Change of Heart - (The Hobbit, M)

[Garnet]

The game here is how adult can I make this without necessitating the adult boards.

More Bard and Thranduil. I'll let you know when I get bored with these two. (Never).

Change of Heart

The hearth renders the bedroom dry and hot, moreso than their damp, chilly home on the lake, when Bard and his children would huddle 'round the cookfire in an effort to drive the wet and the winter from their bones. Here in Dale, it keeps the weather at bay, but too it has become a visual luxury. The fire from the common room would be enough to heat the still-humble house, but he likes to keep this one lit as well. It makes the warmth creep inside, a throwback to simpler times.

He's been stuck in the recursion of that thought, today. Even when he has familiar company, the winters are still the hardest, emotionally.

"When does the pain abate?" He breaks their comfortable, deep silence after nearly an hour.

He would have forgotten Thranduil is here altogether if not for the steady thrum of his ancient heart against him, sitting propped up against the wall and pillows as if he is perfectly content to share a mortal man's bed, drink wine, and say nothing at all. This works out well, because there are times when Bard does not feel eloquent and does not want to discuss political or friendly matters, has no thirst for intimacy. He simply wants to know and be known, without ceremony.

Admittedly, he could have given some context to his inquiry. It is simply the natural floe that surfaces from his sea of stormy thoughts.

Whether elves are intuitive or whether Thranduil knows this question all too personally, however, he doesn't ask for clarification. Instead, the lord of the Woodland Realm swirls the wine in his glass slowly, thoughtfully, and hovers it under his nose. "How long has it been?"

"Seven years, this season. She died when the ground was still hard, we could not bury her."

"So short a time."

Bard leans his head back against the elf's shoulder. Sometimes it is intimidating being so close to a creature that has outlived him by millennia, but sometimes it brings with it a strange reassurance.

"It seems a lifetime ago, and yet only yesterday."

"Much has changed for you and yours since then," Thranduil observes, his voice a languid sound that reminds Bard of black treacle pouring out in ribbons.

"And happier I am for it. All of it. The children are stronger, flexing in their freedom. Their contentment is all I care about, that they have every comfort and opportunity they should wish for. Still, I'm given to moments of ache, such a deep and abiding loneliness that I wonder when it will fade. I wish her to be more fond memory than empty space."

It's so frank a confession that he would never tell it to another, never even dream of it, had there not been this common thread between them. Thranduil's silence is contemplative, not unsettled.

"Pain shapes our memories, makes them sweeter, sharper. To ease one is to let go the other," he says after a long period, and a mouthful of wine. "The hurt will subside, but never entirely. I do not know what it is for a man, but I can tell you that after centuries, there is yet a dull pang on my heart. I treat it as a scar, an old wound reminding me that she existed. That she was real."

Bard lets out a long, ragged breath. They may not be cheerful words, but they are the ones he is most satisfied to hear.

"There are things you've forgotten," he suggests, rooting carefully in that wound for something akin to what he feels.

"Yes, and in no semblance of order. I can recall the smell of her hair and the cadence of her step while she was with child, but nothing of our wedding."

"Well," Bard says after a long, weighted pause. The solemnity of the veil that he himself has drawn over them is beginning to choke. "You were probably very drunk."

He receives an actual prod in his ribs for that, such an unexpectedly exasperated and human a gesture that Bard cracks with the first smile that's felt genuine all day.

"And so concludes all the advice in love and life I shall offer you henceforth," Thranduil says, tone gone as dry as the air, but there is no concealing the starlight flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"No," Bard chuckles, softer now into his cup as he draws a careful pull of wine. Dorwinion is the only thing strong enough to soften the curve of Thranduil's shoulders and make glassy his gaze, but Bard has to measure how quickly he drinks. What renders his companion a bit fuzzy around the edges would drop a man under the table for a twelve hour nap. "It is well appreciated. I've never had anyone to..."

His shoulder moves against Thranduil in a one-sided shrug, letting the elf surmise the rest.

"Just as well. You seem to have fared better than I in keeping with your children. Perhaps I should be asking your advice."

Bard smiles faintly, ruefully. "My children have not had a thousand years and then some to distance themselves," he reminds, taking the best stab at Legolas's age he can. He has never asked after Thranduil's, though Tilda was not so shy. The slow, smiling narrow of his eyes had indicated a measure far beyond the several hundred, and then several thousand years she had eagerly guessed. Bard cannot fully conceive the scope of it.

The moment has lightened, however, as has his mood. He feels as though he has been given permission to mourn her, to always mourn her, and now that he has the lenience, he doesn't want to. He tucks her away into a safe spot, in the back of his head. He's about to turn into his companion, requesting a distraction, but is surprised when Thranduil passes him his wine. Bard accepts it automatically, and for a moment holds both goblets in hand as his gaze flits back to the elf's face. What?

The Elvenking has one arm pinned down behind Bard's own shape, but the other is newly freed. Just in time, too, as he snatches a thumb and forefinger to pinch his nose cruelly shut. His lips part for a moment, eyes closed as he turns from Bard, though it isn't until the first lusty hitch in his breathing that realization dawns. He is fighting the urge to sneeze.

With an inkling of how powerfully his friend can clear his nose in one go, Bard is quick to set aside both cups, lest they end up in the sheets. His precaution ends up being for naught as Thranduil relaxes in the next breath with a quivering sigh. Bard feels a queer stirring of regret, and wonders at it. It's not the first time his insides have gone awry at the first indication his companion might be about to lose control.

"Forgive me."

Bard ignores the apology, and quirks a brow. "Why withhold yourself?"

Thranduil is clearly not expecting to be questioned on the matter, and subconsciously mimics his expression. "From sneezing?" At the slight nod he receives, the Elvenking's mouth tilts into a faintly puzzled smile. "Your children are asleep. And you are very close."

Bard is several different shades of amused. "I could be closer."

"How quickly your humor changes."

"You have that effect."

"The wine, too, I imagine," Thranduil says, though he lets Bard guide the angle of his jaw with his calloused fingertips, still rough and split in places from an excess of hard work. He may be a king crowned, but he needs no one to chop his firewood for him, nor restring his bow. The elf seems not to mind, perhaps even savoring the texture as Bard skims a touch back, back, behind the curve of one ear aaand...

The faintest and finest tremor passes through the elf as he strokes to the tip, which earns a smile from Bard. It's a little like causing a cat to purr, equally as involuntary and as entertaining.

"Patently unfair, Dragonslayer," Thranduil sighs.

"Would you like me to stop?" Bard teases.

"Don't you dare."

He caresses the elegant point for a while, then into the loose spill of hair just behind. He could do this the better part of the night, and suspects Thranduil would be content, but Bard is a bit inebriated now himself. It's not long before he's turning for better leverage and touching his brow to his companion's, their noses brushing. It's the Elvenking who finally initiates the press of their mouths, long and deep. Their tongues divine one another in a lazy glide, sharing the lingering taste of blackberry wine and stoking a fire low in his belly.

It still lasts only half the time Bard would like. Just as the edge of his hunger is whetting itself on the kiss, Thranduil abruptly breaks from him. Bard has only a moment to catch his terrible, crumpling grimace before Thranduil takes a heady gasp and wrenches his nose shut in one hand. Oh. He's about to...

To Bard's surprise, he holds the verging sneeze in entirely, strangled to a single wet squelch somewhere far back in his sinuses. Even repressed, he can still feel its inherent strength, as the elf's long frame seizes violently. Bard sits back half from the force of it, and half in horror.

"Don't do that," he breathes, certain that blood is going to come trickling out the elf's nose when he releases it, evidence of something ruptured internally.

Thranduil seems alright, however, if a little hazy. He lowers his hand cautiously, and looks at Bard askance. "It could not be helped."

Bard's eyes soften. "I only meant don't hold it in. It sounds painful. The children could sleep through the mountain crumbling down, worry not about them."

Thranduil arches a thick black brow, slowly. "Then, I make it a general habit not to sneeze on my bed partners." He leans back against the pillows, but is still considering Bard with quizzical interest, still willing to play along with whatever the lakeman is clearly working up to.

The King of Dale wets his lips, settling a hand upon the Elvenking's breast. He meets his gaze unashamedly, but with some humor. "One never knows, men are strange folk. I might enjoy it."

The eyebrow climbs a little higher; he clearly has his attention. "Indeed," he agrees, but still leans back reflexively as Bard moves an experimental hand for his face. There is a moment of confused tension between them, eyes held and Bard's hand arrested mid-air. Thranduil yields first, relaxing his expression and tilting his head back in the slightest increment of surrender.

He is also still watching him from beneath eyelids at half-mast, clearly trying to work out if Bard is serious or not. Which is convenient, because so is Bard. He is gradual. After Thranduil allows his hand to light to his face, this time uninterrupted, he spends a moment on the familiar angle of his cheek and jaw. Smooth as marble and just as immoveable. Bard is always a little impressed and satisfied with how solid the Elvenking is, despite his ephemeral appearance.

His touch skirts over the languid bow of his lips, and to the pronounced divot just above. The elf's long, elegantly shaped nostrils crinkle and twitch open even before he's gotten that far, and in amusement Bard thumbs the shaky perimeter of one.

"Is that so bothersome?"

"It is not you," Thranduil confesses, as his brows steeple into an expression that looks part sorrow and part ire. "I've felt this for the better part of the eveni--hh! hh!"

His jaw goes slack, the flutter of his inhale sharp against Bard's wrist in the instant before Thranduil's own hand finally intercepts, and politely turns it away. He swallows hard. Then he remembers to brace himself.

"-ah'TSSSCHHHHH!"

The sound is one of desperate irritation, caught in the fold of Thranduil's hand. It also nearly throws Bard from the bed, as his body rises with the wrench of the elf's. It doesn't seem to be as relieving as he would like, however. Thranduil drops back for just half a second with an expression of trembling dismay, before drawing an enormous breath and repeating himself.

"-ahd-TSSSCHHHss!"

Their quarters are already tight, with Thranduil's arm still half-curled around him and Bard's hand steadying him by the ribs, as if afraid he might shake himself and the bed apart. The pitch of the Elvenking's body is a little like trying to restrain an unruly steed, but Bard is privately glad he is not seating him the same. The sound, his closeness has fed that ember's glow of desire to a bright flame. He knows not what to do with himself. He feels hot and drunk and affectionate and Thranduil is already listing back with that same look of sneezy abandon.

"Again?"

"Forgive me," Thranduil breathes, though if he's sarcastic it's difficult to tell with his voice gone so weak and open. Bard's stomach clenches. "I cannot seem to -- hh-HH...! --TSSCCHHHshh!"

He can take it no longer, neither the awkward twist as Thranduil struggles to avoid catching him with his release, nor the desire to press him to the mattress and ravage him. Ravish him. One or both. Bard turns the elf's hand away, this time, and in the same motion ensnares him in both arms, pulling him close into an embrace. Thranduil goes rigid, his body cut of mithril and steel and iron. Bard truly has no hope of restraining him if he doesn't wish it so. But he must, or else he has to sneeze too badly to care. His pale hands fist in the back of his tunic, his breath catches lightly beside his ear, so close he can feel the tickle of it. Bard thinks he may go mad if he doesn't...

"--TSSCHFFF!" He muffles it tightly into Bard's shoulder, and grips him hard enough that he takes a breath of surprise. "-ah-TSCHFF!"

Four, or is that five? He is almost beginning to worry. He is certain that no elf has ever sneezed themself to death, but a shaky hand still reaches up to stroke the long white cascade of hair fallen askew across Thranduil's shoulders. They rise with a final, deep breath.

"-aht-TSSCHFFFH!"

The last seems to finally abate the fit, as the Elvenking sags against him in apparent relief, his voice a low rumble in his throat. A groan, as if he were a mortal man and susceptible to the same ills. Bard releases him cautiously.

"Blessings, my friend. Are you well?"

"Better, now," Thranduil sighs as he stretches back across the pillows and recovers himself. He seems hale, if a little winded, and with a rare intrusion of color to his pale features. Particularly around the nose. Bard bites his lip. "My apologies, it can be difficult to stop once it begins."

"So I see," Bard says, his throat bobbing with another swallow. Thranduil hoods his eyes in what appears to be amusement, the only being who can manage to look smug in the wake of a sneezing fit, even with his voice gone a bit stuffy.

"And did you enjoy it?"

Bard has nearly forgotten his confession, or maybe it was a jibe at the time, but now he does not bother to conceal the heat in his eyes and his touch. He traces the long, smooth line of the elf's neck from ear to collar. "I am going to take you apart thread by thread, sinew by sinew," he promises, by way of agreement, and does not miss the fire this incites behind Thranduil's own arctic gaze.

"Best begin, then."

Bard makes good on his word. Thranduil's soft, mindful sniffles are like feathering notes of pleasure in his mind, interspersed with the dark pitch of his sighs. Nimble fingertips with their archer's callouses free three clasps in succession and nudge aside layers of fabric, baring him down to the skin as he sucks kisses across the places he's exposed. They might bruise, on a lesser being, but the elf takes his roughness with an encouraging hiss through his teeth, jerks him back up to crush their mouths together. The sharp points of Bard's canines catch him firmly, threatening to break skin and welt blood to its surface.

This is where Thranduil goes abruptly still. At first, Bard thinks he may be about to sneeze again, and only redirects his attention to one side, but he too stalls when the elf squeezes his shoulder and snaps, "Stop."

Bard has only a moment to wonder what's gone wrong, before there is a tentative knock at the bedroom door, and a tearful voice speaking up.

"Da? Are you awake?"

He crumples over Thranduil like so much laundry, sighing into his shoulder. Just now, perhaps he is wishing that his own children were a thousand-and-then-some. The elf seems to share his sentiment, but it must be a trouble he's known himself, because his own sigh turns into a silent shake of laughter at Bard's expression.

"Go," he says, not unkindly, with a little swat to his hip.

He hasn't actually managed to get any of his own clothes off, nor Thranduil's much farther than a cursory loosening. It still takes him a moment to compose himself, straightening from the bed with several deep breaths and a backwards sweep of fingertips through his hair. Exchanging the role of lover for father used to come second nature, but he's a little rusty in his shift.

"Da?" Tilda's voice again, trembling.

"Coming, love," he says, and goes to fetch her only when Thranduil is sitting upright and looking as calmly poised as ever.

His youngest tucks into his arms as soon as the door is opened. "I'm sorry," she blurts. "I had a dream about the dragon. I know I'm too old for..."

Bard shushes her at once. The idea that she ever feels her comfort an inconvenience breaks his heart, as if she is not the locus of his whole world. No kingship nor midnight tryst could shake that. "Never too old for nightmares. I get them too."

"As do I," Thranduil intones. "Particularly ones about dragons." The Elvenking's expression is inscrutable when Bard catches his eye, but Tilda breaks into a watery smile upon noticing his presence.

"Oh," she says, gives Bard one last adoring squeeze, and then edges towards the elf like an inquisitive kitten. "Hello, Lord Thranduil."

The King of Mirkwood tips his head politely. He has ever been fond, and remarkably tolerant of Bard's children, even to the apparent extent of interrupting their more carnal play. He suspects the elf misses being a father to a younger company, just a little. "Hello, pen-neth." He seems about to say more, but a sudden, grimacing look of dread comes over him too quickly, and the elf is fast to reroute himself into the crook of an arm. "Excu...hh! -aht-TSSCHHH!"

Tilda jumps at the leftover sneeze, owl-eyed. "Bless! Was that you, earlier?"

Thranduil seems to be satisfied at just the one, although he pauses with a long forefinger touching beneath his nose, and throws Bard a guilty glance. Bard grins, but he can swear Thranduil colors a shade or two darker before clearing his throat. "I'm afraid so, though I hope that was the last of it. Did I wake you?"

"Nnno," Tilda says hesitantly, as poor a liar as her brother and sister are excellent ones. "It's alright, I didn't like my dream."

Thranduil sniffs a single time, carefully, then pats the bed beside him. "Come sit. I'm certain between your father and myself, we may have enough stories of slain wyrms to stay your fears."

Tilda's face smooths in relief, and though there will be no further liaisons between them tonight, Bard feels an odd pull towards the elf in his chest. It's not quite for their friendship, nor is it heat-of-the-moment, blind lust. He tamps it down, though, and comes to join them on the bed with claw-bent fingers swooping around his daughter's waist to a trill of giggles. "Aye, I think I can manage that."

Edited January 19, 2015 by Garnet

[RiversD]

Ohhhhhhhh sod, Garnet.

I'm going to have to come back and do breakdown, because a fic this incredible deserves highlighting, but you have quite literally rendered me unable to words. Honestly, I think my brain took off halfway through and has yet to return to earth.

I'll see you in the morning. My gosh.

[Maus_17]

You... I'm- in going to die. This is too perfect, gosh. I loved how you characterized them so WELL. I just.. Bravo.

[beatlelover22]

Oh my gosh, you're simply spoiling me with all these! AUGH! I can hardly take it... Thranduil not wanting to wake the children... something I could imagine him doing. And Bard, too! Ah, it's funny, I didn't realise how much I liked them together until you started writing them! OH MY GOSH! I'm going to try really hard not to re-read this eight million times!

[Spoo]

What IS it with you and writing these two single daddies so perfectly. |: Like, HOW DARE YOU?? I can't even with your descriptions and the way you make Bard and Thran interact - how they have this beautiful understanding and respect for one another. It makes me want to cry.

"And happier I am for it. All of it. The children are stronger, flexing in their freedom. Their contentment is all I care about, that they have every comfort and opportunity they should wish for. Still, I'm given to moments of ache, such a deep and abiding loneliness that I wonder when it will fade. I wish her to be more fond memory than empty space."

It's so frank a confession that he would never tell it to another, never even dream of it, had there not been this common thread between them. Thranduil's silence is contemplative, not unsettled.

"Pain shapes our memories, makes them sweeter, sharper. To ease one is to let go the other," he says after a long period, and a mouthful of wine. "The hurt will subside, but never entirely. I do not know what it is for a man, but I can tell you that after centuries, there is yet a dull pang on my heart. I treat it as a scar, an old wound reminding me that she existed. That she was real."

This is what I'm talking about right here. They are so REAL with each other. None of this trying to impress the other with being "strong". And you know, their speech/diction being on point and perfectly in-character. THAT'S NICE, TOO. *Paps*

Bard makes good on his word. Thranduil's soft, mindful sniffles are like feathering notes of pleasure in his mind, interspersed with the dark pitch of his sighs. Nimble fingertips with their archer's callouses free three clasps in succession and nudge aside layers of fabric, baring him down to the skin as he sucks kisses across the places he's exposed. They might bruise, on a lesser being, but the elf takes his roughness with an encouraging hiss through his teeth, jerks him back up to crush their mouths together. The sharp points of Bard's canines catch him firmly, threatening to break skin and welt blood to its surface.

I'll take SUPER FREAKIN' HOT for 500, Alex. Where has this glorious imagery been all of my life. Buhhhh.

And speaking of the intimacy and sexual undertones, they're not like overbearing or anything? They fit the mood and give it a generous amount of sexiness without going too far (though I'm sure none of us would mind if this wound up on the Adult Board ).

Bottom line? Bard being all hot and bothered over Thran and his forceful sneezes is A+.

[AngelEyes]

Gods Almighty! You are just amazing. I would read your work if you wrote a dictionary. Eloquence drips.

"Pain shapes our memories, makes them sweeter, sharper. To ease one is to let go the other," he says after a long period, and a mouthful of wine. "The hurt will subside, but never entirely. I do not know what it is for a man, but I can tell you that after centuries, there is yet a dull pang on my heart. I treat it as a scar, an old wound reminding me that she existed. That she was real."

This is one of the most beautiful descriptions of loss I've heard.

And the sheer sexiness undoes me.

[Akahana]

Oh my god, art you trying to kill me???? Because you are pretty damn close, I almost melted and I have company I am so screwed <3333

[KickingUpTheDust]

uuunnnnffff yes please more sneezy thranduil this is SO necessary.

[RiversD]

Well, I'm back, and slightly more together. together enough to brain-spill, anyhow.

He simply wants to know and be known, without ceremony.

Oh, I know that need. You write it well.

They may not be cheerful words, but they are the ones he is most satisfied to hear.

Again, you are a mistress of pitching. Everything everyone else said about their conversations about loss- it's hard to know the pain will never vanish entirely, but Bard doesn't need, and doesn't want to hear "it gets better" in the glib way it's often used. Thranduil knows the place and value of grief, and his experience gives Bard the comfort necessary for him to bear his burden willingly, and even with some small gratitude, in time.

"You were probably very drunk."

He receives an actual prod in his ribs for that, such an unexpectedly exasperated and human a gesture that Bard cracks with the first smile that's felt genuine all day.

Nice break of tension, both within scene and within the flow of the fic. Their dialogue and reactions seem very natural in this- there are no jarring moments, no sense that anything is off or artificial. Kudos, there.

Thranduil passing Bard his wine was a nice touch. I liked Bard's little "why would...oh." moment. And the whole image of wine-softened Thranduil fighting against his own sneeziness is soooooo darn attractive. I'm glad Bard agrees.

Thranduil relaxes in the next breath with a quivering sigh. Bard feels a queer stirring of regret, and wonders at it. It's not the first time his insides have gone awry at the first indication his companion might be about to lose control.

You describe that feeling so well, oh my gosh.

Can I mention at this point that you also do incredible descriptions of breathing and it's modulations? It's something I pay attention to in real life (well, I guess I'm unlikely to be alone in that here...), and it makes your fics that bit more immersive, because I know exactly what your characters' breathing is doing, and, as mentioned many times before, you choose your words with skill. (have I crossed the bridge into creepy yet? Perhaps. Oh well.)

The faintest and finest tremor passes through the elf as he strokes to the tip, which earns a smile from Bard. It's a little like causing a cat to purr, equally as involuntary and as entertaining.

"Patently unfair, Dragonslayer," Thranduil sighs.

I maaay have mentioned the ear thing on your other fic. I think this was the point when I knew I'd lost myself to this fic. Patently unfair, Wordsmith.

Thranduil seems alright, however, if a little hazy. He lowers his hand cautiously, and looks at Bard askance. "It could not be helped."

Oh, sweetheart. A lil' bit of haziness will always tug my heartstrings, but since he thinks he's being told off for interrupting kisses with sneezing while really Bard's just concerned... my heart is in fact in danger of being dragged out of my chest and into the computer.

His touch skirts over the languid bow of his lips, and to the pronounced divot just above. The elf's long, elegantly shaped nostrils crinkle and twitch open even before he's gotten that far, and in amusement Bard thumbs the shaky perimeter of one.

"Is that so bothersome?"

"It is not you," Thranduil confesses, as his brows steeple into an expression that looks part sorrow and part ire. "I've felt this for the better part of the eveni--hh! hh!"

Okay, this was the point that I knew I wasn't going to be coherent by the end of this.

Among the buttons being pressed here:

-confessing to having been bothered by a tickle/irritation for some time

-consequent excessive sensitivity.

-interrupted speech

-there are others, I know this, but keep getting distracted because that whole image of Thranduil's nose beginning to misbehave is too much and I may in fact be dead.

"Forgive me," Thranduil breathes, though if he's sarcastic it's difficult to tell with his voice gone so weak and open. Bard's stomach clenches. "I cannot seem to -- hh-HH...! --TSSCCHHHshh!"

And this is where my heartbeat lost all semblance of rhythm.

Some more expertly depressed buttons:

-losing control of the sneezing once it starts.

-interrupted speech again.

-"weak and open", my gosh, woman.

- trying to apologise for it (I don't even care if he means it or not, it's hot both ways), when sweetie there's really no need. You write all of Bard's reactions/feelings so well, they really add to the readerly appreciation of everything Thranduil.

His pale hands fist in the back of his tunic, his breath catches lightly beside his ear, so close he can feel the tickle of it

I'm with Bard on this one. Hubba.

And I really love the thread of reminders throughout this that Thranduil is different: ancient, ageless, inredibly powerful- and as completely undone by a sneezing fit as any man (if not more so).

the Elvenking sags against him in apparent relief, his voice a low rumble in his throat. A groan, as if he were a mortal man and susceptible to the same ills.

"I am going to take you apart thread by thread, sinew by sinew,"

Um... I have no original commentary. I just wanted you to know that I appreciated this line. Very much.

He crumples over Thranduil like so much laundry, sighing into his shoulder. Just now, perhaps he is wishing that his own children were a thousand-and-then-some. The elf seems to share his sentiment, but it must be a trouble he's known himself, because his own sigh turns into a silent shake of laughter at Bard's expression.

Okay, I giggled. They're such wonderful longsuffering dads. Poor Bard.

And that last part is A+ too, because of course all three of them now have traumatic memories of dragonfire(along with most of Dale) and having them cuddle together and help Tilda (and each other) past such things is the perfect way to give me the warm fuzzies, okay.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Your writing is so beautifully descriptive. Thankfully so many others have written detailed comentary because I couldn't do this enough justice. And in the midst of your touching, intimate story you have a gorgeous elf sneeze on an equally gorgeous man (and he likes it!)...I am undone.

[March Hare]

Mmmmmmmmmmost undone. You mmmmmmmmmmmelt me.

[TaurielRiver]

Wait… could this be… is this… is it… oh my, it IS!!!!!

Your Thranduil and Bard is too gorgeous for words already, and then I read “how adult can I make this without necessitating the adult boards” and I don’t think I was able to exhale properly again until I'd read the whole thing (and then some!!)

Firstly, I will never get over the way you set the scene for each of these beautifully credible glimpses into their interactions- your exploration of their shared loss of the person they held closest was particularly stirring in this case! I love the slow reveal of aspects of their pasts and memories, and the way Thranduil takes the lead in offering some gentle words of wisdom and comfort.

And then, just as my heart is getting all weepy, Bard’s comment to lighten the mood is just bang-on hilarious (and in that subtle way that you pull off so very well!), and your description of Thranduil’s “unexpectedly exasperated” reaction was just such a priceless, heart-warming moment, AND… "and so concludes all the advice in love and life I shall offer you henceforth"… was just so amusingly dry and endearing and in-character, I had to re-read this section a couple of times because it was just so fun to imagine it all playing out!

Then, oh my goodness, the gentle build up to their growing intimacy was just beautiful, from the feel of Bard’s hands to the way Thranduil swirls his wine in the glass, it all just created such a warm, wintery, seductive mood… and then your description of Thranduil trying not to… and then not… well, I can’t even describe it, I was just mesmerised. Their discussion… Thranduil’s intentional restraint… honestly… this elf can do no wrong!

From this point in, I am just in awe of your crafting of such a sensual, evocative scene… the development of Bard’s intrigue over something seen so rarely from his companion into a more… shall we say, pertinent interest, was all so natural and makes perfect sense to me for his character. And the ending was just so sweet, how could I not squeal just the tiniest bit to see my favourite Elvenking just the tiniest bit self-conscious…

As always, I have enjoyed every moment, and should you never get bored of them, you will never ever hear me complaining!!

[Geist]

Every single fiber of my being is thrumming with delight after reading this. SO. FUCKING. GOOD. Yesssssss....unnfggh.

[phoenix]

Things I didn't know I needed in my life: This pairing. This fic. The descriptions were gorgeous, and their whole amazing sneezy tryst (the love bites, oh my god) -- smoking hot. *fans self.* Wonderful, all around.

[Candy]

Oh my holy hell what just happened.

I have to say, I'm a diehard Tolkien fan an with VERY few exceptions (I can think of... 2 in my life. One was the 18+ story by our own lovely Masking), I don't read fanfiction in that world. It always feels off, it always feels wrong, the characters always feel forced and the world feels manipulated for the author's purposes.

But holy crap Garnet... take it from the pickiest fan ever... YOU NAILED IT. The characters felt realistic. I've never seen them do that, but you write so I believe they would. And jfljksdlkewkjdsjdf elven sneezes being so strong? Um. Yes please.

Don't ever stop writing this >.>

[TheCakeIsAlive]

"Well," Bard says after a long, weighted pause. The solemnity of the veil that he himself has drawn over them is beginning to choke. "You were probably very drunk."

Lifting the spirits in the best possible way. So elves get drunk at their weddings? Does it even matter?

He is also still watching him from beneath eyelids at half-mast, clearly trying to work out if Bard is serious or not. Which is convenient, because so is Bard.

Mmmm, will I won't I scenarios, definitely tantalising.

"Better, now," Thranduil sighs as he stretches back across the pillows and recovers himself. He seems hale, if a little winded, and with a rare intrusion of color to his pale features. Particularly around the nose. Bard bites his lip. "My apologies, it can be difficult to stop once it begins."

You have now killed me, twice. That must the one of the most attractive sentences to have ever been said by an elf. *deaded*

Tilda's face smooths in relief, and though there will be no further liaisons between them tonight, Bard feels an odd pull towards the elf in his chest. It's not quite for their friendship, nor is it heat-of-the-moment, blind lust. He tamps it down, though, and comes to join them on the bed with claw-bent fingers swooping around his daughter's waist to a trill of giggles. "Aye, I think I can manage that."

D'awww, so adorable! Thranduill being all fatherlike and d'awww! I will now melt.