Kings Alike - (The Hobbit: BoFA, M) - (3/3)

[Garnet]

I have never written anything in the Tolkien-verse, so I am completely winging this and basing it more heavily on the movie than the source material (which I haven't read in yeeears).

I wasn't expecting to take anything away from the Battle of Five Armies but general amusement at overused CGI and inflated plot. Instead I ended up stupidly loving the Widowed Single Dad Wine Alliance between Thranduil and Bard. Obviously, I am reading between the lines quite a bit in this, but who cares. I need awkward royal pep talks and some general bonding.

So that happened. This is set mid-film, but I don't think there are any major spoilers. It's more an off-camera slice of life. Enjoy!

Kings Alike: Part I

The bowman feels as though his whole embodiment, inside and out, physical and otherwise, must be filmed in grime. The ruins of Dale have gone untouched for an age, its infrastructure long crumbled, burned, evacuated from a time before Bard was born. Its armories have stood the test of ages, fortunately, and it's these that he has been excavating for the greater part of the day.

His followers are peasants, smugglers, fishermen, and they look both proud and tragic girded in the armor and weaponry of their ancestors.

Armor, he notes with the grimacing beginnings of yet another sneeze, that is so heavily velveted with cobwebs and dust that it was nearly impossible to escape unscathed.

"--hrfssch!"

The downward jog of his head puts a slight hitch in his step, buffered against a sleeve still streaked with dust enough that he imagines it coating the lining of his nose anew, particulate and ticklish. The bowman actually has to slow to a stop and steady his hand against a nearby wall to field the next.

"HRFSSCH-ue!"

He tries to find a clean spot to catch this one, with limited success, but at least he doesn't feel that terrible, powdery sensation that announces the coming of a third. Instead, his nose runs in an effort to flush the remains of ages past.

A passing blacksmith turned soldier blesses him, and it puts a queer ache in Bard's heart. He has no idea how to lead these people, but already they are fast at his heels and attentive to his needs and wishes. Whether this was a fate sealed by his deeds or his lineage, he seems well saddled with it now.

"Thank you. Take your sons, go and reinforce the keep as best you can, alright brother?"

"Of course, my Lord," the blacksmith offers. Bard means to correct him, but he is lost in the shuffle of bodies and preparations before he can bother.

And his nose is tickling again.

He manages to stave it off en route through the market, now filled with tents of war and elvish reinforcements. The grit of his knuckles holds it at bay as he strides past the makeshift stables, though he can feel the gaze of Thranduil's enormous elk steed upon him, as if with preternatural awareness for where he is destined. Bard has never been shy about sneezing; he falls ill like any other man, wrinkles his nose at too much dust, excuses himself from the room if there are cats present. It happens, he moves on.

In front of the elves, he feels no different, but does wish he had time to stop and change before calling upon their king.

No matter. Thranduil has been friendly with the bowman, enough so that Bard is surprised by the reclusive and infamously aloof king's disposition. Perhaps it's purely by nature of their common enemy, but he does not think Thranduil faults him for being human. He still lingers a good distance from the council tent, braces himself against an old hitching post, and finally lets enough slack out of his restraint that the sneeze tumbles free.

"HFFSSZSCH-ue!"

It's uncharacteristically powerful, even for him, but he deflects it into one arm and thinks it might hold him for a while. He can feel a few of the elvish guards' eyes shift to consider him, even if their heads don't move. Bard offers them an apologetic nod. "Forgive me."

They turn aside neatly at the entrance, allowing him striding passage into the tent. Thranduil rises at once.

In all his years of running the barge, he had never met the king in person. Bard is not a man easily impressed, yet he thinks it might be a trait of most men to quiet before an elf. Something in their ethereal poise, in their wisdom born of longevity, puts a pall of quiet awe in the air. He is already beginning to acclimate to it, fortunately. He no longer feels like Thandruil towers inches and feet above him, despite them being of a height, nor that he glides more than walks, purrs more than speaks. Still and all, Bard is pragmatic enough to acknowledge his beauty.

"You summoned, my Lord?"

"Yes. I'm certain you know this township better than I, wh--..."

The elf actually pauses in mid-sentence, something that Bard suspects he does rarely, if ever, to let his gaze sweep the bowman boot to crown. A tiny, bewildered notch of consternation develops between Thranduil's thick brows, and Bard suddenly recalls what a state he is in. He half-spreads his arms, and hooks his mouth into a rueful smile.

"Forgive me for not arriving in my finest."

"You look as though you have already forged a battle, fought and lost," Thranduil speaks. Bard can't be sure, but he thinks that is the king's version of cool, stone-faced humor.

"What little armor Lake-town had went the way of our perishable supplies," Bard chuckles. "Fortunately, the dragon kept anyone from raiding Dale's armories for generations. Unfortunately, no one has been through to clean them in as long. In fact," he warns, voice beginning to curl and weaken as the creeping grime sets up a thorn in his nose once more. He holds up a begging finger, in case coherence fails him altogether as his head tips back, nostrils quiver wide in preparation. "If you... if you would... excuse me..."

Thranduil is staring at him, Bard thinks more in bemusement than disdain. He makes out the faint tilt of his mouth before his eyes gloss over in the blur of tears, and he whips away into his upper arm.

"-hrfsssch!" More dust, smeared against his nose and itching at his eyes, worked into the whorls of his fingers, but his handkerchief is already in a much worse state from polishing up too many grungy helms. "HRFHSHH!" Even his throat is started to feel occluded with it as he half-cough, half-gasps, and finishes the squalid tickle off with a wrenching, "ah-HFSSCHH-ue!" into his shoulder.

He is probably the most filthy, exhausted, scruffy excuse for a friend at arms that Thranduil has dealt with in centuries. The elf king will simply have to make do, because appearances are the very least of Bard's concern right..

"No galu govad gen."

Bard glances up in watery surprise to discover Thranduil's stately presence a step closer than before, and his arm extended at length. He is, in fact, offering Bard something, and it takes the bowman a moment to blink away his sneeze-induced tears and realize it's a handkerchief, pristine and folded. It may have never seen a day's use in its life, and it is easily of a better quality than anything Bard has in his entire possession.

He clears his throat awkwardly, and tries to put himself back into a presentable state without it. "Very kind of you, my Lord, but it is much too fine a thing to ruin," he roughs, sniffling.

Thranduil raises a single dark, sculpted brow, as though unsure whether to be amused or offended by a rejected gift. "Please, dragonslayer. It will do you no harm to carry one thing not entirely begrimed in a century's worth of dust."

Bard finally breaks with a laugh with this, and cannot argue. He reaches for the elegant fabric, and pleads a moment of indignity as he turns from the king and makes liberal use of it. It's exquisitely soft and smooth to the touch, cradling his itching and over-sensitized nose kindly even as he exhales forcefully for several seconds. The sound is at least thin and fluid rather than deep and thick, but even Bard must acknowledge the impropriety as he turns back.

"My apologies. I'm afraid I'm no more fit for a king's counsel than I am to lead my own men," he offers, with another gritty clearing of his throat. He hadn't meant the admission to come out so candid, and realizes the lack of discretion only by Thranduil's subtle change of expression.

"You believe yourself inadequate?"

"For lack of a better option, I suppose I can fill the role," Bard admits, with a nondescript gesture. "But I am a bargeman, a bowman, a smuggler. I am no leader of men, and certainly no lord or king." Thranduil passes back to the table he'd been seated at, but only to pour out a measure of potent, Elvish wine into a pair of delicate and twisted horns. Are they drinking companions now?

Thranduil hands him one. So. Yes, apparently. Not for the first time, Bard wonders if rumors of Mirkwood's ruler and his frosty personality have been wildly inflated from the natural bite to the king's words, or if he has taken a particular liking to Bard. He can't imagine why, but he takes the wine nonetheless.

"And I was once a soldier, no prince or king. Seasons change and so do elves, so do men."

Bard takes a long, slow pull of the wine, stronger and with more depth of flavor than any he's seen floated down the river, and mulls that over in his head. "Perhaps, but I feel ill-prepared to lead them into a battle. I'm barely keeping them alive now, at least..." He defers to Thranduil with a nod. "Before Mirkwood's aid."

Thranduil makes a dismissive motion with one hand. "What choice do you have? Your survivors will flounder and die without means to rebuild, nor claim on the land. It must be done, Bard the Bowman. Swords and leaders alike are forged in fire."

"Poetic words," Bard observes wryly as he dabs at his nose with an edge of the elf king's handkerchief.

Thranduil smiles, fleeting. "Are they helping?"

"A bit."

Thranduil retires the to chair he'd been occupying before Bard entered, and gestures the bowman to take a seat nearby. Bard obliges.

"Your people have a love for you, it is plain to see."

"Well, slaying a dragon will do that," Bard admits, as he sets the horn in a cradle and readies the handkerchief in both hands again. "But I desire the best for them as well, I desire justi--... excuse me--HFSSCHH!" Another noseful of dust gets expelled into the waiting cloth, enough to stir up the motes still lingering in the wet channels of his sinuses. "ah-HFSSCH!" He gives his head a groggy shake after that one, and double-checks the neat line of his mustache with the sweep of one thumb. "Mm. Apologies."

"No galu govad gen."

Bard fixes him with the furrowed brow, this time. "What is that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Those words. I know a little Elvish, from working the trade routes," Bard admits. "But I am not well-versed."

"Ah. May blessings go with you. More of a farewell phrase, but I believe the meaning translates appropriately enough to the response in your tongue."

Well, probably not something Bard needs to file away in his lexicon, then. He's never seen an elf sneeze, and there are shorter goodbyes that he knows, should the occasion arise. "Thank you."

Perhaps it's the few pulls of wine, but something in his chest feels warmer. If he is not certain of his position as a head of the lake-men, nor how to lead an army into battle, he can take genuine confidence in the faith Thranduil seems to have in him. He is wholly not expecting that king to reach across the short distance between them, however, and brush his hand across Bard's, where it rests on the table. His skin is cool, his touch gentle, even the beveled curve of his nails diamond-bright against Bard's well sooted and dirt caked hands.

"Your trepidations are understood, but put them away. You have the confidence of your people, and the aid of Mirkwood. You would show them the same."

He stares at the map beneath his palm for a second, trying to process the gesture. Thranduil has already sat back again, sipping from his wine, although his pale grey gaze is still settled on Bard. The bowman realizes with a sudden, dread feeling that the elf is already fond of him. Worse, the odd but familiar twist in Bard's gut suggests that the sentiment is mutual.

Well.

He is going to take the elf king's advice and stow all of those feelings away, compartmentalized deep in his chest, until either the mountain is won or their people lay in ruins. He clears his throat, the ambient dust still tickling at it.

"Your advice is appreciated," he segues, wipes his nose, moves his hand to consider the battle plans Thranduil has already roughed out across the table. Down to business. Talk can come if they both survive this. "Is this what you summoned me for?"

"Yes. I suspect the dwarf has a grander plan that holing himself in the mountain and attempting to wait us out. If he has summoned reinforcements," Thranduil begins, lowering his wine and leaning over the table so that his impossibly long, white hair falls in a cascade down one shoulder like starlight. Bard is both impressed and mildly disgusted with himself for being so stricken with the gesture. "Your men may be better suited to..."

Thranduil pauses, and stares straight ahead, though seemingly at nothing. If not for this unorthodox space, heavy between words, Bard might not be paying such close attention to his features, and thus miss the fine tremor that goes through them. But he notices, and watches the sudden, tragic cant of the elf king's heavy brows, the arch of his long nostrils as sharp and fine as any blade and the slivered part of his lips. He still starts slightly as the lord of Mirkwood suddenly whirls aside and sneezes with the rushing force of ten men.

"-TSSSCCHHiew!"

Bard sits back, and assesses his life. He has smuggled dwarves and hobbits, slain a dragon, seen his home and people destroyed, now he is leading their ragtag survivors as he prepares for a battle with the very same dwarves. Additionally, somehow, he is now watching an elf sneeze for the very first time in Bard's life. Violently, he might add.

He wonders if he was bit by something venomous and has been hallucinating all these past few days in a fever dream.

Thranduil straightens, visibly chagrined, and this time clears his throat with a wary touch to his own nose. Its architecture is so elegant that is seems absurd anything could tickle it enough into losing composure.

"Blessings," Bard offers, because he cannot for the life of him remember the Elvish words. And then, because he is brave, adds, "That was impressive."

"Forgive me." Thranduil cuts him a slight look, sharp and faintly annoyed, but not cruel. Bard tries to contain his grin. He needed that bit of levity. "The consequence of infrequency, I'm afraid. Also, I believe your grime is contagious."

Bard chuckles. He doesn't know if Thranduil means that elves sneeze so rarely that the occasion for it is forceful enough to make up for days, weeks, maybe years of inactivity. Maybe he just tries not to do so in front of other people. Either way, he feels both absurdly privileged, and queerly reassured. Perhaps the king of Mirkwood and the king of Dale are alike in trivial matters as in political ones. He passes a hand over his mouth to hide his smile and center himself.

"I give my word that I shall clean up for battle," Bard muses.

"I am more concerned that you are wearing armor by then," Thranduil comments, eyeing Bard's kit of leather and wool. He will be the last to arm himself, but the first into the fray. "Now..."

The bowman gives his nose a last short, discreet blow into the handkerchief, his unusual ally a last thoughtful look, then leans in to consider their attack at dawn.

Edited January 8, 2015 by Garnet

[murphy dee]

Ohhhhhhh my god, that was incredible. Especially the description of Thranduil's face just before he sneezes. I wasn't aware that I needed sneezy Thranduil in my life, but...damn, that was good. SO good. Thank you for writing this and sharing it!

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

I loved the interaction between these two men and your description of Bard's state of mind was rich and nuanced. This was a pleasure to read and the sneezes a bonus to your beautiful story. Well done!

[Masking]

...oh cripes.

THRANDUILLLLL. LOVE HIS FREAKING SNEEZES. Bard, too...but ugh, there's something about a stern Elf-king being totally overtaken that's really hot.

[Spoo]

Youuuu already know how I feel about Barduil. THAT BEING SAID, I am ALL FOR these DILFs interacting (and sneezing, obviously). Also, allow me to jump aboard the Thran Sneeze Train because YES. YES. YES. YES. YES. I need more forceful, Elf King sneezes in my life. A+, 10/10, would recommend this fic because it's gorgeous and perfectly written. WHY YOU SO GOOD AT ERRTHANG??

[SterlingSilver]

I read this last night on my phone and could not comment properly, but I literally saw "BOFA" and then was like, "WHAT." I clicked the title, and then LOW AND BEHOLD IT WAS GARNET FICTION OH MY GOODNESS. I nearly wept. AND I READ IT AND WAS SO AMUSED AND HAPPY AT THE ADORABLE BARD AND THRANDUIL INTERACTION AND WHEN THRANDUIL SNEEZES AND THIS--

Either way, he feels both absurdly privileged, and queerly reassured

I laughed for 500 years. That is just gold~ Perfection once again, Garnet~

[RiversD]

Wow. I have (once again, damn your genius) been rendered incoherent by the glory that is this fic.

A stuttering attempt at more and/or better words:

with the grimacing beginnings of yet another sneeze

particulate and ticklish

You remain highly adept at choosing just the right words for the situation. Well done that woman.

He no longer feels like Thandruil towers inches and feet above him, despite them being of a height, nor that he glides more than walks, purrs more than speaks. Still and all, Bard is pragmatic enough to acknowledge his beauty.

Again. This put the essence of Thranduil in my mind so strongly my ears have gone all warm.

voice beginning to curl and weaken as the creeping grime sets up a thorn in his nose once more. He holds up a begging finger, in case coherence fails him altogether as his head tips back, nostrils quiver wide in preparation. "If you... if you would... excuse me..."

Thranduil is staring at him, Bard thinks more in bemusement than disdain. He makes out the faint tilt of his mouth before his eyes gloss over in the blur of tears, and he whips away into his upper arm.

Guh. Yes. Um. *Is puddle*

His skin is cool, his touch gentle, even the beveled curve of his nails diamond-bright against Bard's well sooted and dirt caked hands.

Mmhm. Yes. Good. I'm struggling to explain why this strikes me so effectively, but it's probably at least partly to do with the masterly use of "beveled".

Thranduil begins, lowering his wine and leaning over the table so that his impossibly long, white hair falls in a cascade down one shoulder like starlight. Bard is both impressed and mildly disgusted with himself for being so stricken with the gesture.

Another happy mental image. *stores carefully*

And I thought this was just gonna have Bard sneeziness BUT I WAS WRONG and I love it. Everything the others said about that lovely, lovely Thranduil pre-sneeze. I liked "rushing force" as well.

You rule and I might a little bit love you.

[weepy]

Awestruck. That was absolutely beautiful =o= The descriptions of Thranduil were wonderful to picture. I've always wished to see Bard torture and now you have given us this. I'm so happy right now

[AngelEyes]

Oh glorious Gods! I did not know I needed this in my life. But I soooo did!!! You are perfection my dear. Your writing is eloquence itself.

[Akahana]

I... Don't think I can tell you how much I needed this!!!! Thranduil is my king please step on me my god I needed this so much, and BARD THOUGH??? I needed this, all of this... The whole thing is beatiful thank you so much.

[bangbang]

I saw this when you put it up but I wanted to see the film first so I saved it for later and oohhhhh boy.

I also went into the cinema expecting to see a really awful film (Legolas jumping from falling rock to rock was still a candidate for I Don't Think I Was Supposed To Laugh But I Did film moment of the year) but I too had a weird dumb crush on Thranduil and Bard. I want them to be drinking bffs. I want them like this.

You have their characters down so WELL. Thranduil's mannerisms and his tone are perfect, I could hear the lilt of Lee Pace's voice as I read it. Bard is excellent - Bard is Bard, I don't know how to say it better than that. The doubting whether this is reality, the idea of him running first into battle but last to arm himself sums up his personality in just one sentence.

You have such a mastery of words; the sneezing was lovely, but everything is in this story. Arghh I love your writing so much that I just want to inhale it.

[Sitruuna]

I DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW I COULD HAVE MISSED THIS

I still wouldn't know of this if R.L hadn't kindly mentioned it eralier today...

Anyway

When I was watching the movie I really liked how Thranduil always tended to have that kind of a "yes, I'm the king, you are all below me" look on his face but BAM (I don't why but for reason that bam is necessary there ok) comes Bard and after a few exhanced words Thranduil seems to judge him as almost equal.

This fic though.

It's so well written and in character (I think). It's very entertaining (in a definitely good way).

And

You know

Thranduil

@_@

[KickingUpTheDust]

yes please

and by 'yes please' i mean, i need more of this.

this...

this good stuff...

[Akahana]

No I love it, Thranduil just comes in like, "Dranginslayer let us be besties" and Bard's just like, "k sounds good" and then they are equals XD. And the look Thranduil gives Bard when he's talking to Gandolf?? Hilarious.

[Garnet]

Murphy D. - Oh god, I wasn't either? I mean I've always loved Lee Pace and would die a tiny, happy death to see him sneeze, but I think I was in denial about how much I liked this particular character.

scw - Thank you! I always enjoys fics, whether they're action-packed or character studies, where the sneezing comes secondary. It's like the best kind of garnish.

Masking - Right? Dem stoic, brooding people of power losing control. Gets me every time.

Spoo - I think it's probably your fault that I ship them to begin with, since it was some fanart you reblogged that made me go, "... ooh! ... yep I like that." Anyway UUUGH so super glad you like, you totally encouraged/enabled me to spit this stupid thing out.

BlackScatter - GOOD GOOD GOOD. As always, thank you so much for reading, dear, it means a lot <3

RiversD - Oh man, thank you for this comment, I love breakdown! My favorite writing styles are ones that are heavy in descriptive but carefully selective words, even if they seem unusual choices, so I try to emulate that a bit. I might love you a little bit back!

MissSys - Good, good! I really go back and forth between who of them I want to torture more, so I end up just throwing my hands in the air and saying, "LOL both."

AngelEyes - Aaahh you are so kind, thank you thank you! I didn't know it was going to blindside me either, but pffhh. Look what happened.

Akahana - HAHAH, okay Spoo and I were totally reading the comments of this piece and we CRACKED UP at "please step on me oh my god" because yep yeah. That's pretty much the correct response to Thranduil.

bangbang - Oh my god, there were SO many "I Don't Think I Was Supposed to Laugh But I Did" moments. Thank God everyone in this movie is so very, very pretty, is all I have to say. And I agree. I want them to be bro's. And maybe more than bro's. Not lovers-of-the-ages or anything, but definitely hot single dads in their own two-person club.

I'm really glad I got Bard okay! He's the character I was less sure about since I hadn't seen DoS for a while.

Sitruuna - Right? Granted, they were on the same side, but I really liked that they incorporated the friendliness they had in the canon. I like to think that they genuinely enjoy each other's company and value as leaders, even though they are two very, very different people.

KickingUpTheDust - Oh, what a coincidence, because...

Yeah, here's some more. Can't stop won't stop, with these two. I have at least one more installment planned, each of them set a few years apart from each other. We'll see whatever happens after that! Thank you all again for your lovely comments, reading through them all made me ten different kinds of happy. Enjoy!

Kings Alike: Part II

It's years before he sees Thranduil lose that kind of composure again. There may be some truth to the elf's claim, after all, or perhaps they do not keep company often enough for Bard to have a fair assessment. Company enough that he feels comfortable calling on the king shortly after the convening of their council, however.

Dale is a convenient waypoint between Erebor and Mirkwood. If the kings Under the Mountain or of the Woodland Realm need conduct business with him, and each other, it's often done here. Bard minds not, their aid both material and political has been instrumental in the rebuilding of the city. Now, commerce flows freely, crops flourish without the dragon's shadow brooding over the foothills. Sometimes he does not even see, in his mind's eye, the ruins of old Dale, with its squares soaked in the blood of men and elf, dwarf and orc.

Even when he catches himself in these moments of haunting memory, they are quickly erased by the sound of dwarven traders laughing in the streets, or the corner-of-his-eye flash of an elf conducting some business of their own in Dale. Bard only wishes they would stop using the rooftops instead of the roadways.

The peace still seems fragile and surreal, as if he might be imagining it, but Bard is content.

Thranduil seems... less so, at least as of this visit. Nonetheless, he bids him enter when the King of Dale comes knocking at the door of his temporary quarters. He does not even rise when Bard ducks inside, a gesture that might be a slight towards anyone else, but that Bard does not second-guess. They are companionable, even friendly, he thinks, at least as much as any elf and man can be. Sometimes it is a difficult gap to breach, through no one's error. Thranduil's people have long ago learned not to grow attached to the much shorter-lived races.

He does glance up from the hearth he has positioned himself in front of, however, draped in one of the high-backed chairs in furl of limbs that seems dangerously close to a collapse. Bard has never seen him so listless.

"Dragonslayer," he greets, which earns an upward cant of Bard's eyes. Some day he will get the elven king to use his given name, and only this.

"Dáin bores you more than usual, I think, or else it is me," he offers in turn, earning a slight knit of bemusement between Thranduil's dark brows. He will not rise to banter, either, it seems. "You are distant, my Lord," he observes, more to the point, as he plucks up the other chair in the room and carries it to the fire. A few feet away is a respectable distance for two politely acquainted and peaceful rulers. Bard eschews this formality, and sets it down close enough that their knees nearly touch. Thranduil's expression softens.

"I intended no insult."

"Nor has it been taken," Bard says. "But you have planted a seed of concern, that I admit. What troubles you?"

"Troubles," Thranduil repeats, uncertain. It's clear he did not mean to be so transparent, nor to be addressed for it. "I have no troubles with you or Dáin Ironfoot, I assure you."

It's an evasive answer, plain as day, and Bard exhales through his nose, debating whether to leave it be or worry him down like a dog with a bone.

Perhaps not. He has never drawn the king's ire, to his knowledge, but he is not inclined to test it now. Instead, he sits back in his chair and regards Thranduil thoughtfully. The fire spitting softly in the hearth brings a kind glow to men's faces, but to the elf, it seems strangely alienating. The warmth only serves to emphasize Thranduil's pale, glacial features, whose subtleties might be better suited to the deep, dark woods and the silvered light of the moon, the stars.

He is still an uncommonly beautiful person, of course. It's difficult to make an elf look ugly.

"Would it be better if I took my leave, then?" Bard prompts gently, with the quirk of a brow. If Thranduil is shut up tight as his woodland fortress, he does not need to linger, pick, and pry. Elves have infinite more patience than men, and waiting out or ignoring their problems seems to be a viable tactic.

Thranduil gives him a look just wry enough to stay the lord of Dale in his place. "And then whose company would there be to improve the atmosphere?"

The vague self-deprecation is a willful crack in the elf king's armor, and Bard... Bard is good at taking advantage of these. Rather than an arrow loosed into the metaphorical soft spot, however, he twists his mouth into a sporting smile. "Whose indeed. It's good to know I have some purpose," he chuckles, considers the elf king's hand where it dangles lightly off the arm of the chair, his gaze that has returned to the fire, in spite of his acquiescence to friendly company. Bard leans himself at a comfortable angle.

Like a gamepiece being slotted slowly, but finally, confidently into play, he reaches out to hook his smallest finger in Thranduil's. It's the smallest point of contact, easily broken, but it is somehow worlds more intimate than a hand on a shoulder, or a genial brush of arms. Bare skin on bare skin, his own several shades darker than the elf king's, and somehow seeming more worn, more calloused and aged, despite that the lord of Mirkwood has centuries upon centuries on him, and that his hand is no stranger to the grip of a sword. Bard has seen it. Thranduil's face is as stone, unbroken and exp

ressionless for a long, long moment, before slowly, slowly turning his hand to lace the rest of their fingers together. Bard tightens his grip briefly, with a single squeeze of satisfaction, and the quirking edge of a smile has returned to Thranduil's mouth.

"You have many purposes, more important than this," he admits, as they sit there before the fire, hands loosely entwined between them. "And yet you never fail to amend my mood."

"Mark of a good king, isn't it?" Bard says, eyes bright and amused, gathered into crow's feet at their corners. "Fostering good relationships with neighboring lands and all."

"Hm," Thranduil says with a noise approaching laughter. "And do you sit with the King Under the Mountain thus?" He raises the lazy tangle of their fingertips, and turns just enough to touch his lips to their interwoven knuckles. It seems almost more a thoughtful and punctuating gesture than a kiss, but it still speeds Bard's heart and puts a kink of flighty pleasure in his gut.

He has had enough years, now, to come to terms with his attraction to the elven king. Bard has never and will never love anyone with the soul-deep surety and steadfastness as his late wife, and he suspects that the likewise widowed Thranduil feels the same. He has also never roused to the touch of a man, but here they are, with his insides feeling all twisted up like he is holding hands with a pretty girl for the first time. Ridiculous.

"Well, not anymore," Bard says, as Thranduil broods over their clasped touch for a moment, close enough that Bard can feel his exhale on the back of his hand. "His beard was far too scratchy."

Thranduil's breathing quickens, at first Bard thinks with laughter. The elf king sits back, however, with an exp

ression of crumpling dismay. The slender and angled shapes of his nostrils double as he goes shut-eyed in an expression like grief and draws a trembling inspiration. Bard realizes suddenly, with the strangest prickle of excitement, that he is readying to sneeze. He enjoys the last splitsecond of quivering warning he gets before Thranduil abruptly turns away.

"hhhh! --TSSSCHHHss!"

Somehow, in the span of years since that night before the battle, Bard has forgotten the inherent force behind his friend's sneeze. The sound is better suited to a wave breaking upon the rocks than the elf's slender shape, even given the reflexive force with which he grips Bard's hand, still twined with his own. It's almost hard enough to hurt. He imagines Thranduil could break his fingers with very little effort.

Thranduil may come to the same conclusion, because his touch slips from Bard's own as he sits back with a mounting series of breaths. Even with his head turned from him now, the lord of Dale can see the faint quake of his lower lip and the wrinkle of his brow. That he needs another seems absurd, for what stubborn irritant could possibly have withstood the first blast?

But sneeze he does, into the clutch of his free hand as he sits deeply forward. "aht--TSSSCHHHshh!"

When he eases back again with a sigh, Thranduil's eyes are shining, and he has a mingled look of annoyance and apology. "Forgive me."

"Blessings," Bard says, after a pause to absorb the moment, savoring and strange in his mind. "That sounded... relieving."

"I wish it were so," Thranduil replies, with a long forefinger tilted lengthwise under his nose, his posture already gathering itself for another wrenching blow. Miraculously, or regrettably, the stalling pressure seems to calm the urge, and he relaxes.

"I cannot take the blame this time, I am not caked in the dust of ages," Bard remarks, which seems to change some of Thranduil's mercurial distemper back into something fond. He regards the King of Dale sidelong, and Bard can see a single, tempting glisten of wetness in the firelight, shining on the sliver of his septum that the shape of his nose naturally reveals. He has the strangest temptation to reach out and brush it away with a fingertip, but chases the thought from his head as quickly as it manifests. "Something in the air?"

"Doubtful," Thranduil says, but seems content to leave it at that, as he redirects the focus back on to Bard. "Excuse my poor attendance to pleasantries. It's been too long since we've spoken outside matters of the realm, and I have not asked how you fare."

Bard chuckles softly and nudges his chair closer. "I don't require pleasantries from you, Lord Thranduil. We may speak candidly. But..." He breaches the gap between them again, testing if Thranduil is still amenable. Leaning in just a bit allows their shoulders to touch, for a few strands of pale hair to fall across Bard's own, plain clothing. He may be a king crowned, but he rarely dresses like one but for the most formal of occasions. Their arms slide across one another, this time, as Thranduil loosens slowly into the closeness. Bard feels like he is taming a wild creature, a thought that is probably not so far from the truth. "I have no complaints. Our lands are at peace, or near enough to it, my children grow healthy and strong, although seemingly with less desire for my company by the day," he admits, bittersweet.

"A universal truth," Thranduil agrees. He sniffs once, very quietly, very carefully. If Bard were not listening for it, he might miss the slight pull of wetness to it. "Enjoy the time you have with them. Too many a ruler has let their kin slowly slip beneath their duties to the realm, the damage is difficult to repair."

"They are first and foremost in my mind," Bard promises, wondering if Thranduil is speaking generally or referring to himself. He has not seen the king's own son for some seasons, but he recognizes him easily enough: stern-eyed, square-jawed, handsome. "Legolas has always seemed... devoted," he hedges, straying into uncertain territory. Perhaps foolishly, considering the still-tremulous newness to their touch.

"He is--..." Thranduil begins, and pauses, gazing at Bard from the corner of his eye with a cryptic exp

ression, as if he too is weighing the wisdom of speaking so intimately. After a lengthy moment of hesitation, he continues. "He is respectful, loyal, but we were much closer before his mother died. Now I am not sure where his mind nor his heart wander."

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to dredge up anything uncomfortable," Bard starts, yet Thranduil makes a dismissive gesture.

"Do not be. I know you have born the same loss."

So he has. As have too many, many families he knows, still adjusting to the gaps in their homesteads even years after the battle for Erebor. Bard opens his mouth to continue, though he doesn't know what wisdom he can offer to a creature that is functionally ageless, but Thranduil stays him with a hand held up for pause.

This time, Bard gets only the briefest forewarning that his companion is going to sneeze, visible in the backwards tilt of his head and the urgent snarl of his exp

ression before he hides it in the same hand with punctuating wetness.

"--TSSHHHshiew!"

They are close enough now that he can feel Thranduil's shoulder shake against his own. Then all at once, the warmth and simmering energy is gone as the elf wrests himself from the chair and paces to the window, out of the circle of firelight. He is still hitching wildly all the while, resisting the torrent of another sneeze. Bard wishes he'd stayed put in he chair, he is genuinely afraid the elf is going to knock himself over with one of those eruptions.

"Blessings!" Bard rises to follow him, just in case. "Do you truly always sneeze like that?" He wonders, shameless. He knows that elvish noses are particularly sensitive instruments, but he is surprised at how little tolerance they have for anything that might impede them. If they don't sneeze often, they at least seem to do so vigorously enough to evacuate every inch of their sinus. And then some.

"Regrettably," Thranduil replies, his deep and typically unhurried voice gone heady and weak with desire. It's practically erotic, a notion confusing enough that Bard stops obediently when Thranduil thrusts a hand backwards to anchor him at a distance. "I would employ less force if I cou--... hh! hh! ... aht'TSSSCHH!"

He does not, in fact, knock himself over, but he does brace a hand conspicuously against the windowframe as he folds into the ensnaring grip of the other. "--aht'TSSHHH! ...-TSSHH!"

Bard searches a hand through the inner pockets of his coat, relieved to find his fingertips brush an unused handkerchief. It is plain linen, and he is certain that Thranduil has softer and nicer ones on his person, if he could get to them. He rounds to the elf's side, as he is recovering with an undecided exp

ression, eyes tearing silver and nostrils still working gently. He is half-expecting Thranduil to ignore the offering, but as Bard tucks it to his hand, he unfurls it with a quick snap and turns at once to bury himself in its folds.

"--ahdt'TSSCHHHiew!"

That seems to at last clean out the tickle, as his shoulders slope down in apparent relief. Bard is still treated to the completely bizarre sight and sound of an elf quietly blowing his running nose. There are first times for everything, he supposes, he just didn't count on it within his lifetime.

"I've no blessing to adequately cover that," Bard confesses. He lets Thranduil have his space for a moment, in the same way he would wait for an angry cat to calm down before approaching.

"And I ask your pardon," Thranduil sighs eventually, as he finally looks up and back. His eyes are still glossed with unshed tears, and a blush is beginning to show around the delicate edges of his nostrils. "I believe it has passed, now."

He makes a weak, dabbing motion at his nose that puts an unexpected spike in Bard's heart, and he ignores the concept of distances and incremental transitions as he puts a hand to the small of the elven king's back. "I'm glad of it, but only for your sake. Forgive me for the absurdity of this, but... you sound unwell."

Thranduil comes about slowly, but surely. Bard's hand trails from back to waist as he turns, and the settling of the other to his opposite hip seems a natural progression. "I'm not. Not in the way of men, at least. Don't concern yourself."

There is no chill in the words, or in Thranduil's exp

ression. There may, in fact, be a kindling ember of warmth behind his eyes as he considers their arrangement.

"Perhaps I want to concern myself," Bard says, his words careful and measured. "With you."

He feels like Thranduil has been playing this game around him casually, calmly, for years, and now in a few elegant moves Bard has seized the upper hand. He is also, suddenly, grateful for his family line of tall, lanky men. Thranduil towers above everyone, but Bard is close enough in height that it's not awkward for him to lean in until their chests touch, to rest his jaw on the elf's shoulder and embrace him.

Thranduil relaxes into the man with a deep, aching sigh, his nose and mouth close to Bard's ear as he purrs, "So be it."

Edited January 4, 2015 by Garnet

[ID2006]

Normally I'm not a huge fan of Thranduil, but my god is your writing eloquent and even before the sneezes in this second part, my heart was fluttering. Breathing definitely not my strong suit at the moment.

[RiversD]

Me: “Oh cool, comment responses…. And a pic… Wait, what? *flails*

Ooh, you’ve caught me in the mood for intense feelings. I therefore apologise for what’s about to follow. It’s a mixture of things I wrote down as I was reading and one or two things I wanted to pick up when I went through for the quotes, so it's a pretty accurate record of my experience reading this, but, well… you’ll see.

Edit- apparently I've over-quoted. Never done that before. This is all your fault, so you're aware.

"It's years before he sees Thranduil lose that kind of composure again."

One sentence in, and my stomach is already a tight little ball of Yes Please. Well played.

Nice brushwork on the timeskip, by the way- smoothly done.

Thranduil seems... less so

*pricks ears* I'm listening... also, the rest of this passage = awwwh. Big yes for more relationships like this in the world.

Some day he will get the elven king to use his given name, and only this.

See above^^ I love the dynamic you create between them.

Bard eschews this formality, and sets it down close enough that their knees nearly touch.

Good. Bard, I love you.

Thranduil's expression softens.

Aaand their relationship has already killed me. I’m dead, like 4, 5 paragraphs in. This is how weak I have become. This is what you have the power to do to me now.

The fire spitting softly in the hearth brings a kind glow to men's faces, but to the elf, it seems strangely alienating. The warmth only serves to emphasize Thranduil's pale, glacial features, whose subtleties might be better suited to the deep, dark woods and the silvered light of the moon, the stars.

That's beautiful. And now my heart aches. Thanks.

The finger hooking thing- No, no, no, that’s too cute, you are not allowed to be this cute, you are grown men, I FORBID IT.

before slowly, slowly turning his hand to lace the rest of their fingers together.

Aaaaaah, too cute. Nooooo…..

"You have many purposes, more important than this," he admits, as they sit there before the fire, hands loosely entwined between them. "And yet you never fail to amend my mood."

*Screams and flies into the sun*

I really like the use of the word “gathered” in the context of Bard's crow's feet- it makes for an evocative image.

He raises the lazy tangle of their fingertips, and turns just enough to touch his lips to their interwoven knuckles. It seems almost more a thoughtful and punctuating gesture than a kiss, but it still speeds Bard's heart and puts a kink of flighty pleasure in his gut.

And in mine, oh my gosh.

Close enough to feel the change in his breath against Bard's hand- always a lovely scenario, and wonderfully worked.

Also: "a trembling inspiration"- Ngh. Yes, good.

I liked the wave metaphor- it just felt right, y’know?

He imagines Thranduil could break his fingers with very little effort

Oh wow, yes. I am so very here for any and all super-powerful beings who deal gently with their fragile friends (and *ahem* others) even though they could snap them like twigs if they weren’t careful. Allll the strong gentle ones and their breakable buddies. All of it.

Have I mentioned that I really like the subtle (and not so) differences between Thranduil's sneezing in this instalment and the last? I love that you can tell it's not just expelling an irritant like the Dale-dust. He's getting more warning, but doesn't seem as able to just deal with what's bothering his nose and recover. And elvish hitching build-ups and teary eyes- ohmigosh he's sneezing himself teary-eyed I cannot deal with this like anything resembling an adult.

Re: that "mercurial distemper"....is it bad that I look at the proud Elf-king, all annoyed at not being able to be dignified and just irritated at the current state of his personal universe and 98% of my reaction is “Aawwwwh..." ?

Bard feels like he is taming a wild creature, a thought that is probably not so far from the truth.

Mmmgnh. See above re: strong and gentle and amend to add “also skittish, intimacy-shy dorks who just need to let themselves be held once in a while to keep my heart from breaking.”

"He sniffs once, very quietly, very carefully."

*carries Thranduil away to look after him forever.*

Also:

"slight pull of wetness"-lovely bit of phrasing.

And then that fit. Um…”

I've no blessing to adequately cover that,

- and nor do I have words equal to praising it.

"punctuating wetness."- nice.

"Then all at once, the warmth and simmering energy is gone as the elf wrests himself from the chair"

Me: Aw, no, Thranduil, stay where you are! Bard doesn't mind!

He is still hitching wildly all the while, resisting the torrent of another sneeze.

... I genuinely have no words. Just sounds and flailing gestures that don't translate into text. Congratulations, you broke me.

"Regrettably," Thranduil replies, his deep and typically unhurried voice gone heady and weak with desire. It's practically erotic

Practically? Practically? You're going to give me a heart attack over here.

"I would employ less force if I cou--

And I died. Again. Pretty emphatically, too.

The "angry cat" reference...yeah. See above.

Bard's hand trails from back to waist as he turns, and the settling of the other to his opposite hip seems a natural progression.

Smooth.

"Thranduil relaxes into the man with a deep, aching sigh."... and my heart explodes. Look what you did.

Yeah- not sure if I was already on the cusp of a natural high, or if this fic pushed me into it, but it's darn well keeping me there. And so, you get the outpourings of my late-night endorphin-filled brain. Lucky you.

(Sorry about that)

[ID2006]

Can I just add ditto to everything Rivers said

[Akahana]

BREATHING WHAT IS THAT APPARENTLY I DON'T NEED IT THAT'S FINE

JESUS THIS IS BEAUTIFUL I CAN'T WITH THESE TWO THEY ARE TOO PRECIOUS

you killed me I hope you're proud of yourself

[Masking]

THRANDUIL WITH AN ELF-COLD!

And LOL, Bard, we may convert you to this fetish yet.

[AngelEyes]

Mmmmm. Beautiful. Just lovely. And richly written.

[Sitruuna]

...I don't even have words for this. I was expecting you to leave this as a one shot. xD

Reading your stories is always a pleasure. This is definitely not an exeption.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Amazing! Your writing puts me in mind of a fine wine or a rich chocolate. I just savor every word. The sneezes fit in perfectly without being distracting. They are the hint of spice in the wine or chocolate. Hmmm... I must be ready for dessert.?

[SterlingSilver]

AH HA HA HA. OKAY. LIKE.

GARNET ONE SHOTS THAT EVOLVE INTO MULTI-PART AFFAIRS ARE KIND OF LIKE MY FAVORITE THING~ I AM HAVING TROUBLE HANDLING MYSELF.

I AM VERY MUCH A FAN OF EVERYTHING HAPPENING HERE.

*deep breath* Okay, wow, I need to chill and get to a normal volume here, my goodness. SOooo much here to love. Can I just say that I never imagined shipping these two, but now I can't NOT SHIP THEM? I have so many feels for them now, just because of you and your adorable writing. Their interactions are precious, and so very honest. And I really love the sort of slow build you got going here. The chemistry, unff. Just displayed so well~

[TaurielRiver]

Hi Garnet,

I was so moved by your beautiful story that I had to overcome my shyness and officially join the community because I couldn’t go without telling you how much I loved it! Hopefully that sounds nice and not totally bizarre!

From the first word, you brought Middle Earth to life in the richest of details, your writing is so subtle and well-paced, it is like there is as much meaning in what you don’t say as what you do! Your language is so incredibly eloquent and well-chosen, I was drawn-in to each hint of emotion experienced by your characters. And each part was also so delicate and spontaneous, I had no idea what to expect from moment to moment- reading this was the most touching, surprising journey!

Some of my most favourite moments:

Part I

Thranduil’s stony sense of humour- this is exactly the kind of comment I can imagine the king deeming appropriate in such a situation, and rather funny here too!

Thranduil choosing an Elvish phrase to approximate a “bless you”, and also his comment to coax/insist Bard accept the handkerchief- keeping the situation dignified and showing (what might be a rare) glimpse of care/compassion.

This beautiful moment when Bard dabs his nose and, in response to Bard’s comment on his poetic words, Thranduil briefly smiles and replies "Are they helping?" – such a beautiful interaction, with Bard’s slight vulnerability given the circumstances (both current and in the context of the wider situation) and Thranduil being aware and offering comfort in some small way.

Part II

When Thranduil touches his lips to his and Bard’s interwoven hands. I love how this gesture is so incredibly slow and deliberate and restrained, yet speaks volumes and more.

Your description of Bard slowly drawing himself closer to Thranduil as if taming a wild creature- this is just so perfect, exactly how I imagine Thranduil- unpredictable and not easily trusting, making this closeness with Bard that much more special.

Thranduil holding his hand up as a pause before a sudden sneeze and the intense fit that follows- no words to describe, this was just amazing! I think I was possibly as entranced by the situation that unfolded as Bard!!

So to conclude, I’m so glad I came upon this story (and of course can’t wait for the last instalment) and am really inspired by your wonderful writing- you have such a gift!

TR