truest sense. They have seen each other few times before the battle here and there, Bard being a bargeman and Elven King, being a warrior in the truest sense, making rounds with his soldiers. There was even small talk, where Thranduil asked questions, and Bard mostly stared, awestruck and at loss for words confronted by enormity of his presence at such close proximity. It got better after some years with Bard growing older and wiser, and Thranduil finding a way to be less intimidating. Yet their bond had been forged by necessity; the result of a battle that needed to be when the thoughts did come, unbidden, Bard chased them away, as he had long ago locked his heart away behind a closed door and threw away the was no room for such things now. His life was not his own to command. First came duty to his land, then, to his children. Even his children had been born of duty—to carry on the bloodline, to rebuild what had been lost, to preserve his people. He had married, fathered children, and cared for them the best he could. He loved them more than life itself and would lay down his life to protect them, but sometimes—just sometimes—he wondered what his life might have been like if he had ever been free to choose. But those thoughts were fleeting, for they led to a dark and dangerous place, and they were better left unspoken out loud.
Still, from the moment they had first met, Bard had known that Thranduil understood that one thing about him he dared not to admit even to himself. There was no hiding from the eyes of one who had lived through the ages, whose gaze had seen the rise and fall of civilizations. Thranduil was no ordinary Elf—he was a king, a warrior, a being of ancient power. Bard had long since locked away his heart, but Elves—especially one such as Thranduil—were masters at unlocking even the most tightly sealed doors. Whether it was the nature of all Elves or something unique to Thranduil himself, Bard could not say, but he knew one thing for certain: it was in his best interest to stay as far from the Elven King as possible.
"A letter for you, your majesty."